#because there's nothing like procrastinating when the muse is being difficult | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gukyi · 4 years

Text

four weeks | kth

summary: four weeks. that’s how long you’re trapped on campus after missing your flight home because of a grossly overtime final. and as you’re walking around your empty campus, thinking that you could sink no lower, you find yourself alone in the art building with a certain freshman-year-dorm-neighbor from hell, and he’s got an offer that you don’t think you can refuse: he’s staying on campus this winter break as well, and he’s happy to let you live with him.

or, four weeks is all it takes to fall in love.

{enemies to lovers!au, roommates!au, college!au}

pairing: art and chemistry double major kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, comedy, the whole nine!! word count: 20k warnings: alcohol consumption (be safe!), unwanted sexual advances (not between main characters and not at all explicit), and a ton of college tomfoolery. a/n: i’m finally finished with my very first semester of college! it was a lot, but finishing this fic was a treat after my damn finals, which were very stressful. this is part of the stranded for christmas collab, and i’m so honored to be doing this with such amazing, talented writers! please give them and their fics lots of love, and enjoy this super fun train wreck of a fic!

Admittedly, Global Politics in the Twentieth Century has never treated you particularly well.

Your lecturer is about as interesting as grass growing, the readings are low quality scans of book pages with the tiniest font and absolutely no line spacing, and any friends you had in that class in the beginning of the semester dropped out of it by the time mid-September rolled around, leaving you trapped due to societal pressures and a History and Politics general education requirement you still have yet to finish.

But, of all the things you could imagine Global Politics in the Twentieth Century doing to you, like charging you an exorbitant $200 dollars for a textbook you would never open anyway, burning your house down, or even straight up just murdering you, this is by far the worst.

It’s bad enough that your final for Global Politics in the Twentieth Century is on the last possible day for finals at the latest possible time, but when the clock strikes 8:00PM and you have just about fucking had it with this semester, you realize that no one else is standing up.

This panic intensifies as you begin thinking of all of the terrible things that could be the reasoning behind this: you’re just the dumbass who finished their final first and got all of the questions wrong, the clocks have yet to adjust to daylight savings and you think that it’s 8:00PM when really it’s 7:00PM, or, worst of all, your final is running overtime.

You have only ever heard of horror stories about overtime finals. Things like having to cram the next three-hour final into one hour, or having to reschedule the final to some other time that is equally as conflicting. Stuff that is, to a normal human being, a minor to moderate inconvenience at best (and to an overdramatic college student—pure, unadulterated hell), but when this is the last final on the last day at the latest time, there are no other finals to be had. No other school-related scheduling conflicts barreling into you.

It’s just your luck, really, that on the last day of the semester, at the latest time you are allowed to be here, Global Politics in the Twentieth Century would come back to bite you in the ass one last time. As if all the times you dozed off in class (or just plain skipped), forgot to turn in your reading analyses, and showed up late to your recitation are finally catching up to you. Like the very worst kind of karma that could ever befall you.

Well, to be fair, it’s not as if the rest of the day has treated you any better. The entire time you’ve been awake on this fine December day has been an absolute trash can of a day.

This is how the beginning of your very last day of the semester played out:

Your alarm went off at 8:00AM sharp, purposefully set that early so you could wake up and have a productive day studying before your final at 6:00PM.

You hit snooze and ended up waking up around 11:33AM.

You scrambled out of bed very inelegantly and attempted to get your life together before noon so you could at least have six hours worth of a productive study day before your final.

You remembered that you hadn’t packed yet, so you spent the next hour frantically stuffing your belongings into the singular carry-on sized suitcase meant to last you through your month-long winter break.

You also realized that you hadn’t done your laundry for the week (well, week and 6 days…), and you obviously want to bring clean clothes back home so you spend the next two hours doing your laundry and finishing up your packing.

By the time you finally managed to get the time to study, the panic had fully nestled itself into your bones, so you could not focus and spent the next three hours staring at your study guide and praying that osmosis would kick in so you could actually retain information.

You left to go to your final five minutes later than you should have and then ran across campus (with absolutely no dignity left) in order to get there on time.

You arrived at your final just in time, only for there to be technical difficulties with printing the exam because your professor is a procrastinator, just like you are.

The next thirty minutes were then spent contacting the IT department, attempting to fix the printer, having to go print in another building, and then coming back with the final exam to a room of aggravated students who thought that they would be thirty-minutes into the exam by now.

You are taking the final exam. It’s stupid difficult and you’re absolutely going to tank it.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about half an hour.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about an hour.

You are watching as the final runs overtime for about an hour and a half.

And on your very last day of the fall semester, your final runs overtime by two whole hours because of some mystic force determined to ruin your life, and your flight heading back home took off fifteen minutes ago.

You know, it could be worse. You could have failed all of your classes. Instead, you paid an exorbitant $500 to miss your flight, fail your Global Politics in the Twentieth Century final, and end up trapped on campus for all of winter break because you don’t have the money to buy another plane ticket at such late notice (or at all).

So, it could be worse.

You trudge out of your final exam and try not to burst into tears on your way back to your dormitory. Barely anybody is left on campus now that finals are officially over, but you still want to save that last shred of dignity. As you’re walking down the pathway, you begin to feel wet splotches on your face. For a moment, you think that they are fat tears rolling down your face, but you look at the cobblestone beneath your feet and realize that instead, it’s raining.

The perfect weather to match your mood, if you’re being honest.

Not wanting to get caught in a downpour, you end up taking refuge in the coffee shop connected to the art building on campus. It’s a genius business design, if you say so yourself, because there is no one more dependent on caffeine than sleep-deprived, eyebag-laden art students. Surprisingly enough, there are still people behind the counter bustling around, so you use the last of your university dollars to order a peppermint hot chocolate to warm your insides (but not your cold, dead soul).

From there, you take a quick detour to explore the art building, a building you have, admittedly, never really taken much of a look at. It must be empty now, with everyone off campus—except you, of course—which gives you the perfect opportunity to wallow in peace while admiring art.

Walking inside, you stare at your reflection in the enormous glass walls. Look at your tired eyes, slouched shoulders, lips pressed thin, and hands warmed only by the heat of your cardboard coffee cup. Count each acne mark and hair out of place. It’s almost like you’re watching yourself as you look in the mirror, a third person standing in the background. The audience. Like the person who’s looking back at you isn’t you at all.

It's quite artistic, actually. Ironically enough.

But no matter how picturesque, how cinematic this particular moment of your life is, nothing can really soothe you after missing your flight, failing your final, and pretty much having the worst day of your entire life.

Just then, you hear footsteps echoing down the halls.

You assume that it must just be a professor leaving their office, or even maybe one of the hardworking security guards, but as you watch the glass walls to catch a glimpse of who's passing by, you realize that it's not a professor, or a security guard, or even a very large mouse scurrying across the floor.

"I thought I would be the last one in here," Kim Taehyung says when he spots you, stopping in his tracks with a canvas about half the size of him underneath his arm.

"So did I," you muse in response, not really wanting to turn around to save yourself the trouble of talking to him.

Still, Kim Taehyung has always been one hell of an observant guy, so by the time he's stopped behind you, he's already peering into the reflection of the glass windows to look at who he's talking to.

"Y/N?" He asks, walking up to you with his eyebrow raised. He comes over, standing next to you as you look at each other's reflections in the glass. "Never thought I'd see you in here."

"Me neither, to be honest," you say. Seeing as you aren't a visual studies major, you never really considered the art building to be a location of top priority. Until now, that is.

The last time you spoke to Kim Taehyung was the last day of your freshman year, when everybody was getting ready to move out, packing up their belongings and removing the fifteen thousand Command hooks stuck to their walls. You and him made eye contact as you placed the last of your boxes for the semester into those enormous Residential Services carts, glaring at each other from your adjacent rooms.

“First year flew by, didn’t it?” Taehyung asks, smirk lacing his features.

“Thank God it’s over,” you tell him.

“Not gonna miss me, huh?” Taehyung winks, and it makes you want to take this cardboard box filled with all of the notebooks and lined paper and folders you used throughout the year and chuck it at his head.

“Miss you?” You ask with a scoff. With the final box finally out of your room, you can officially lock the door behind you, closing the chapter on your very first year at university. “Please. Nothing makes me happier than the fact that I don’t have to live next to you anymore.”

“Why are you still here?” Taehyung asks, tapping his fingers on the side of the canvas underneath his arm. “Thought you’d be off campus by now.”

“I had a late final,” you say, pretending that your life and every aspect of it is fine when it is, in fact, not fine at all. The best case scenario is that Taehyung accepts your bullshit answer for what it is and heads off to do whatever it is that he does, leaving you alone so you can wallow in pity and ponder the meaning of life. The worst case scenario is that Taehyung stays.

And Taehyung has always been very good at picking the latter.

“Ah, sucks, for what class?” Taehyung asks. You can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just wants to interrupt your personal self-wallow time for as long as possible.

“Global Politics in the Twentieth Century,” you tell him with a sigh. You don’t want to have to hear, say, read, or write that name ever again.

“Oh, really? I took that class last semester,” Taehyung says with an eyebrow raised, surprised. “I thought it was super interesting.”

As if you needed any more proof that you and Kim Taehyung are exact opposites in every way. You are hardly surprised that Kim Taehyung enjoyed Global Politics in the Twentieth Century—not when the two of them have so much in common, like inconveniencing you, being annoying, and sort of always having it out for you. It’s like they were meant to be together.

“I can’t say I thought the same,” you say pointedly, lips pursed into a tight line.

“Ah, well, I never did peg you for a history buff,” Taehyung says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Why are you still on campus? I thought art students had to turn in their final projects on the first day of exams,” you ask, turning the focus onto him. It’s obvious that he has no intention of leaving you alone, so your next best option is to interrogate him until the tension between the two of you is so suffocating, so thick and heavy, that he wants to leave.

“I had a couple of chem finals after I finished up my art classes,” Taehyung says. Right. You forgot he was doing a double major. “And, my parents are actually travelling this winter break, so I was planning on staying on campus. Didn’t really want to go back to an empty house, you know?”

After the day you’ve had, you can think of nothing better than opening the door to your home, knowing that you have the entire place to yourself and can spend the night in your bedroom, watching Netflix.

“You’re staying on campus?” You ask. Great. The only two people who will be on campus this winter recess are you and Kim Taehyung. Fantastic.

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, clearly unaffected. He seems particularly unbothered by the fact that he can’t go home, almost like he’s been looking forward to having the entire university to himself. “You’re about to head home, then, aren’t you? Just taking a quick break in the art building?”

Well, almost to himself.

The chances of running into Taehyung this winter break, despite being probably the only two people on campus, is still slim. It’s a big campus, and there are people who are not part of the university that walk on campus all the time.

And still, you don’t know what you’ll do if you lie to Taehyung and tell him you’re about to fly home, and then bump into him at the local coffee shop. You might just perish. That might be what happens.

So, for once in your life, you suck it up and tell the truth. For once.

“Actually, I missed my flight because of my final running overtime, so I’m sort of stuck here,” you tell him, and as the words leave your lips it feels like your whole body gets weighed down, like you’re cemented to the floor.

It’s only then that Taehyung actually turns to face you, so you aren’t standing shoulder to shoulder and staring at the rain pattering on the pavement outside. You look at him, meeting his eyes and to your surprise, they aren’t filled with mirth. He hasn’t got this pleased grin on his face. He’s not milking this situation for what it could be milked for at all. He could be standing here, bathing in the satisfaction of your timely demise, and he’s not.

He actually looks quite sad.

“Really?” He asks, genuine.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s then that you accept your fate, resign yourself to the fact that you’re trapped on campus with no way (and no money) to get home, and try to look for the silver lining. “So, I’ve actually got to get going, grab my stuff and everything.”

“Oh, do you live off campus?” Taehyung asks. “We should get together sometime this break. Who else are we gonna talk to, right?”

Spending time with Taehyung on your lonely-ass winter break sounds like the absolute worst thing in the entire world. It’s been two years since the last time you were forced to be within fifty feet of each other, so even having this conversation is taking you by surprise.

“No, I’m still staying on campus. But my dorm is closing for the winter break, so I need to go and find an Airbnb or something to stay somewhere,” you say, feeling your heart break at the notion of spending even more money this winter break after having watched your $500 dollar airplane ticket get flushed down the toilet.

Taehyung stays silent, eyes gazing at the lines between the linoleum tiles on the floor. He’s stopped tapping on the side of his canvas, a painting which you still haven’t fully gotten a glimpse of. In the quiet of the art building, the dust settles, and you wait for Taehyung to say something. Anything.

After a few more seconds, you decide that the two of you have been standing in awkward silence for long enough.

“Well, I’ll see you around, I guess,” you say nervously, letting out an unnatural and forced laugh as you turn on your feet and begin to head towards the exit. You have no idea where you’re going to go or what you’re going to do, but what you do know is that you have to be out of your building by noon tomorrow, so you’ve got less than a day to figure it out.

And then, Taehyung says the worst thing he could possibly say at this given moment:

“Do you wanna stay with me?”

You stop dead in your tracks.

“What?”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Taehyung immediately clarifies, as if that makes the offer any less sudden. “But I live in an off-campus apartment year round, so you could always stay with me if you’d like. You wouldn’t have to book an Airbnb or anything. But you don’t have to.”

You close your eyes, feeling your chest rise and sink as you inhale and exhale. You can’t believe you’re actually considering his offer. You can’t believe that Taehyung would willingly offer up his personal abode, his private apartment to you, the freshman year next-door neighbor who knocked on his door every six hours to tell him to shut the fuck up. You cannot believe that you are on the verge of accepting.

“Are you sure?” You ask, both eyebrows raised. Yes, the idea of free lodging and no-hassle appeals greatly to you, but you’re not so certain that Taehyung or you actually want this. After all, you spent all of freshman year hating on each other’s living habits as personal hobbies of yours. “You don’t have to offer just because I don’t have a place to stay. Seriously.”

“No,” Taehyung says, taking a step towards you. It’s barely a foot, but it feels like he’s a thousand miles closer to you than he was before. “I mean it. If you want to stay with me, you’re welcome to. I have a futon in my living room that you can sleep on. I’m being serious.”

You cannot believe that he’s asking this.

You cannot believe you’re considering this.

You cannot believe you’re about to say yes to this.

“You really mean it?” You ask one more time, just so you can be certain. You’d hardly be surprised if this whole thing was just a mindfuck.

“I do,” Taehyung says. “No matter what, I don’t think anybody should be alone for the holidays.”

“Then yes,” you say, letting Taehyung catch up to you as you begin to walk towards the exit, step by step. “I’d really appreciate it.” You turn to look at him, your eyes meeting his own chocolate brown ones, nearly ink black in the dark. You can’t offer much, certainly not anything to top this gracious proposal, but you smile, and he smiles back, and you think that’s enough.

Your first order of business is trekking back to your dormitory and grabbing your fully-packed suitcase. At least spending an hour shoving as many of your belongings as possible into a tiny carry-on has its benefits despite you not setting foot in the airport.

“Been a long time since we’ve done this,” Taehyung comments mindlessly as you walk through campus, following the cobblestone path as a shortcut to his apartment.

“Done what?” You ask snarkily. “Hung out with each other?” You scoff. You and Taehyung spent all of freshman year skirting around each other, desperately trying to avoid contact while also banging on each other’s doors every ten minutes. It was essentially two semesters worth of shouting at each other through walls and sneering when you actually locked eyes.

“Talked,” Taehyung simplifies, because he’s right.

“Isn’t that what we were aiming for?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, turning to look at him as your suitcase wheel skips on a stone out of place. “I thought we had reached that consensus already.” It’s been a year and a half since you last spoke to each other. You were almost confident that, without any overlapping classes, you would be able to keep that streak going long after graduation.

As it turns out, things change.

“I don’t know if we ever actually agreed on that,” Taehyung says, thinking back. “Almost like it went…” he pauses, and you can’t be sure if it’s for dramatic effect or because he actually doesn’t know what to say. “Unspoken.”

The irony is not lost on you. In fact, it hits you smack dab in the forehead as you watch Taehyung’s curious expression morph into the sleazy frat boy one he wore so much back then. He looks very pleased with his pun. It makes you want to sock him in the face.

And as it turns out, some things never change.

You resist the urge to punch him in the shoulder because he offered you a place to stay for this break and you sort of (actually, really) owe him big time right now. But that doesn’t mean you can’t send a disapproving frown, which seems to do the trick.

“I distinctly remember how you were so excited to never have to live next to me again when we moved out,” Taehyung says like he’s remembering a fun trip to the zoo. Almost like he looks upon the last time you ever interacted with each other fondly.

You mentally sigh. If only freshman year you knew what was going to happen in the middle of your junior year. If only your final hadn’t run overtime by two hours. If only you had booked a later flight.

If only.

“I don’t remember that at all,” you lie like a liar, saying the words as the picture of you snarkily spitting them at Taehyung at the end of your freshman year plays in your brain on repeat.

“You sure about that, Y/N?” Taehyung says, turning to look you up and down. He’s always been such a people reader, and you’ve always felt so helplessly transparent in front of him. Even back then. Even now. “Because I don’t really think that your memory is that bad.”

“Nope, no, I don��t,” you say quickly, trying to get Taehyung to stop eyeing you like you’re a question on an exam that he thinks is suspiciously easy.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter then, does it?” Taehyung muses as you round the street corner and his apartment complex comes into view. “Since we’ll be living together, anyway.”

“Miss you? Please. Nothing makes me happier than the fact that I don’t have to live next to you anymore.”

Before you can wheel your cart down the hallway and kiss your freshman year goodbye, Taehyung opens his mouth and says one more thing. You almost don’t hear him, too busy reminding yourself that you’ll never have to see him again, but then he says, “One day, Y/N, you’re going to realize that we’re closer than you think.”

When you walk into Taehyung’s apartment, your eyes zero in on these three things: the navy blue futon pushed up against the wall by his television and the fact that it doesn’t look like the kind of used furniture from off of the street that most college kids typically resort to, the little wooden kitchen table that looks straight out of a family-owned Italian restaurant (looks like the two of you will be eating dinner together), and the paintings on the walls.

“Did you paint these?” Is the first thing you ask once you’re inside, putting your suitcase up against the wall as Taehyung takes off his coat.

“Those? Yeah, I did them early last year. My walls looked so damn plain without anything on them.”

In freshman year, Taehyung seemed like the kind of artsy hipster who shopped at Urban Outfitters and put vinyl records on his wall with Command Strips but never actually listened to them.

But the pieces on his walls aren’t vinyls of bands like Arctic Monkeys and Modern Baseball. They’re paintings, oil and acrylics and even a bit of charcoal. Still life and portraits and shadows.

You had never seen one of his paintings before. You never imagined you’d ever want to, or even get the chance to. And now, you’re standing in the middle of his apartment, and you’re surrounded by them.

“They’re…” You trail off, eyes bouncing from wall to wall as you take all of them in. There’s at least ten, one, if not two on each wall in sight. His bedroom is probably filled with them. His apartment’s not enormous, rather small since it’s only got one bedroom, but the paintings make the whole place bigger. Make it feel full of life.

“They’re alright,” Taehyung finishes. He’s already grabbing extra blankets from the storage closet in the side of the wall. “They were assignments we had during the semester so I figured that they’d be put to good use on my wall.”

“It’s very impressive,” you admit. “Kind of a flex, but an impressive flex.” There is something so perfectly Taehyung about the fact that he’s got art all over his walls, but they’re his very own pieces that he has framed and hanging, on display for the entire world to see if they’d like.

“They’d collect dust otherwise,” he says with a shrug. He tosses two blankets and a pillow your way, letting them plop onto the futon. “Are those enough blankets? It can get fucking cold in here, so I don’t want you to freeze to death or anything.”

And for a moment, you think that Taehyung has actually outgrown his asshole-y freshman days, maturing into someone with an actual moral backbone.

“How considerate,” you say sarcastically, “but I think I’ll be alright. I’m a big, strong girl.”

“Just don’t come crawling into my bed if you want a taste of that weighted-blanket life,” Taehyung says, pretending to flip his hair. “Though, I wouldn’t blame you if you did want to sleep with me.”

With a pillow right at your disposal, you waste no time grabbing it and chucking it straight at Taehyung’s face. He easily dodges, having spotted the move from a mile away, and chuckles.

“Come on, Y/N, you can do better than that,” he says disapprovingly, shaking his head as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Your arm was much stronger back in freshman year.”

Scowling, you watch as he puts on the kettle to boil, letting the water begin to bubble as he goes about his business like he doesn’t have a guest in his living room that absolutely can’t stand him.

And you realize that maybe Taehyung’s a couple of years older, a couple of years wiser, but that doesn’t make him a couple of years any less unbearable.

If you were a sleep-deprived engineering student three cans of Monster deep who, in their 4AM haze, invented a time machine to go back to freshman year, and you told your eighteen-year-old self that you would be living under the same damn roof as Kim Taehyung in two years time, freshman year you would probably sock you in the face. And ask you if you changed majors. Which, you did.

It’s not a far reach to wonder why. By the time October rolled around, the two of you had already established yourselves as archenemies until the end of time.

It was a natural progression, really. Two tiny dorm rooms right next to each other, two beds pressed up against opposite sides of the same paper-thin wall, and two disgruntled freshmen trying their hardest not to die of alcohol poisoning.

Now, you don’t have a track record for going to sleep at a reasonable hour. In fact, you don’t think you’ve gone to bed before 11PM since middle school. But is it really that irrational of you to want to get some well-deserved shuteye at two in the morning after a long day of procrastination and a long night of doing the studying you should have done during the day? Your roommate is fast asleep across from you, having gone to sleep at midnight like a regular college student who has her life together, which means that she’s immune to the fact that right next door, you can hear nothing but pounding drums making the very linoleum floor of your dormitory shake.

Scowling, you scramble out of bed, sliding on your shoes to go give a certain Kim Taehyung a bit of a reprimanding.

Why the fuck does he listen to heavy drums at two in the morning? What the fuck is he doing? Does he not own headphones, or anything that might restrict the sound to his own two ears and nothing else? Does he not have any respect for the people next door to him that might also have to listen to the sound of a thumping bass while they’re trying to go to sleep?

Some of you have 9AM’s tomorrow morning. And by some of you, you mean you.

You quietly shut the door behind you so as not to wake your roommate, dead-bolting it so you don’t get locked out and have to trudge down to the Help Desk looking like a tired piece of non-recyclable garbage, and immediately bang on Kim Taehyung’s door. He hasn’t got a roommate, and you know he’s awake, which means that if he doesn’t respond, you’ll know why.

Surprisingly enough, he does, opening the door and immediately grinning once he sees who’s on the other side, like he can’t get enough of the fact that his mere existence bothers you.

“It’s 2AM,” you tell him, in lieu of a greeting.

He checks his watch. “That it is.”

“Would you mind turning down the music? I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“This late, Y/N?” Taehyung asks, an eyebrow raised. “No wonder you’re always so cranky.”

“Maybe it’s because my next-door neighbor plays loud fucking music when I’m trying to go to sleep!” You say, already beginning to raise your voice like a loser who can’t control her emotions.

Which is exactly what you are, actually. So this is very on brand for you.

“Hmm, never thought about it that way,” Taehyung says innocently. He’s got a gleam in his eye that says otherwise.

“I’m being very nice to you right now, Kim Taehyung. Please turn your music down. Because it’s loud and you’re probably bothering other people as well,” you say, restraining yourself. If you were any more sleep-deprived you’d storm into his room and pound in his face like it was the fucking drums he’s listening to.

“But you’re my only neighbor,” Taehyung says, a bitter reminder that you were unlucky enough to be the second-to-last room in the corridor, and he, the very last one.

You inhale, trying to not lose your cool despite having probably already lost it. Kim Taehyung makes you want to tear your eyeballs out. Or buy heavy-duty earplugs off of Amazon Prime. The thing is, one of those options costs you money, and one is entirely free. So, it’s not difficult to see which one you’re leaning towards.

“Taehyung, please turn your music down, or so help me God. I’m asking nicely,” you can feel the carbon dioxide paths coming from your nose as you breathe, in and out and in and out.

“Just for you, Y/N,” Taehyung says with a grin. God. You could just straight sock him in the face right now. “It helps me focus, but so does getting to see you.”

“Perish immediately,” you tell him sharply before pulling the door shut, marching back off to your room.

True to his word, Kim Taehyung does turn off his music. Or puts in headphones. At least he’s conceded.

That is, until you wake up to a crash of glass later that morning at 7AM, coming from only one direction.

The fact of the matter is, everything you and Taehyung did that year bothered the other so immensely that hatred, pure, unadulterated dislike, was really the only thing that could have come out of it.

“You still listening to loud ass drums in the middle of the night?” You ask, eyeing the speakers by Taehyung’s television as you sit on his couch (as far apart from each other as possible) and eat some leftover spaghetti.

“I invested in some AirPods as a treat to myself last year, so yes, but don’t worry,” Taehyung says. He’s mindlessly flicking through the available Hulu options on his TV, severely unimpressed by every one of them.

“Wow, AirPods, sounds like you’re moving up in the world,” you say callously. “At least I don’t have to listen to it with you anymore.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it helped me focus,” Taehyung says, all matter-of-fact about it. “It was from a Spotify playlist of modern orchestral music. You should give it a listen, it really gets you into the zone.”

“My relationship with classical music has, unfortunately, been tainted by a certain someone,” you remind him, taking the time to shoot him a glare just in case he doesn’t already know who exactly is at fault.

“What a shame, you might actually like it,” Taehyung says sadly, shaking his head.

“So what are the speakers for, then? If not for your fuckin’ drums,” you ask, motioning to them again as you slurp up the last of your spaghetti. It’s not as if you’ve got some sort of sacred reputation to protect in front of him. He’s seen you at your best (the first day of freshman year, when there was still light in your eyes), and at your worst (2AM, coming out of a drunken stupor, and bedhead-ridden). Like an ex-boyfriend, or something.

“My friends really like singing karaoke,” Taehyung says. He points to the bluetooth microphones underneath the television as extra proof.

“Why does that not surprise me,” you muse to yourself. Taehyung always struck you as someone that needs people not to calm him down, but to elevate his already boisterous personality. Friends who are equally as unabashed as he is.

“Since you’re here for a whole month, we should try it some time,” Taehyung suggests, taking the empty bowl from your hands and heading back to the sink to wash up.

“You need help with that?” You ask, immediately getting up because even if Taehyung has a tendency to drive you up the wall, you’re still going to be a good guest.

“No, don’t sweat it,” Taehyung says with a shrug. “You know, I have karaoke for All I Want For Christmas Is You. Super seasonal, right?”

You dust off your hands from where you’re standing, loitering in that weird halfway point between his kitchen and his living room. Checking the clock underneath his television, you realize that it’s already past ten. And while you haven’t gone to sleep this early in a while, being in Taehyung’s apartment makes you feel all sorts of strange. Subdued and exhausted, too grateful to be your normal aggressive and witty self. And after such a long goddamn day, passing out on his navy blue futon seems like absolute heaven.

“Not right now,” you say, shaking your head. Karaoke is something that friends do with other friends. And despite currently living under the same roof, you and Kim Taehyung are not friends.

(But perhaps you will be. And that’s the scary part.)

You sigh, absolutely tanked. It’s been a stupidly long day. “Maybe later.”

Living with Taehyung is a sort of strange limbo you never, in a million years, pictured yourself in. You aren’t close enough to be friends but you’ve matured out of being the true enemies you had both envisioned the yourselves as in freshman year. The both of you walk around his apartment like you’re afraid to talk to the other, waiting patiently for the bathroom when the other person’s inside, trying to keep yourself busy with nonexistent work (it is winter break, after all) and the apps on your phones.

This is the sort of thing you dreamed of when you were a freshman. A Kim Taehyung that you could co-exist with peacefully. Someone who didn’t spend every waking moment of his life making every waking moment of yours unbearable. You used to find excuses to sleep overnight in the library (it was open 24/7, after all) just so you wouldn’t have to go back to your dorm and see his stupid face. Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch minding your own goddamn business and doing two totally unrelated activities. In silence. The only noises being his refrigerator/freezer combo when it starts making ice and the sounds of your fingers hitting the keyboards on your laptops. Maybe he’s playing a video game on the Playstation 4 he keeps out in the living room, but he has headphones on and isn’t saying a word.

It’s a very strange sort of limbo indeed, because no opportunities arise for you to become friends nor do any arise for you to become enemies. At this rate, you’ll live together for the month-long winter break and when it ends, you’ll go back to never speaking to each other again.

And that, strangely enough, makes you sad. Makes you want to reach out to him, try and build up a relationship that last ended in absolute chaos so that when you leave this place, it won’t have been for naught. You will have gained something from it, no matter how small.

But just like usual, Taehyung beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says one day, walking into the living room and already pulling on his overcoat. “You free right now?”

“Yeah, why?” You ask, shutting your laptop as you turn to him. He’s all dressed up and you’ve been wearing the same hoodie for the past forty-eight hours.

“Let’s get hotpot. I’m freezing and I want some hot soup and meat.”

So, you go and get hotpot.

Like any normal university with more than approximately three East Asians enrolled, there’s a hotpot place right off campus that many a college student frequent. You have, admittedly, not been since freshman year, but this winter break you seem to be reaching back into all of those memories anyway, like a can of worms. Memory worms.

“I’m starving,” Taehyung says as the two of you sit down. He’s already opening the menu, eyeing all of the different ingredients he can order for a simple All-You-Can-Eat fare. “Plus, I’ve been craving hotpot for weeks now.”

As if on cue, his stomach grumbles and you can hear it from across the booth.

“Even my tummy knows,” Taehyung says, placing a palm to his belly to soothe it. “Have you gotten hotpot before?”

“Yeah, but it was a while ago. I just never had the time to go for a whole two hours and pig out on food,” you say with a sigh. It’s been so long that you barely remember what it tastes like.

“Then we’ll spend every minute that we’re allowed to here, eating as much food as we want and gaining a few pounds while we’re at it,” Taehyung says, determined. The waiter comes by to pour you both some water and he already begins to order, pointing to about fifteen different things on the menu before the waiter whizzes off.

“I don’t think I heard a single word you told that guy,” you say candidly. Taehyung listed everything off so quickly that it went right over your head.

“I just ordered a lot of food, so be prepared,” Taehyung says like it’s a promise. He’s got this glint in his eye, one that tells you that you should be glad you came on a fairly-empty stomach because it’s about to be filled to the brim.

And prepared you are. Within five minutes of Taehyung ordering, there are plates and dishes and boards of food in front of you and a steaming pot of broth in the middle. There’s so much on the table that you can hardly see the marble table top underneath.

Taehyung dives right in, clearly an experienced hotpot eater. He grabs two bowls filled with various sauces and pops a couple of the vegetables into his mouth as he waits for the broth to boil. And when it begins to bubble, he immediately begins dumping everything in sight into it, from meat to noodles to vegetables. It all looks ridiculously appetizing.

When the first round of hotpot is over and done with, you already feel yourself starting to get sleepy just from the consumption overload. Taehyung, on the other hand, has apparently no limit and is already ordering more, pointing to another fifteen things on the menu.

“Never thought we’d be doing this, did you?” Taehyung asks, and you can hear the knowing tone in his voice. Like he already knows how you’re going to answer him.

“I have to admit that I never did,” you say. It must the food that’s softened you up. No wonder Taehyung invited you to a place where you can literally eat as much as you want in a two-hour timeframe.

“This is nice, though, isn’t it?” He asks.

And for once in your life, you agree. It is nice. Not just the food (though the food is very nice) but being with someone on a winter break that would otherwise be overwhelmingly lonely. Eating out with someone, even if it’s someone with whom your relationship isn’t all that strong, isn’t that sturdy. It’s nice. Because it means that, somewhere along the way, you both wanted something to change for the better.

“It is.” You nod. “Way better than all the times we fought during freshman year.”

“Remind me why we never went to our RA to resolve things like we should have?” Taehyung says, but he doesn’t make it sound like you both made a mistake. He asks because he’s curious, and because the past is the past.

“I think we were both too fucking prideful for our own good,” you say, shaking your head. You now would disapprove of you in freshman year so strongly. “We thought that we could either resolve it ourselves or spend the rest of our lives hating each other.”

“Isn’t that crazy?” Taehyung asks, holding up his water like it’s a glass of vintage red wine from the 1800’s. “That we thought that we could just spend the rest of our lives hating each other?”

“I was prepared to do it,” you say, taking another piece of meat from the hotpot in front of you, letting the steam waft from it like a tiny campfire. “With how big this school is, I was convinced that you and I would never have to see each other again. Never have the opportunity to change how we felt about each other.”

“But that’s not how life works, Y/N,” Taehyung tells you, looking into your eyes like he’s trying to reach into your soul, pick apart the memories of freshman year and watch as your relationship deteriorated as each day went by. “It doesn’t matter if we see each other every day for the rest of our lives or if, after this, we never say another word to each other. You will always have the opportunity to change how you feel about someone, even if you aren’t with them. Even if you aren’t seeing them at all.” He takes a deep breath, and reaches over the steaming pot of soup to nudge your shoulder with his finger, ever so slightly. It makes you look up at him, meet his dark brown eyes with your own, foggy from the steam. “That’s what makes us human, Y/N. We’re human because we can change.”

Your heart, still and silent, begins to thump.

“Do you wanna go to New York?”

“Today?”

It’s early in the morning on Christmas Eve, and the two of you are wide awake after Taehyung’s neighbors a floor below him called the fire department as an early wake-up call for the entire complex. You’ve always been a light sleeper—Taehyung made sure of that in freshman year—but even he woke up as the fire trucks pulled up to the fire lane next to the apartment building. He came stumbling out of his room in nothing but a t-shirt two sizes too big and sweatpants hanging low on his hips, locks of his hair sticking every which way, face illuminated by the blue, red, and orange lights of the emergency vehicles beneath the window.

And he stayed like that, even as the noise died down and the sun rose. He marched around looking like he had just rolled out of bed, barely sparing himself a second glance in the reflection of his refrigerator.

“Yeah,” Taehyung responds like it’s obvious. “If we hopped on a bus now we could make it there by nine and spend the day there. How about it?”

“You mean, right now?” You ask, just as clarification. College and its many features have forced you to grow used to spontaneity, but it usually came in the form of “I’m hungry, so I am going to eat an entire bag of Hot Cheetos at this exact moment” or “Yes, my bank account is crying but these pants are very cute,” and not, “Do you wanna go to New York?”

“In a bit. Buses leave from here every hour to go to New York, especially since it’s the holiday season. Tickets are ten dollars. We could do it, if you’d like,” Taehyung says casually, like he’s suggesting that the two of you go grocery shopping or something else equally mundane.

“Just for the day?” You ask, a girl of both many questions and a shocked expression.

“Sure,” Taehyung says with a shrug, biting into a tomato as if it were a goddamn apple. “We can go to a museum or two, eat a nice lunch or dinner, and go ice skating at Rockefeller. See the tree, too. It’ll get us in the holiday spirit, don’t you think?”

And normally an outing to New York would have you planning weeks in advance, organizing reservations and buying tickets for entry into exhibits, but it’s winter break and you’ve got more free time than you know what to do with.

And maybe you’d hate to admit it, but you need someone like Taehyung to get you off of your ass and out of the house, do something fun and spontaneous like college students do in the movies.

Taehyung is practically a movie portrayal of a college student in real life. He’s spontaneous, secretive, sage. He’s artsy and worldly, paints but is also extremely smart and well-educated. He lives in a quaint off-campus apartment by himself and spends his days making friends and keeping busy. He loves to tease you, and has that sort of lopsided smirk that all casanovas do. And he is, as much as you’d hate to admit it, always been something of a looker. He’s got the same sort of handsome, classic look that young European men in paintings from the eighteenth century have, a portrait of them in the prime of their lives. One wink and he’d send every preteen girl in the audience to their knees.

And you? Well, you suppose you’re the tragically unlucky female lead who has to live with him until classes resume.

Taehyung’s standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter island as he scrolls for bus tickets on his phone. “There’s a bus leaving from the station in thirty minutes. Think we can make it?”

It might be the fact that you’ve been holed up in Taehyung’s apartment for the past forty-eight hours that makes you say yes. Or it’s the desperation to do something, anything, literally anything, to keep yourself busy this break.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that little voice in the back of your chest, one buried in the depths of your heart, that makes you go. Because there is something so wonderfully exhilarating about being spontaneous. And there is something even more exciting about it being with someone you know.

You grin. “Let’s do it.”

Two hours later, the two of you are standing outside Penn Station in New York City, staring at the road signs to try and orient yourself. It’s chilly and a little windy, but the sun beats down regardless, shadows of skyscrapers cast along the streets.

You pull out your phone to pull up the Maps app, looking up directions, but Taehyung just begins to walk down 7th Avenue, not a care in the world.

“Where are you going?” You say quickly, scrambling to catch up to him. This early in the morning, your breath still turns to fog as you jog towards him to meet his abnormally long strides.

“Do you want to go to the Met, MOMA, or Guggenheim?” Taehyung asks simply, like he’s trying to decide which type of Doritos to get in the chips aisle.

“Uh…” you are, admittedly, not that particular to the art that you’ll see. Art does not have as much of an immediate relevance to you as other things in your life, like your bank account, or your final semester grades. “Why don’t you pick the museum, and I’ll pick the restaurant we go to?”

“Deal,” Taehyung says, that same devilish gleam in his eyes, a trick (or two) up his sleeves. Only this time, you aren’t afraid of what he’s got in store.

You find that you are very much looking forward to it.

Twenty minutes later sees the both of you standing outside the gigantic glass doors of the MOMA, surrounded by a pitch black exterior about as edgy and contemporary as the pieces of art inside.

“You never struck me as a modern art kind of guy,” you tell Taehyung as the both of you walk inside, glass windows and ceilings on every side of you and a bustling crowd right in front of you. Modern art seems rather stuffy. And perhaps, two years ago, you would have equated Taehyung to such, but now, stuffiness couldn’t be the furthest adjective to describe him. He may be a little obnoxious and overwhelmingly charismatic, but he is certainly not stuffy.

“I prefer Impressionism and the subsequent periods,” Taehyung tells you, another fact you never knew but happily stow away. “But I am, admittedly, a bitch for modern art, no matter how goddamn stupid it is.”

“Good to know we’re spending our money on a museum that will definitely be worth our while,” you say dryly, taking the two tickets from the woman behind the desk. You pick up a map while you’re at it, almost certain to get lost in this maze of a museum, but Taehyung is already zooming off, forcing you to scurry through the herds of people just to keep up his pace.

“Do you know where we’re going?” You ask, entirely serious. You fumble to open up the map and suddenly you’ve got a piece of shiny paper larger than your backpack in your hands, overwhelmed.

Taehyung stops, the two of you standing right by the middle of a doorway, blocking everybody’s path. And he places his hands on top of yours, lowering the map as you gaze up at him, wondering why the heck you haven’t moved to the side so you aren’t inconveniencing the thousands of people roaming the museum. His brows are soft, a little furrowed, like someone began to knit them together but then forgot halfway through. Like he’s thinking. Like he wants to tell you something.

“No,” Taehyung says softly, large hands enveloping yours as he begins to fold the map back up, “I don’t know where we’re going.”

You open your mouth, about to prove your point, but Taehyung continues.

“But I don’t need to. Because we’re supposed to get lost,” he tells you, honest, candid, and true. “That’s the whole point. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.”

You scoff, heart a little warm on the inside but wit still sharp. “You sound like an infomercial for a cruise.”

Taehyung laughs, tilting his head back in the way that says that he means it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Please. We don’t need a map. We can guide each other. All we need is faith, trust…” He pauses, leaning in and waiting for you to finish his sentence.

Begrudgingly, you give in, mostly because he’s too naturally charming not to. “And pixie dust.”

Taehyung grins, satisfied, before he catches you by surprise, takes your hand in his, and pulls you into the elevator.

Much like the corrupt businesses whose main offices are only a few minutes walk away, you go from the top down. Taehyung says that it is like a very, very long slide. You say that it’s an extremely slow walk.

He’s an art student. You don’t really know what else you were expecting. He stares at each piece until it bores into his eyes, fills up another cup in his soul, overflowing with color, with light and meaning and everything in between. Every now and then, he and you stop at the same one, inspecting each and every detail, and Taehyung will lean to the side and whisper in your ear.

He will tell you what he thinks of the medium, what he thinks of this piece and what he thinks of the positioning of that specific object. He tells you not how he interprets it in the eyes of the artist, but what it means to him, and how he perceives it. And, as the hours pass, you realize that, while you have been in museums before, you had never felt like you were truly there. And here you are, standing in front of priceless pieces of art with a boy in love with art beside you, and he holds your hand as he takes you through what brings him more joy than anything else.

(Well, besides perhaps, chemistry.)

When you reach the first painting and sculpture floor, Taehyung lets out an audible gasp.

You round the corner and before you know it, you’re standing in front of what could very well be the most famous painting of the nineteenth century.

“I forgot it was here,” Taehyung says distantly, like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. In the ink black of his pupils, you can see the oil painting reflected, the thick blue and yellow brushstrokes, each and every line on the canvas.

“Now, this piece I’m familiar with,” you say, standing next to him and staring up at The Starry Night, an artistic feat, worth more than probably a hundred times your tuition, and a legacy. The legacy that The Starry Night left behind is one that you see still reflected today. You see it in all of the other people in this little room, clambering over one another just so they can get a glimpse. You see it in the little children who draw self-portraits in art class, Sharpies and markers and crayons littering the page.

And you see it in the boy next to you, who loved something so much he knew that he would be doing it for the rest of his life. He would be following a legacy, forever, until he forged one of his own. You look not at the art but as Kim Taehyung gazes at it, memorizing each and every stroke and imprinting it onto his brain. And you finally realize what art means: passion. It means that it fills you up, flows through your blood and into your heart, consumes you. And it means that the only thing you can do to prevent it from eating you alive is to spread it, and let others get a taste of the madness.

“It really is beautiful, isn’t it,” you muse. You don’t know much about art but when there is something so mesmerizing, so stunning, in front of you, it’s difficult not to notice.

You feel Taehyung turn his head, letting the gaze of his piercing brown eyes rest upon your figure for a split second before he turns back. “It is,” he says.

The way that the two of you go through art museums, by the time you emerge, it’s already dark and the streets are beginning to empty as tourists and cityfolk alike find places to eat, walking into every bar, restaurant, cafe, and house on the hunt for a good meal, whether homemade or curated. You had spent nearly an hour in the gift shop alone, laughing at the overpriced t-shirts and kitschy pillows.

“Where to next, m’lady?” Taehyung asks as you push open the glass doors and let the biting cold hit your noses.

“You know, we were so busy in there that I didn’t even have time to find a nice place to eat tonight,” you admit sheepishly.

“That’s alright,” Taehyung says with a shrug. “I like surprises. Spontaneity is my thing.”

“You don’t say,” you comment sagely, making Taehyung roll his eyes.

Knowing that it’s nearly impossible to get a reservation now, you and Taehyung make your way south, following the flow of traffic heading towards Times Square and keeping an eye open for any places that look relatively nice and busy, but not too busy, the perfect sign of both a delicious and available restaurant.

After walking for a few blogs, cuddling together (in a totally platonic way) to preserve as much body heat as possible in the now freezing weather, air no longer warmed by the sun’s rays, you stumble upon a tiny hole in the wall Mediterranean place. You can’t really see anything inside due to the fog on the window, forming from the combination of cold air and hot, but Taehyung does a quick google search and says that it’s a modern Mediterranean restaurant that specializes in pizza. Google says it has two dollar signs. You hear the word pizza, and everything pretty much goes out of the window.

“Hi,” Taehyung says as you squeeze through the little hallway to get to the host, voice warm and silky. “Table for two?”

“Your last name, sir?” The man asks.

“Oh, we don’t have a reservation,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. You two are college students. It’s not like you plan ahead anyway.

“That’s okay, we still ask for every customer’s name for a more personalized experience,” the host says. He leans forward, eyes wide, waiting for Taehyung to respond.

“Kim,” Taehyung says simply as the host gathers two menus and a wine list.

“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Kim,” the host says, and you open your mouth to correct him (Because you are not married. You’re not. You’re not even dating. This is not a date. It’s not a date, right?), but Taehyung puts a finger to his lips and tells you to zip it. It’s almost like he’s enjoying this.

For the rest of the evening, the wait staff all address you and Taehyung as Mr. and Mrs. Kim, which is absolutely outrageous for multiple reasons: you are college students, you both look like college students, you’re not dating, you don’t act like you’re dating (other than the hand-holding and cuddling which was purely out of survival and nothing else), and most importantly, you’re not interested in each other like that. That part is obvious. Isn’t it?

When you order a glass of champagne each they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When Taehyung has a question about one of the ingredients on one of the pizzas they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When you order your food they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When they come by to clarify Taehyung’s request of no anchovies they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim. When they bring these massive pizzas and place them down on your table, wishing you a pleasant meal they call you Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Mr. and Mrs. Kim, they call you.

“Everything alright, Mr. and Mrs. Kim?” Your waiter asks as you’re plowing through your individual pizzas very inelegantly.

“Yes,” Taehyung grins cheesily. “Thank you very much.”

He’s positively beaming.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” You ask, a single eyebrow raised.

“This pizza is really good,” Taehyung tells you.

“Not that,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You know that Taehyung knows exactly what you’re referring to, he’s just being annoying about it, as per usual. “The whole ‘we’re married’ thing. You like it, don’t you?”

“The “Mr. and Mrs. Kim’ thing?” Taehyung says with a smile. He’s relishing in the feeling, especially when it’s obvious that you’re not as keen on the collective nickname. “I fucking love it. You don’t?”

“We’re college students,” you remind him.

“So? That means that they think that we look old enough to not be college students. I consider that a win, especially because Jimin always says I look twelve,” Taehyung says with a shrug.

“We’re not married,” you add. It’s the truth.

“You’re right, we’re not, but Mr. and Mrs. Kim has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I love the way that it sounds,” Taehyung says. He basks in it.

“We’re not even dating, Taehyung,” you say with a sigh, exasperated. Doesn’t he get it? It’s weird, being Mr. and Mrs. Kim, because you never have been. There never was a Mr. and Mrs. Kim. And quite frankly, there never will be. “We’re not even interested in it.”

“Who says?” Taehyung asks, and the path he’s directing this conversation down is not one you’d like to take. It’s rocky and bumpy and unclear, hazy with fog. You don’t do fog. You like when things are clear cut and visible.

“I do,” you say with a frown. “Are you interested in dating me, Taehyung? Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to date you right now. Or, like, at all.”

Taehyung pauses. His brows are furrowed again, but all the way this time. He stares down at his pizza, and he contemplates. You sit there and watch him, feeling the weight of every second as it passes by. Were you too harsh? Maybe you were. But it was the truth, and he deserves something honest, even if it’s brutal.

“Oh,” Taehyung says, like he wasn’t expecting those words to come out of your mouth. What you said has been lingering between you like smoke, refusing to dissipate. “Well, I—I guess that makes two of us.” It’s obvious that there’s something else there, just underneath the water, but you don’t press further. It sounds like he’d rather keep it hidden.

When you leave, the waitstaff bid you goodbye exactly as you had predicted.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. and Mrs. Kim,” they say cordially as you and Taehyung pull on your coats and hats and gloves and head out the door.

“You too,” Taehyung says softly after a few seconds, like he was waiting for the words to fade away before speaking. “Thank you.”

Your bus leaves from Penn Station at 9:30 that night, and it’s barely seven. Plenty of time for you to continue exploring, see Times Square all lit up like it’s New Year’s Eve, go up to the top of the Empire State Building, or even take a peek into Central Park at nighttime, when the moon is high and the lanterns are lit.

“How about we go ice skating?” Taehyung suggests as the two of you walk along the pavement, side by side. Your hands are buried deep into the pockets of your coat.

“At Rockefeller?”

“Sure, why not?” Taehyung says. That sentence pretty much sums up your trip to New York thus far. “I’ve always wanted to go skating and see the tree during Christmastime. When else will we get the chance?”

Five minutes later you’ve paid for rental skates, a locker for your shoes, and a ticket to the rink. Visible right next to you is the enormous tree, the lights twinkling and cameras flashing as everyone scrambles to get their Instagram picture to prove that they actually went to the tree at Rockefeller Center in New York City.

When the zamboni is finished and the employees have skated over the ice enough to increase the level of friction, Taehyung and you balance on your skates as you walk towards the entrance. Slowly, everybody begins to glide on, wobbling at first before eventually getting the hang of it. There are a couple of small children holding onto those little penguin skate assistants, laughing as their older brothers and sisters guide them along the ice.

“I’ve never skated before,” you admit nervously, about two seconds before you’re about to enter the rink.

Taehyung’s mouth drops open. “Never?”

“No,” you reiterate, even more nervous than before. “I have no idea what I’m doing, I just said yes because like you said we’re in New York and it’s nearly Christmas and we should just seize every opportunity that we have and—”

“Y/N,” Taehyung says, calming you down as he ushers you away from the entrance so you aren’t blocking other people’s paths. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry,” he tells you, holding onto your wrists to make you look up at him. “I can show you how to. It’s easier than it looks, I swear. I won’t let you fall. You just have to trust me, alright?” He shakes your wrists to catch your attention, make sure that you heard him. “Alright?”

Deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

“Alright.”

Everything is, in fact, not alright. No matter what Taehyung says, ice skating is way more fucking difficult than it looks. Taehyung steps onto the ice and it turns into second nature for him, gliding around a small circle to get warmed up as you cling onto the side railing like an idiot. You have no idea how to move, you have no idea where to go, you just shuffle along the railing with the rest of the children who are far younger than you, also trying to skate for the first time.

This is embarrassing.

“You’re a liar,” you tell Taehyung pointedly as he circles around, coming up to rest next to you. You’d point at his chest for emphasis, but you’re afraid you’ll fall without both hands on the railing at all times. “This is—” you pause, remembering that there are children present, “—very difficult.”

Taehyung just chuckles. “You have to be brave, Y/N, come on,” Taehyung implores. He holds out his hand, motioning for you to let go of the wall and take a leap of faith.

“No, I will not be brave. Please let me be weak,” you beg, scared for your life. One wrong move and you’d go splat in the middle of the rink and embarrass yourself in front of all of New York City.

“Come on, Y/N,” Taehyung says, holding his hand closer. “You said you trusted me. I told you, I won’t let you fall. Come on. Be brave.” And then he adds, leaning in to meet your eyes, “for me?”

He’s always been too charming for your own good.

Tentatively, second by second by painstaking second, you remove your hands from the railing, first the left and then the right, as Taehyung pulls you right next to him, holding on tight.

“See?” He asks as you begin to move on your own, Taehyung’s short glides pulling you along the ice. “Look, it’s not that bad.”

“I am scared for my life right now.” You blink.

“Focus on me, okay,” Taehyung says, making you meet his eyes once more. “Eyes on me, alright. You’re doing fine. You’re skating, isn’t this fun?”

“I am terrified that I am going to perish on this very rink,” you repeat for emphasis.

“Look, Y/N, look! You’re skating!” Taehyung tells you, and finally you glance down at your feet and realize that they’re beginning to move on the ice, all on their own.

“Oh my God! I’m skating! What the—heck!” You say, eyes widening in excitement.

“I knew you could do it,” Taehyung says, hands gripping on tight. You can feel the warmth from his palms seep into your own, feel the back of your hand burning from the touch. “You just had to trust me.”

“This is so cool,” you say, immediately very pleased with yourself. “I’m such a pro, I can do anything. Who said skating was scary?”

Taehyung opens his mouth to respond, but you shoot him a warning glare and he zips his lips.

“Watch this, I can even do it on my own. You’re gonna be very impressed, Kim Taehyung, just watch me!”

Within the next moment, you’re letting go of his hand and pushing yourself away from him, gliding along the ice ever-so-slightly as you begin to balance on your own.

But power is short-lived, and much like every leading male in Greek tragedies, your hubris gets the best of you, and you face the ultimate demise.

The moment you attempt to pick up your left foot, your right toe pick gets caught in a dip of the ice and you go toppling over, collapsing onto the ice in a cold, bruised ball.

Luckily, your coat takes most of the hit, its length preventing your knees from hurting into the next century, but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. Ashamed of yourself and even more mortified to have to face Taehyung after boasting about how amazing you are, you slowly push yourself off of the ice, wobbling like a baby deer.

“What was that, Y/N?” Taehyung says with a raised eyebrow as he skates over. He’s clearly just recovered from a laughing fit.

“Fuck off,” you mutter, and you don’t even care if children hear you. “I got excited.”

“Clearly,” Taehyung notes, eyes wide and knowing. He holds out a hand, and before you even have time to think of a snarky retort your palm is reaching out for it, letting him pull you up off of the rink. “Here. Come on.”

One hour and two fairly bruised knees later, you and Taehyung are taking off your skates and relishing in the feeling of your feet, flat on the ground like feet should be.

“You alright?” Taehyung asks. You didn’t have any massive falls following the first spectacle, but you admittedly, still cannot ice skate very well. You’ll have to figure out a way to learn.

You round out the night by going to look at the Christmas Tree. Now that it’s fairly late, the massive families with young children have all gone home, leaving only the young adults left to bask in the glory of the peak of Christmas decorations.

“It seemed bigger in photos, didn’t it?” Taehyung asks as the both of you crane your necks to look at the tree in all of its glory. “Like it was the size of a small tower.”

“Yeah,” you agree. It looks somewhat disappointingly small, now that you’re here in front of it. “Today was a lot of fun, Taehyung. Your spontaneity paid off.”

“When does it not?” Taehyung asks, proud of himself. He even has enough of an ego to do a little hair flip, making you shake your head disapprovingly. “But I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I certainly did.”

“What was your favorite part?” You ask.

“Definitely when you were in your prime for one moment and a puddle on the ice the next,” Taehyung says, and for that, he earns a punch to the shoulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But I did really enjoy ice skating.”

“Yeah, because you can actually do it,” you remind him.

“What about you?”

You think. This day has been so long, from getting woken up by Taehyung’s irresponsible neighbors and the entire city’s fire department outside your window, to hopping on a bus to New York, to museums and restaurants and ice skating and the city, you feel like you’ve lived three days in one.

“The museum,” you finally decide. “I’m not really an art person, but I thought it was lovely. Nice and heated, too.”

“Yes, the best part about the Museum of Modern Art was its modern, state-of-the-art central heating,” Taehyung repeats, making you laugh. “I’m glad you liked the museum. I was worried you’d think it was too stuffy.”

You had thought that too. And then you watched someone fall in love with each and every piece, right in front of you, and you realized that there’s more to art than putting a price tag on it and critiquing it. It’s passion, materialized. It’s real.

It’s Taehyung.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I thought it was beautiful.”

On Christmas Eve, it snows.

Correction: On Christmas Eve, it snows a lot.

Correction for the correction: On Christmas Eve, it blizzards.

When you listened to “White Christmas” last night, this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, if you were being honest. Maybe an inch or two. Maybe even just a flurry. But certainly not nearly two feet worth of snow, effectively trapping you inside of Taehyung’s apartment complex until the next day because not even the snow plows are allowed to go out on the roads. Not until the snow stops.

“Good thing we don’t live on the first floor, right?” Taehyung asks with a laugh that late afternoon, taking a peek out of the window to stare down at the white expanse below you. “I’d hate to be those guys.”

“It must be so cold,” you say sadly. You’ve spent the better part of today huddled up in as many blankets as Taehyung owns in his apartment and you have no intention of shedding even one of them. Not even as you sweat right through your pajama shirt from high school.

“We can just make dinner here, tonight,” Taehyung says, fishing around in his kitchen to see what the options are. It’s already beginning to get dark even though it’s not even five o’clock. God, you hate winter.

“What are we making?”

Taehyung fumbles through the cabinets and his fridge, hunting for anything that might make a good meal. Eventually, he pulls out two cartons of Trader Joe’s vegetable broth and every vegetable in his fridge.

“Wanna make soup?”

Soup is very easy to make. You set the broth to simmer, chop up vegetables, and dump them in the pot.

But the idea of you and Taehyung sharing his tiny kitchen space, both with knives in your hands is, well, a recipe for disaster.

Luckily no knife mishaps occur, but, like the children at heart that you are, you eventually end with pelting uncooked lima beans at each other in the most adult version of a food fight you have ever had in your life. No fuss, no mess, no tomatoes or key lime pies or spaghetti doused in sauce getting chucked across the kitchen floor, the dinner table.

No, your little food fight ends with you and Taehyung kneeling down on the tile as you pick up each little lima bean, gathering them in your palms.

You make to toss it out but Taehyung stops you.

“Wait,” Taehyung says, a hand on top of yours as it hovers over the trash can, “don’t toss them out.”

“Huh?” You ask.

“I’ll feed them to the birds,” he says, taking the pile from your hands and placing all of the lima beans, along with his own, in a Ziploc bag.

“You have a porch out here?” You ask, looking around. You’ve never seen it.

“No.” Taehyung shakes his head. “They land on my bedroom window sill so I feed them.”

When you were in freshman year, you remember how Taehyung always left his window open. You know this because even though yours was always closed, anytime a police car, fire truck, ambulance, or particularly loud motorist drove by, the sound was always loudest on the wall of your room that bordered Taehyung’s. You hated how he always left his windows open, even in the winter. Wasn’t he goddamn cold?

And now, even though it’s Christmas Eve and there’s a blanket of snow outside nearly two feet deep, Taehyung will go and open his bedroom window again and feed the birds lima beans like a fucking Disney prince, and it makes your heart flutter, ever so slightly.

You end the night sitting on Taehyung’s couch, only a foot or so of space in between your bodies as he multitasks, channel surfing and gulping down your homemade soup.

“I haven’t made soup in a while, but damn, this is good,” Taehyung says, drinking the rest of it before getting up to help himself to seconds. He sticks a hand out to take your bowl as well, and wordlessly you hand it to him.

“It’s my magic touch,” you tease. It was not. Taehyung did most of the work. You don’t have much of an affinity for cooking.

“It’s my chemistry brain,” Taehyung corrects. “Chem is basically like making soup.”

“But it can kill you,” you tack on.

“But it can kill you,” he agrees, returning to the couch. This time, when he sits down, he plops right down next to you, your sides touching as you sit in front of his television, slurping up homemade vegetable soup. “How’s your major? What is it, again?”

“English with a minor in Psych,” you say over a mouthful of carrot.

“Sounds like too much reading for me,” Taehyung comments. “I’d only like picture books.”

“Yeah, wonder why,” you tell him sarcastically. “But it’s going well. I’m thinking of maybe adding Consumer Psych as another minor since there’s a lot of overlap, but I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.”

“Sounds busy,” Taehyung comments.

“Almost as busy as visual studies and chem,” you remind him. “Seriously, do you ever sleep?”

“Inspiration is a fickle mistress and the will to do my chem problem sets, even more fickle,” Taehyung muses like the two subjects aren’t the absolute bane of his existence. “But yeah, I mean, I made it this far.”

“Our majors are so different,” you comment. They are. Encompassing all sides of the college major spectrum, from STEM to art to humanities. The only thing you’re missing is a business minor. But only snakes would ever be interested in something like that.

“It’s nice,” Taehyung decides. “Because this is forcing us to talk with someone with whom we don’t already share all of the same classes with.”

“I couldn’t imagine taking the same class as you,” you say, not because you’d hate having to be in the same room as Kim Taehyung or dread the potential to be paired up for group work, but because your tastes are so different. They’ve always been different. Art, English, chemistry, psychology. Headphones or speakers. Closed windows or open. It’s always been opposites with the two of you.

“Maybe I’ll take a psych class so that way we can,” Taehyung says.

“Maybe I’ll take an art history course,” you retort.

“You’d really take an art history course? They’re awfully boring, and I’m an art major,” Taehyung says, in disbelief.

You ponder it for a moment, but then nod. Yes, you would. Even if it sent you to sleep. Because it looks genuinely interesting. “After today, I wouldn’t mind it. You showed me a lot about art, Kim Taehyung. More than I thought I would ever learn in my lifetime.”

Taehyung sighs, shutting the television off. You guys weren’t watching it anyway. You hardly realized it was on. He looks down at his empty soup bowl, and then at you. He always does that—always looks somewhere else before looking at you, like he has to muster up the courage by first staring at an inanimate object. And then he says, “You’ll never stop learning about art. Neither will I. It’s a constant cycle, learning and relearning and changing your mind and revisiting old pieces. Because art is all around us.”

He looks at you, like he’s trying to say something else but doesn’t have the words. “You just have to look for it.”

New Year’s Eve is often a time of reflecting on the year that’s passed, making a list of goals to achieve once the clock strikes twelve. Thanking your friends and family, your loved ones, for being there for you this year, and promising to be there for them as well next year.

To you and Taehyung, it’s literally your last chance to get piss drunk this year without repercussions. You’ve never stayed here, at your university in the city, for New Year’s Eve (obviously). You’d be interested in getting all dressed up to go out. Taehyung would also be interested.

And so, after a day of slouching around and making half-assed resolutions you know you won’t keep (like managing your time better. As a college student? Impossible.), you and Taehyung decide to get dressed up and go out, pulling out the winter jackets you don’t care if you lose, or if they get trashed, or if they stain with vodka. All you want is to lose your goddamn mind in a tiny club with a bunch of other wasted young adults who don’t want to stay at home on the last night of the year.

You are, unsurprisingly, a self-proclaimed not-a-going-out person, but tonight is something of an exception. It’s your last night to do this this year, and honestly, you can’t really think of a better way to end the year. There’s been plenty of ups (that A+ on your paper on the ethics of Beowulf, yay!) and plenty of downs (Global Politics in the Twentieth Century, yikes), and no better way to say goodbye to them all than with alcohol in your system. But even if, during the regular college season, you’re something of a stick in the mud, you remembered to pack a nice party dress just in case, so you tug on a little black velvet mini-dress that sparkles rainbow in the light, covered with tiny glitters that get stuck in your hair and never come out.

As you’re fishing around for some tights that you don’t care about so your legs don’t freeze off in the cold, the door to Taehyung’s bedroom opens.

Out he walks in all of his New Year’s Eve glory, a full black ensemble complete with structured belt and a leather jacket. You turn around to look at him and he stops dead in his tracks, eyes blinking like he doesn’t know where to look. It gives you a clear view of him and his simple yet extremely flattering outfit. He looks like Danny Zuko. He looks like a boy you would avoid in high school.

Funnily enough, seeing him now draws you closer to him.

“Wow, hot stuff, you clean up nicely,” You comment, tugging on some black tights with a hole in the back that no one’s going to notice.

“I could say the same thing about you,” he adds on, a hand coming up to rub at the nape of his neck. “I didn’t even know you had this.”

“I packed it just in case,” you say with a shrug.

“Came in handy, didn’t it?” He asks. He comes up to stand by you, holding his arm out for you to wrap yours around, two people on a mission to not remember most things about this night. “You ready to go?”

Stuffing your phone and wallet into your purse, you quickly link arms with him as you walk to the door, your black boots clopping on the floor like the obnoxious high-heel owner you are.

“Yeah, you ready?” You ask, doing a quick double check. You’ve got everything.

“Let’s fuck some shit up.”

And fuck some shit up you do. By the time you reach the club that Taehyung had found online, you can already hear the bass pounding through the walls, feel the ground shake from the speakers alone. Go big or go home, you suppose.

As you expected, the club is already packed with bodies. Every young adult within a twenty-mile radius is out tonight, eager to spend the last night of the year doing what young adults in the primes of their lives do best: drink. And you and Taehyung are no exception.

Like everybody else entering the club at the same time as you, you make a beeline for the bar, already itching to get something into your system. You don’t love being drunk, and you like the taste of alcohol even less, so you just order a simple cocktail that should keep you occupied for a while.

Taehyung, on the other hand, well. He seems to harbor the go big or go home mentality quite firmly. It’s obvious that he’s here to do one thing and one thing only, which is not remember what he did when he wakes up tomorrow. You watch, a little impressed and a lot nervous about what exactly he’s trying to achieve, as he downs several shots in a row, pays the bartender, and immediately pulls you into the crowd of people dancing in the center of the room.

“The more I move, the faster my body can process the alcohol,” Taehyung tells you as your cocktail sloshes around in the glass in your hand. It’s an alright cocktail. A little too sweet for you, but you suppose that that’s your fault.

“Wow, when you said you wanted to fuck shit up, you meant it,” you comment as Taehyung dances, jumping and swaying to the beat of whatever Top 40 pop song is blaring from the speakers. You can barely hear the music over the volume of the rest of the club, people shouting to speak to each other, the sound of feet hitting the floor.

Within approximately fifteen minutes, Taehyung is already fairly tipsy and eager to keep going, bubbling over with excitement.

You convince him to dance a little longer before he goes back to get more, trying to make sure at least a bit of the alcohol he had at the beginning of the night goes through his body. The song changes to something much sultrier, like honey dripping from the speakers themselves, and suddenly, the entire club’s atmosphere changes.

“I love this song,” Taehyung says, and it must be the lack of control that causes him to place a hand on your waist and pull you in close to him, making you gasp.

“Wow, okay,” you comment, blinking. Taehyung rests his chin on your shoulder, leaning down as he holds you tight, your bodies swaying in tandem.

“You don’t mind this?” Taehyung asks.

“Not if you don’t,” you respond. He’s practically drunk, and you’re even a little buzzed. There are worse things you could be doing.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” He inquires aloud. It’s a good thing that you can’t see his face, can’t watch the haze in his eyes, otherwise you might lose your footing and collapse.

“What is?”

“This,” Taehyung repeats unhelpfully.

The next three minutes are some of the most confusing ones of your life as Taehyung rests a hand on your waist, palm rubbing up and down as the two of you dance together like it means something to the both of you.

But it doesn’t, does it? You chalk it up to both of your minds not being as sharp with some alcohol in your systems. That must be it.

When the song ends, the mood disappears as well, and Taehyung’s back to his bouncy, tipsy self. He’s practically stumbling over himself once he determines that it’s time for more shots, and you’ve never seen Taehyung drunk before but you can tell that he’s nearly there. You’ll probably put a hard stop on the drinks after this round, since Taehyung is the one most familiar with the way back to his apartment and you wouldn’t mind going home and sleeping after this.

“Come with?” Taehyung asks as he eyes the bartender like he’s the love of his life.

“No, it’s alright, Tae,” you say.

“You never call me Tae,” Taehyung comments mindlessly. Even when he’s nearly drunk, he still picks up on the little things.

“I guess the alcohol is making me soft,” you admit. “You go. I’m gonna find the bathroom and hope that nobody’s having sex in it.”

“Okay,” Taehyung singsongs as you pull away from him, looking for a dingy hallway to go down. “Be safe.”

“You too, I’ll be back soon,” you promise him, and that’s when you go rushing down the hallway.

Things are certainly weird down here. It must be the feeling of the new year looming over your heads. Like this is the last night to do everything wrong without regretting it in the morning. The bathroom is, luckily enough, empty, so you rush in and splash your face with some water, not caring about if your makeup runs. You’d sweat it off, regardless. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and this feels so stupidly like a goddamn romantic comedy that it makes you want to laugh at the irony.

Beautiful male art student lead gets drunk, confuses hardheaded and impenetrable female lead who doesn’t believe in love and supposedly hates beautiful male art student’s guts. Tension ensues.

Your life may as well already have a shitty Rotten Tomatoes rating stamped on top of it.

After collecting your thoughts and praying that that white stain on the wall isn’t what you think it is, you leave the bathroom and scurry down the hallway, eager to find Taehyung and make sure he isn’t bouncing off the walls after a second round of shots.

He’s not.

Instead, he’s still standing by the bar as a beautiful young woman speaks to him, long dark hair resting against her shoulders and a model-esque smile on her face. She’s leaning in with a suggestive look in her eyes, a hand coming up to rub at the side of his arm.

You furrow your brows as you watch them from afar, a little hurt by the fact that beautiful male art student lead is confusing hardheaded and impenetrable female lead even more, but then you notice Taehyung’s hesitance. The way he backs up a little when she gets closer. How he stiffens when she touches him.

And, well, fuck that.

“Tae,” you say, rushing up to him faster than you’d like to admit. “There you are, I was looking for you.”

The girl next to him frowns at the sight of you, and it’s clear she feels no shame to hide the immediately dislike. Sure, you don’t have model proportions or a smile whiter than snow, but you have morals.

“Who’s this?” You ask, trying to be nice.

“Nobody,” Taehyung tells you, and his hand immediately interlocks with yours. Standing next to him, you can feel as the tension fades from his body, his whole demeanor relaxing now that you’re by his side. “She just wanted to talk.”

“Are you a friend?” She asks, because she knows.

“I’m a special type of friend,” you say. There’s no way she’ll leave Taehyung alone otherwise. And this is definitely on the cocktail you drank (and nothing else, you swear!), but you even reach up to plop a kiss on his cheek for proof. Taehyung’s eyes widen as you do, but he plays it off as catching him off guard and grins, wrapping an arm around you to pull you even closer. “Can we help you?”

The girl is absolutely pissed, which means that you did your job.

“No, it’s alright,” she hisses through gritted teeth before turning her sights on someone else. Someone without a friend to protect them.

“Thanks,” Taehyung whispers once she’s gone. Even though she’s probably not coming back, Taehyung keeps you close, a hand on you at all times like you’ll fly away if he doesn’t hold on tight.

“Of course,” you tell him. “You’d do the same for me.”

“She scared me,” Taehyung says, and if his red face is anything to go by, it’s clear that he’s pretty much reached his alcohol intake limit. “I’m glad you came.”

“I could tell you didn’t want to talk to her,” you say.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Taehyung says, and it’s definitely the alcohol that’s erased his filter. “I was waiting for you to come out of the bathroom and she just came up to me and started flirting with me. I think she wanted to get in my pants. I didn’t want her to get into my pants.”

“I know.”

“I’d much rather be with you than with her. Than with anybody else. I would always want to be with you, instead.” He tells you, keeping your hands firmly intertwined as you lean against the bartender counter.

And well, huh. That’s different. Taehyung’s aforementioned lack of a filter means that any thoughts that run through his mind immediately turn into spoken words, but you weren’t expecting those words. You never thought you;d hear them, not in a million goddamn years.

“Okay, Tae,” you say, patting him assuringly. He’s just drunk. That’s all.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Taehyung tells you firmly, pushing your comforting hand off of his shoulder and turning to face you directly. “I mean it.”

“I know, Tae.” you reassure him. It’s easier than trying to fight him, especially when he’s this hammered. You check the time on your phone. Maybe it’s time to leave. If you go now, you’ll be able to make it back by midnight. “Let’s go home, okay? I’m ready to go home.”

Wordlessly, Taehyung nods, and the two of you leave the club before people are even thinking about ringing in the New Year.

When you reach Taehyung’s apartment, he takes off his leather jacket to hang on the coat rack and turns the television on. Only three minutes to midnight.

“I had fun,” you say, trying to lighten the conversation. The way back was silent, the only noises the sounds of New Year’s Eve parties on every block you turned onto. Taehyung kept his face forward and his eyes ahead, even as you tried to huddle close to him to conserve the warmth.

“It was sort of fun,” Taehyung halfheartedly agrees.

“Did you drink too much?” You ask. His face is still beet red.

“I don’t think I drank enough.”

Two minutes to midnight.

You frown, brows furrowing. Why on Earth would Taehyung want to drink more? What would change if he had another shot, a can of beer or a little cocktail?

Slowly, you begin to peel off your own layers, resting your coat on the back of the couch and slipping off your boots. The both of you stand in his living room as the TV begins to buzz with excitement, the broadcast of Times Square lighting up the otherwise silent, tense atmosphere. He’s only a couple of feet away but it feels like he couldn’t be farther from you.

One minute to midnight. Everybody begins to count down, and you feel yourself holding your breath.

“Will you be alright going to sleep?” You ask. Even if Taehyung’s still drunk, he’s far less bouncy than he was at the club.

“I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, beginning to walk past.

Three.

“Okay.”

Two.

“Okay.”

One.

Something overtakes Taehyung, something quick and brief. He stops right next to you and flinches, like he wants to lean in and do something, anything, goddamnit, but stops himself before he goes through with it. Everyone on television is cheering, but this apartment couldn’t be less festive even if you tried.

Taehyung sends you a small smile as the world rings in the new year, dashing off to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

And you stand there, in the middle of his living room like the goddamn fool you are. Turning to the television, you watch over and over as every couple in Times Square kisses, clip after clip after clip, and like a goddamn idiot, you wish that Taehyung had done the same.

The end of winter break approaches faster than you’d like it, just like it does every year. Before you know it, there’s less than a week left before classes resume and you go back to the daily college life. Less than a week left before you can go back to your dorm and pretend like this year’s winter break mishap never happened.

Less than a week before you and Taehyung go back to never seeing each other.

You’re sitting at his kitchen table, clearing out your backpack and recycling every paper, every syllabus and assignment and study guide from last semester, doing a deep cleanse of your life (because holy shit, you need it), when you come across the purchase you had made at the MOMA.

“Taehyung,” you call out before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah?” He asks from where he’s sitting on the couch, reading a James Joyce book. You love that novel. It was one of the very few you read for fun last year.

You take the small paper bag in your hands, walking over to the couch. “I almost forgot about this, but since winter break’s starting to wind down, I just wanted to give you this as a thanks. For everything.”

“You got me a belated Christmas gift, Y/N?” Taehyung asks as you hold out the gift, clearly something thin like a posterboard or an art print.

“If it means I don’t have to buy you two things, then sure, consider this a belated Christmas gift,” you say with a laugh, sitting down a foot away from him as he slowly opens up the packet. “It’s sort of cheesy and very basic, but I just wanted to get you something nice as a thank you.”

Out Taehyung pulls is a print of van Gogh’s The Starry Night, big enough to fill up the empty spaces on his walls, so every inch of his apartment, of his life and his home, is filled with art.

“Oh my God,” Taehyung says, mouth agape. “This is…”

“It’s basic, I know. But I know how much you loved seeing it in person, so I thought that a memory of that would be nice,” you say, trying to ease the nervousness that has bubbled up inside of you.

“It’s wonderful,” Taehyung says, and you swear you’ve never seen him so happy, other than perhaps when you saw the real thing. “This is so fucking thoughtful of you.”

“I just—you told me a lot about the art we saw that day, but when we reached this painting, you were speechless. And I sort of knew, then, that it was your favorite piece. Because you didn’t have to explain it with words,” you tell him. “I could just tell. It was like your whole body warmed up the moment it came into view.”

“I’m touched, Y/N.” Taehyung beams. “This is all an art student could ever want, really. To be able to know that their love for art meant something to someone else.”

“I just wanted to say thank you for everything. Taking me in, cooking me food, being really nice me despite me entrenching on your living situation.” You smile.

“I was happy to do all that stuff,” Taehyung tells you honestly. “I’ve had a lot of fun this winter break, even if we’re still trapped on campus.”

You loved getting to go home for winter break your freshman and sophomore years. You loved being able to escape from the college mindset and just relax, no deadlines, no assignments, no worries.

But looking back on it, you think that you’ve had the most fun this winter break, stuck at school, a five-hundred-dollar plane ticket short, with your dorm neighbor-slash-nemesis from freshman year. Never have you done so much in so little time.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, thinking back fondly. It feels like this winter break has lasted for years, but also as though it went by in the blink of an eye,

“I have something for you as well,” Taehyung says, scrambling up to dash into his room. “Consider it just a Christmas gift, because I don’t really have to thank you for letting you stay at my apartment for free for a month.”

“Roast me, why don’t you,” you muse jokingly, rolling your eyes as Taehyung fumbles around in his bedroom before he emerges with an equally flat, similarly-sized gift wrapped up in some spare tissue paper.

“I don’t recall you buying anything at the MOMA,” you tease as Taehyung hands you the gift, settling back down on the couch to watch as you open it.

Slowly, you peel back the tissue paper, and when you reveal what he’s wrapped up for you, it drops to your lap.

It’s a portrait of you, done entirely in pencil. It’s you smiling, with your eyes closed, lashes fluttering. He’s memorized your entire face, drawn it neatly onto this piece of sketch paper, like he was just passing the time and suddenly he had a picture of you on his hands. He’s even remembered where your freckles go.

“What’s this, Tae?” You ask, like you don’t already know.

“Uh, it’s you,” Taehyung says sheepishly. “I wasn’t planning on drawing you, I didn’t have a gift in mind, but I was practicing sketches the other day and an hour later I looked down and I had drawn you. And I felt bad for not telling you, because that’s weird, so I thought that you could see it.”

“You drew a portrait of me? Just randomly, from memory?” You ask, looking down at the sketch in your hands like it’s just ruined your life.

“Yeah, so?” Taehyung asks. He looks terribly nervous.

“So, that’s—people don’t just do that, Taehyung. You don’t just draw a picture of someone purely from memory while you’re practicing sketching,” You say, reeling back as he tries to lean in, attempts to explain himself.

“What do you mean? I did that. I thought of you and I drew you, what’s so bad about that?”

“I don’t know if you missed the memo, Taehyung. I told you in New York. We’re not dating, Taehyung,” you tell him, so firm and certain in your conviction that you hardly pay attention to the way his shoulders sink. “We’re barely even friends. I’m not interested in you like that. Please don’t think otherwise.”

“Don’t tell me what to think,” Taehyung snaps, and he’s mad. Really mad, not like the fake anger from freshman year when you tried to get back at him by being an equally-annoying neighbor. “Don’t tell me how to feel. I drew you, Y/N. Not because I’m obsessed with the idea of us getting married, or because you’re my muse or some bullshit like that. I drew you because I thought of you, and I draw what I think of. Don’t tell me what to fucking think.”

“Do you like me, Taehyung?” You ask, on the verge of shouting.

Taehyung’s furious. “So what if I do? Huh? What difference does it make? You’ve told me over and over that you don’t like me back, so why does it matter? It’s not like I’d ever have a chance.”

“I told you because I didn’t want to confuse you,” you hiss, standing up and beginning to grab your belongings. It’s clear that this conversation is turning sour.

“Confuse me? You didn’t want to confuse me?” Taehyung shouts. “You did a damn good job at that. Telling me in New York that you hated being called Mr. and Mrs. Kim, but holding my hand as we walked around the city and looked at art together. Kissing my cheek in the fucking bar but then patting me like on the back like I’m just a sadass friend of yours. Can you blame me if I was confused, Y/N?”

“I told you,” you say again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Taehyung bites. “I’m sorry that I fucking fell in love with you, even though half of the time you acted like it was alright. My mistake.”

“It was your mistake. I never said I wanted to date you,” you tell him firmly. You refuse to take the blame for something you had made so explicitly clear.

“Can you fucking blame me for being hopeful?” Taehyung asks. He’s standing up, about to head back into his bedroom, absolutely furious. “You held my hand and kissed me on the cheek and I thought that meant that you felt it, too.”

“Taehyung—”

“Keep the portrait, Y/N,” Taehyung spits. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

He slams his bedroom door.

It’s a good thing you made friends with some upperclassmen when you were a freshman.

After packing your belongings into your little suitcase and standing in the lobby of Taehyung’s apartment complex, you remember that one of your old friends who had graduated last year still lived in an off-campus apartment since he would be beginning graduate school at the same university.

“Yoongi?” You ask when you hear him pick up your call.

“Y/N? What’s up?”

“Long story,” you say with a sigh. “Would it be alright if I stayed with you until school started?”

“Holy shit, you’re on campus? What the fuck, yeah, sure, you know where I live. I’ll be here whenever you stop by,” he says without question.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside his door, double checking to make sure you’d got the right apartment.

You barely get the first knock in before the door swings open to reveal Min Yoongi himself, clad in all black and looking very tired.

“Are you okay?” You ask. He looks exhausted.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, ushering you inside.

“Have you been up all night?” You ask, resting your suitcase against the wall.

“I took a brief nap between two and three, but yes, I have been,” he says like it’s natural.

“You’ve always been a chaotic sleeper,” you say with a shake of your head.

“The grad school grind stops for no one,” Yoongi says with a sigh. “What’s up? Why are you on campus?”

“It… it’s a long goddamn story. Do you have time?”

“I have a piece due for a small indie band tomorrow at noon that’s barely finished,” Yoongi says.

“Oh,” you say. You suppose the story can wait. Yoongi offered up his abode to you until classes resumed if you needed it, and there’s no way in hell you’ll be going back to Taehyung’s.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh’? I got loads of time,” Yoongi says. He plops down on his couch and motions for you to sit next to him. “Tell me everything.”

Yoongi has always been a particularly good listener. Not just to other people’s words, but to music, to the sounds of the chords and the notes of the piano. He has an ear for things that most others would never notice.

It’s the same thing for when he’s doling out advice.

“To clarify,” Yoongi says when you’re finished telling your story, thirty minutes later. You had warned him that it would be a long one. “You had once hated his guts, but no longer hate his guts?”

“I stopped hating him after freshman year,” you admit, more to yourself than to Yoongi. It’s true. The moment the two of you stopped seeing each other, everything dissipated.

“And now you like him.”

“We’re friends,” you say, tentatively. Maybe less than friends after the disaster that just went down in his living room.

“But he drew you a portrait of yourself,” Yoongi mentions.

“I said that it was complicated,” you say with a frown.

“It doesn’t sound that complicated,” Yoongi says. And maybe he is a graduate student with more life experience under his belt than you, but you think that it’s pretty complicated.

“What do you mean?”

“It sounds like he likes you, and you like him. I wasn’t really interpreting it in any other way,” Yoongi says casually.

You reject the notion immediately. “I do not like him.”

Yoongi frowns. “Would you really be here, in my apartment having a relationship breakdown, if you weren’t confused about your feelings for him? Really?”

“I just needed to get out of his damn apartment, that’s all,” you say, avoiding eye contact. Yoongi has this very annoying habit of being extremely reasonable all of the time, and it bothers you immensely.

“Sure, okay. Y/N, I’m not gonna dictate how you feel and try to change your mind, or anything. But if you can look me in the eye before the end of your break and tell me, one-hundred percent honestly, that you don’t like him, then I’ll believe you,” Yoongi tells you simply. “How about that?”

It sounds like a very doable deal. Maybe it’s not doable right now, but it certainly seems possible in the future. In the future, specifically.

“Fine. But you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” you tell him matter-of-factly. Why does he care? It’s not like you’re worried about it.

As it turns out, you’re worried about it.

You’re worried about it because even though you’re not in the same room, not in the same building, not even on the same goddamn street as him, you’re thinking about him. Thinking about how much fun the two of you could be having right now as you relish in the last couple days of your winter break before the cold reality of school hits.

Think about the things you could be doing. Exploring, going out to restaurants, finding new little gold mines in this city that you call home. And instead, you’re moping around your friend’s living room wishing that the two of you hadn’t ruined the whole thing.

Maybe you had been too harsh. Taehyung has a right to be mad at you for lashing out at him. How was he supposed to feel? You held his hand and kissed his cheek and pretended that it was still freshman year, that the two of you were still just two people stuck together by unfortunate circumstances. Acted like nothing had really changed despite the years going by. Going through with all of these adventures with him knowing, in the back of your mind, that once classes started back up, you’d probably never make an effort to see him again.

Drawing a portrait of you says one thing, but dancing around him says another. Every time you fucking see Yoongi in his own goddamn home you try to muster up the bravery to tell him that you don’t like Taehyung the way that he thinks you do, and you can’t.

He sets up his pullout couch in his living room for you when you go to sleep that night, you dream of Taehyung. Envision him wandering the halls of a nameless museum, priceless pieces of art hung along every wall, from van Gogh to Monet to Picasso. He turns back around so you get a view of his face, dream up his curly black hair and soft eyes, sparkling with wanderlust as he roams the corridors, stopping to spare a quick glance at every painting he passes.

And then at the end of the hall, he pauses in his tracks, looks up at the painting on the wall. You watch as the camera zooms in on what he’s looking at, what made him stop in his tracks the moment he laid eyes on it.

It’s your portrait. A simple piece of paper out of a sketchbook, graphite on the coarse canvas. It’s barely more than a line drawing, your eyes here, your nose there, the little freckles that decorate your skin. It’s only in one color and still, even now, it leaves you speechless. Taehyung made that. He drew that, line by line. He made that for you.

You wake up in a cold sweat at seven in the morning. Yoongi’s fast asleep in his bedroom, and you know he won’t be waking up until the hour on the clock reads double digits. Frantic, you scramble through your backpack until you pull out the sketch paper a little bit larger, a little bit thicker than the rest, still wrapped up in tissue paper.

Pulling the paper away to reveal the canvas, you stare down at it in the hazy light of the sunrise, small rays beginning to stream through Yoongi’s window. Your fingers trace along each line, picturing Taehyung as his pencil scratched along the paper, over and over until it looked perfect. Taehyung made this. He sat down, thought of you, and drew this.

A picture may be worth a thousand words but this one doesn’t say a thousand words. Instead, it only says three.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you flip the sketch over to see if there’s anything else he’s drawn. There isn’t, but you find a little note in the bottom right corner.

Y/N,

I hadn’t realized that I had drawn you until I was nearly finished with this. My bad, but it was too late to stop. I don’t know if I’ll ever give this to you, or if I’ll just have a guilty conscience for the rest of my life, but just in case I do, I want you to know this: art inspires me, and you are no exception.

Tae ♡

When Min Yoongi wakes up that day and trudges out of his bedroom, he finds you sitting on his pullout couch, staring down at a sketch in your hands. When you turn to look up at him, he sees your red eyes and wonders how long you’ve been out here, crying.

“I can’t do it, Yoongi,” you tell him.

“Do what?” Yoongi asks, even though he already knows the answer. Why else would you be letting your tears drip onto your portrait?

“Tell you that I don’t like him. Because I do. And I can’t lie to him like that.”

Yoongi grins. He knew you’d come around, like you always do. You may have quite the stubborn streak, but you’ve got a big heart, and it always gets the best of you.

He sits down next to you, glancing down at the portrait. It’s gorgeous. Taehyung did a wonderful job. He looks at you as you cry over a sketch of yourself, and he thinks that, even if he doesn’t really know this Taehyung character, the two of you will make a perfect pair.

“You should tell him that,” he tells you with a nudge. You look up at him, scared for your life. “I think he deserves to know.”

The night before winter break ends, you ask Taehyung if tenants of his apartment complex are allowed on his rooftop. He says no, but also says that his landlord is out of town for the holidays.

In the biting cold of a mid-January evening, you climb up the stairs of his apartment complex and push open the heavy metal door to the rooftop, a gust of wind nearly blowing you right over. Looking around, you spot Taehyung in nothing but a sweater and a scarf, sitting on the edge of the rooftop and looking out over the city.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He turns around to find you standing next to him, wrapped up in a long coat, gloves, a beanie, and a scarf.

“I’ve got a warm body,” Taehyung tells you, looking back out into the sea of lights.

“This is scary, isn’t it?” You ask, sitting down next to him. Your feet dangle off the ledge, and normally you’d be insistent on sitting in the middle of the rooftop where no danger can befall you, but this feels a lot more personal.

“Why did you want to meet me up here?” Taehyung asks, all business.

“I just wanted to talk,” you tell him. “You know, since it’s the last day of winter break and all.”

“It went by fast, didn’t it?” Taehyung muses.

“I remember failing my final and missing my flight like it was yesterday,” you remember fondly, laughing. It seemed like the end of the world at the time, but there’s always a silver lining. You just didn’t know what it was, back then.

You think you have a pretty clear idea of it now.

Taehyung chuckles, letting the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you gaze out at the rest of the city. Taehyung’s apartment building isn’t particularly tall, but it’s got enough height to it that it feels like you’re looking out over a place you hardly recognize. There are so many things you don’t know about this city, despite having lived here for over two years. So many things you are aching to find out, and only one person you’d really like to do it with.

“What’s your New Year’s Resolution?” You ask randomly, interrupting the quiet that had befallen the both of you.

Taehyung jumps at the sound of your voice piercing through the atmosphere, caught off guard. You lean in, expecting him to answer.

“Oh, um, I guess to draw and paint for fun more. A lot of the stuff I’ve been making in school I’ve been doing because I had to,” Taehyung says quickly. It’s sort of obvious that he made up the resolution on the spot. “Uh, what’s yours?”

You press your lips into a thin line, smiling to yourself. “To be honest.”

Taehyung scoffs at that. “Believe me, Y/N, you are more than honest. Brutally so.”

“To others, yes,” you reason. You always were a tell-it-like-it-is sort of person. “But I’m not very good at being honest with myself.” You swing your legs slightly as they dangle over the ground below, kicking into each other. Taehyung turns to look at you, waiting for you to continue. “Yoongi says I’m a very stubborn person. I always have been. Once I determine something is the way it is, it’s very difficult to change my mind.”

Taehyung chuckles to himself. He’s probably quite familiar with that aspect of your personality.

“But I realized recently that sometimes, things change without you even realizing it, and that instead of being afraid of those changes, you should embrace them. So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to be more honest with myself, because I think I’ll make everybody around me, including myself, happier.” You continue.

“Good for you,” Taehyung tells you mindlessly, turning back to face out towards the city.

“Kim Taehyung, I’m not finished talking, yet,” you demand, forcing him to look back at you. “I hated you in freshman year. You were the worst thing to happen to me that year, annoying and full of yourself. And I didn’t know you in sophomore year. We stopped talking and decided that it was better if we never did again.”

He lets out a little huff of breath, visible in the cold night air.

“But I do know you now. You offered me a place to stay when I missed my flight after what might have been the worst final I have ever taken in my entire life. You took me to New York, and we made vegetable soup together. You let me hold your hand and kiss you on the cheek, and you drew me a portrait,” you say firmly. He looks up at you and finally, finally, his eyes aren’t foggy. There’s no haze, no mist. You look into his eyes and you can see yourself reflected in the ink black of his irises. He’s beautiful. He’s sitting on the ledge of the roof of his apartment building in the middle of January with nothing but a sweater and a scarf on, and he’s beautiful. “You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Before you can even take another breath, Kim Taehyung places a cold palm on your scarf-covered cheek and pulls you into a bruising kiss, his other hand wrapping around your waist as you shuffle along the ledge, closer and closer. And even if his hands are cold and his lips are chapped, his mouth is warm and soft, wanton and desperate. You beam at the feeling of his lips on yours, wrapping your arms around his neck as you ring in the New Year for real. This is how it was supposed to be. This is what you had been waiting for.

When you part, Taehyung’s lips are a cherry red to match the tip of his nose. His brown eyes are twinkling, and not from the light pollution of the city.

“Can I be honest, too?” Taehyung asks. He’s got the biggest goddamn grin on his face. “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words are music to your ears. “My honesty is rubbing off on you,” you tease. “Because I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Smiling, grinning, positively fucking beaming, Taehyung wraps his hands around you and kisses you again. It warms your heart from the inside out, blossoms like a tulip in spring. When you started this winter break, you thought you had reached your lowest point, but you’re finishing it on a high that you hope never fades. He loves you, he loves you, and most importantly, you love him back. And as it turns out, the movie where beautiful male art student lead and hardheaded and impenetrable female lead are stuck with each other for four weeks has a happy ending, after all.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

#taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #v fluff #v angst #v scenario #taehyung scenario #bts imagine #taehyung imagine #v imagine #bts au #taehyung au #REPOSTING BC IT WASNT SHOWING UP IN THE TAGS #w: four weeks

5K notes · View notes

bastardtetsu · 3 years

Text

critical thinking | ch①

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x gn!reader

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, tsundere!reader, slow burn

wc: 1.9k

warnings: swearing, being a theatre major

※ mlist | ● ② ③ ④

you knew it was a dumb bitch move to procrastinate on your science requirement.

trying to schedule gen-eds around the demanding requirements of your theatre degree was already a nightmare, and your aversion to maths and sciences makes it even more difficult to find classes that both fit in your schedule AND don’t make you want to actively drop out of school. you weren’t sure why you thought putting off your one and only science credit until your final semester was going to solve any of that. so, you couldn’t be shocked when your only option to graduate on time ended up being 9am chemistry 1. on a monday, no less.

the first class is just as bad as you expect. the lecture drags on for ages, and as much as you will your sleepy morning brain to wrap your head around the concepts being thrown at you, no amount of caffeine, color-coded notes, or mental gymnastics can ford the river of brain-muddling frustration standing between you and a passing grade - the one you need to graduate.

panic begins to set in as you visualize all the hard work you put into your degree rendered useless, all because of a class that doesn’t even have to do with your field of study. who decided there had to be a science requirement anyway? i don’t need fucking chemistry to get a theatre degree??

“if you’re having trouble with anything,” your professor announces, bringing your attention back to the lecture that's finally wrapping up, “the tutoring center on campus is a great resource. i also hold office hours at the times listed on the syllabus. that’s our time for today folks, have a good week.”

you check the syllabus - all of the professor’s office hours conflict with your other classes, of course. asking your classmates is out of the question, seeing as you’re the lone arts major in a sea of STEM and pre-med. as annoying as it is to have to add another item to your schedule, tutoring seems like the only option if you want any hope of graduating. luckily you have some time before your next class, so you pack up your things and head for the tutoring center.

you pray that a decent chem tutor is available during any of your limited free time as you approach the lady at the desk of the tutoring office. she informs you of several with hours later in the week, none of which align with your schedule, and one who is available for the next hour. you figure tutoring right after class isn’t a bad deal - especially considering it’s your only option. the woman gives you a classroom number and a name - kuroo tetsuro - and you set out.

it doesn’t take you long to find the right classroom, but you aren’t prepared for the sight that is waiting for you there. a strong jawline and a mess of black hair that appears to stick up on its own catch your eye first as he taps away at his phone screen, his bored slouch doing nothing to hide his imposing height.

“um... hi, kuroo?” you say tentatively. his eyes glance up from his phone, slightly startled.

“oh, hey,” he responds, sitting up a bit, “you here for tutoring?”

“i am,” you reply with a half smile, “y/n.”

“kuroo. nice to meet you, y/n,” he pulls out the chair next to him as an invitation, “what year are you?”

“i’m a senior,” you say as you make your way over and sit down, “i’m in chem 1.” he definitely seems taller up close, even sitting down.

“chem 1? as a senior?” he asks derisively, his lips curling into a smirk. embarrassment and annoyance shoot through your chest.

“i’m a theatre major, alright,” you respond dryly, “i’m just trying to get my science credit and go.”

“left it ‘til the last minute, huh?” that smirk is still on his face.

“yeah, not my best decision,” you reply, trying not to let your annoyance seep through, “but i’m just trying to pass this class so i can graduate.”

“well, hopefully i can help with that,” he says smugly, “i may be a lowly business major, but i’m pretty good with chem if i do say so myself.”

a business major. of course. you’re familiar with the future capitalist machinery of the business school from your limited experience with the frat parties they so densely populated. needless to say, the impression was not good.

“so what do you need help with?”

“um...” you pondered, “all of it?” he snickered.

“you’re gonna have to be more specific if you wanna get anywhere.” his tone is dripping with amusement. is he trying to piss you off?

“ugh,” you let out an exasperated grunt, suddenly averse to showing any kind of weakness to this jerk. you pull out your notebook and flip to the page where you had attempted to take notes earlier. “this stuff.”

he leans over to take a look at your notes, and as his eyes scan the page you suddenly notice his smell - some fancy-smelling cologne with like, sandalwood or some shit - and his strong but elegant bone structure. i could cut myself on those cheekbones, you think.

“these notes are terrible.”

annnndddd he ruined it.

“well i can’t exactly take good notes if i have no clue what’s going on,” you counter, “isn’t that what you’re supposed to help me with?”

“i can try,” he says with an amused grin, “but I’ve never seen someone struggle this much with the basics on day one.”

now, you could put up with a lot of shit, but the one thing you cannot stand is being condescended to. especially not by some egotistical capitalist fucker who barely knows you.

“look,” you say pointedly, holding back the urge to throat punch him right then and there, “i’m really busy, and i just wanna pass this class, so if you could help me without being a dick about it i’d really appreciate it.”

“aw, but where’s the fun in that?”

his lips twist back into that patronizing smirk - he’s definitely trying to get a rise out of you.

“fuck off,” you say with a roll of your eyes, refusing to take his bait, “are you gonna teach me chemistry or not?”

he chuckles quietly again, thoroughly entertained. “sure. only because I’m so kind, and i could use the challenge.”

you scoff, but hold yourself back from retorting. you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

at first, it’s excruciating. you loathe this douchey business bro getting off on being condescending while explaining chemistry to you like you don’t understand anything - which, to be fair, you don’t. but that somehow makes you resent him more.

granted, once you actually get down to business, kuroo is actually a pretty good tutor. he’s not actively annoying when he’s actually trying to teach you something, and he’s surprisingly patient and good at breaking things down. dude is smart, there’s no denying that.

nevertheless, even when he’s not being snarky, every correction he makes seems to fluster you more. you hate looking stupid in front of others, and something about kuroo seems to amplify that feeling by a thousand. you blame his attitude.

as you fumble trying to wrap your head around the unfamiliar numbers, symbols, & formulas, you’re simultaneously attempting to maintain a shred of dignity in front of this man who clearly thinks of you as the dumbest bitch on the planet. and the more you struggle, the more you worry he’s right.

“seeeee? i told you it wasn’t that hard!” he hums as you finish off another homework question you’d been struggling with. he can’t seem to praise you without being patronizing as fuck, either. you look up from your page momentarily to shoot him a glare.

frustration and embarrassment simmer inside of you with each of his snide remarks, but you hold yourself together and divert the attention back to studying each time. the restraint it takes not to deck him right in his pretty face is honestly deserving of a nobel peace prize.

“not bad,” he muses as you finally finish off the last of your homework, “and it only took you two and a half hours!”

“i’m floored,” you deadpan. your brain is too exhausted to formulate a more clever comeback. then you suddenly realize - “hang on... has it actually been two and a half hours? i thought you were only available for one??”

“technically,” he shrugs, “that’s when my tutoring hours end. but I wasn’t doing anything after, and you seemed like you needed the extra help.” that shitty smile is back. you can feel your blood boiling, but at the same time that... is actually pretty nice of him?

“ah... th-thanks,” you mumble, still resistant to showing any signs of weakness - much less gratitude - to the messy-haired prick.

“so, should i expect you back next week?” his stare reminds you of a cat sizing up its prey.

“uh... maybe,” you say. you honestly don’t have an answer yet. “i have to run though, i’ve got another class to get to.”

“don’t be a stranger,” he grins, “you’re gonna need a lot of help if you wanna graduate.”

you shoot him another glare as you swing your bag over your shoulder.

“i’ll think about it.”

he's still smirking at you as you walk out the door.

—

as much as you’d like to deny it, there’s not much to think about. none of the other chem tutors are available when you are, and there’s no way you’re passing the class without the extra help. and, as insufferable as he is, kuroo did help you get through your entire first week of homework successfully.

of course, you still resent having to rely on some nasty ass, pompous business major to mansplain chemistry to you every week so you can graduate. well, technically it’s not mansplaining since you don’t actually know anything about chemistry. and you technically also asked him to do it. but god, does he have to be such a dick about it??

it’s just an hour or two once a week, you reassure yourself, you can put up with it.

this is easier said than done, of course. the following monday, you begrudgingly approach the same classroom, empty except for one (1) chickenhead douchebag, who promptly stares you down with the most shiteating smile you’ve ever seen.

“oya oya~ look who decided to come back!” he croons.

“don’t flatter yourself, it’s not like I had much of a choice,” you respond flatly. why is he still looking at me with that dumb expression?

“true, there’s no way you’re passing on your own.”

“listen,” you reply pointedly, “some people have better things to do than worry about how many neutrons are on hydrogen or whatever”

“hydrogen doesn’t have any neutrons.”

“COOL!!!! i just want to graduate!!”

“well then you’re gonna need to know that hydrogen doesn’t have any neutr-”

“ALRIGHT, i got it,” you huff, “can you just… help me figure out this balancing equations shit? WITHOUT being an asshole about it?”

“hmm… sorry, i can only accept one request at a time.”

this is gonna be a long fucking semester.

a/n: eeeeee this is the first time i’ve actually wholeheartedly attempted to write a fic in lord knows how long (possibly ever?? idk them memories repressed) and my first time posting my own writing so i hope y’all like it !! everybody who’s ready to see me trash talk k*roo t*tsuro say way ho

#haikyuu!!#kuroo tetsuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsurou x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #.txt #e writes

105 notes · View notes

eremiss · 4 years

Text

Lost Magic

Takes place sometime post-5.1, pre-5.3

It’s a bright, sunny morning in the Crystarium, though the lumpy clouds far out to the east hint at a storm later.

Gwen stares out at the clear sky, twirling, tapping and flipping her pen in one hand, with her chin cradled in the other. She’d gotten an early start writing, and had only just finished.

Thancred and Ryne are hard at work in the kitchenette, having taken it upon themselves to prepare breakfast since they had a rare day to themselves. She’d been preoccupied with writing when they’d gotten started, but neither of them minded one bit and told her to keep at it while they cooked.

They’d bickered a little over what to make, but Gwen hadn’t been listening enough to know what they’d settled on. Rather than admit to her continued inattention by asking them, she resigned herself to wait in mild suspense.

Gwen drops her gaze to the open pages. Now that she’s finally finished writing out everything she and Beq-Lugg had spoken about the previous evening, which took far less time than the actual discussion, she’s come to the hard part: how she might go about figuring out where exactly Thancred stands with his ‘limitation’, as he puts it, and how receptive he is --or isn’t-- to well-intentioned meddling in his affairs.

Given his reticence on the topic, it’s hard to know for sure. It’s always been a touchy subject, and his time on the First, where he’s well and truly the only one without magic, hasn’t made it any less so.

But that’s exactly what got Gwen thinking in the first place.

Thancred’s magic-less condition persisted on the First, where he and the others were only souls, or only their ‘incorporeal aether,’ so it stands to reason the cause runs soul-deep. And Beq Lugg, according to G’raha and their own admission, is more knowledgeable than just about anyone else on matters of the soul.

So Gwen couldn’t help wondering… and then pondering… and then theorizing… and eventually getting to the point of discussing the whole thing with Beq Lugg, and, well…

...Suffice it to say, maybe she should have brought all this up with Thancred by now. Well before now, actually. First, even.

He’s loath to admit it, but Thancred is insecure about many things, particularly his own perceived usefulness and sense of self worth. Losing his ability to manipulate aether had been detrimental to both. “So long as I have the means to protect those dear to me, and to see my duties through, that's all that matters,” he’d said while they’d been searching for leonine in the Hills of Amber, with a certain bitterness on his tongue and no minor amount of frustration tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s been able to find ways to compensate for his condition, but she knows he chafes at the necessity to be so thoroughly and overly prepared. She knows he feels less useful and less effective than he wants-- than he truly is.

All of that serves to make it even trickier to discuss. Or maybe it’s only tricky because she’s just not the best at laying out her thoughts on the first go, and sensitive topics don’t normally have much room for backtracking and rephrasing. She doesn’t intend to keep it a secret (anymore) but figuring out how to talk about it without sounding…

Well, without sounding like she wants to fix him, for one, is proving difficult. She knows he’s frustrated by his condition, and all she wants is to figure out if there’s a way to give him the option of alleviating it. If there is, she could at least give him the choice. And if he decided to forego it, to live without magic, that would be fine too. She’s not trying to force him, or make him feel ass though he needs to change. Absolutely not. She merely… wants to give him the opportunity to not be so frustrated all the time; to stop glowering at aetherytes, and putting on that strained, uncomfortable smile whenever he tries to crack a joke about the inconvenience of it all.

How to bring up that she not only has been pondering his condition, an aspect of himself he doesn’t care to bring attention to, but also discussed it with someone else, is tricky too. She knows firsthand what it’s like to be left out of the loop and be the last to know things despite being the very subject of the aforementioned discussions. She knows what it’s like to question what people really think, and wonder why they felt like they couldn’t tell her; why they felt like she didn’t deserve to know. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. That she’s kept it a secret for this long already has guilt crawling uncomfortably up and down her back.

Figuring out how to go about all that pragmatically and realistically, without getting his hopes up or sounding like it might as well be a waste of time, is the most difficult. It’s just theories. Guesses. It’s worth looking into, but it might well go nowhere. There’s no reason to get Thancred’s hopes up for anything less than a sure thing.

But rather than pondering how to approach such a touchy subject, Gwen is finding it much easier to wonder when the rain will come or guess what Thancred and Ryne are cooking. Likely because those are pleasant and harmless.

Gwen looks over her shoulder and finds Ryne perched on a step stool, reading ingredients off a piece of paper while stirring something in a mixing bowl. Thancred is swapping between minding something on the stove and retrieving the requested items.

They have all morning, after all, so why not make a real breakfast?

Watching them together is just so… It’s carefree and peaceful. Domestic, even. It’s nice. And far from the norm, even though Gwen wishes that weren’t the case.

Judging by the small, contented smile on his face, Thancred feels much the same. It’s rare to see him so genuinely at ease as he is now, bustling around looking for measuring cups and flour and muttering about needing to fix the kitchen scale. Sometimes he’s even humming.

It’s all so very sweet she can’t help smiling. Warm, fluffy fondness and lighthearted, happy things tickle in her chest and make her thoughts a little rosy. If they could just stay like this...

She shakes her head and calls, “Do you, ah, need any help?”

“No,” Ryne replies brightly, double-checking measurements on the recipe.

Thancred is digging through the chillchest, “We can always come up with something if you’re truly desperate.”

Gwen glances down at her journal, at the little smudges of ink on her fingers, then back towards them. She isn’t quite desperate, much as she might prefer a distraction. Besides, watching them work together is adorable, and she doesn’t want to intrude on their father-daughter bonding time.

“I’m here if you need me,” Gwen says.

He shoots her a wry grin. “We’ll be sure to shout.”

She pouts and Ryne giggles.

Gwen turns back to her journal. No procrastinating. Focus. So…

Nothing comes to fill in the empty space.

Gwen huffs, unsurprised but still disappointed. For want of a better idea she starts thumbing through the pages, hoping she might stumble upon a flash of inspiration somewhere.

Instead she finds the little reminder she wrote about contacting Y’shtola to discuss details about the Lifestream and the Flow spell. Information on both could surely be useful, and the erstwhile conjurer has a far more comprehensive understanding of each, and everything in between, than Gwen could hope to attain in a small amount of time.

But Y’shtola will also likely have some things to say about Gwen imposing herself on Thancred’s affairs without his knowledge, good intentions or not, and invading his privacy --and isn’t that ironic?-- and probably something about her habit of distracting herself, too.

Much as all that makes her frown, she can’t say it would be unwarranted.

Similar to the way her mind would rather veer off and focus on the weather or the wonderful aroma starting to fill the apartment instead of figuring out how to best approach a touchy subject, perhaps she’d prefer to focus on something she can try to do something about.

Something besides the dissolving link between her friends’ souls and their bodies that is utterly beyond her to stop, or even help with. Or the discomfort and uncertainty, and the guilt over both, that that conflict and twist in her chest when she wonders if Thancred might decide to stay on the First instead of return to the Source. Or the gnawing apprehension of knowing that one day, if all goes well, the others depart the First with no way of returning, and Ryne will lose her family. Or the bleak musings about what will happen when the differences in time start to grow and the two worlds fall out of sync, months and years passing in one while days and weeks pass in the other, and what sort of havoc that will wreak on her visits to the First. Perhaps enough to put a stop to them.

Gwen combs her fingers through her hair, frowning petulantly at the bright, cheery sunshine outside. She almost wishes she hadn’t started looking into all of this in the first place.

In the kitchenette, Ryne and Thancred are both at the stove. He’s talking about something to do with properly timing dishes so everything finishes cooking at the same time.

Ryne looks like she’s waiting for him to go back to focusing on whatever he’s in charge of cooking.

Gwen turns back to her journal before either of them catch her watching them behaving like a sweet little family.

Still in search of some way to begin a conversation she doesn’t fully want to have, she flips back and forth between a few more pages. She eventually settles on her regretfully incomplete account of Thancred’s condition and what few theories she’s come up with that have held up thus far.

It had been a difficult task to try and catch Beq Lugg up to speed on everything while both not being entirely up to speed herself and attempting to be as discreet as possible. She’d even been careful not to say Thancred’s name, and had instead spent the whole discussion referring to him as her ‘friend’, or her ‘fellow Scion.’

Unfortunately, it had been impossible to entirely avoid the subject of Lahabrea. Thancred’s physical and aetheric condition prior to losing his magic was far from unimportant and, by extension, so was how it came to be.

Frankly, it was foolish that she’d even hoped to be able to omit that unfortunate bit of history.

She’d kept her description of that time as discreet and clinical as possible, restricted to a mere summary. “Prolonged exposure to an overabundance of Dark-aspected aether that was purged with Light, after which he was left particularly susceptible to magic and tempering.”

While she was yet undecided on whether or not ‘an Ascian’ and ‘overabundance of Dark-aspect aether’ were actually as equivalent and interchangeable as her explanation made it seem, or what difference such details might make, she knew the whole truth wasn’t hers to give. She had avoided implications and insinuations as best she was able and had left Beq Lugg to come to their own conclusions.

Thancred surely wouldn’t be too pleased to know she’d shared that particular ignominy, as he called it, no matter how vague and discreet she’d been about it.

Beq Lugg thankfully hadn’t pried at the uncomfortable topic. And they’d been kind enough to promise not to mention so much as a word of what Gwen had shared.

With all of the context, awkward bits and all, and what little other information could offer out of the way, they had then turned to theories. Gwen’s, specifically, as she’d had far more time to ponder.

So she’d started...rambling, honestly. But Beq Lugg had seemed appreciative of her thoroughness and consideration, flimsy and thin as all of her suggestions were, given that she’s hardly an expert on souls or Thancred’s condition.

Gwen touched only briefly on the subject of the tonic Beq Lugg gave the unfortunate souls at the Inn at Journey’s Head, the one meant to, “temporarily stimulate the aether in one's body.” Despite her curiosity about what sort of effect it might have on Thancred she wasn’t yet overeager to try it, at least not before they better understood his condition. To do otherwise would only be gambling with his physical well-being, at best--and connection to his body on the Source at worse.

That Beq Lugg hadn’t made much effort to linger on or explore that avenue of thought, nor seemed overly intrigued by the suggestion, said they were of a similarly cautious mind about it. Or perhaps they knew it wasn’t an idea worth pursuing. They had a far better understanding of how the potion worked after all, and even Gwen’s paltry account of Thancred’s condition might well have been enough for them to know it wouldn’t help.

Eventually Gwen had gotten around to explaining her theory that Thancred’s previous sensitivity to magic was due to being exposed to Lahabrea’s Dark aether, and that very sensitivity might have played some part in him losing his magic. In the same way his condition persisted when he was only a soul, perhaps that sensitivity had followed him into incorporeality in the Lifestream. Though, following that line of thinking, she hasn’t yet figured out whether it was the prolonged exposure to the Lifestream or his ungentle expulsion from it that was more likely to have stolen his magic.

Unfortunately that theory ended as all of hers had: unresolved, and with more questions than answers.

Y’shtola’s emerging --seemingly-- unscathed and unaffected from her second trip in the Lifestream didn’t do much to clear anything up, either. The circumstances were different in every regard, from her being more experienced with Flow and generally more magically powerful, the drastically shorter time spent adrift, the fact that it was only her soul and not her body, and that an Ascian had been the one to singlehandedly save her.

Besides all that, Gwen might not even be right about his sensitivity being caused by Dark-aspected aether in the first place. And even if she is, his current inability to use magic sounds much more like stagnation and passivity as opposed to growth--like an excess of Light, rather than Dark. And she has no way to explain that either.

Is her premise even remotely accurate? And if it is, then what happened? Could he have… swapped somehow, from an excess of Dark to an excess of Light? How? And why?

Perhaps it could have had something to do with how she’d purged Lahabrea? A consequence of being exposed to so much Light after being steeped in Darkness, similar to how overapplication of heat to frostbitten limbs will only damage them further? Or perhaps more like a sunburn...

Like with every other question and theory, she can’t say for sure.

Similarly, she has no idea about the specifics of Thancred’s aetheric state when he was flung into the Lifestream. When Beq Lugg had inquired about it, Gwen had only been able to shrug. Much as she’s aware of how important that particular bit of information might prove to be, she doubts anyone, even Thancred, can tell them a great deal about it.

The best Gwen can do in that regard is, once again, ask Y’shtola. She had been in charge of Thancred’s care and recovery once he’d been released from the Phrontistery, and had kept an eye on him even after he’d recovered. Plus, her ability to see aether would allow her to give Beq Lugg a more precise and detailed account of his current condition.

...Which brings Gwen right back to her current issue: How to bring up and discuss all this with Thancred without ruffling feathers or inflicting undue harm.

She sighs heavily, feeling the faint pulse of a headache behind her eyes.

Whatever Thancred and Ryne are making, the apartment smells wonderful. And… a bit like burning?

Gwen turns to find both of them moving around somewhat frantically. Ryne is jerking something out of the oven and Thancred is hurriedly scraping things out of a pan and onto a plate.

Gwen makes a hesitant, questioning sound.

“It’s fine!” Ryne says hurriedly.

Thancred mutters under his breath, moving to dump the pan in the sink.

“It smells wonderful,” Gwen offers reassuringly. She’s been so caught up thinking over everything she hasn’t had the chance to notice just how hungry she is and the smell, even with the hint of char, almost makes her stomach growl.

Ryne’s face brightens with relief and Thancred’s shoulders loosen slightly.

Gwen closes her journal with a satisfying, almost defiant snap and pushes herself up. If they did the cooking, she can handle setting the table and doing the dishes.

Besides, maybe a break will clear her head.

After a few unnecessary explanations for the minor imperfections the three sit down for a hearty, almost-overcooked farmer’s breakfast and slightly-too-dark biscuits. The looks that shoot back and forth between the pair say Thancred might be to blame for some of it, but he resolutely admits to nothing.

Gwen isn’t the least bit bothered by the food, and is only amused by the looks they keep trading. She has no difficulty pushing aside all the things buzzing so demandingly around her head and devoting her attention to the food and easy conversation about things that are far less dire, like Ryne’s lessons, the changes in the Empty, when they plan to return to Mord Souq.

Ryne’s lessons are simultaneously interesting yet boring, as lessons often seem to be. The Empty hasn’t changed in any appreciable way since they last restored an element, which is par for the course; the dark-haired girl is yet unconscious, though stable and seemingly doing well. Thancred and Ryne mean to stay in the Crystarium for another week or so before reconvening with Urianger at their quasi-headquarters-slash-‘home away from home’ in Mord Souq. From there they’ll set about making preparations for their next foray into the Empty.

If Gwen had known that the coin G’raha had given her to ‘crack her purse’ with had been valuable enough to afford them a house --an old, rather neglected one, admittedly-- she would have been far less willing to accept it.

With the conversation growing uncomfortably close to the sort of ‘work talk’ they preferred to avoid when at all possible, they quickly bring that particular discussion to a close.

Ryne and Gwen get to talking about botany, and they while away the rest of breakfast chatting about the Hortorium, the Cabinet’s selection of books about plants, and the flora and fauna in Lakeland and Amh Araeng.

Thancred doesn’t participate much, perfectly happy to simply listen to them chatter on. It’s not long before he’s wearing that easy, contented look again.

Ryne proposes they take a trip into Lakeland for some hands-on botany experience. She’s far more excited about it than Gwen thought she would ever be, truth be told. And, despite her endearing excitement, Gwen has to turn her down. She doesn’t know when the storm will blow in, but they likely won’t make it past Fort Jobb before having to turn tail and flee back to the Crystarium.

“But you don’t have lessons tomorrow, right?” Gwen asks before Ryne’s face can droop with disappointment. “We’ll go then. And we can stop by the Crystalline Mean on the way out of town and see if there are any botany leves.”

Ryne enthusiastically agrees, then turns to Thancred. “Will you come too?”

“You’ll hardly need me,” he drawls, his slight smile betraying his disinterested tone.

Ryne pouts at him, staring expectantly.

Thancred throws up his hands after only a few seconds, “Alright, alright, no need to twist my arm.” He shoots Gwen a look that distinctly seems to say, She got that from you. “For now--”

“Cleaning,” Gwen says. “I’ll handle it.”

After breakfast Ryne returns to her adjoined room, intent to spend some time studying up on Lakeland’s plants. As Gwen collects all of the dishes her journal, closed and forgotten off to one side of the table, reminds her of everything she’d been stewing on before breakfast.

She frowns, worries her lip, then starts hauling dishes to the sink.

Flour, bits of discarded vegetables, eggshells, and a frankly inordinate amount of dirtied bowls and measuring utensils are scattered all over the kitchenette, not unlike the remnants of an explosion. Thancred helps her round everything up, offering no explanations and rigorously avoiding the look of perplexed scrutiny on her face.

Without the droning background noise of an empty stomach or the beginning strains of a headache, her head doesn’t feel quite as loud or overfull as it had before. That doesn’t do much for helping her reach a solution, but it does afford her room to think more clearly

As Gwen fills the sink with water she considers that, if Thancred weren’t joining their little expedition tomorrow, she could just leave her journal behind. Poring over it like she had before breakfast seems to be the sort of thing that cues him to steal a look.

Hells she still has time to contrive some reason to go out today and be gone for a few bells before the storm hits, if she really wants.

No. That’s just cowardly.

Surely she’s thinking far too much about this, anyway? Surely she doesn’t need to be so worried? Yes it’s a sensitive topic, but he trusts her. They’re… close. Clarifying anything beyond that is yet a bit murky and complicated, but at the very least they are near and dear to one another. Being careful about how she approaches the topic would be prudent, but giving herself a headache over it? That’s going too far.

Gwen piles in the dishes and starts scrubbing bits of egg off the skillet.

So now… Well, she still has to figure out how to bring it up. And when. But somehow it doesn’t sound quite so imposing of a challenge anymore.

Sometime when it’s just the two of them, preferably. Even though Ryne is well aware of Thancred’s condition and how it irks him, he’s the one who should decide whether or not to fill her in about this, and how much. And the same goes for the other Scions--excepting Y’shtola, perhaps.

As to how to go about starting a conversation, the best answer, probably, is to just start it and go from there. It’s hardly a plan, but clearly planning hasn’t been getting her anywhere.

Gwen feels a presence behind her a second before a hand glides across the small of her back. The gentle weight and warmth of it inspires a pleasant little shiver up her spine that puts a smile on her face. “Need a hand?”

“No,” she says. She shifts to one side and shoots him a smile, “But if you’re truly desperate.”

Thancred takes the space she left, standing a little closer than necessary, like always, and sets to drying.

After the skillet and the drinking glasses have changed hands the buzzing under her skin finally becomes too much for merely scrubbing dishes to dispel.

“So, I’ve been thinking...” And then the words peter out and she has nothing. Gwen closes her mouth and frowns at the soapy water.

Thancred hums at her, “As per usual,” prompting her to continue.

She shakes her head, “Sorry, I’m trying to figure out where to start.”

“Take your time,” he replies nonchalantly. After the silence stretches for a few seconds he asks, “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with what had you buried in your journal all morning?”

Gwen nods, weighing the different options in her mind. “I was sorting everything out.”

“And ‘everything’ is…?”

That’s as good a place to start as any. She takes a slow, steadying breath. “I’ve… been thinking about your, ah, condition.”

Thancred’s hands still just for a second. Then they resume moving. His tone is a little dry, like she’d expected, “Oh?”

“I’ve wondered about it quite a bit, actually, after you first told me you still couldn’t manipulate aether here,” she says, focusing on washing and getting the words out before they have the chance to fall apart or get tangled up. “It’s… a bit curious, don’t you think?”

“Not as curious as getting one’s soul dragged to another world, and everything else that’s cropped up since,” he replies with a sardonic smile. “But I take your meaning. Truth be told, I was a bit surprised myself to find that particular limitation had followed me here.”

The dryness of his tone is unsurprising, but at the same time he hasn’t yet lost that conversational air he had when he’d started helping with the dishes.

“And then,” Gwen trails off, considering where to go next. She doesn’t want to immediately jump to her conversation with Beq Lugg, but she doesn’t know how much preamble she can, or needs, to jumble together. “And then G’raha suggested seeking out Beq Lugg when I told him about your souls’ connections to the Source growing weaker. Apparently no one in all of Norvrandt is more knowledgeable about souls than them.”

“Not that there’s a great deal of competition,” Thancred comments, finally setting aside the glass he’d been drying for much too long.

Gwen rolls her eyes and passes him another.

He takes it and gets to drying.

“I think,” she says, choosing her words but trying to sound like she isn’t, “if you still have your condition here, when you’re only a soul--”

“Then who better to solicit for advice than a posited master of souls,” he finishes, thoughtfulness seeping into his tone.

Gwen nods. Breathes. “So I did.” The admission makes her heart pound and shoulders tense.

Thancred stops again, for longer this time. When he resumes drying his movements are noticeably slower. His exhale might be a bit sharp.

She resolutely focuses on scrubbing dishes and talking, trying to only study Thancred’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. “I know it wasn’t my place, whatever my intentions and… I’m sorry. That I went to Beq Lugg without you, and that I’ve gone so long without saying anything at all. I…” She pauses, debating with what to say and how to say it. She sighs. “To be honest I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I told you I’d been doing all that thinking, so I... put it off.”

He makes a thoughtful sound and she feels his gaze settle on her.

“You’ve never,” Gwen gestures vaguely with one hand, searching for the best way to explain, “been terribly open to discussing it. Not that I blame you, of course. So I was… nervous to bring it up at all. Probably too nervous, I know, but, ah. Old habits die hard. I’m sorry.”

She’s surprised he doesn’t have something to say yet, not even some sort of disparaging grunt or inane change of topic to try and end the conversation.

When she chances a proper look she finds his expression is a great deal more thoughtful, almost pensive, than she expected.

Perhaps he didn’t realize he’d been so very unapproachable and closed on the subject, even to her.

Gwen decides to fill the silence instead of letting it linger, lest she lose her momentum. Her eyes wander even as she stays mostly turned towards him, “And everything I’ve been thinking, what I went to Beq Lugg about, is… It’s just theories and conjecture. I’m-- well, we, I suppose, are just guessing. For all I know,” she shrugs dismally, “we’re just wasting our time. I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I had some kind of definite answer. I still don’t, but, ah. Well,” she offers a small, rueful smile, “I know a thing or two about being the last to know things. It’s… not a good feeling.”

Thancred’s expression eases, drooping a little at the edges.

Gwen turns her attention to the plate she’s scrubbing, taking another steadying breath. “That’s… not all.”

“No?” he sounds more curious than surprised.

She shakes her head, scratching at a bit of stuck-on food and wincing at the sound of her nails against the porcelain. “I was… I didn’t want to give the impression that I thought you needed to be… fixed.”

He doesn’t speak, once again. From the corner of her eye she can see his expression is nerve-wrackingly stoic and unreadable.

“Because I don’t,” she adds quickly. “And you don’t. You’re more than capable as you are, and you’re not--not broken or, or less, or anything so disparaging, and I didn’t want you to think I thought otherwise. I merely... “ She shifts her weight, tilts her head, thinks to tug on her hair but doesn’t, as her hands are soapy and wet, “I know how much it irks you. How much of an inconvenience it is. Well, I don’t know but--”

“Dove.” Thancred’s tone is mild, a reminder to keep her course rather than a reprimand for rambling.

Gwen huffs, chiding herself. “Right. Sorry.” She stares hard at the plate as she scrubs it, “But… You know what I mean.”

Thancred mumbles under his breath, hands shifting slightly and stopping over and over like he’s about to start tugging or twisting the drying cloth but keeps catching himself.

More silence, but she expected it this time, and it’s not so awkward as she feared despite the weighty admission. When she glances at him she finds he’s still looking at her, expression not quite flat.

His eyes skim over her face and then dart to the sink. “Keep scrubbing that plate and you’ll put a hole in it.”

The plate is thoroughly spotless, yet Gwen is still attacking it with a sponge like it’s filthy. “Ah.” She passes it to him and he starts drying it, just like normal.

A strange mix of relief and suspense has tension leaking out of some places and gathering in others. She’s finally let go of both the weighty secrets and the gnawing worry of how to do so, she’s taken steps forward, but she’s not done yet. She’s still in the middle of the journey and the way forward is… a little bit murky.

Where the conversation goes from here, whatever path it takes and wherever it ends, depends on Thancred and what he’s thinking. She doesn’t get a say in that, nor does she get to try and rush him on it.

So she waits.

Eventually Thancred says, faintly sounding like he’s just come to a realization, “You’re expecting me to be angry.”

Yes and No, crash together into a jumble of maybes and indecision that make one corner of her mouth pull tight. She abandons all of that, instead making a thoughtful sound as she re-examines all those restless knots and nagging ‘what ifs’ she’d been trying to sort through before breakfast.

“About how much I was thinking about it?” she says slowly. “No. More,” she tilts her head to one side, letting everything tumble and mix and rearrange itself before sifting through it again, “unamused. Maybe a bit annoyed, or defensive. Exasperated.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but isn’t entirely sure how to go about it. He settles for frowning mildly at the dishrag.

“About Beq Lugg…” She trails off, turning all of that over a second time. “Yes. Well, more like probably. Angry, and hurt and... And you have every right to be.”

He nods slowly, expression setting back into that quasi-pensive look he’d had earlier.

Gwen keeps scrubbing and passing, and Thancred keeps taking and drying.

She’s already decided he should be the one that gets to control the conversation, seeing how it’s about him and he’s got a lot to consider, but the silence is making her feel a bit like she’s shirking her responsibility. She’s the one that got the ball rolling, after all, and she’s the one with more explaining to do.

Or maybe that’s just her own apprehension talking, prodding at her in the form of nervous impatience.

“Is that where you were last night? Talking with Beq Lugg?” Thancred asks. His tone is neutral, and not in a purposefully careful or controlled sort of way. She detects a hint of… something else to it, too, but she can’t quite tell what it is.

Gwen finds an inordinate amount of relief in the opportunity to keep moving forward instead of stalling out. “Yes. It took a bit of time to explain the situation, and then more for me to ramble about all the theories and questions I’ve already been considering.”

His tone dries out again, “I wager they had a bit of trouble getting their head around the whole ‘someone who can’t manipulate aether’ concept.”

One corner of her mouth curls into a rueful smile. “They did.”

“Suppose that’s the price I pay for being unique.” His tone levels out, though doesn’t quite go flat. “Shall I assume your explanation involved a history lesson?”

And Gwen wonders how she had managed to overlook the most precarious aspect of her admission. Much as she wants to take the time to shuffle around words and carefully construct her response, silence is a fairly damning thing.

“A very discreet one.”

His brows tug together and dip at a disapproving angle. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find that terribly comforting. She wouldn’t either.

A smidge of a flat, clinical tone she’d used in conversation with Beq Lugg edges into her voice, the sort of tone that brooks no room for questions or requests for elaboration. “Being exposed to an overabundance of dark aether for a prolonged period of time sounds potentially relevant. And so does subsequently being more sensitive to magic and tempering after the fact. The specifics of how and why, don’t. And neither does what, exactly, that source of dark aether was. And if I’m wrong about that, well,” she straightens up a little and determinedly scrubs the measuring cups, “it’s not my place to clarify.”

Thancred doesn’t reply right away, focusing instead on the task of drying.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it’s certainly more awkward than the others have been.

Gwen wonders if she should just keep talking.

He scoffs so abruptly it makes her twitch in surprise. He’s smirking, looking almost ready to shake his head in that fondly exasperated way he sometimes does when he thinks she’s being particularly overwrought. “You sound like Y’shtola. And Krile. And Papalymo.”

“I…” she blinks dumbly, “...do?”

Thancred smirks, satisfied to catch her off guard, then turns back to drying. His tone is expectant when he asks, “So?”

Gwen peers at him, feeling like she should be the one asking that. “So…?”

“Come up with anything?” he asks, casually interested. “Clearly you’ve been thinking on it for a while.”

Gwen can’t help being a bit surprised at how he’s taking the news. He’s been taking steps to get better about listening and not getting defensive at the first signs of an uncomfortable topic, but even so she thought he’d still be more bothered, particularly about her meeting with Beq Lugg. Apparently she hasn’t been giving him enough credit.

She should probably just keep on with the conversation, but instead she asks, “You don’t mind?”

Thancred considers the dishes, mouth bending in a few thoughtful angles. At length he says, “That you’ve been spending so much time thinking of me,” he flashes her a brief smile and she returns it, “and trying to come up with a solution to a particularly inconvenient thorn in my side? Not at all. I do wish you’d clued me in earlier but,” he shrugs one shoulder, “given how much effort I put into being rather… unapproachable about the subject, I understand your hesitance.”

Gwen releases a muted breath and her shoulders start to loosen and relax. He clearly has more to say, but she feels far and away less uncertain than she had before.

He focuses on the dishes again, pressing his lips together and flattening the line of his mouth. “That you consulted another about my condition without my knowledge or consent? I...”

His mouth bends into a mild frown and a beat later pulls slightly to one side. He half-shakes his head and makes another one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not terribly enthused about it, no.”

She nods slowly, listening as she shifts her weight and watches her hands.

“But,” he breathes through his nose, something like reluctant acceptance tugging at his expression, “I understand. It would be foolish not to make use of the tools at your disposal when trying to solve a problem, and that includes consulting an expert. And I’m quite familiar with the desire to ensure one’s efforts will amount to more than a great deal of disappointment and wasted time before being willing to risk giving others hope. There’s merit to that saying about not counting chocobos before they hatch.”

He pauses, looking as though he’s considering if he’d actually managed to say what he intended. “Your methods leave something to be desired, but you had only good intentions. I’ve certainly been guilty of the same, as have many of our friends. I would have much preferred you’d informed and involved me sooner, but… I understand why you didn’t.”

They’re standing close enough that Gwen barely has to shift her weight to press her arm against his. Guilt isn’t pulling so hard on her anymore, though it’s not gone, either. Understanding isn’t forgiveness or approval, but it’s reassuring and comforting all the same.

The look on Thancred’s face resolves into one of vague satisfaction and he shifts towards her, pressing them a little more firmly together. There’s something mildly teasing in his tone when he says, “While I do appreciate being the center of your attention, t’would be remiss of me not to remind you there are bigger concerns that need addressing than my lack of magic.”

Her lips pinch together as she considers a reply, feeling the minute shifts in his bicep and shoulder as his hands manipulate the damp dishrag. “Not many that I can do much about.”

He huffs a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “And you do so hate being idle.”

She passes utensils and he dries them.

“I know a thing or two about secrets, and that carrying them is a punishment all it’s own,” Thancred muses, not quite to himself. “I’m sure your distaste for the practice only served to make it that much less enjoyable.”

He’s right. Her hypocrisy had added a bitter coarseness to the already-uncomfortable weight of secrecy, and served to make her all the more anxious about coming clean.

Gwen tilts her head one way, thoughts shifting and tumbling. She tilts it the other and bumps her temple against his shoulder. “It certainly left a bad taste in my mouth,” she mumbles, frowning at the dishwater and her pruny hands. “We agreed to try and be more open and honest with each other.”

Thancred sets aside the last of the utensils and regards her with a curious look, arching one pale brow. “That all sounded fairly open and honest to me.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, “I should’ve spoken to you sooner.”

“Or you could’ve waited till the very last possible moment, when circumstances finally forced your hand,” he drawls wryly. “Truth be told, that’s the sort of admission I’m more accustomed to these days.”

A short laugh bubbles up her throat and she leans more heavily against him, “Well, when you look at it that way…”

He leans over to bump his chin against her temple and nose at her hair. “So: where has all that pondering and sneaking around behind my back gotten you?”

Gwen pulls from his arm and tugs up the plug in the sink, pouting, “You don’t have to say it like that.”

Thancred grins unapologetically, watching while she retrieves a clean dishrag to wipe down the counters.

Seeing he was utterly unrepentant, and knowing the comment was a little deserved, she heaves a dramatic sigh and starts laying out her theories.

---------------------

:D :D

Ever since we found Beq Lugg and they started talking about souls I’ve been thinking “Thancred’s magic? Maybe?? Right?? He still doesn’t have it on the First! So soul-related? Hey, can you maybe take a look? Hello?” but no one has mentioned it at all

SO I WENT AND DID IT MYSELF

14 notes · View notes

hxrxzxn · 3 years

Note

4 to 8 student questions at Minsu

4. What learning style does your muse have? Are they a visual learner, do they need things shown to them, etc?

Minsu needs to understand the underlying mechanisms of things. It just needs to make sense. He was never one of those people with great visual memory so he needs to work really hard and study in depth to understand things properly.

5. Does your muse participate in any extracurricular activities? Clubs? Sports?

He is on the swimming team and in the football club. He is also part of the student council helping them out with event organizing.

6. Does your muse like school? What about learning in general?

Minsu loves University life! Even if he was not a fan of his major since he had no say into it, having to follow his mother’s steps it soon started to grow on him. Maybe because everything else was so much fun. The club activities, the events, the coffee breaks, the friends he made and especially his roommate. He is loving every minute of being a student. When it comes to learning, as long as there is something that he is really passionate about he can be a really dedicated and fast learner that would put all his efforts into the task at hand. If not then he would most likely procrastinate until the last moment orz

7. How does your muse approach big assignments? Do they outline extensively? Do they do it all at once? Wait till the last minute?

If they are exams then he will draft some sort of schedule but Minsu is a big procrastinator. Even if he will try to keep up as much as he can and get some work done according to the schedule he is still pulling off all nighters for fishing his assignments right before the deadline. I guess there’s nothing like the rush of waiting till the last minute--

8. How does your muse study?

He is aware that he needs to put a lot of effort and he tries to look over the materials after work. He will mostly read through and try to make sense of the things he found it difficult in class. If there is something he needs clarification he would email his professors and ask for additional information. For some reason he can retain more and study better during night time. He is using lots of colorful highlighters and cutely shaped sticky notes.

#MinMin;about #MinMin;r #fxllxnbx

1 note · View note

lunarapocolypse · 4 years

Text

Shigaraki week: Day 1

Okay, something happened and I had to delete the original post, so let’s try this again!

Present/Wings/Rebirth

@shigarakiweek Thanks for helping me clean up Tenko, I appreciate it.” Aylin giggled, picking up confetti. The ravenette only nodded as he helped her.

“It’s no big deal, I had nothing better to do anyways.” He muttered.

“Still, thank you. I’m surprised you even came, to be honest.” She mused, sweeping the multicolored strands along with cake crumbs into a dustpan.

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

“Because you don’t like parties?”

“I don’t, but you said there wouldn't be more than six people. I can tolerate that.” He scoffed. He paused for a moment before adding on. “And there was cake.” Aylin raised an eyebrow at that.

“So you were motivated by cake! That makes sense.” She replied, nodding. Tenko blushed lightly, narrowing his scarlet eyes.

“That wasn’t the only reason! I also wanted to come because it was your birthday party, and we’re friends.”

“Awww, really? That’s so sweet of you, I knew you had a soft spot for me!”

“Nevermind, we’re not friends anymore. You’re dead to me.”

“Wait no, Tenko! I was just teasing you!” Aylin replied, through a fit of giggles. She reached a hand out towards her friend, who turned away so she wouldn’t see the small smile forming on his face.

“Goodbye Aylin.”

“Nooo don’t leave me! Whatever will I do without you?”

“Die.”

“I beggeth thee forgiveness, o most wondrous one. I hath been foolish to vex thee, wilt thou pardon mine own pitiful soul?” She spoke, dramatically propping one knee forward and lowering her head. Despite the ebony locks of hair obscuring her face, Tenko could tell she was smiling.

“Hmm, I have one condition.”

“What might that be?”

“I get an extra slice of cake.” Aylin laughed as she raised her head.

“Why not? I should probably give you one anyways, for helping me.”

“Darn right you should.”

She laughed again, going back to sweeping with a small smile on her face. It was rare they saw each other outside of school, or more than once a day. Being friends with differing college majors is difficult, but there's always time during lunch to meet and catch up.

There was a cherry tree right behind the school. Although it was supposedly hard to find. Tenko had stumbled upon it on his first day and had been eating lunch there everyday. He wasn’t sure why, but that tree had a calming effect. It felt familiar to him, like he was home.He liked that feeling.

Aylin had found his special place a few weeks later, and it became their meeting spot. It was awkward at first since they were both socially anxious messes, but they eventually became best friends.

“It’s a shame Himiko couldn’t make it, I’ll drop by her place with some stuff later.” She sighed, snapping Tenko out of his thoughts.

“...Himiko?”

“One of my friends from middle school, she’s like a sister to me! She was invited, but got sick just the day before.” Aylin whined, pouting.

“Don’t you remember? I’ve talked to you about her a few times now.” Tenko blinked. Himiko…? The name was oddly familiar, and it held a sense of warmth. He could recall a sense of familiarity from that name… it was strange.

Then again, he had strange feelings a lot.

“Huh? That’s weird I don’t remember.” He mumbled, shrugging.

“You’re so forgetful, Ten.”

“Says the one who forgot her own birthday until I mentioned it was a week away.”

“In my defense, my birthday is in the middle of exam prep time.”

“Your birthday is March 30. Exams are late May.”

“I procrastinate on studying so I gotta start kinda early.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes sense to me!”

“Whatever.”

Tenko sighed, standing up. They were basically done cleaning, he’d be able to go home soon. He had a project due in a few days, he really needed to get started on that. He noticed a small wrapped present at the corner of his eyes. It was yellow, with a frilly orange ribbon.

“Hey, you unwrapped all the presents, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“There’s one near the window, It’s still wrapped.”

Aylin looked in the direction he was pointing in, frowning lightly upon seeing the vibrant colors.

“Huh? I got one from everyone though. And I even checked afterwards if I missed anything! That’s odd...can you bring it over?” He took the box in his hands, scratching his neck lightly as he handed it to her. She held it, chocolate brown eyes widening as she took a closer look.

“Tenko, this is addressed to you.””

“...What?”

“Look.” She showed him a tiny label attached to the ribbon. Sure enough, there was writing scribbled in a familiar handwriting.

To: Tenko Shimura

From: An old friend

“An old friend?” he questioned. He didn’t have many friends when he was younger, none that he was close to at least. Who could’ve sent this?

“This is kind of creepy...unless you know who might’ve sent it?” Aylin asked, looking up at him. Tenko shook his head.

“I..I don’t.”

She sighed, fiddling with the ribbon.

“Do you think we should open it? You can take it somewhere private if you don’t want me to see. Or we could just throw it. It’s your decision.” She said. She acted indifferent, but there was curiosity in her voice.

“I’ll open it here.” He wasn’t sure what was inside, but whatever it was he didn’t want to be alone to see it. It was probably a prank of some sort, but why was it in Aylin’s apartment? Did someone who came to the party leave it?

And why did the handwriting look so familiar?

He opened the box, looking at the cute pink stuffing paper. In the center of it all was...a knife?

It was a persian pocket knife with what looked like polished amber on the handle, as well as an elaborate design at the top and bottom of it. The blade itself had designs engraved into it, and if Tomura looked at it close enough he could feel like he was going dizzy. Despite that, it was extremely beautiful. Yet he couldn’t help but recall a sense of familiarity from it…

“Is this for me? Wow, it’s so pretty!” A shrill, feminine voice squealed. A much deeper, more scratchy voice chuckled from beside her.

“It’s a thanks for working so hard on the last mission. I didn’t think it was very practical, but you’ve always enjoyed cute things so I thought you’d like it.”

“Like it? Are you kidding me? I love it! Thank you thank you thank you!”

“No problem. Keep working hard, okay?” The feminine voice giggled.

“I will!”

“-enko! Tenko!”

Tenko gasped, opening his eyes in a shock. He could barely breathe. He was on the floor, staring at the worried expression on his friend’s face.

“Are you okay? You fainted all of a sudden! It wasn’t for that long, but still! Do you need to go to the doctor?” She murmured, helping him up.

“I-I’m fine. Just..tired I guess.” He muttered. What...what was that?

“Are you sure?” The girl asked, giving him an unsure expression. Tenko gave her a brief smile.

“Yeah..I’m sure.” He then picked up the box, shutting it before he could see the knife. Who knew what would happen if he saw it again.

“I think I’ll head home now. It’s been a long day, can you pack the cake? I’ll eat it at home.” He said, rubbing his head. Whatever just happened sure made his head hurt.

“A..alright. Just...stay safe okay? And that knife...is it a death threat of some sort?” She muttered, eyes glued to the box. Tenko sighed, chuckling nervously.

“I’m not sure. I just…” What was that? “I’ll think about it later.”

“But-”

“Aylin.” He said, looking her in the eyes. “It’s alright. It’s probably some sort of joke. I stayed up all last night so that’s probably why I fainted. I’m really tired.” She stayed silent for a few moments.

“You’ll tell me if anything bad happens, right? Or maybe not me, but you’ll tell somebody close to you?” She asked. She seemed just as shaken up as he was. He nodded.

“...I will.” Aylin sighed upon hearing that.

“I’ll go pack the cake. Just, take care of yourself alright? And..whatever this is.” She said, gesturing to the box. “I don’t want my friend getting hurt.”

“Don’t worry Ay. It’s probably nothing serious, I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” The almond skinned girl sighed again, going to the kitchen to pack some cake for him. As she left Tenko grimaced, looking down at the box in his hands. There seemed to be a piece of paper stuck in the box, different from the stuffing paper he had seen. Curious, he took off the lid, slipping it out.

Did you like the present? You gave this to someone once, after all. You should visit her sometime, you have a mutual friend don’t you? Do you remember anything?

Huh? He read over the paper carefully, what? He gave this to someone before…?

He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his hoodie, shaking his head. He needed some rest.

--------------------------------------------------

Tenko wasn’t able to get back to sleep. What time was it? He knew it was after 12, but it wasn’t before sunrise. After he got back from Aylin’s he had just flopped down and taken a nap. He...he didn’t know what to think. What was that knife? How did it end up in her apartment? What was that...vision? Flashback? Whatever it was, what did it mean?!?

His thoughts were interrupted by an obnoxious knock on his door.

Who would be here at this time? He didn’t have a roommate, maybe it was Aylin coming to check on him? Or someone else? He didn’t want to get up. He groaned, putting his face back in the pillow. The knock sounded again, much louder this time.

“Alright, alright I’m coming…” He grumbled, getting out of bed. Who could be there at a time like this? He opened the door.

“Alright who-” He was shocked to see nowhere there, only the darkness of the night. He groaned.

“What the hell...was that a prank?” He mumbled. Great, he just wanted some peace and quiet, and then this had to happen. He sighed about the turn away when he noticed something by his foot. It was a present box.

“Another one?” He mumbled, picking it up. Should...should he open it? He remembered what happened when he opened the knife, would the same thing happen? He glanced back at his table, where the present box laid along with the knife. Against his better judgement, he picked up this box, taking it to his desk. This time it was green with a pink ribbon. What would be inside?

Well, there was only one way to find out, right?

He took a deep breath before taking off the lid. Inside was a playstation controller. It was just like any other, right? He took a closer look. It was cracked at the edge, like it had been thrown across the room. The fact that it was a crack rather than part of it being chipped off was a little weird, how did that happen-

“FUCKING RUN!” The scratchy voice yelled.

“I”M FUCKING TRYING!” A slightly higher voice screeched back.

“Stop getting so worked up you two, it’s just a game-”

“SHUT UP COMPRESS!” The two voices said, in unison. The third voice, an older man he assumed, seemed to sigh.

“Dude, you’re cracking the screen.” The higher voice said.

“Huh? Shit, I forgot to wear gloves!”

“We’re almost done, just hang in there until then!”

“Yeah yeah, I know. Just focus on the game.”

“Roger that, boss!”

He was brought back to earth, gasping as he fell onto his bed. He clutched his head, trying to get his breath back. Again? He must be going insane. What was happening? He looked at the box, checking for a note like last time. Sure enough, he found one.

You’ve always liked video games, probably in this life as well. It took forever to recreate the crack on this though. Do you remember anything?

Recreate? Like...like it had been cracked before. In another life.

Wait, another life?

The note clearly said, “in this life.” So he had more than one life? What? Whatever sick prank this was, he wanted it to stop.

And why did it end with “Do you remember anything?” That’s what the last note ended with that as well! What did it mean by that?

Those visions...were they memories?

No they couldn’t be! There’s no way he would’ve been there for that, how could he? He never had memory loss so why would-

In another life.

“SHUT UP!” He yelled, uncaring of whomever he might’ve woken up. What the hell was happening? The knife then the controller, what was next? He stuffed his face into his pillow, breathing out a sigh. There was no doubt he wouldn’t be able to sleep now.

--------------------------------

Maybe it was all some elaborate April fools day joke, Tenko thinks as he walks to Art History. For the rest of the day yesterday, he hadn’t received anything. Same with today. He got the first gift on March 30, then March 31st, today was April 1st. He’d probably get one today and then never again. That made sense. Or maybe today he’d get duped and someone would come up to him, tell him it was all a prank. And he could tell them he knew all along. Yeah, that’s probably how this would play out. He didn’t need to worry.

So why did he feel so uncertain?

Maybe it was because of the flashbacks? How did they even pull that off anyways? Probably some psychology trick, right?

As he sat down in his usual seat for the lecture, he saw another box. Black with a gray ribbon. What was with the color combos anyways?

He wasn’t sure if he should open it in class, what if that happened? Where his head hurt and he lost breath? He looked around, he had arrived pretty early. No one else should be here, not yet.

He opened the box carefully, noticing a measuring tape. It was different though, it was sharper. As if it could be used as a blade if held the right way.

“You should really eat more, boss! You’re super skinny. It’s because all you eat is garbage. How do you not gain anything when you’re just lazing around eating junk food all day?” Two voices seemed to say. They were practically the same, however one was slightly deeper. It seemed to be the same person though.

“Metabolism. And I’m not that skinny.” The scratchy voice huffed. The scratchy voice that had been in both of his first flashbacks.

“Yes you are! Are you taking care of yourself properly? You have a bit of lean muscle, but other than that you’re a twig. How are you even strong like this? Weak trash. Hey, don’t call him weak! Or trash! What? It’s true. No it isn't ! Take that back!” The voices argued. The scratchy voice let out a chuckle.

“Whatever. Just finish the measurements, we don’t have all day.”

“Nah, I don’t feel like it. I’m on it!”

He gasped, opening his eyes in a violent...less violent shock. Huh? That was calmer than the first two times. Now that he thought about it, wasn’t the second time as little calmer as well? I mean, he was out of breath,but he didn’t faint or anything. And his head didn’t hurt as much. This time, it was still bad but not as bad. Maybe it was something you get used to.

There was probably a note this time too, right? He checked for the slip of paper that had been in the first two.

He took our measurements one time, so this should help. You've always found his contradicting personalities amusing. Do you remember anything?

Again with the do you remember anything? Tenko groaned. Whoever this was was really trying to make this convincing. He wasn’t buying it though. Today would probably be the last day of this odd joke.

------------------------------------

He was wrong about it being the last day. His eye twitched seeing a dark purple present box with a yellow ribbon inside of his bag. How did it even get there? What the hell? And he thought today would actually be normal, seeing as he didn’t get any “presents” until classes finished.

Tenko sighed, taking off the lid. What was in store for him this time?

Inside was a small dark pink teddy bear. Hm, that was different.

“I got you something.” A deep voice spoke. No the usually low scratchy one, but a smoother, calmer voice. It was rich, like honey.

“Huh?” Spoke the scratchy voice of a child.

“You’ve been having nightmares, am I correct? I got you a stuffed animal to help. It’ll protect you from the nightmares, alright?”

“It will?” the small voice questioned, filled with doubt.

“Of course. As long as you believe it will. And if for whatever reason it fails to work, you are free to come into my room at night.”

“...Even if it works can I still come to you? I like the bedtime stories.” He murmured shyly. The deeper voice chuckled.

“Of course. You’re welcome to see me anytime you wish. I’d actually like that.”

“...Thank you. I like it.” The child’s voice muttered. It was so small you might not have heard it.

“You’re welcome. Don’t be afraid to ask me for anything, alright?”

“Alright.”

Tenko’s eyes shook open, but he didn’t gasp. He was still breathless, but not as much as before. How come the low scratchy voice wasn’t there this time? It was in the first three…

Now that he thought of it, the child’s voice was pretty scratchy as well. It must be him as a child.

When he thought of it, that voice sounded a lot like his own. Just a tad bit deeper and croakier. In another life? Was that voice…

No. It couldn’t be him! He was here, how could that be him?

But it would make sense…

No it wouldn’t! It wouldn’t at all!

He checked for a slip of paper, just as there had been the first three times.

You kept that bear. It was your most prized possession, aside from Father and those creepy hands. Do you remember anything?

Father? Hands?

“I think I remember something.” He muttered, mostly to himself. He was still trying to convince himself this was a prank, but part of him was starting to doubt that. This… this was too uncanny.

“Maybe this is more serious than I thought it was….” He whispered, to no one in particular. No one but himself and the questions settling into his mind.

------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hm, I don’t know anyone who’d do that. That’s really creepy…” Aylin muttered, picking at her lunch. They were at the cherry tree for lunch break, as always. Tenko left out a lot of the details, such as the notes and the flashbacks, but he told her about the “gifts”.

“I see…” He mumbled, stabbing a cherry tomato.

“Maybe they really were from an old friend. That’s what the tag on the first one said, right? Were the rest of them tagged?”

“I..I didn’t check...wait, they were!” He could remember seeing the tag, but ignoring it. Each one had been signed similarly.

“There you have it. Although if this gets too out of hand that might be bad...do you want to tell the police or something? It seems worrying…”

“I think it’s fine. It’s just a prank.” Or maybe it really was an old friend. He didn’t want to believe it, but the possibility was getting more and more likely.

“Just stay safe.”

“I will.”

“Maybe it’s something for your birthday? That’s tomorrow, right?” She asked, tilting her head.

“Yeah, it is...I’m not sure. Seems a little too weird for a birthday thing.”

“Hmm...tell me if anything else happens, alright?”

“Yeah.” He replied, nodding.

I gotta go to class now, take care!” She said, sighing as she picked up her stuff. Tenko nodded through a mouth of pasta.

He needed to go in a few minutes as well. Just then, something seemed to fall from the sky, right onto his head.

“Ow- what the hell?” He cursed, rubbing his head. He looked down at his feet to see a cyan blue box with a black ribbon.

“Another one?” He mumbled, picking it up and taking off the lid. This box might’ve been the smallest that he had gotten, what was in it?

He tilted his head at the sight of a ring. Well, it seemed to be a ring. It was a small silver hand, curved in the way it could fit over a finger. The wrist was covered in amethyst, and it seemed like there were...staples? Weird. Why a ring though..?

“You’re crazy.” The scratchy voice breathed.

“Crazy for you.” Another voice replied. It was deep and rich, yet less refined and more coarse than the one from before. It was like you could hear a smirk from it.

“You do realize we can’t have a wedding or anything, right?”

“Why not? Sure, it’s nothing official, but we could probably do something small with the rest of the league. Vapeman would make a great priest, he’s always looking tired.” The smugness in his voice just seemed to increase.

“I’m being serious here! We...why…” A loud scratching sound was heard, like nails raking across dry flesh. That’s probably what it was. The noise stopped.

“So am I.” The deep, coarse voice spoke, softer this time. “Who’s to say what we can or can’t do? You’re the king of this world, right? Then you make the rules. So I’ll ask you again, and you can pick the answer on your own judgement. Not on what society will or won’t let us do.” The scratchy voice seems to be breathing heavily as the deep one whispers.

“Will you marry me?”

“...Yes.”

Tomura took a breath, eyes blown wide. His head still hurt, but barely. He was barely out of breath as well. A marriage proposal? Huh?

What?

This was...too weird. At this point Tenko believed this wasn’t a prank. This was the fourth time. Why did this keep happening?

In another life.

Did he live another life before this?

He checked the tag, seeing the same one as the first box. An old friend, huh? Tenko slipped the ring on his middle finger, just to flip off whoever kept giving him these gifts. They deserved it.

He unfolded the slip of paper,reading for any clues.

Did you like the ring? You liked it then. I thought it would be cute in a sick kind of way, it mimics those hands you’d always wear. Do you remember anything?

Remember anything? Was that a memory from his past life? He wondered….

He looked up at the tree, feeling a sense of warmth from it. The warmth of home. The same warmth he received from those memories. It was weird. He touched the bark, like it would give him an answer.

It was too dark to see details, but there were silhouettes. Of a scarred man holding out a ring to his lover. Of an excited girl making a crown of its flowers and placing atop someone’s head. Of a boy banging his fists against it as he cried. Of a child sitting on a branch as what seemed like mist in a suit watched over him.

Tenko blinked. Images? He had heard voices in those flashbacks, but he never saw anything. This tree...was it linked to whatever was happening? Is that why he was so drawn to it?

He picked up his stuff, realizing he would be late for his next class. Right now, he could only try to make sense of the memories he was given.

---------------------------------------------------------

A pastel blue box with a scarlet ribbon sat on his windowsill when he woke up the morning of his birthday. The ribbon was the color of his eyes, he noted as he picked it up.

Inside, there wasn’t anything but a slip of paper.

Come to the cherry tree at 8:00 PM. Remember.

Tenko gulped reading those words. Would whoever had been sending gifts finally show up? Well, there was only one way to find out.

--------------------------------

He scratched his neck, fluffy raven locks bouncing as he walked towards the tree. What would happen? Was this real or a prank? What was going on? His mind was racing a hundred miles per minute.

He passed behind a building, taking a deep breath once the tree was in sight.

“Happy Birthday.”

He halted hearing the voice. He knew that voice. It was the one from the proposal scene, the one that made his heart beat twice as fast.

“Dabi.” He breathed. He wasn’t sure where that came from, he just knew it. It was like he’d always known it.

“That’s my name.” The man stepped out from behind the tree. He had jet black hair, probably from dye, and multiple piercings. There were faint scars across his face, but nothing major. For some reason, he expected there to be more.

“Do you remember yet, Tomura?”

Tomura? But his name was Tenko...but Tomura sounded familiar. As if it was him once.

The headache came back, this one worse than before. He couldn’t breathe. He could hear heavy footsteps along with a concerned tone, and felt gentle hand on his back, holding him up.

Memories flooded into him as he laid limp in the other’s arms.

“Dabi.”

“Yes?” The voice asked uncertainly. Tomura chuckled, leaning forward to capture his lips in a kiss. The other happily obliged

“Tomura. You’re back.”

“Indeed I am.” he said, giggling.

“Although, in this life I go by Tenko. It’s...it’s not too bad anymore.” He mumbled. “I don’t mind if you call me Tomura, though. You have special permission.” Dabi’s lips curved up into a smirk.

“Whatever you say boss.”

“Why the presents? Couldn't you make me remember in a less cryptic way? How did you even get everything?” he asks, curiously.

“You saw what happened just now. You needed to get used to it first. If you remembered everything at once...it wouldn’t end well. You could end up in a coma from the pressure of it, or worse. And apparently everything that existed in our previous life somehow exists now, including those specific items.As for the ring and the controller, I had that custom made and cracked the controller myself. Don’t worry about cost, my dad is still loaded in this one. Unfortunately he’s still an asshole, but not as much as last time. He didn’t really hurt me, just didn’t care.” He shrugged.

“I see.” That made sense. “How did you remember your past, then?” Dabi gave him a sad smile.

“How do you think I know what would happen?” Tomura’s eyes widened, as he reached forward to touch the other’s cheek.

“You…” he gasped.

“It’s alright. It wasn’t for too long anyways. I’m okay.” He said, nuzzling his cheek. “I’m glad you are as well.”

“Toga, Spinner, Twice, Kurogiri everyone-”

“They’re safe. In this life, they’re not dead. I’m not sure if they remember though.” He mumbled.

“I know where Toga is, but not everyone else.”

“Is that so.” Tomura smirked. “I guess we’ll just have to find them. Dabi laughed.

“I guess we will.”

“The tree..it was there in our past lives as well, wasn’t it?” His gaze turned to the cherry tree, standing to witness their bizarre reunion. “It was my special place then and now.”

“It was.” Dabi spoke, sighing into his neck. Tomura let him, smiling tenderly.

“...You put the ring on your middle finger.”

“Don’t act surprised, you should’ve seen this coming.”

“I really should’ve.”

This time, they’d win. This world was different, but they had each other. Not even death could separate them.

Bonus:

“I have a boyfriend.” Tenko blurted, the next day. Aylin proceeded to spit out her lemonade.

“What how when where why-”

“It’s a long story. I’ll introduce you later. By the way, is your friend still sick?”

“She got better two days ago, why?”

“Mind giving this to her?”

He held out a present box.

#It's my birthday today so I put my OC in #hope you liked her xD #shigarakiweek #shigarakibirthdayweek #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigadabi #bnha #mha #mha tomura #mha shigaraki #bnha tomura #bnha shigaraki #Luna tries to write

21 notes · View notes

sign-from-god-complex · 5 years

Text

Effort for Effort’s Sake

Summary: Logan is struggling and Roman wants to help.

Pairing: Ambiguous logince.

Warnings: General negative thoughts/anxiety and crying.

A/N: Gosh, it’s been a little hard to get writing done recently, but I’m trying my best!!! Hope y’all enjoy this one; it’s probably the most direct projection I’ve done onto a character to date, honestly. It’s hurt/comfort (as usual) so although it’s a little angsty I promise it’s not as bad as it may sound, hahah.

Tag list: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun

——————————————————

Logan tapped his pen against the notebook in front of him—once, twice—attempting to find a good place to begin. The blank page was staring back at him, almost mocking him for his lack of progress and Logan resisted the urge to simply give up. He tapped again—once, twice.

His next assignment for his English class was due in less than a week’s time and though he'd been thinking about it for equally as long Logan had yet to actually accomplish anything, merely throwing away ideas and trying not to panic as the deadline drew ever nearer.

He set down the pen with a sigh, resting his head in his hands and running them through his hair.

He knew he was intelligent—his whole life he had been told that by every adult who had ever viewed his work—so why were things proving to be so difficult all of a sudden? For years things had been getting harder and harder. Logan was struggling to keep up with assignments, he was finding it hard to pay attention to lessons, and though he knew the material it seemed as if there was some sort of barrier preventing him from putting it on paper with any sort of coherency. He knew he had to complete the assignment—he didn't have time to be messing around—but he just... couldn't.

Slamming the notebook shut, Logan rose from his desk, reminding himself to breathe as calmly as possible despite the instinct to do otherwise.

Gods, he already wanted to take a break and he'd barely been at this for 15 minutes. He wanted to say it was just a bad day and he'd get it finished tomorrow but it wasn't true. He knew it wasn't true. Every day was a bad day now. Nothing was going to get done when he was feeling like this and he rarely seemed to stop feeling like this so nothing was going to get done. Just another incomplete assignment to go towards his quickly declining grades; all because he couldn't seem to start! It was-

There was a knock. Quick, enthusiastic and potentially a little bit annoying—Roman. Logan unclenched his fists though clenched his jaw, breathing in slowly and opening the door to Roman's excited rambling as he pushed himself into the room.

"You have no idea what happened to me today! It was absolutely ridiculous! I swear even I wouldn't have-" Roman cut himself off, suddenly looking alarmingly contrite. "I'm sorry, were you working? I... shouldn't have interrupted."

"No. Roman, I wasn't working. I should be working, but I was not."

The words came out more bitter and frustrated than he had intended them to, and Roman's facial expression shifted into worry.

"What does that mean, specs?" Roman asked, voice softer than Logan had ever expected him to be able to be, "You don't strike me as the kind of person who procrastinates. Is it just a bad day?"

Logan sighed, rubbing at his forehead. How could he explain to Roman how every basic task seemed to take an insurmountable amount of effort? How could he explain the way he had begun to panic at merely the thought of his responsibilities, no matter how simple or routine they seemed to be? How could he explain the way he could feel himself spiralling with no real way to prevent it until he finally hit the ground? He couldn't.

He couldn't.

"No, it was just-" He could feel tears welling up in his eyes and took a moment to attempt to stifle them, blinking rapidly in the hopes of keeping them at bay. "Um... I was-" His voice broke and Logan felt his cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. He should not be getting so emotional; he needed to get himself together.

Roman's face was openly concerned at this point, with just an edge of fear. Logan didn't blame him, he certainly didn't cry often. And he was crying—despite his best efforts tears were slipping out from behind his glasses, trailing down his cheeks and dripping onto the collar of his shirt. It was messy and uncomfortable and the way Roman was looking at him, with so much care and affection broke the final strand keeping Logan together.

He sobbed—once, harsh and sudden—and Roman was in front of him in an instant, hands hovering over Logan's shoulders as he struggled to think of what he could do to help. Logan's breathing was shaky but there, stuttering in between muffled cries, hand held in front of his mouth to keep as silent as possible—though he wasn't entirely sure to what end.

"I'm sorry, I-" Logan's voice was thick and he hated it. He hated feeling so out of control, so completely uncertain and unaccomplished. He was smart, he was disciplined, he was... falling apart at the seams, knowing no way to hold himself together.

Roman shushed him, his face stricken and Logan's breath hitched. He wanted to crawl into a small space and hide, cry to himself and the darkness until he awoke in the morning, unconcerned with the previous evening's events until it became an issue once again. It was an unhealthy cycle, Logan knew that, but he was struggling to find other ways to cope.

"Can I touch you?" Roman's words were soft but infused with a sense of urgency that Logan wasn't going to claim was entirely unwarranted. The regular panic and discomfort that came from that suggestion didn't come, so Logan nodded and in an instant Roman's hands were gripping his upper arms. It was a pressure, warm and grounding and Logan made a noise of which the origin or explanation he wasn't entirely sure.

He was pulled to the ground—steady guiding hands and gentle touches—and against Roman's chest. He was solid underneath Logan and he could hear his heart beat—once, twice—a constant noise to ground him and keep him here. There was a hand running through his hair and Logan only had a moment to feel embarrassed at how greasy his hair likely was before the movement soothed his thoughts.

His tears slowed in the wake of Roman's actions, Logan managing to distract his mind from his failings by instead focusing on the soft warmth Roman was providing, thinking solely on the repetitive motions and the rise and fall of Roman's chest with each breath. He breathed in turn—once, twice.

"I, um..." His voice was croaky as he spoke up and even the wake of everything that Roman had just seen, Logan felt a flash of shame. "I want to apologise, I-"

"No, none of that, specs," Roman interrupted—the words were kind and the movements continued, so Logan simply took another breath as Roman continued, "You're allowed to be upset, you're allowed to show your emotions and you're most certainly allowed to receive comfort when you aren't feeling your best.

"Now—" Roman gently pushed him away, the comforting acts ceasing and Logan couldn't ignore the way the entire room seemed to stutter—"I need you to tell me what's wrong, Lo. Cause I want to help you, but I won't be able to do that unless you talk to me. You don't have to do it right now if you don't feel up to it, but I... worry about you." He paused, his eyes warm with an emotion Logan couldn't quite identify. "I want you to be happy."

Logan nodded distantly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, brow drawn. There was a moment of silence.

"Everything is so... hard, Roman."

Roman seemed surprised by the admission, but Logan pushed on. "I can read an Agatha Christie book just fine but the second I have to write a single word it feels as if my entire body is turning itself inside out to get out of it. I understand the importance of the chores roster and I want so badly to assist you and the others in keeping our apartment clean and taken care of, but every week I feel a physical weight in my stomach dragging me down and every single task is like climbing a mountain.

"It's like that feeling of effort it takes to get up and take a shower but for every single action and Roman, I don't know what to do anymore." He glanced up at Roman then, eyes wet but tears unshed. Roman's expression was... sad—empathetic and loving. "I was aware that being an adult was going to be difficult, it's brought up routinely at this age, but this is not that. This... cannot be that, I cannot let it be that, because I cannot do this—not the ways things are going right now."

Roman drew him back into his chest abruptly, one arm wrapped firmly around his waist, the other pressing Logan's head into the crook of his neck. It only lasted a moment, before Roman inhaled deeply and let go. His smile was weak and sort of strained as he regarded Logan but it was present nonetheless.

"Alright. Things sound overwhelming right now, yeah? Do you think you're up to going to the student health centre at school?"

It had crossed his mind, but at the same time that feeling of effort extended to getting himself help, and he wasn't sure he could be trusted to ever actually do it.

"If... you accompany me," Logan mused, "Yes. I think I would be able to do that."

Roman looked slightly shocked at Logan's declaration but recovered quickly. "I would be happy to, Logan, but uh… are you sure you wouldn't rather have one of the others...?"

He shook his head decisively. "I would prefer the others not know about this."

"But-"

"Please." Logan felt the desperation filter into his words involuntarily and Roman exhaled softly. "Just for now. If anything does come of the trip to the student health facility I will inform them then, but I need a little bit of time."

"Of course," Roman murmured, "I didn’t mean to push you."

There was silence for a while, Logan intimately aware of how close the two of them were, but not particularly making any moves to do anything about it.

He could hear voices downstairs, so he assumed the others had arrived home at some point and dinner was in the process of being cooked—a reminder that the world was going on around their quiet little bubble, and they did have to get up. The idea was abhorrent, twisting his insides into knots, but Logan made an effort. He gathered himself up from the ground with a slow inhale, bringing Roman to his feet beside him with an offered hand and a tug.

"Would you..." Logan trailed off for a moment, unsure of himself but wanting to lift the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the two of them. "You were in the process of telling me a story as you arrived in my room this evening. Do you wish to continue it?"

Instantly, Roman lit up and with it, Logan felt the tension in the room dissipate slightly. He could catch a few tossed phrases as Roman began to speak rather rapidly, humming along to rhetorical questions and looking appropriately amused when Roman detailed the encounter he had been so excited to share. He let himself smile softly.

Yes, things were overwhelming right now but he had Roman now and that was, at least, a start. He was going to make an effort to cope better and with any luck, things were soon going to be okay.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #logan sanders #roman sanders #logince #platonic logince #queerplatonic logince #the choice is yours #lo can write

198 notes · View notes

treya-barton · 5 years

Note

souyo + “I saw this and thought of you.”

Yosuke was making his way through the shopping districtafter hanging out with Kanji after class. It was so strange seeing the huge change in Kanji and how serious he wasabout his goals, and if Yosuke was being honest with himself, it made him feela little anxious about his own lack of motivation. Sure, he was studying harder with the vaguegoal of meeting his partner in Tokyo for college…but if he was honest withhimself, he didn’t really have a set plan for what he would study or what heeven wanted to do. Seeing Yu was reallyhis true motivation, and it was starting to make him feel a little nervous forhis future. Yosuke let out a sigh andkicked the toe of his shoe against the street as he mulled over hisdilemma. He was just resolving to worryabout it later (of course), when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound ofsomeone calling for him.

“Hey! You! The Junesboy!” someone nearby was shouting, and Yosuke immediately flinched. He tried his best to brace himself, for whilehe hadn’t been experiencing as much hate since the fog had lifted from thetown, he still heard the occasionally muttering behind his back. Yosuke looked around until he spotted amiddle aged man standing next to one of the shuttered stores on thestreet. He recognized it as the oldhobby shop that had shut down not long after Junes had opened in town. Yosuke felt that old tendril of guilt creepup his spine as he walked over, trying his best not to appear as nervous as hefelt.

“Hey…I mean, hello,” he said, bowing slightly. He was trying his best to be polite. “What can I do for you?”

The former shop owner appeared to have caught onto Yosuke’snervousness and was also able to intuit why, because he quickly reassured himwith a smile. “I just wanted to askabout your friend – that gray haired, quiet kid? How’s he been doing?”

Yosuke couldn’t help but feel relief and amusement overencountering yet again another person in town whose life his partner hadmanaged to touch. It seemed at somepoint he had interacted with everyone, leaving a positive, lasting influence onthem that sometimes, like now, Yosuke managed to somehow benefit from. He let out a small chuckle before saying, “He’sdoing great! He’s one of the top inclass at his school in Tokyo and seems to be as busy as ever.” Yosuke was a bit bummed about that since itcut into their texting time, but he was genuinely happy Yu seemed to be doingwell. Even if it did occasionally remindhimself about his own shortcomings. He wasworking to overcome that by taking cram school classes on the weekend in Okinaand being more serious about studying this year.

“I’m glad. He was agood kid. Hey, do you know if he’s stillbeen building models?” he asked hopefully, and Yosuke suddenly realized whereYu’s odd hobby came from. ‘Of course,’he thought before pulling out his phone and scrolling through their textconversation. He found the picture hewas looking for and handed his phone to the hobbyist.

“He sent that to me a few weeks ago. He had been working on it for a month when hefound time,” Yosuke said. He watched theolder man’s face light up at the picture, and couldn’t help but feel goodhimself at helping make the man’s day, even if it was indirectly.

“That’s a difficult one,” the man mused to himself. “He’s really got skill. Nice to see a young man with so much patienceand attention to detail.” The man handedYosuke back his phone with a ‘thank you’ and Yosuke pocketed it before smilingback.

“No pr…I mean you’re welcome,” he said. “Partner certainly does have loads ofpatience. I mean, he deals with me,”Yosuke chuckled, and the man looked at him thoughtfully.

“How would you feel about giving it a try?” he asked, andYosuke stared at him in surprise. Thisman, whose business probably shut down because of Junes, wanted to give himsomething? Before he could say anything,the man disappeared into his old business, before reappearing moments laterwith a small model kit in his hand.

“This one is pretty easy and would be a good place to start,”he said, handing it to Yosuke. “What doyou say?”

He looked pretty excited and hopeful about it, so Yosukedidn’t have it in his heart to say no. “Heckyeah!” he said, taking it from the hobbyist and glancing at it. It looked like it was probably from one ofthe Gundam series, but he hadn’t watched any since he was a boy and couldn’t identifyit. ‘Maybe Yu would want it,’ he thoughtto himself before waving at the older man and heading home. Once he got home, he took a picture of itwith his phone and sent it to Yu with a message, “I saw this and thought ofyou.”

Yu immediately replied asking, “Are you getting into modelingtoo?” and Yosuke snorted.

He then messaged back, “Yeah right,” before starting abarrage of text messages back and forth with his partner. He didn’t realize the wide grin that hadspread across his face until Yu messaged that he had to get to studying,causing Yosuke to set down his phone. Heput his hands on his cheeks, suddenly feeling foolish at how just texting hispartner could make him so happy, before he glanced again at the model kit. Honestly, he should also get to studyinghimself, but… All that talk with Yuabout building models had gotten him curious.

Yosuke carefully cut the shrink wrap from around the boxbefore lifting the lid and looking inside. There was an instruction sheet along with a few different colored piecesof plastic that had the model pieces already cut into it along with a fewstickers for decoration. Yosuke pulledout the instruction sheet and looked over it before glancing back at thesheets. It looked like each sheet had aletter and each piece was numbered, which made it very easy to follow,especially since the instructions also contained pictures for each step. ‘I think I can actually do this,’ herealized, while also thinking about how surprised Yu would be in a few weeks ifhe brought the completed model with him during his visit. He was going to check out college campuses inthe area…although honestly it was mainly an excuse to see his best friend.

Yosuke bit his lip and checked his clock, making a mentalnote of when he would need to stop in order to get a decent amount of studyingdone. He then went to work, finding thefirst two pieces and carefully twisting them off the plastic before snappingthem together. He frowned upon realizingthat just snapping off the plastic piece left a little plastic hanging off, andhe headed downstairs to see if his mom had a sharp knife or an x-acto knife forhim to use. When she asked what for, helied and said it was for a school project before triumphantly heading backupstairs with the x-acto knife in hand and his mom shouting after him to becareful with it.

When Yosuke returned to his room, he sat back down at hisdesk before carefully using the x-acto knife to scrape away at the bit ofplastic sticking out until it was smoothed down. He grinned, giddy at the fact his ideaworked, before moving onto the next piece. After about 10 minutes, however, Yosuke lost his enthusiasm and set downthe x-acto knife, suddenly wondering, ‘How does partner do this?’ and leaning backin his chair. His hand felt a littlecramped, and he felt himself fidgeting from sitting still that long. He looked at the few pieces he had assembledalready before packing everything into the box and sliding it into his drawer,afraid that if he left it out Teddie would get into it on one of hisvisits. He travelled back and forth fromthe Shadow World and knew that the Hanamura household was always open to himwhenever he felt like being in the human world for awhile.

Yosuke then pulled out his books, surprised that somehow thethought of studying appealed to him morethan finding an excuse to procrastinate. His enthusiasm for his bright idea began to wane and he suddenlywondered if he really would finish this project by his visit to Tokyo. Yosuke shook his head and pulled out his mechanicalpencil before glancing at his math book and jotting down a few equations topractice. He ended up not touching themodel kit for another day since he had work after school, so it was two dayslater that he tentatively pulled it out again and winced at what littleprogress he had made.

Yosuke decided to give it another go, however, and he soonhad himself set up after checking the time to see how long he had to work onit. Afterward he got to work, gamelyforging ahead and doing his best to focus and brush past his wandering attention. He played music this time, finding havingsomething to listen to actually gave him more focus, not unlike his experiencein the Shadow World. After about a halfhour of making pretty decent progress, he suddenly hit a snag as a piece he wastrying to cut out from the plastic broke off in his hand. Yosuke froze, staring at the broken piece in horrorbefore glancing down at the instruction sheet, panicking as he tried to figureout if this was repairable. Not only washe mentally letting Yu down (even though the gray haired teen knew nothingabout his surprise), he was also letting the hobbyist down, and Yosuke couldn’thelp but internally berate himself at screwing up yet again. He set down the pieces carefully and pulledhis headphones down to his neck as he tried to think. The piece wasn’t a hinge, so while it wouldbe noticeable and wouldn’t be pretty, using a little glue probably wouldn’t hurtit. It certainly couldn’t be worse thanit was right now.

Yosuke got up and wandered downstairs, heading to the drawerwhere his parents stored miscellaneous items and felt relieved when he found asmall bottle of super glue. He headedback upstairs and sat back down, trying his best to steady his shaky hands ashe carefully dabbed a tiny bit of super glue onto the plastic. He slid both pieces together and held itfirmly for several moments, feeling relief when it held and didn’t fall apartagain. He realized that it was actually moredifficult to tell than he had thought that the piece had snapped off, and oncehe firmly clicked that part into place on the leg he realized he didn’t screwup as badly as he thought. He was stillemotionally drained after that ordeal and decided to yet again put the kit awayfor another day.

Yosuke continued to slowly chip away at the project, findingthat while it wasn’t particularly exciting or even that enjoyable to him, hewas finding it easier to get absorbed in than it had been originally. More importantly, he felt like he wasstarting to understand some things about his partner and his weirdhobbies. While Yosuke liked more instantaneousforms for gratification, he could see how Yu could get satisfaction out ofcompleting a project that took more time to do. In fact, while he didn’t exactly enjoy the process of building themodel, he was looking forward to it being done and could appreciate the amount ofeffort it was taking him to complete it.

He had also learned to slow down and take his time so hedidn’t accidentally snap another piece and so the stickers were alignedproperly when he put them on. He hadperused a few forums for model building tips as well and had a few more toolsat his disposal such as a q-tip and small pliers to aid in the process. There was a lot that went into building thesemodels, Yosuke was learning, and people often painted or in other ways enhancedthem after they were built. He knew hedefinitely didn’t have the skills for that, but suddenly wondered if Yu with hisattention to detail had ever done that. He’d have to take a closer look at his models when he went to visit.

Fortunately, Yosuke ended up finishing the model with a dayto spare before his trip. He couldn’t helpbut feel a sense of accomplishment at actually doing it, and while he didn’treally have a desire to take on such a project again, he was still proud ofhimself and couldn’t wait to give the model to Yu. He knew his partner would be impressed andalso touched Yosuke would take the time to do something like that for him. The thought had Yosuke in a pretty good mood,although he had to admit a lot of that was also simply the fact he’d be seeinghis best friend the next day. He haddifficulty sleeping the night before due to being so excited, and he ended upgetting up early the next morning and arriving far too early to wait for the trainto the city. He had the model carefully packedaway in its box in his bag, and he was trying to decide if he wanted to show Yuthe model himself or wait for him to open it up and see the completed modelinside.

He fidgeted even worse than usual during the trip and keptgetting up and walking around, glad that at least the train this far out wasstill pretty empty so he didn’t get too many odd stares. Ironically, once they got close to Tokyo, hewas glued to his seat, his eyes straining out the window in anticipation forthat first glimpse of his best friend. The moment the train pulled toward the platform for his stop, he saw him,and he couldn’t help but grin and begin waving wildly. Yu also spotted him right away and wavedback, before stepping toward the door Yosuke would be exiting from in order towait for him. The moment they were infront of each other, they high fived in greeting before Yosuke surprised bothof them by suddenly pulling Yu into a hug. Yu warmly returned the embrace, however, and when Yosuke pulled awaywhile flushed in embarrassment, he didn’t say anything.

“Are you ready for me to invade your place?” Yosuke asked,waggling his eyebrows as Yu carefully took his bag. Yosuke frowned slightly, looking worriedlywhere he knew the box for the kit was tucked away, but did his best to soothehis anxiety. He knew Yu was trying to behelpful and honestly was far less clumsy than he was.

Yu pretended to contemplate his question for a moment whilecounting off on his fingers. “I havedinner simmering on the stove, your futon already set out, your favorite snacksand games set out for the evening. Am Imissing anything?”

Yosuke’s eyes widened in surprise. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you werepretty excited about me visiting,” he commented with a slight chuckle, and Yu lookedaway.

“I believe you know the answer to that,” he replied softly,and Yosuke felt something tighten in his chest at his words. He shook his head before clapping his hand onYu’s shoulder.

“You can’t be as excited as I am,” he said, his eyestwinkling. “Coming to see the collegesis honestly an excuse.”

Yu shook his head while giving Yosuke an exasperatedsmile. “Being happy to be back in thecity isn’t the same thing,” he teased, and Yosuke blinked in surprise.

‘I’m not excited about being in Tokyo,” he replied. “I’m excited to see you.” To his surprise, Yu appeared to take a misstepafter that, and Yosuke had to quickly move to catch him before he stumbledover. He felt his heart racing, bothover Yu almost falling and possibly getting hurt, and with the realization itcould have damaged his gift as well. “Youok?” he asked, and Yu quickly nodded his head.

“Yes,” he replied. “Imust not have noticed where I was going.” Yosuke glanced down, noting that he didn’t see anything that looked likesomething Yu could have tripped on but shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his place to question it. The rest of the walk to Yu’s apartment wentby smoothly, and soon they headed inside. Yu’s parents had left the apartment to him for the night, deciding totake a date night out in order to give him some privacy with his friend, so itwas just the two of them. As Yu went togo check on their stew for dinner, Yosuke went into his room to set his bagdown and pull out the kit, glancing inside to ensure the model was still ingood condition.

He also took a moment to peruse the ones Yu had on hisshelf, noting that the one Yu had finished recently did appear to have somedetails painted on as well. Now thatYosuke knew first hand how much work went into building the models, he couldn’thelp but feel amazed at Yu’s skill, and he suddenly felt nervous about givinghim his model after seeing how much better Yu’s looked. But. Yosuke stood a little straighter. He had a plan and he wasn’t chickening out now.

Yosuke wandered into the kitchen where Yu was wrapping up ontheir dinner, stirring the stew he had simmering all day while two bowls of steaminghot rice were already set out for them. He turned his head and raised his eyebrow when he saw what Yosuke washolding, and he dished out the stew while asking, “Did you bring that for me?”

“Yeah,” Yosuke said, bringing it over to the kitchen tablewhere Yu already had drinks set out for them; Yosuke noted that his was hisfavorite soda while Yu had tea. Yu setdown their food before reaching over to pick up the box, noting that it hadalready been opened before lifting up the lid. He then stared in surprise for several moments.

“Did…you assemble this?” he asked, gingerly picking it upand peering at it closely.

Yosuke jiggled his leg and nodded until he realized Yu wasn’tlooking at him to see it and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I did.”

“This looks really good,” Yu grinned at him before settingit down. To Yosuke’s amazement itactually stood on its own and didn’t immediately fall apart. It did look pretty cool standing there with abuster sword in one hand and a shield in the other.

“I have to admit, I have a newfound appreciation for whatyou do,” Yosuke said, a fond tone creeping into his voice as he spoke. “This one took forever and the hobby shop guysaid it was supposed to be an easy one.”

Yu chuckled. “Myfirst one was quite difficult for me as well,” he admitted.

Yosuke shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. You’regood at this and obviously enjoy it since you kept it up. I don’t think I can do it again myself. But,” he trailed off for a moment. “I’m glad I did. And got to experience a little bit what itmust be like for you.” Yu was watchinghim carefully as he spoke, and he looked pleased at his words, although it wasonly barely noticeable in the way the corner of his eyes crinkled slightly and thea small tug on the corner of his lips.

“Is that so?” he mused. “Well, I’m glad to see you tried my hobby at least once. I really appreciate it.” He moved to put the model back in the box,and Yosuke shook his head.

“It’s yours. I madeit for you,” he said. “You’ll get moreuse out of it than I will. Also, I kindof read up a bit on modeling to get some tips as I put it together, and I haveto say I’m really impressed by that one you finished a few weeks ago. I can really see the detail you put intoit. Must have taken you a lot of time.”

“Yeah, it did,” Yu nodded.

Before he could say anything else, Yosuke spoke forhim. “But that sense of accomplishmentcan’t be beat, huh partner?” he asked, and Yu looked a bit surprised. His eyes widened slightly, and his eyescaught Yosuke’s for a moment as he studied him.

“You hit the nail on the head Yosuke,” Yureplied honestly, and they both turned to focusing on their meal as theycontinued their discussion. Yosuke couldn’thelp but feel a little bit of pride over the fact Yu would keep his model anddisplay it with his much better ones, and he was happy that his plan worked outas he hoped it would. Yu also appearedto be in a really good mood, and Yosuke hoped at least some of that was becauseof him. He thought back to all of thethings he had learned about Yu over the days he worked on the model kit, and hecouldn’t help but steal a glance at him. Maybe, once they were roommates, Yosuke would try his hand at anothermodel kit. That is if he and his partnerbuilt one together. Yosuke grinned tohimself at the idea, and he decided he’d go talk to the hobbyist to see whatwould be a good one to try next while letting him know how well the firstproject went. He was sure Yu would alsolike the idea, and Yosuke was looking forward to surprising him with it.

#souyo #narukami yu #hanamura yosuke #p4

35 notes · View notes

gibsonmusicart · 6 years

Text

Top 5 Reasons Songwriters Procrastinate – And How To Fix Them

1) GENERAL OVERWHELM

This is such a common perception of people’s day-to-day lives. We’re just too busy, there’s too much to do, too much to organise. But this is a myth. It might help to see this problem as a silly character: “General Overwhelm”, an army officer, likes to convince us that we just can’t do it, that we’re simply not strong enough to forge a path through the to-do lists and get the vitally important, meaningful stuff done. But old General Overwhelm is lying to us. It’s all about perception and taking small steps towards having more control over both what we do and how we interpret what we are dealing with.

If you can reframe how you see a difficult situation, you gain the upper hand. For example, if you’d like to get some songs completed but you’ve got a part time job with erratic hours, set yourself a deadline of how long you’ll stay in that job. Work towards a goal of becoming self-employed. Also, establish what financial goal you want to achieve. Once you know what you’re aiming for and your cut-off date, you know that this circumstance is under your control. Secondly, if your timetable changes constantly, look at where you can either negotiate to have some regular hours, perhaps one day a week and set aside even just a couple of hours as your regular songwriting time. Once you have one small thing in place, you can start to fit in more writing. It’s like being lost at sea in a storm. If you can get yourself a compass, a radio or at least see the horizon, you’ve got a hope in hell of being able to navigate your way back home.

2) RESISTANCE TO STRUCTURE

The solution to the first problem may already have triggered this second one. Are you the kind of writer who waits for ‘the muse’ to show up? Do you resist the idea of scheduling specific time slots for songwriting? If so, you’d better ask yourself if you want to write as a hobby or professionally. If it’s the latter, you need to be able to write regardless of whether the elusive “muse” shows up. You need to be able to establish a time to write and stick to it. I’m reminded of the quotation, “I sit down to the piano regularly at nine o’ clock in the morning and Mesdames les Muses have learned to be on time for that rendezvous.” -Pyotr Tchaikovsky

There are other ways around this problem of structure if you have allocated time for writing and you don’t seem to be getting anywhere, but this is the first thing to put in place. Merely by having established a habit of regular writing time, you’ll notice that the likelihood of your actually writing new songs increases.

3) LACK OF CLARITY ON THE GOAL

This is a really common problem. It’s so easy to have a huge goal that is wonderful and exciting and you’re all fired up to get started, but the completion of it involves some kind of miracle. Like for example, writing and recording an album. Writing an album’s worth of songs might not be that difficult, but getting them professionally recorded, depending on which instruments you want to use and the nature of your own personal studio set-up, could potentially be expensive. How do you find the money to do it? This is where a question, a mere innocent question can bring all your plans toppling down. The key is not to ask the question with a sense of fear or resentment as your brain tells you, “I can’t. It’s impossible.” It’s just asking a question. Why not get into the habit of asking, “I wonder if…?” or “I wonder how I might…?” with an open mind and a curious spirit? That way, you won’t be placing judgement on the answer, which will make things lighter, easier, more feasible. Don’t let the final stages of the plan to reach your goal stop you from taking the first few steps towards it. Keep in mind the old adage, “Leap, and the net will appear.” Why not entertain the possibility that by starting out towards your goal, you will find the resources, support and energy you need to get to the end? The most important thing to do is START. And then keep in mind, “One. Step. At. A. Time”.

4) YOUR ATTITUDE TO CREATIVE WORK

Were you brought up being told that playing an instrument ‘won’t pay the rent’? I certainly was. I remember having taught myself to play a few things on the piano at the first opportunity I got at the age of 17, living as a lodger in a new home where there was a piano. I was so proud of myself. I’d worked out enough by ear that I could play a few things that felt strong, interesting and soothing. One day I summoned the courage to walk into a cafe that had a piano to ask if I could play. I played a few pieces for the handful of people sitting at their quaint little tables, some improvised, some practised, and the people nearest to the piano thanked me and said they enjoyed it. Newly thrilled with what seemed like such an enormous achievement to a girl who’d never grown up with a piano, nor had had even one lesson, I excitedly told my Mum all about it. Her response? “Well, that’s not going to pay the rent, is it?” Consequently, I spent the next 10 years or so, not only paying for piano lessons out of my own pocket but anxiously trying to prove I had a right to be a musician even though it wasn’t earning me any money.

This kind of pressure – to earn money from music or to prove to an authority figure that you have a right to be a creative person of any kind – is stifling. For most people, it’s what sucks the life out of the joy you initially had about your creative work and for some, even forces you to quit. Whatever happened to writing and recording music for the joy of the expression or the thrill of creating something from nothing? Surely the whole point of doing something creative is that it’s an expression of your own thoughts and feelings and there’s a purpose in expressing that because other people who are most like you can relate to it. The moral of this story is – take a step back when it all gets too serious. Why does writing music have to prove anything? Why do you have to earn money from it right away? Does it all have to be so SERIOUS?! Chances are, this seriousness has a stranglehold on your creativity and that’s why you can’t write a song at the moment. How about writing a silly song about a platypus instead? And maybe you can even cleverly make it not about a platypus as such, but about being a misfit. Wouldn’t that be FUN? Fun could well be something that has been largely underrated for far too long.

5) PUSHING YOURSELF TOO FAR

This somewhat follows on from number 4 in that once you’ve put so much effort into TRYING to write a song or get an album project off the ground, you can sometimes find yourself too exhausted to actually write something interesting or heartfelt. There needs to be room for you to look after yourself as well. It’s no good working yourself into the ground until you make yourself ill. You have to look after yourself as well and keep your energy levels up enough to support your goal. Taking time out to have fun, do something different for the sake of breaking up the monotony of a daily routine, or just taking an evening out to have a relaxing bath and an early night could be the easy solution to your writing block. It’s amazing what enough sleep and a bit of self-care can do to make you feel energised and ready to write something spectacular. This may run a little bit counter to the first point on the list, but every rule has its exception and every routine must occasionally be broken.

All in all, there’s a balance to be struck between having a routine and having freedom, putting in the hours and yet not taking it all too seriously. If you can look after your body with regular exercise and healthy meals, that goes a long way in itself to allowing you the leeway to have a timetable that changes, a tour schedule for a month that seems overwhelming or a minimal income to start out on. It doesn’t sound very rock ’n’ roll, but I suspect, this is the kind of thing people like Mick Jagger or Kate Bush now do but don’t talk about in interviews because it would ruin their rock/pop prowess. Maybe it’s precisely this aim to put even just a few new good habits in place that keeps songwriters going beyond a two-year career to span decades. It’s certainly worth a try.

Post by Rowen Bridler

Source: MusicClout .com

Check out The Melody Of Success - Music Career Blog - Information, Articles and More! - You can find me on Drooble .com

#songwritingblog #songwriting tips #songwriting industry #songwriters #musiccareers #musicindustry #musicbusiness

4 notes · View notes

readershewrites · 6 years

Text

I Have Listened To Every Lie : Chapter 4

Previously: Chapter 3

Taehyung is lovely. Their lunch passes easily and effortlessly, and Nara takes great comfort in the way he finds humor in everything. Though reticent, she manages to give just enough of herself to ensure that she has a seat partner for the rest of the semester. Pleased and relieved is an understatement.

“Where are you off to now?” She asks politely as she takes out some baby wipes from her bag.

“I’m going home.”

Nara nods. “Same. Well, I’ll be off then.” She cleans her fingers with the wipes, and after delicately folding the used material, she places it on the corner of her tray of food and stands up. While she is grabbing her bag she sneaks a glance at Taehyung, and on finding a peculiar smile on his face, she flushes.

“What?” She curls a loose hair back behind her ear, suddenly feeling exposed.

He grins, eyes dancing with mirth. “Nothing, I’ve just never seen someone as pedantic about hygiene as you are.”

“Oh, well-” Nara is about to say that she was taught to sanitise after eating in public places, but at the last second she realises how freakish that might sound ad only manages to awkwardly end her sentence with “…oh.”

There is a beat of strange silence, both parties knowing that Nara is withholding something.

Nara mentally berates herself, but pushes on. “Well, I’ll see you next week then.”

Taehyung’s shoulders relax significantly, accepting her olive branch. “Yeah, sure.”

She nods, gives him a small but genuine smile and then turns around to walk away, but after a few steps realises that Taehyung is still beside her, and matches her pace.

Suddenly a cold sweat envelopes her. Surely he couldn’t be heading towards -

“Are you going to the bus stop as well?” Taehyung asks cheerfully.

Oh no. Nara wants to cry.

“Yes I am.” She replies calmly.

Her mind reels. The bus stop is merely a cover for the fact that Nara drives to and from university every day in her spectacularly expensive black Rolls Royce. Every time she leaves class she makes her way to the bus stop, hovers for a few minutes and then disappears to the nearby car park. She doesn’t want people to associate her with wealth, and even though it’s a ridiculous idea to think that people would follow her to the car, she knows that by wearing expensive clothing and having expensive bags she already is drawing attention. Given that her face has been on magazines and the television (albeit in her husband’s shadow), blending is almost of higher importance to her than actually doing well in class.

“Which one?” Taehyung asks, “I get on the bus near the chemistry building.”

It’s her lucky day, his stop isn’t anywhere near hers. Nara sighs mutely with relief. Of course there are different bus stops at a university of this size. She mutters a silent prayer to whatever forces are protecting her.

“Oh, I’m at the stop near the law building.”

Taehyung gives her another odd look. “Then you should’ve turned right a few moments ago…”

“Right!” Nara says, “right. Sorry I was just thinking about stuff.”

Grimacing at her lame excuse, she waves to Taehyung and quickly breaks off from him. She doesn’t want to look at his bewildered expression any longer than she has to. Not waiting for his reply, she picks up the pace to the “bus stop”.

A grain of guilt blooms within her. Taehyung is a sweet boy, and Nara feels awful after not only what was probably the most awkward lunch of his life but then also deceiving him about catching public transport, but she knows she doesn’t have a choice. Now is not the time to be telling her intimate truths to strangers.

One day, she promises herself. One day I’ll tell him.

A shrill ring rips through the air from somewhere deep inside the recesses of her handbag, and shaking herself from her thoughts Nara dips her hand between the many books and readings she has and searches for it.

[Yoongi Calling]

Even the sight of his name chills her spirit. Only, she isn’t cold, but rather warm and flushed from latent frustration and anger. It takes all her composure to accept the call, and when she hears his voice - his beautiful, smooth voice - all other emotions are trumped by an unexpected punch of longing that leaves her eyes hot and wet.

“Hello?”

“Dinner tonight?”

He’s polite enough to pose it as a question, but Nara knows otherwise. It is a condition of their “separation” that they are pictured together on a “date” once every fortnight, and considering their last meeting was exactly two weeks ago, neither can deny that they have been procrastinating.

“What time?”

“Six.”

Nara raises an eyebrow. Yoongi always eats dinner at seven.

“Are you busy?”

The silence on the other line shocks her. Or rather, she shocks herself. It’s none of my business where he is anymore, she chides herself, her melancholy totally overtaken by embarrassment.

“Nevermind.” She mutters. “Six. Where?”

“The Bistro. Make sure you drive to the house first. We’ll go to the restaurant together.”

She rolls her eyes. Image, he’s all about image.

“Don’t be late. Get to the house at five-thirty.”

This pisses her off enormously. How dare he accuse her of tardiness. “As if I’m ever late!”

On the other line, Yoongi sighs.

Again with the condescension! All traces of sorrow fly quickly from her heart.

“Haven’t we done it that way every time? What do you think I am, an idiot?” She snaps, and hangs up on him.

Mood thoroughly spoiled, Nara ditches any attempt at waiting by the bus stop and marches straight into the car park beside it, finding her car easily and ripping open the door. She dumps her bag on the passenger seat and with a roar of the engine she pulls out of her park. Her fingers are tight on the wheel as she weaves in and out of traffic, mind whirling and heart racing.

I’m going to give it to that bastard, she vows as she pulls into the private car park of her apartment building.

I’m going to rip him a new one, she fumes as she exits the car, slams the door and stalks to the elevator.

“I’m gonna strangle him I swear to God.” she mutters as the silver doors slide open and she shoves her key in the front door.

She wrenches the door open and with as much overarm strength as she can muster, throws the keys so that they skitter and slide with a harsh grating tinkle against the marble floor.

Micha pokes her head out from the kitchen, “How was cl-”

“I’m gonna KILL him!” Nara screeches, and stomps towards her bedroom. Blind with rage, she completely ignores Micha as she furiously dumps her bag on her bed.

“I’m taking a bath,” she declares, “do NOT disturb me.”

Micha, silent but not taken aback, retreats back into the kitchen.

“Wow.” she mouths, and swallows her mouthful of apple.

There is something odd about dinner today, Nara muses soberly over her baked fish. The usual stalemate that she and Yoongi are usually engaged in over their dinners has been replaced by something more careful, more hesitant, almost… bashful?

Usually their conversations consist of low, veiled insults coupled with stiff smiles - their one way of at least looking like they’re speaking to each other in front of restaurant staff, but today–

“How are you doing in class?”

He says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. In fact she treats it as a figment of her imagination until she looks up, and realises that he is staring at her with an expectant brow raised.

“Oh.” She flushes. “Well, we’re reading Dracula next week. It’s actually very interesting; I wasn’t too familiar with the origins of the vampire trope but now I can see that the modern stereotype comes from completely from Stoker. But I find that the characters are so much more than what people remember the novel for; I didn’t expect such complexity in characters other than Dracula and Van Helsing–”

She stops, suddenly aware of how passionate her answer is.

Sneaking a glance at her husband, she finds that Yoongi isn’t even pretending to listen. He’s playing with his food, unoccupied hand relaxed and in an open fist, while the other pokes at the steak on his plate.

The sight is incredibly wounding and embarrassing and yet Nara can’t help the wash of relief that courses through her, because though she has every right to be angry at being ignored, her response to his question was far more intimate than she expected, and she feels safer knowing that he missed this vulnerable moment.

But Nara wants this dinner to end, and so she settles instead for anger.

“So I met a guy today.”

She knows what his reaction will be; Yoongi may not be an overtly possessive person, but Nara knows that underneath the facade of competence and ambivalence lies a potent jealous streak.

Yoongi’s head snaps up and Nara smirks to herself.

“What’s his name?”

“Why?” Nara bites, suddenly defensive. “So you can hire a PI and ruin his life?”

His eyes flash menacingly “Just making sure my wife isn’t caught frolicking around with a high-school graduate”.

Ah, there’s nasty Yoongi, Nara smiles. This I can do.

“But darling I thought it was clear that you were the one sowing wild oats?”

A muscle in Yoongi’s eye twitches. Nara is thrilled.

He looks coolly down at his meat. “Since you’re going to be difficult then you better get used to having a tail on you, and your friend too.”

Completely unprepared for such an escalation, the blood rushes from Nara’s face. Was he seriously threatening to have her followed? Suddenly she is overtaken by an immense feeling of guilt - one day into her friendship with Taehyung and she has already used him as bait, and now Yoongi has called her bluff. Nara’s shackles rise.

“You leave Taehyung alone!”

Yoongi looks shocked by her outburst, freezing mid-chew.

Squaring her jaw, Nara stares him down, shooting fire and brimstone from her eyes. She won’t back down for this, she won’t let him take away her first friend. More importantly, she refuses to let her poisonous attachment to Yoongi ruin other people’s lives.

Fully prepared for verbal nuclear war, she sets down her knife and fork and wipes her mouth and slaps the napkin on the table. Yoongi still hasn’t moved.

He blinks a couple of times and Nara opens her mouth to give him a piece of her mind–

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me,” he sighs, hands leaving his cutlery and going to press slow circles on his temples. “I’m a little tired.”

Honesty - another curve ball. In her astonishment Nara can’t help but follow where he leads her, and it is then that she notices the light violet circles under her husband’s eyes, carved into the smoothness of his face. In fact, now that she is really seeing him she notices that his jaw is a little harsher, his fingers a little bonier and his eyes dim and flat.

Nara drops her eyes. She realises that she has played herself for a fool, so blind with feeling that she doesn’t even notice that Yoongi isn’t playing her game. That, in addition with his surprising apology inspires a wave of deep devotion in the recesses of her soul, an emotion she hasn’t felt in so long that it rocks her, and it is all she can do to close her eyes and press back the tears that threaten to overtake her.

I love him, dammit I still love him, Nara thinks to herself, resigned.

She moves to ask him about the company, but just as she does he abruptly stands up, chair almost toppling over as the feet catch on the plush magenta carpet. Yoongi is staring at her, eyes full and throbbing with some emotion she cannot decipher.

“Yoongi, is–”

“Is everything alright, sir?” Their waiter rushes up to their table and completely cuts her off.

Breaking contact with her husband, Nara gives the waiter her best stink-eye as she quietly gathers her purse and stands to mirror her husband.

Upon returning her eyes to Yoongi’s she finds that his orbs have been shed of the feeling they had previously, and now they are so blank she has no option but to look away.

“The meal was fine. Thank you.”

To his credit he waits for her before he leaves the restaurant, but as they walk side by side to Yoongi’s shiny black Lamborghini, Nara can’t help but wonder what it would be like if she reached through the crackling energy between them and locked her hands tightly with his.

This thought occupies her so completely that she misses the way her husband’s eyes dance over her face like a feather falling in the wind.

Usually there is an identifiable point to Nara and Yoongi’s date nights where the tension between them short circuits and they end up fucking like animals in a matter of minutes, but tonight, on a night where both of them are so emotionally drained, Nara is considering going home.

The thought solidifies in her mind as Yoongi opens the front door and she shuffles in.

Maybe I should just get changed and go, Nara thinks, placing her purse down on the table by the door and toeing her shoes off.

As Nara’s resolve strengthens, she turns to tell her husband of her plans until she is once again struck by the same intense stare that he directed upon her at the restaurant. She really cannot read it at all. It squeezes her heart and she so desperately wants to look away because she knows that at any moment she could fool herself into thinking it were look of love.

This thought hurts her enough that she does manage to rip her eyes away from his, and she quickly ditches her plans to change back into comfortable clothes. She just wants to go home.

“I’m leaving. Good night.”

Nara grabs slides her feet back into her shoes and quickly snatches her purse. Yoongi hasn’t moved at all from his position by the door, and as she walks by him to leave she hesitates when a waft of his gentle cologne reaches her nose.

Slowly she brings her head up to look him in the eyes and whatever she finds in there moves her so much that bit by bit she leans in until softness meets softness and their lips are caught in the most tender kiss she has ever received in her life.

Several shared breaths later and she pulls away, the soft smacking sound of their lips barely audible to her pulse thundering away in her ears.

Nara checks for the look again, and catches a squeak in her throat when she sees that Yoongi’s eyes are now alight with lust. She barely has time to be disappointed in how quickly she too is aroused before Yoongi has his hands under her dress and on her ass and her purse is on the ground, hands now occupied by his thick black hair.

They kiss sloppily, angrily; all teeth and tongue and tension. Yoongi grips her thighs in his hands and stumbles to the closest room, catching the both of them on the nearest tea table with one hand on the low glass surface. He breaks the kiss with a dark smirk and turns Nara around to push her over onto the cold, slick table. Nara sighs with anticipation, hands shaking as Yoongi knots his fingers on the sides of her thong and roughly wrenches them down her leg, registering nothing but the throbbing between her legs and the sweat beading on her neck. The jangle of his belt is familiar, and sweet to her ears.

Thoroughly expecting him to dominate her with his cock, Nara lets out a cry of surprise when Yoongi shoves two fingers inside of her tight slit. There’s no time to be embarrassed by how wet she already is. Behind her Yoongi grunts, a sound that shakes her down to her bones.

He presses himself so close to her that she can feel his naked cock sliding up and down her thigh, slick with lubrication - whose exactly she doesn’t know. His fingers press rhythmically against her g-spot without ever pulling out; it’s a trick Yoongi learnt perhaps hours into their honeymoon that has never failed to make Nara scream.

They are both crazy with lust; Nara’s nipples are beading so hard they hurt when they brush against the material of her dress, and behind her Yoongi is grunting, mouth closed and brows kneaded together as sweat trickles down his temple. It’s been weeks since their last tryst - their last date, in fact -, and neither can deny the delight it gives them to connect with the other’s body.

This foreplay lasts for what seems like an eternity until Yoongi suddenly rips his fingers from her core. Nara whimpers but doesn’t say anything. Instead she turns to hook her underwear with one hand and take it off completely, tossing it to the side. Then, bare and ready she pushes her ass back and spreads her knees wide. It’s a wildly vulnerable position for her to be in, but she knows Yoongi loves taking her from behind - their neighbours can probably attest to that.

A large, hot hand grips her waist and Nara breathes in through her nose to prepare herself. She squeezes her eyes closed; she wants to feel everything.

Yoongi’s tip enters her slowly, stretching the lips of her cunt ever so gently. Nara licks her lips and unconsciously moves back to get more of him, but is stopped by the firm hand on her waist which gives her a tight, commanding squeeze.

Pleased at her acquiescence, Yoongi resumes slowly shoving his cock inside of her; there is nothing that he loves more in the world than watching his dick enter Nara’s soft, glistening pink flesh. It’s the single image in his wank bank that can get him off in a matter of minutes. The only thing that makes him cum faster is fucking her in real life.

The moment he bottoms out they both relax viscerally. It’s a familiar position, almost comforting. Nara moves to slip her arms out of her dress and let her breasts hang free in the cool air, grunting as she feels Yoongi move inside of her. Following her lead, Yoongi bends over slightly to cup a breast in each hand, and the moment he grazes a nipple with his thumb he spasms inside of her, a movement that makes Nara shudder.

Yoongi pulls out of her at an achingly slow pace. He makes sure the tip is dancing at her sopping entrance before he re-enters, this time faster, smoother and slicker. Nara squeaks. He grins; Nara has the widest array of sounds from anyone he’s ever fucked in his life, and he loves it.

Their pace picks up. After a couple of steady thrusts, Yoongi picks up his leg and puts it on the tea table, the low height ensuring that not only is Nara practically bent in half, but that Yoongi’s stiff cock is pressed right to the back of her walls, scraping her g-spot with every thrust no matter how much force he puts into it.

“Oh,” Nara groans, “I love this table.”

Yoongi grins at that, and as a reward for her wit amps up the tempo, and soon enough they settle into a fast fucking pace. Nara’s hands slide forward continuously, slick from sweat and the condensation of her breath but she is unperturbed, chasing nothing but her climax. She pushes back against Yoongi and suddenly she is there, and then she is shaking and quaking and nothing matters but the man glued to her back and the magical things his cock is doing to her.

It takes a while for Nara to gather her wits (it has been two weeks after all), but once she does and realises that Yoongi is still erect inside of her, the prospect of a long night ahead makes her stomach tighten deliciously.

Yoongi pulls out of her with a sensual squelch that makes both of them sigh, and when Nara picks herself off the table to shed herself of her clothing, she turns to find her magnificent husband with a hand at the base of his glistening dick, squeezing so hard she can see beads of sweat forming at his crown.

She gives him some time to get his boner under control, and once she sees that the pucker between his brows has subsided somewhat she steps out of her slinky dress and calmly walks to the staircase.

“Be naked by the time you reach the bedroom, please.” She purrs, fully aware of her husband’s burning gaze on her jiggling ass and wet thighs.

Nara turns the corner and pads up the stairs smiling smugly to herself. Even if his heart doesn’t love me, his dick certainly does.

Her hand lightly traces over the familiar wooden arches of the staircase and then the spirals of the french wallpaper of the house they once shared, and her mind settles into an atmosphere that is more wistful. The emotion is even more present when she reaches the closed doors of the master bedroom, and she places her palm lightly against the carved oak of the only place she and her husband ever spoke the same passionate language.

Before Nara can get too carried away, a hot hand reaches around her waist and a chest presses her against the door she was once admiring.

“Ah!” she gasps as Yoongi slides two fingers firm fingers inside of her.

Despite being wet, Nara is slightly less aroused than she was before, but soon she is bucking against the hand that cups her and grinding against the man pulling screams from deep within her belly, where the fire of want is white with intensity.

She enjoys the feel of his digits for just a little longer before she presses down on the door handle and they both stumble into the room, quickly hurtling towards the grandiose bed.

She falls onto the cool linen sheets and smiles drunkenly as Yoongi climbs over her, skin pearly with sweat and cock swaying heavily against his thigh. The feral glow to his countenance has her shuddering with anticipation. He bends down and her smile only grows bigger. Oh how she desires this, his mouth assaulting her neck and his hands kneading her breast. Her skin is tickled by the coolness of the stagnant room, her nipple beading so hard it hurts, but she is quickly warmed by the blistering mouth that brands sticky, dark etchings on, around, and all over her breast.

She has always loved sex with Yoongi because he knows how to make her cum twice; the first time is always fast and rough whereas the second time is always more gradual, more painful and ultimately more gratifying when he pushes her too far.

Nara trembles as Yoongi enters her, hot and throbbing and she digs her nails into his lusciously tight ass. There is no waiting for her to get used to his size; they both know she loves it when it hurts a little, so Yoongi wastes no time in sawing in and out of her, his head heavy and lax on her chest while his hips move unforgivingly fast.

A particularly angled thrust makes Nara’s closed eyes shoot open, and she makes a point of drawing her sharp nails all the way up Yoongi’s back, demanding that he do it again. At this he picks up his chest and delivers a sharp slap to her soft thigh. Like a rope has been cut loose, Nara’s body becomes limp as she gives thrusts the remnants of her control in their pleasure to Yoongi, and at this his own grin appears. Thighs open, arms by her head and hair sticking to her neck and chest, Nara is fully absorbed in nothing but the burgeoning orgasm she can feel is threatening to overtake her.

One of Yoongi’s fingers reaches down to press against Nara’s clit, and the convulsions that wrack her body force her to clench on his cock, and finally, finally her husband is coming apart; faster and faster he slaps his hips against hers, fingers abusing her clit so much that Nara could be either totally silent or screaming - she is unaware - until at long last the cord breaks and she cums so hard she can’t tell the difference between her own sweat and her tears.

Above her, Yoongi’s thighs falter as he ejaculates, eyes rolling behind his closed lids. Once he’s over the pinnacle of his climax he lays back down on his wife, head on her chest as he rides her pants until they become long breaths. This way, he is in sync with her.

Next: Chapter 5

#BTS scenario #Yoongi scenario #Suga scenario #Min Yoongi #CEO!Yoongi #BTS smut #Suga smut #Yoongi smut #I Have Listened to Every Lie #writing these sex scenes killed me #not in a good way #they were so damn stressful I had to rewrite them three times

162 notes · View notes