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sp0o0kylights · 1 year

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Adopt a Jock Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Shoutout to @bloomingconflagration for the title!!! And a HUGE thank you to everyone who left comments or gave suggestions!! I love you all you amazing, silly humans <3 <3

There comes a time during a long work shift were your average overworked and underpaid employee starts to think they’re hallucinating.

In Gareth’s case, it was when Steve Harrington walked through the doors of Palace Arcade, making a beeline right for him.

“Gareth?” Steve asked, like he was the one out of place. “What are you doing here?”

As if people just randomly stood behind the counter of retail and entertainment spaces with a nametag on.

You know, for fun.

With a great deal of restraint, Gareth managed to hold the sass back, instead opting for a far more polite; ‘I work here, Harrington. What are you doing here?”

Because no matter how much Hellfire had adopted Steve into its fold, Gareth could just not see the guy choosing to spend his free time at the local arcade.

Not of his own free will, anyway.

“Pick up duty.” Steve said, proving him right not even a second later.

“Of what?” Gareth asked, puzzled, right before Steve’s name was shouted in stereo.

A miniature stampede took place as several children proceeded to swarm him like oversized puppies, most of them trying to talk at once.

“One at a time, we talked about this!” Steve barked, loud enough to be heard over the commotion. “You’re giving me and Gareth here a headache!”

He waved his hands in a “calm down” gesture, shaking his head and looking at Gareth in exasperation. “Probably giving the people in the video store next door one too, lord.”

“Wait.” A curly-haired kid said, looking between the two older teens like he was watching the laws of the universe rewrite themselves in front of him. “You know Gary? How?”

“We are not close enough for you to call me Gary.” Gareth said dryly, for what felt like the fifteenth time that day.

This was a regular battle between him and the kids who haunted the arcade.

(One had overheard Grant call him Gary the last time he was in, and ever since, every single child that graced this fine establishment with Cheeto-dusted fingers and candy-induced sugar rushes had decided to replace his actual name with his nickname.

The fact it clearly frustrated him only egged them on. )

“We go to school together Dustin,” Steve said, as if he were talking to someone particularly dense.

“Yeah? You go to school with lots of people. You bitch about most of them.” Dustin fired back.”Plus Gary’s a total nerd. I bet you call him names.”

"Hey, language!"

Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at the little fucker. He was definitely going to remember Dustin (and equally going to watch and see what arcade games the younger teen played-- and top the score chart of every single fucking one.

He might be a nerd but he wasn’t gonna take that shit from a middle schooler.)

“Hate to break it to you brats, but your babysitter here just joined our D&D club.” Gareth replied, if only to finally one-up the little bastards. “Our DM is building him a character as we speak.”

(Which wasn't even a lie. Eddie was building a character for Steve. The guy just refused to give any input on grounds that he "wasn't going to play anyways." )

Abrupt and sudden silence, as several stunned faces stared at him.

“Oh goddammit.” Harrington cursed, as the entire herd of children turned on him in unison like some kind of hivemind horror monster.

“You joined the D&D club,” Dustin said slowly, outraged. “And you let them make you a character sheet, but you won’t play with us!?”

“What the hell Steve!” The sporty-looking one whined, clearly hurt. “You won’t sit in on our games! You said they were lame!”

“They are lame.” Steve defended immediately, pushing at sporty-kids head. It was fond though, the kind of gentle shove an elder brother gave to a younger one. It caused the kid's camo banana to fall into his eyes, which he adjusted quickly with a grumble. “Turns out the high school version’s cooler.”

“He’s lying.” That from the bitchy one, whose arms were crossed over his chest, a glare on his face. “Steve probably paid Gary to say that”

Gareth had seen that exact same stance on Steve at lunch that day, and wondered if the little asshole knew who he was copying when he did it.

“Who cares about D&D?” This from the redhead, standing with another girl giggling in her ear. “I’m just amazed Steve has friends.”

“Really Mayfield?” Steve said, looking almost betrayed. As if he thought she was going to be the one to defend him in this weird little showdown.

The girl leaning on her giggled harder, making Mayfield grin (even if she tried to hide it.) She whispered something, which the redhead outright laughed at before repeating; “Adult friends even!”

“Okay.” Steve said, clearly cutting the kids off before they could embarrass him further. “Thank you, unwanted peanut gallery, for all of that lovely commentary. Now go back to playing the games you little shits robbed me of all my quarters for, or we’re leaving.”

Henderson’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were here to pick us up?”

“Oh I’m sorry, did Jonathan magically appear behind me in the last five seconds?” Steve turned around pretending to search the parking lot through the windows. “No? Then I guess we’re still waiting. Unless you, Lucas and Max want to leave first.”

“You’re such an ass.” Dustin huffed, rolling his eyes. “Why aren’t you waiting in the car anyway?”

“It’s raining, it’s cold, and I thought I’d come in to say hi to my friend.” Steve replied, so quickly it took Gareth a moment to realize what Steve referred to him as.

He'd gotten the friend title before Eddie.

His best friend was going to fucking freak.

“Are you done drilling me or are you going to let Max kick your ass at DigDug again?”

“Shit!” Henderson cursed, spinning to intercept the redhead as she bent to put a coin in said arcade machine. “Max, you said you’d let me keep my leaderboard score today! Max!”

“I know you said you watched kids, but this wasn’t exactly what I was imagining.” Gareth said, slumping against the counter.

(He'd been thinking of Steve watching much younger kids for one, and two, he was starting to get the idea the babysitter thing was used as an insult.

Gareth knew a big brother vibe when he saw it.)

Steve gave him a tired look. “Me neither man. Me neither.”

Then; “You fucking owe me for that D&D comment, they’re never going to shut up about it now.”

Gareth winced. “Sorry. I was trying to help.”

Steve blew out a breath. “I know. I appreciate the attempt.”

Which was better than Steve bitching at him for it, not that he’d really ever done that to Gareth.

The two of them hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to be playful like that with each other, though they had occasionally jumped in on opposing sides to arguments Eddie caused. Gareth figured they’d get there in time, but even with all the progress Steve made, he still had more off days than on.

It was a fragile line to walk with him. Especially when there wasn’t a single member of Hellfire who wanted to ruin the progress they made.

(Even if half of them would never admit to it.)

“Steve?” A voice interrupted, quiet in a way that contrasted directly with how loud the rest of the brat pack was.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his hand as if to starve off a headache.

“Yes, Baby Byers?” He asked after a long, painful pause, turning to look at the saddest looking kid in the bunch.

“Is there actually a D&D club at the high school?”

The kid looked at Steve like he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to hear the answer, but was hopeful for the outcome he wanted anyway.

It was the kind of thing that pulled even on Gareth’s heartstrings, and he was almost immune to anything involving giant, sad eyes after a solid year of working at the arcade.

(Never mind Eddie’s own puppy dog looks.)

Steve’s voice gentled, in a way Gareth had never quite heard him use before. “There is. You’d love it, it’s called Hellfire. I’m sure it’ll still be there next year when you come in as a freshman.”

He nudged him with his shoulder playfully, smiling when the younger boy perked up. “If you’re nice, Garebear here might even put in a good word for you.”

“Garebear?” Max repeated with a burst of laughter, appearing behind Steve like a fucking ghost. “Oh my god.”

“No.” Gareth said, bolting upright from his slouch as he stared at her in horror. “Do not call me that.”

“Sure thing, Garebear.” She outright cackled, as Steve sent him a wide-eyed, apologetic face.

“What did you just call Gary?” The sporty one--Lucas, asked, a wide grin overtaking his face.

“I swear to God.” Gareth threatened, as Steve took another dramatic look over his shoulder.

“Hey look Jonathan’s here!” He yelled, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as he started quickly walking backwards. “Come on, dipshits, we're leaving!”

“Bye Garebear!” Lucas and Max sang together, following after him.

“Harrington!” Gareth howled, as Steve mouthed ‘Sorry’ over his shoulder, all but bolting out the door.

“I like Garebear a lot better than Gary.” Another, random child informed him with a grin as he sauntered past, arcade tickets in hand.

Steve Harrington, Gareth decided, was a dead man.

Not even Eddie’s fucking crush on the guy could save him now.

xXx

“Did you know Harrington has a literal pack of kids he watches?” Gareth asked a few hours later, messing with his drum kit as he set up for band practice. "He even drives them around."

More than that though--he’d seemed almost normal around them. That was the most Gareth had seen the guy banter or act relaxed since Eddie had dragged him over.

“He’s mentioned it multiple times.” Grant replied, tuning his bass. “You have ears Gareth, use them.”

“Gareth? Listen?” Jeff teased as he dragged an amp into the garage. “I don’t think I’ll live to see the day.”

"Oh screw you guys.” Gareth growled, winging a drumstick toward his friends for the insult.

Grant, long used to Gareth's tantrums (and Eddie's dramatics) didn't look up from his bass.

Not even when the drumstick hit the wall with a bang!-- allll the way near the opposite end of the couch, entirely opposite of either him or Jeff.

"As usual, your aim is dead on." Jeff appraised sarcastically.

"Like I'd ever actually hit you." Gareth grumbled with a pout. "I was gonna say the kids are older than I expected."

He reached down, blindly fishing for another drumstick from the bucket of them next to his kit.

He came up empty.

"Hey Grantman." Gareth asked, tone changing to something mildly embarrassed. "Could I uh, could I get the drumstick back?"

He got a flat stare back. "No."

"What did I do to get stuck with such dramatic friends?" Jeff joked as he began moving all the amps he’d pulled in back into their usual places.

They hadn't had time to unload anything other than the drums after their last show and the regret was real.

"Eddie’s been standing on tables since seventh grade, you knew what you were getting into." Gareth fired back, making grabby hands for his drumstick.

"And you never grew out of being that dorky middle schooler who snuck into Hellfire games and screamed we were all going to die every time anyone made a bad play." Jeff shot back. "Yet here I am, once again wondering if I should just permanently confiscate Eddie's snacks, your drumsticks, and now Harrington's fricken spatula."

"One year. I am one year younger than you and you act like it's an entire century!" Gareth muttered, as Grant relented and leaned over to fetch said drumstick.

"We all know Eddie chucks food at people, but what'd Steve do with a spatula?" Grant asked as he tossed it back to Gareth.

He missed and nearly took out a cymbal in the process.

"He had a snit while we were making chocolate roulade cause it wouldn’t roll right. Flung the spatula around so much it splattered whip cream on his ceiling." Jeff shook his head as he finished hooking an amp up to his guitar. "I had to rescue it from him."

"His ceiling?" Gareth said in disbelief. "Wait, you were in Harrington’s kitchen?"

"Yeah?" Jeff looked up to find his friends staring at him.

Grant blinked. "The fuck?"

“Can we just play?” Jeff complained, just as embarrassed as Gareth had been.

“No.” Gareth said, retrieved drumstick nearly falling from his hands in shock. “You don’t get to casually drop that you went to Harrington’s house to help him bake and then try to get us to play right after!”

Jeff, who had done exactly that, blushed, skin darkening as he fiddled with his guitar.

“It wasn’t a big deal.” He said finally with a shrug, as if this was something he did all the time and not the groundbreaking revelation that it was.

“Did you meet his parents?” Grant said, sitting up from the couch. “What did his house look like?”

Jeff finally gave up the pretense of playing his instrument.

“I didn't, and it was kinda sad, actually.” He said, as if he didn’t live for this kind of shit.

Gareth knew better than anyone how much of a fricken gossip Jeff could be.

“His house was enormous. I only saw the first floor, and his kitchen is huge.” He set his hands apart at a good distance, showcasing just how large “huge” was, before continuing.

“But it was weird. It was like a model home. No pictures on the walls, no art, no personality to the place at all.”

“What are we talking about?” Eddie asked, finally returning to Gareth’s garage from where he’d been gathering up all the wires they’d thrown haphazardly into his van.

“Jeff went to Harrington’s house.” Grant and Gareth tattled as one.

“To help bake stuff for this Friday!” Jeff defended, the blush creeping back onto his face. “I was curious about his chocolate roulade recipe and he invited me over!”

“When was this?” Eddie asked, staring at Jeff like he’d grown a second head.

Or more likely, Gareth knew, in jealousy. But he wasn’t going to call Eddie out on that just yet.

“Yesterday. We got to talking about it in the parking lot after school.” Jeff said with an embarrassed shrug. “He said he wasn’t the best at explaining how to do things and that he’d rather show me instead.”

“Kinky.” Grant deadpanned, making Jeff sputter.

“You sure you didn’t see his bedroom, Jeff? It’s okay if you fell for the ‘wanna see my music collection’ line. We won’t judge you.” Gareth waggled his eyebrows, ducking with a laugh when Jeff went to whack him.

“Shut up, we just made the chocolate roulade!” Jeff’s ears were red now, and huh, maybe Eddie wasn’t the only person with a crush.

“Guys.” Eddie reprimanded, tone warning.

“Sorry Eds, you know we don’t mean it.” Gareth soothed. Of course, his best friend's anger was less about the gay comments or Steve’s reputation as Hawkin’s man whore than it was about Steve fucking Jeff (and not Eddie) but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be appreciated if he pointed that out either.

Eddie didn’t respond, eyes already back on Jeff. "Details, Jeffery, give us the details!"

He dropped onto the couch, flapping his hands at Jeff in his version of a "sit down" gesture.

Jeff sighed, but repeated what he'd just said for Eddie as he took a seat on the edge of an amp, placing his guitar down gently.

"I think Wayne was right. I don't think anyone else lives there but Steve. Not full-time anyway." He finished.

Which sounded like the best fucking thing ever until Gareth thought about it for more than two seconds.

Tried to imagine what his life would be like if his parents and siblings were gone. Not for a day, or even a weekend, but always.

How silent his normally loud house would be.

Thought instantly that he'd be inviting Eddie, his friends, and hell, l even Wayne, over as often as they could handle.

"The way he looked when I showed up, and how quiet he got when I left I just…" Jeff fiddled with his guitar’s strap. "I think he's lonely."

The four of them sat in silence for a long moment as they digested that.

“Hargrove kicked his ass right? And Byers?” Grant said finally, breaking the silence ad he stared up at the ceiling.

“Old news.” Eddie replied absently, jiggling his leg.

“You think his parents were around for that?” Grant continued, slowly.

No one answered outside of Eddie's leg loudly jiggling faster.

"Did you see the kids hug him or anything?"

"They're like thirteen. I seriously doubt they're pestering Steve for hugs." Gareth answered flatly.

"So he got his ass kicked, his parents are gone, he was supposed involved in that whole has leak thing…" Grant trailed off with an air of someone who expected the end of his sentence to be obvious.

“You’re doing that thing again where you think what you’re saying is obvious and its fucking not.” Eddie grumped. "Just spit it out."

His friend's head finally tipped back down from the ceiling, to face the rest of them. “Maybe the flinching is because no one ever touches him anymore unless it’s to kick his ass.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinked, body going rigid. “Oh shit.”

“That…would make sense. A lot of sense.” Jeff said slowly.

Grant put on a face that read “Duh” loud and clear.

“So what do we do about it?" Gareth asked after a moment.

"Touch him, obviously." Grant replied, like he couldn't believe the drummer was even asking.

Gareth and Eddie shared a look while Eddie rolled his eyes.

"The guy almost fell down the stairs last time I tried that." Gareth pointed out.

Never mind any other time Steve got weird over the lightest of touches. Eddie couldn't even clap the guy on the shoulder without getting major side-eye.

"No." Eddie cut in, sitting up suddenly. His eyes had gone bright, "We're going to trick him into it."

"We're going to trick Harrington into being okay with, what? Shoulder pats?" Gareth echoed, like Eddie might hear himself if his words were repeated back to him. “You realize how stupid that sounds right?"

"Shut up, listen. It's like getting a stray to trust you. You just gotta be calm and so obvious about it that they get confused and let it happen." Eddie had begun practically vibrating, causing his friends to trade uneasy glances.

They knew that look. Eddie only got it when he thought up a plan that was going to cause problems.

"Eddie, that makes zero sense." Jeff told him.

Gareth just shook his head, because only Eddie Munson could compare Hawkins golden boy with a fucking stray animal.

Even if the guy kinda acted like one sometimes.

"I just need an opening." Eddie continued, the little hamster wheel spinning in his head so fast the rest of the band could almost hear it.

If Gareth had been told two months ago he was going to be sitting in his garage, discussing the best way to acclimate Steve Harrington to casual touch, he’d have actually smacked whatever idiot dared spew such nonsense with his drumsticks.

"I did tell tell the kids today you were making him a D&D character." He said, before his best friend could truly go off on some half cocked plot.

Eddie lit up like a kid on Christmas. "Gary, I could kiss you."

Gareth made a face. "Please don't."

He clapped hard before springing to his feet. "Huddle up boys, I've got a plan."

"God help us all." Jeff muttered.

(He huddled up anyway, any thoughts of playing guitar that night fully forgotten.)

Bonus:

"Why don't you just get high and watch a movie with Steve? You're a fucking cling-on when you're high." Gareth complained the next morning, when Eddie swung by to pick him up for school.

Mostly because the plan Eddie had come up with was ridiculous.

Eddie took both hands off the wheel, pressing them against his chest in mock offense while he stared at Gareth and not at the street. “That would be taking advantage of him and I, as a gentleman, would never." He gasped, dramatically.

In his normal voice, he added: "Plus it doesn't count."

“Eyes on the road!” Gareth yelped, swatting an arm. “And you know I didn’t mean it like that. People relax more when they're high and maybe Steve needs something like that as an excuse to allow it. Hell he doesn’t even need to be high, just you.”

Which Gareth personally thought was a very insightful thing to say, so of course he had to ruin it with; “or whatever.”

"Do you recall how you kissed Jeff on the cheek when you were high and then spent the entire next month swearing up and down that you weren't attracted to men last summer?"

"That was different. I was discovering myself."

Eddie outright cackled. "Discovering yourself? What self help book did you pick that gem out of?"

"I was quoting you, you moron!" Gareth sputtered.

"If I said anything like that then I was definitely high and it just proves my point. Steve would just be uncomfortable."Eddie stuck his tongue out. "So there."

"Fine." Gareth sighed. "If we ever get high with Harrington, I'll sit in his lap."

Eddie's eye twitched. "No you will not."

Thrilled to have something to tease the elder metalhead about, a smile graced Gareth's face. "In fact, I'm calling dibs."

"You can't call dibs on a lap! And besides, you don't even like him like that!"

"So?" Gareth retorted. "It's a nice lap, looks comfortable. You don't want it, so I'll take it."

Eddie grit his teeth, grasping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white.

"I know what you're doing Gary. This is some bullshit reverse psychology shit and I will not be falling for it."

"Oh contraire, this is sibling bullshit, Munson. You want it, so I want it." Gareth crossed his arms and looked at Eddie smugly. "And unless you do something about it, I'm getting it."

"I hate you."

Gareth grinned, delighted. "I know."

#Gareth @ 15: LOOK AT THESE LITERAL BABIES!#The Party @ 13: SCREW YOU GARY U NERD #Steve is a mom in my head but he definitely has older brother vibes.#Like he's on that 'You can do stupid shit but only if I supervise' phase lol #I don't ship Gareth with Jeff but I can see him picking Jeff over Eddie as the Bi Test Run.#Pre steddie #hellfire adopts Steve #adopt a jock #steve harrington #Eddie Munson #hellfire club #Steve harrington whump #Sad Boy Hours Steve #0o0 fanfics #gareth emerson #jeff #grant #Next part is Eddie Munsons Ridiculous Oneshot

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astraystayyh · 9 months

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Invisible Thread- two.

This is the second and final part of Invisible Thread. Here is the link to part one.

pairing: minho x reader. pre-established relationship. reader has she/her pronouns.

genre: fluff and domesticity. angst. healing. characters trying to become better. humans being humans.

cw: parent death. grief. talk about death. allusion to sex but no smut. suggestive at one tiny part but it's for the plot.

summary: In which Minho rewrites your entire relationship with love.

word count: 17k

a.n: this is, i hope, a gentle reminder to always be kind to yourself, and to the people surrounding you. this one is pretty personal because i see myself a lot in yn, but it was also challenging since i wrote about things i have never experienced either. so i hope you'll enjoy reading, and that the second part will live up to your expectations. it took me a long time to write this but it's okay!! English isn't my first language and this was also a reminder to be patient with myself. thank you. i love you all. truly. feedback is highly appreciated, as always <3

(here is a Spotify playlist i made for this second part, you can listen to it while reading if you'd like :))

Love. How lucky yet cursed we are to ever experience it.

The fear attached to this singular emotion seems ridiculous. Because we aren't afraid of experiencing anger, sadness, or nervousness. They might overwhelm us, but we accept them, we recognize them as they are and then we cope with them. Whichever way we know best.

But when love comes knocking on our door, we stray away from it, we try to shape it into something else- much gentler on the soul, less devastating if it were ever not reciprocated.

So, we name it a crush, attachment, infatuation; anything but the cursed four-lettered word- anything but love. As though merely acknowledging it would morph it into a sharp-edged sword, eternally wedged within us, making our blood dribble away slowly and with it, our souls awash.

You are no exception. Love has terrified you for the better part of your life. There was a time when the word did slip easily from your mouth, back when you were a child and your view of the world was still naive, undisturbed by what you now know. You loved ice cream, you loved candy, you loved your teacher who braided your hair.

But then the once light word grew heavy on your tongue. Because love is what made you crave your mother's warmth, only to find coldness awaiting you. It is love that made you seek shelter elsewhere, in the fleeting opinions of the people surrounding you, hanging your entire worth on the words they uttered about you- ones they forgot within hours but you carried for years.

But this view of yours got dismantled, slowly, day by day. You’ve come to learn that it isn't love that had hurt you, it was rather the lack of it.

It cannot be love that wound when it is the emotion swimming in your eyes, whenever they rest on Minho. You didn't dare say it to him, to name the feeling out loud. You were petrified that if it was ever out in the open, then the love would materialize into something tangible, and the universe would snatch it away, as it has done before with everything you've ever wanted.

But although you didn't say it, you felt it, deep within each one of your atoms. It spilled from you like infinite ink, rewriting your entire relationship with love, dismissing every wrong notion you've once established about it.

Love cannot hurt because you love Minho, and you'd hurt yourself before ever hurting him.

But maybe none of you would have to hurt. Maybe for once, you'd both be okay. That's what you'd like to believe as Minho's shoulders brush against yours. You are sitting at your usual table at Limbo, a gray cat sprawled on top of your laps. Finals ended three weeks ago. Summer break is here, the one time you've been dreading since you came to college. Because everyone is going back to their homes, but you don't have one to head back to.

"What will you do this summer?" Minho suddenly asks, putting down his iced americano. You scratch the cat's ears beside you gently- Lilia you've decided to name her. "I don't really have plans."

"Would you like to go camping?"

"With you?"

"I mean, unless you have another secret boyfriend, then yes, with me."

"Shut up," you giggle, swatting his arm playfully. "I'd really like that," you smile softly at him, to which he nods. "Oh, and we still need to celebrate your win this term."

"Mm. Let's just call it a date this time," he grins, taking a spoonful of the salted caramel cheesecake and bringing it to your mouth. "I need to go visit my family for a few days, and then we can go," he adds.

Sudden guilt floods your being. He had a family he could go to. It was selfish for you to want him to stay, to strip him from this privilege you weren't granted with.

"I don't want you to cut your time short with them for me," you mumble, eyes fixated on Lilia soundly dozing off on his lap. It still astonished you how all animals seemed at ease in Minho's presence. As if they could sense his gentle soul, carefully hidden behind his sarcastic retorts, and cheeky smiles- one you were lucky enough to have been touched with.

"I'm not. I just really wanna go camping," he says nonchalantly, but his hand raises to squeeze your shoulder lightly.

"You should go with them."

"I have a two-person tent in mind, it won't fit the three of us. And I want to come back to you."

His words painted a sweet picture- of him returning home after a long journey, and you were that haven he sought to rest. The idea that he'd discover such solace in you when you struggled to find it within yourself, seemed unfathomable to you.

So, you bite your lower lip slightly, before squeezing his knee in gratitude. "Okay. I'll be waiting."

✹✹✹

Blue and orange flames surge higher under the wind. You watch, mesmerized as their light dances upon Minho's skin, painting him with glistening, golden hues. Every feature of his face is chiseled to perfection, as if a sculptor spent hours perfecting his face, down to the tiniest detail. He looked in his element here, setting up your tent and grilling the meat and now looking up at the sky, a chilled lemonade in his hand. You should go camping more often.

Minho places his empty can of cola on the ground, before tapping his lap. "Come here," he smiles and you oblige, rising from your chair and settling on his thighs. You tuck your knees to your chest, curling yourself entirely in his hold. His arms encircle your body, making sure you don't slip down. You close your eyes, as Minho gazes up at the night sky before you. You are comfortable and safe. It is that safety that you've craved for so long. To be held and not fear the threat of a knife behind your back.

It still surprised you, how you came to crave Minho's presence. But it went beyond just being near him; you felt as if you needed to touch him, as if verifying his existence, ensuring he wasn't an ephemeral specter slipping through your fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass. Yet, even more surprising was Minho's own yearning for you. His hands were always drawn to you, subtly grazing your face, resting on your palm, skimming your shoulders. Each tentative touch filled an echoing void within you, slowly diminishing it until all that remained were faint whispers of it.

Minho has cared for you, long before he understood you. He saw snippets and fragments of you, and he cared for the patched-up version he made up in his mind. And when you unlocked your heart for him, he only cherished it even more, silently molding his behavior so he wouldn't cross any of your boundaries.

He was hesitant at first, in holding your hands and kissing your lips. He still asks for permission, in that gentle voice of his, to touch you, in case you’re uncomfortable. Which you aren’t, because his hands on you are infused with care, fingertips dripping with unguarded attention and softness, for you.

You sigh contently, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck as his arms tighten around you. Comfortable and safe.

"What's your favorite word?" he suddenly inquires and you giggle slightly. He often asks you these random questions, as though he wished to understand you in the most ordinary of ways and to care for you in each.

"I think it's the word soft. Whoever thought of the word really nailed it. Nothing else could have depicted softness like this one."

"The word does sound really pillowy, and gentle."

"See, I really love gentle too! Why is the word gentle so gentle? Does that make sense?" Laughter tings your question as he grins, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

"It does. They both remind me of you, actually."

"Really?"

"Mm. You're still so soft and gentle, despite it all... If they ever tell me there is one kind person left on this earth, I'd come looking for you."

Sudden tears flood your eyes as a shaky exhale leaves your lips. It felt rewarding, in a sense, to have someone acknowledge the strength it takes to be kind, in a world that had dealt you nothing but harshness.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"Sometimes..." you pause, racking your brain for the best way to word this. "Sometimes it scares me how much I've come to care for you. How you make opening up not sound as daunting as before."

You grab his hand into yours, fidgeting with his fingers. The familiarity of their touch helps you calm down. "I'm not saying you'll hurt me. I just... I can't help this tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me to be cautious. It's gotten quieter, but it's still there."

"That's just your past selves trying to protect you," he smiles softly at you, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. "When I told you I'll be here, for as long as you'll have me, I meant it. Doubts and all."

"But I don't want to be closed off anymore," you admit. "It's very lonely that way."

"I know it is, love. But it's what you knew best back then, hm? You shouldn't feel bad about it, you did what you had to do to protect yourself. I'm just here to protect you too now."

"You think I can no longer do it myself?" you tease, your hand threading through his silky hair.

"Of course, you still can. But two shields are better than one. Also, this is exactly why I work out."

"Will your muscles protect me from my mind?" you giggle and he nods proudly. "Have you seen these?" he flexes his arms, before snorting, a bit shyly, eyes squinting closed. He's saying nonsense to make you laugh, and it's warming your heart beyond belief.

"I think these should just stay wrapped around me," you grin, guiding his arms around your back once again.

"No complaints," he smiles, as you settle against his chest. He places a soft kiss on the top of your head and you close your eyes. Safe and comfortable- Minho.

✹✹✹

Summer has been kind to you. Or maybe it was you who has been kind to summer, your laughter filling its air until it could do nothing but mirror your happiness.

Summer tasted like love with Minho by your side. In clementines he peeled for you, feeding you each slice with a soft smile on his face. In spontaneous bike rides at six am, to chase sunrises you've never witnessed before him. In numerous books he bought so you’d read them to him, his head on your lap, a tranquil expression coloring his face. And although the months have all been sweet, there are two days that you remember particularly.

You don't mark up the time with dates, but rather with the new feelings Minho bestowed upon you- the first time you wanted someone to stay, and they did.

"Baby?" Minho’s hand brushes against your shoulder and you startle, turning around to look at him. "Are you okay? You zoned out."

"I’m fine," the rehearsed lie slips from your mouth, long before you could think about it. A ping of guilt swarms your heart, you’ve promised yourself that you’d tell Minho about your true feelings, even if he couldn’t help you with them.

"Are you sure? You haven’t said a word since I came over..." He quickly glances at his watch, "Three hours ago."

"I’m sorry," you mumble, your thoughts swarming your head once again. You felt horrible for wasting his time. He had better things to do than sit with you in silence.

"I’m not asking you to apologize," he says cautiously as if he’s aware he’s threading along a dangerous line. You stay silent and he shuts his eyes closed, hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I just want you to be honest."

"I am."

"Are you, really?"

"What do you want from me?" you ask a bit breathlessly. You don’t know what you are saying, but you can sense your walls building up, higher than you could ever reach them.

"You’re clearly not fine and I-"

"I am trying, okay? I’m trying, please." You plead; you’re unsure for what exactly. For him to stop prodding, because you don’t have answers for him, not yet. Not when you haven’t understood it yourself.

"I'm going for a walk," he says, abruptly standing. You stay frozen in your place, as he quickly slips his shoes on, before leaving your apartment. You’re trying and it isn’t enough for him.

You don’t move from your place as time slowly trickles by. The seconds morph into minutes and suddenly it’s been an hour and a half since Minho left. There is a tantalizing fear making you stay put as if you ever dare to move a limb, then the stillness would be shattered and Minho wouldn’t come back.

It’s hard to reroute your brain entirely- old habits creep up on you swiftly, and suddenly you’re pulled back into the old you, woven into the web of horrible thoughts stitching all around you. Change feels sweet, with Minho, it feels like hope and the taste of a new beginning, but it is scary and different. And the familiarity of what you were before him calls your name from time to time. It was horrible and lonely, but there were no surprises in it. You knew what to expect at all times.

You could’ve told him that you weren’t feeling good, that you didn’t feel like talking and Minho would’ve understood. Because this isn’t the first time this happened, and it happens to him too sometimes. So, he understands, more than anyone you know. But instead, you lied and denied and Minho left. And you can’t blame it on anyone but yourself.

You grab your phone, its sudden light burning your eyes. You blink repeatedly, as you dial Minho’s number. It rings and it rings, then it goes to voicemail. You try again, through blurry vision. It doesn’t even ring this time- straight to voicemail.

Minho’s left. He’s had enough. You can’t blame him.

Three swift knocks resound loudly on your door. You don’t remember reaching the doorknob, your body’s moving on autopilot, but you pull it open. Minho. Your hold on the handle tightens until your knuckles turn white. You can’t look at him, you don’t want to see his face as he leaves you.

"Why are you crying?" he whispers, dainty fingers gently wiping away your tears.

"Don’t go. Not you too," you manage to utter, and you hear Minho suck in a deep breath, before pulling you tightly to his chest.

"What are you talking about?" he says, as he buries your head in the crook of his neck. The familiar scent of his cologne washes over you- you’ve memorized its earthy notes by heart now, easily recognizable between a thousand smells.

"You've been away for two hours and I called and you- you didn’t pick up. I thought you wouldn’t come back."

"My phone died while I was outside and I lost track of time, and- please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry." He leans away, cupping your cheek delicately. "Im here, you see? Let’s go on a walk, hm?"

"You were just out," you mumble and he smiles at you. "I wanna go with you."

Minho takes off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. He leads you outside, still clad in the bunny slippers he randomly bought you a week ago. His hand is warm in yours. His hand wouldn’t be warm if he was leaving you.

You walk in silence to the park near your home, and Minho sits you down on an empty bench. Your tears are dried up by now, cheeks cold from the night breeze; and his hand is still in yours.

"Chan didn’t leave our dorm for three days." He starts, clearing his throat. "He’s overworking himself, doesn’t even eat the food I make him. And I tried to tell him to take a break today. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t convince him. He’s probably still working on his music right now," he chuckles, but there is no trace of humor in the sound. "And then I come to you and you’re not okay. And I want to help but suddenly I’m pressuring you. And you’re trying, so hard and you’re doing so well and I’m pressuring you instead of helping. And I failed at being there for you both. What good I am if I’m not there for the people I lo- care about?"

"Don’t say that, please. You are good enough. More than enough," you cup his cheek, pressing his forehead on yours. "You’re always here. Don’t ever doubt that. I’m sure Chan appreciates everything you do for him."

"And you?" he asks, tone coated in such raw vulnerability that it knocks the breath out of you. At that moment, Minho was a plain hill, devoid of hidden nooks and crannies- nowhere for him to guard his emotions from you.

"Do you remember that night, when I asked you how I can help you feel yellow?" you ask after a while, and he nods, repetitive blinks rythming his silence. "I used to think that happiness was yellow, that sudden joy that drowns out the world around you. And I wanted to always feel yellow, the highest of highs. But that could only lead to another low, another extreme. I’ve since learned that true happiness is feeling peace when you lay in bed at night… And for your heart to beat soundly from contentment."

"I remember feeling this way only once, a long time ago. I woke up to see the sunrise, but I was a bit late to it, so I missed the orange and the pink," you chuckle slightly, as the distant memory floods you. "But I saw the blue, this really soft blue, and as I looked at it a strange sense of serenity washed over me. As if, as long as I looked at that pastel blue, I’d be alright. And now…" You smile softly, your thumb delicately grazing his cheek, Now, I can just look at you. You are my blue."

Minho’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as he looks at you, mouth slightly hung agape. You giggle quietly, before patting his head gently. "Thank you for staying," you whisper, and a sudden smile breaks out on Minho’s face. It’s so radiant- as if every star in this galaxy was ground to fine dust and then sprinkled into it. You can’t admire it for long since Minho crashes his mouth on top of yours, drawing you in for a kiss that leaves you breathless afterward.

"You know I had a really nice dream yesterday," he finally whispers against your lips, a newfound lightness in his voice. "I think this is the first time where my reality is much sweeter."

✹✹✹

The first time you felt loved, truly.

It’s a couple of days into August when Chan tells you that he has signed up with a producing agency- it’s a huge step for him, one he’s been rambling about each time you met him for the past few months. So now you’re over at his and Minho’s dorm, attempting to bake a congratulatory cake for Chan. It was Minho’s idea, one he mumbled into your ear nonchalantly, as if he didn’t wake up really early to scout all the ingredients you might need.

"Why is baking so much harder than cooking?" Minho whines, burying his head dramatically in the crook of your neck. You giggle, patting his back in faux sympathy.

"So, you're admitting you're not good at everything?" you tease and he straightens up instantly, brows furrowed as he looks at you.

"I didn't say I'm not good at it. I said it's harder than cooking," he drawls out and you hum in reply, a teasing "sure, sure" escaping your mouth.

"Do you know how to crack an egg with one hand? That's the cue that you're a great baker."

"Why would I when I have two hands?" you chuckle and he smiles cheekily, raising his eyebrows at you. "Well, I can do it."

"Fine," you huff, grabbing an egg onto your hand. "Teach me?" you smile sweetly and he grins satisfied, "Of course."

"Here, you just need to crack the egg gently into the side of the bowl. And then lodge your finger inside, slowly pulling the shell apart. Like this," he demonstrates and you nod in understanding.

"Your turn," he smiles and you follow his instructions, tongue poking against your cheek in utmost concentration.

"Min look! I did it" You grin widely, turning around to show him the egg now dropped into the bowl.

"You did! I’m proud of you," he smiles, placing a tender kiss on your temple. You pause, the egg’s shell still tightly clutched in your hand. You didn’t drop it into the bowl, and someone’s proud of you for it.

It’s late into the night, and your stomach is aching from laughing for hours on end. Your plates of cake are on the ground, with only crumbs left on top of it. Minho invited two of Chan’s closest friends over- Felix and Han, so now you’re all playing rounds of Uno, and the poor freckled boy is losing each time.

"This isn’t fair," Felix whines, before stealing a bite of the leftover cake on the table. "This is really good by the way," he compliments and you giggle, turning around to point at Minho, only to find him already looking at you, a soft smile on his face.

"It’s all him," you say, and Chan gets his face impossibly close to your boyfriend’s, a teasing smile on his face. "You love me so much."

"I don’t. Get back," Minho pushes his face away, but you can tell he’s lying, from the fond smile threatening to spill over his mouth.

"Sure," Chan sing-songs, before turning to look at you. You wink at him and he ruffles your hair affectionately, as he always does when he wants to tease you. "Thank you for the cake, yn."

"You’re welcome," you grin as an unfamiliar warmth spread through your chest. Is this how it feels to have a family? People you care for and who care about you in return?

Minho notices the sudden bittersweet expression etched on your face, so he grabs your pinky in his hand, squeezing it slightly. You turn your palm around, before blindly intertwining your fingers with his- something you’ve gotten much better at lately.

"We’ll get going," Han announces when it’s nearly midnight, as he and Felix both get up from the floor. "Sure you don’t want to come to the party?" Chan asks, eyes trained on you and Minho.

"Yeah, we’ll stay the night."

You stand up as well, following Chan to the door and stopping him before he leaves. "You don’t mind me staying the night, right? It’s your dorm too, so I should ask."

"Of course not. You can come over whenever, even if Minho isn’t here. You don’t ever have to ask me, okay?"

"Okay, thank you, Chan," you beam at him, relief coursing through you at his words.

Soon enough, the dorm is silent, and it’s only you and Minho once again. You go to clean up but Minho pulls you by your hand, ushering you toward his bedroom. "Let's leave it to tomorrow," he says, and his voice sounds like warm candle wax dripping down on you. You can’t say no.

You find that he’s already prepared a pair of pajamas for you, spread out nicely on the bed- his grey shirt and a pair of shorts he has apparently overgrown.

"You'll find a box there, under the sink, it’s for you," he announces, as you walk into the bathroom to change. It’s filled with anything you might ever need, tissues and makeup removal and pads and medicine, and your cherry shampoo.

"When did you prepare this?" you ask as you open the door wide for him. He peeks his head inside, eyes softening when they take a glimpse at your figure - wearing his shirt, in his bathroom.

"A month ago, or so. Just in case you ever needed to stay the night." He's so thoughtful, you're starting to believe that the word was molded after him. "Is it enough? do you need something else?" he asks tentatively and you shake your head, squeezing his hand lightly. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Of course. let's brush our teeth?" he smiles and you nod, grabbing the blue toothbrush he bought for you. He squeezes some toothpaste into it, and your eyes meet in the mirror. You can feel a blush creep up your face, to match the tip of his ears turning pink. It felt innocent to blush at the mere act of brushing your teeth together- at the domesticity of it, and the future hopes that lay within it.

Minho washes his face with his cleanser and you do the same. He suddenly hoists you up the bathroom counter, before standing between your legs. his arms cage your body, as his doe brown eyes look up at you. "Do my skincare for me," he pouts and you giggle, diligently taking the moisturizer and applying it to his face.

You take your time, massaging it into his skin, rubbing soothing circles on his cheeks and the tender skin under his eye. His eyes close at your touch, body leaning forward and pressing onto your legs. You grab his lip balm, applying it evenly to his puckered lips, and then you kiss him. Softly, tenderly, hands going up and down his arms. His own find your waist, encircling it, thumbs skimming your sides.

You lean away, a giddy smile on your face. "Thank you for the lip balm," you say, before kissing the tip of his nose.

Minho's room smells like clean laundry and vanilla, courtesy of the candle he lit up. You've been here before, but this is your first time sleeping on his bed. He goes in first, before beckoning you in. You lay down on his silky pillow, your hair fanning all around you. Some strands of it go into your mouth, and you giggle faintly as you pull them away.

"Here," he says, leaning over your body and opening the drawer next to you. He takes out a hair tie, and a faint memory dances around in your mind- you tying up his hair at the convenience store near Limbo.

"You kept it?" you question incredulously, voice coming out in a faint whisper.

"I did," he says simply as if it's ridiculous for you to expect otherwise. "Can I tie it up for you?" he asks and you nod.

His fingers gather your hair, making sure no strands of it are escaping. They're magical, relieving every tension you have in your body. You feel him twisting the tie around, securing your hair in a low ponytail.

"All done." his voice is quiet, and so is the kiss he presses onto your shoulder.

You both lay down, facing each other. It's silent but it no longer scares you. Not when your fingers are grazing Minho's palm, tentatively, the way one dips their toes into the water to test its temperature. Your hands are dancing around one another, not yet holding each other, as if engaged in a dance only your body understands. His eyes are locked on yours- a brown shade so mesmerizing you wish you could paint the entire universe with it.

His gaze is always soft when it comes to you, pupils slightly dilated, eyelashes fluttering with each blink. They're so quick you almost can't catch them, as if he unconsciously wants the time in which he looks at you to last longer.

Minho's hand reaches behind you, before pulling the slipping comforter over your body. He tucks it in your sides, and warmth surrounds you everywhere; from him mainly. He's been so attentive to you tonight- a silent care you only truly appreciate when you've experienced a lack of it. It's as if he's pouring years' worth of missed love back into your life, and in return all the love you've held within, never bestowed upon anyone else, has found its sole destination in the man by your side.

Your hand circles his once again, and you watch intently the way your fingers graze one another, delicately, as if skimming on the edge of holding one another. You give in first, intertwining your fingers with Minho’s and squeezing them gently. They fit his perfectly, this is where they're supposed to be.

"I don't know what you’re doing to me," he whispers, his eyes locking onto yours once more. There is a newfound emotion gleaming in his gaze- incredulity, at the depth of his feelings.

"What do you mean?" you question, nuzzling closer to him. Your head finds its rest on his arm and he responds instantly by patting your hair.

"I want to keep buying toothbrushes for you." His voice is hushed and yet it resounds loudly within your being, as if shouted from a sky-high rooftop.

You exhale softly, curling your hand around the back of his neck, and pulling him down gently to your face. You press your lips on top of his, and they move slowly, deliberately, like a painter's careful strokes. Each touch of his lips against yours is there to make you feel something- things that he can't bring himself to say, so he shows.

You finally break apart, dazed from the raw emotions barging into your heart. You then lift your head slightly, planting a tender kiss on his forehead. Minho closes his eyes, as your lips linger in there far longer than necessary. They remain closed even after you pull away, and it is the look on his face that pushes you over the edge. The serenity painted across his features, but particularly, the trust. As if you could mold him however you want and he'd be grateful you ever touched him to begin with.

"I love you," you confess so suddenly, and the words feel foreign yet familiar as they stumble out of your lips. You expect a shift in the universe, a disastrous change as you verbalize this sentiment that's long haunted you. And yet, all that happens is Minho's eyes shimmering as they look at you. And you realize that you aren’t scared he'd twist the words and stab you with them. You know he'd cherish them, even if he didn't feel the same.

"I love you," he says back, a radiant smile lighting up his face, coloring each of his features in unadulterated happiness. Hearing those three words from him made your heart leap in your chest. There is so much more of what you feel that you wish to express. You’ve told him, but you want to show, to press your body to his so the feeling would emit from your heart to his own.

Your hand trails across his chest, and you feel his muscles constrict under your touch. "Can I?" you ask, gazes flickering between his eyes and the hem of his shirt. It's always about permission to you both- permission to touch, to feel, to kiss and the answer is always yes. Yes, yes, yes.

"Please," he whispers, and you tug his shirt quickly over his head. You are a goner after that when his hands caress your skin like you're delicate porcelain. He’s hovering over you, the candle's shadow dancing across his body. Your fingers are tracing every inch of his skin graced by the flickering light, which meant your hands were everywhere, and every touch of yours was mirrored by him. Every kiss he returned ten times fold, every gasp he drank in hungrily, only eliciting a louder one in return.

"Tell me if you’d like to stop," he smiled tenderly down at you, his nose nuzzling against yours. You never felt the need to. And as the night marched forward, you gradually grasped what the poets meant by ‘making love’. You felt as if you were truly making love, as if your every move conjured love in its purest essence between the two of you. The ebb and flow of your bodies served as a spell, heightening your emotions into a raw fervor. It was love that orchestrated your moves, binding you both in a cacophony of sweet sounds, meant for you only to hear.

Minho's gaze remained fixed on yours, as he uncovered parts of you you've never dared to show anyone. It only cemented every feeling you harbored towards him. And the safety. The safety of being in his arms. To be as bare as one could possibly be, and yet to still feel blanketed by his soft eyes on you.

✹✹✹

Dainty snowflakes coat the outside world in a pristine white blanket. It’s a mesmerizing view, one you’ve grown to be grateful for these past few weeks since it signaled the return of winter, and with it, Minho’s birthday.

It's hard to resent snow when it welcomes the existence of the person you’ve fallen in love with.

The outside might be cold but you wouldn't know, not when you are nestled close to Minho, his legs thrown over your lap. You stare fondly at his figure, too engrossed in eating the birthday cake you’ve prepared for him- a vibrant green frosting and a picture of his three cats printed on top, just like he requested some time ago. You lean in a bit, wiping away a trace of whipped cream from the corner of his mouth. He smiles at you tenderly, angling his head to press a soft kiss on your thumb pad.

There is a growing lump in Minho's throat, but it doesn't suffocate him, since it's formed by your love for him- you remembered what he said about the birthday cake. He was joking, obviously. But the fact that you brought his ridiculous wish to reality warmed him beyond belief.

You rummage a bit in your place, hands tucked under the pillows, and then you take out a purple envelope. "Open it," you say as you place it on top of his lap. Minho puts his plate down, straightening out in his place before looking at you, a curious smile on his face.

"More surprises?" he asks, referring to the gift you’ve already given him- a pair of t-shirts, all with cats and silly scriptures imprinted on them.

"Mm," you hum, as Minho finally opens the envelope. He pauses, as his eyes rack furiously over the content of the letter. "What's this?" he asks dumbfounded, trying to fully grasp the meaning of what he's reading.

"Because of constellations, people often think that stars always live together in a cluster. But oftentimes, they are alone. Or... if they're lucky enough, they get to roam the universe with a partner. They call them a binary star. Like you and me." Emotion simmers beneath your words, and you continue, your voice a gentle undercurrent.

"It's comforting to know that other versions of us are going through this world side by side too. To know that long after we're gone, there would still be two stars discovering the universe together, orbiting around one another. A token of the love we lived." You lift your gaze to meet his, to find him staring in awe at you. You take a mental picture of this moment, adding it to the collection of the ones you already captured of him.

"Our love may not be revolutionary, we're only two humans out of billions that have adored before us. But our love is grand to me. I try..." you bite your lip, reaching out for his hand- it will guide you as you try to speak. "I always try to find the words to describe how much you mean to me, to tell you how much you do to me. I used to always hold my hand out, in the hopes that someone would grab it. But no one did, so I curled it into a tight fist. And I thought it'd stay this way, for the rest of my life. Until you came, and you unclenched my fingers gently, one at a time, and then you grabbed it into yours." Tears are trailing out of your eyes now, but you show no effort to wipe them. Happy tears shouldn't be swept away.

"Thank you for existing, my Minho," you smile softly at him, and he nods, tears brimming in his waterline, cheeks flushed pink at your words. "Thank you for kissing my finger pads and reminding me that there is still softness in this world, all embodied in you." You cradle his cheeks tenderly in your hands, trying your best to let your love seep through your fingertips into his soul.

"I think you've carved yourself into me, carved your name into my heart. Your roots intertwined with mine, and thanks to you, I managed to crack through the hard earth and bloom again. Thank you for making me feel the warm sun again. I was so so cold before you." You whisper the last part, like a sinner's confession, eager for it to be carried away, forgotten.

Minho brings your body to his, as he buries his face in your chest. You can feel slight tremors shaking his body, and you place soft kisses on his shoulder blade- soothing, calming. You are safe in my love for you, they spell out.

"I can't believe you’ve named stars after us," he mumbles against you, and your fingers thread through his hair gently, flattening out stubborn strands of it. "It's nothing," you smile and he shakes his head vehemently. "It's not- it's not nothing to be loved by you. It's everything to me."

He leans away, bringing your head down to press his lips into yours. It tastes sweet from the cake and salty from his tears. It tastes like healing. You both kiss for mere seconds and yet it feels like an eternity to you. As if your mind stretches out time with Minho, knowing how valuable it becomes with him. He presses his lips onto yours one last time, before exhaling softly, melting completely in your hold.

"As long as you're with me, I don't ever need to look at the sky," he whispers. "There are enough stars in your eyes for me."

✹✹✹

It’s late December and the fragrant aroma of hot chocolate fills your apartment. You’re preparing two cups of the cozy drink in your kitchen, while Minho watches you fondly, leaning casually on the doorway.

"Are you just gonna stare at me?" you giggle, turning around to toss him a sly smile.

"Do you need my help making hot chocolate?" he raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I wouldn't say no to a bit of emotional support."

"Ah, my bad," he playfully bows, walking over to you. Minho gently wraps his arms around your waist, leaning his chin on your shoulder. His bangs tickle the side of your face, akin to the brush of a butterfly’s wing, and a soothing sense of contentment washes over you as he holds you close.

Minho places a soft kiss on your shoulder blade, and the touch sends shivers along your spine. "This is for warming up the milk," he mumbles, adding another kiss to your neck, "and this for mixing in the hot chocolate powder," and a final one to your temple, "and this is for pouring it in cups."

"Why thank you," you giggle, turning around to hand him his cup. "Do you remember what episode we stopped at?"

"37," he replies instantly.

"I think you love this anime more than me," you pout jokingly. "I plead the fifth," he answers solemnly and you chuckle as you both make your way to the couch.

Merely one episode in and you can already tell that Minho is no longer focusing on the show. He’s absently swirling the drink in his hand, his gaze lost within his cup.

"What did the poor hot chocolate do to you?" you smile, a beacon of curiosity piercing through his daze. His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, turning around to look at you sheepishly. "Just zoned out."

"I noticed. What's on your mind?" you ask, lowering the volume of the TV to fully focus on him.

"There is an upcoming dance competition. It's at a regional scale and I'm just... wondering if I should participate."

"You should!" you fervently reply, "You're such a talented dancer. You deserve recognition for your hard work."

"I'll become very busy, though. It's already hard enough to manage this degree," he speaks softly as if he's not fully convinced of this excuse himself.

"I've never seen you as happy as you are when you're dancing. You'll handle it, and I'll be there for you too."

"I should do it, right?" he asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You really should," you echo, your hand rubbing reassuringly across his arm.

"Okay. I will," he nods, and you beam at him, before pulling him in for a comforting hug.

"On second thought... Everyone will now see how talented my boyfriend is and they will fall in love with you," you playfully muse as you hold him close.

"But everyone's already in love with me," he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Mm, the heartthrob of campus."

"People throw themselves right and left at me, it's exhausting," he sighs, the giddy smile easily heard in his voice.

"Okay, now you're overdoing it," you giggle and he further buries his head in your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume. "Don't worry," he mumbles quietly, "I'm only ever yours."

As weeks meld into months, your days become a whirlwind of preparation for the dance competition; where each participant is required to create a choreography from scratch, for a song of their choosing. You witness firsthand the immense effort Minho pours into this, just as he does with everything he undertakes. He spent hours upon hours in the university's dance studio, and you were often there with him. While he practiced, you sat in a corner, working on your laptop. He only paused to kiss the top of your head before diving back into his practice.

He chose a song you've never heard before, called Taste. It was mesmerizing to witness him become a vessel for the melody, like an instrument attuned perfectly to the emotions the song tried to convey. His body moved sensually, flowing like fluid water, perfectly controlled by him. Every beat in Taste was matched with a move of his, powerful enough to capture you, gentle enough not to overwhelm you, like the ebb and flow of the waves brushing against the shore.

The first two months slipped through the hourglass of time in a breeze. And although Minho grew busier, you still both managed to carve out time for quick dates. Strolls by the ocean and spontaneous trips to the cinema- outings that helped you recharge fully once again. But the third month coincided with your midterm exams, casting a heavier cloud over both of your lives.

Minho became overwhelmed, quickly, bearing the weight of his two worlds. He was smart, immensely so, he could handle his classes with ease, retaining knowledge faster than anyone you knew. But the day only had twenty-four hours in it, and he couldn't possibly do it all- finding time to practice, study and take care of himself. So, you tried to handle the last part, as best as you could anyways. Exam seasons always took a heavy toll on you- both physically and emotionally. It also didn't help that you went down with a strong flu for two weeks, making your energy levels plummet to zero.

It was only three days before the start of your exams when a soft knock resounded on your door. You opened it to find an exhausted Minho. He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, beads of sweat glistening on his upper brow.

"I'm tired," he whispers, eyes looking absolutely devoid of emotion as they align with yours. You smile softly, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside, "I know."

You lead him to the bathroom and he follows silently. He's so compliant in your hands as if all the energy in his body was sucked out of him. "Bad day?" you ask, as you peel away his blue hoodie.

"Very." He says, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's okay. You're here now," you try to keep your voice just as quiet as you take off the rest of his clothes. You undress quickly as well, before pulling you both to the shower.

Minho rests his forehead on your back, as you check the water temperature. When it's warm enough to feel soothing on his skin, you pull him underneath the jet, and you both stand in there for a while. His head hung low, now buried in the crook of your neck; his breaths growing slower, more even.

"You did well, my Minho," you say, voice threatening to get lost in the sound of the water hitting the tiles, but Minho catches it. He tightens his hold on you in response.

Minho can feel you reaching over and grabbing something from the rack behind him. He recognizes the smell of your shampoo as you pour it in your hands, before lathering it gently on his hair. He almost starts crying right there and then, as your fingers skillfully massage his scalp. You are everywhere, pressed to his body and your hands in his hair, and your cherry scent that’s washing all over him. And the outside world suddenly seems so far away.

You rinse off the shampoo, before grabbing your conditioner and threading it through his hair, making sure that every strand is evenly covered. He shuts his eyes closed, as your hands move to his neck and start massaging it. He's so sore from all the dancing, tired from the studying he has to catch up on. But you’re making him feel okay now, as you unravel his nerves without uttering a word. How do you do it? He wants to ask; how do you always paint his world blue?

Your hands are trailing over his body now, not sensually, just easing the knots in his muscles. You're spreading body wash all over him, and his eyes are still closed, as he feels you place tender kisses on his soapy skin. ‘I love you', your voice reaches him like a faraway lullaby, 'you've been working so hard', 'I'm proud of you'; and your comforting words morph into hot tears lodged into his waterline, begging for an escape.

You finally turn the water off, before pulling him outside and wrapping a towel around his waist. He sits idly on the edge of the bed, as you quickly put on your clothes, before walking over to him. You help him wear his pajamas, the ones he's left in your apartment since he often stays the night. He can't move a limb, but you're doing it in his place- as if the life in you was blown into him, and he's only breathing thanks to you.

Once you’re both fully clothed, you sit behind Minho on the bed, legs on either side of his body. You grab a towel you warmed in advance and begin to gently dry his hair with it, patting each strand with care. As soon as you're done, Minho turns around, nestling his head against your stomach. You let him, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"I already told you, but I'm very proud of you," you say, head lowered so he'd be able to hear you. "I'm so amazed by your strength and hard work. You inspire me a lot, Min. Just keep on going, and if you need a break, you can rest by my side, okay?" You place a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

"I love you," you add softly, and Minho tightens his hold on you. And then he crumbles. Completely.

He falls apart in your arms, painful sobs racking through his body. You panic, as the unfamiliar sounds knock your breath away. You've seen Minho cry before, single tears that managed to escape from his eyes, trailing on his cheeks. But you've never seen him so shattered, so consumed by his pain that he could no longer contain it. You’re caught in his storm, as uncharted waves of his hurt crash against your shores. Has he been hurting all along? Were you this oblivious to the pain brewing inside him?

Your body’s shaking as you press your chest to his back, your arms cocooning his curled-up figure. You try your best to shield him; you don't know from what exactly, but you know it has to go through you first to get to him again.

"I'm so- sorry you have to see me this way," he hiccups, his words digging their claws deeper into your chest.

"Don't say that, baby, please. It's okay, you can cry as much as you want. I'm here."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, voice quivering, and you can feel your heart slowly cracking, hurting in depths you haven't thought existed before.

"Minho, I don't- I don't only love you when you're happy. I love you when you're angry and frustrated and when you're sad. You deserve kindness and you deserve to be kind to yourself because you are still Minho. My Minho. No matter what emotion you're feeling."

"Please stay with me," he pleads softly, and you bite your lower lip, as traitorous tears escape your eyes and land on his shirt. "Where would I go, love? You're my home. I'm here."

✹✹✹

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

The thought that's been reverberating within your mind, echoing since the moment Minho crumbled in your embrace.

Selfish.

Of course you are, since you remained oblivious to his own struggles as he slowly chipped away, until he shattered unexpectedly. Akin to a seemingly sturdy building, struck by a minor vibration and suddenly reduced to ruins.

Selfish.

Each time you sought solace in him, you failed to realize that he was stripping away his layers to shelter you. You took and took from him, each time you called, each time he came over to brush away your tears. Your endless bad days didn't leave room for his struggles, unperceived amidst your turmoil.

Selfish and horrible. You weren't made to be loved.

Minho is sleeping right next to you. He looks peaceful, endearing bunny-like teeth peeking through slightly parted lips. He's undisturbed, like a placid river, until someone selfishly decides to skip some stones in it- you.

His chest rises and falls, erasing all remnants of his previous breakdown, like a scripture on sand washed away by the waves. You could almost forget it ever happened if it wasn't for the persistent echoes of his sobs. Raw pain had seeped through him, yet it could have been different. If you had asked more, he might have unraveled slowly. He would have talked and he would've never had to explode.

Selfish and guilty. There's a bitter taste in your mouth. It doesn't go away when you hastily gulp down water.

You'll keep your problems to yourself. There is enough for him to bear already. By sharing your load, you aren't diminishing it, only adding more to his.

You can't let your mother be right. Not about this. Not when it comes to Minho. You can't ruin his life too.

✹✹✹

You are being distant.

Minho notices it straight away when you stop coming over to his dorm. When you find excuses to not come to Limbo anymore, accounting it for the exams you're both taking. But he knows it's just excuses. You are straying away from him. Your light that shone on him every day suddenly turned into a distant lighthouse beam.

And it's his fault.

He's embarrassed by his outburst. How he broke down right in front of you. How he clung to your arms, counting on your words and touch to stitch him back together. How he wasn't enough for himself, but you were.

Guilt floods his being, making you sadder when you're already dealing with so much. He recounts your tears dripping into his hair, as you hugged him tightly to your body. He made you cry; he shouldn't have broken down. That's why you're staying away. He can't blame you.

He misses you. He saw you this morning and yet he misses you. Because you weren't there with him, you were somewhere else, in a faraway place in your mind. What if he can't reach you anymore? He wasn't sure what to do with himself without you.

It's 11 pm, and he's knocking softly on your door. You open it and he smiles tightly. You smile back.

He hovers around the entrance of your apartment, hands tightly clasped behind his back. You unclasp them, interlocking your fingers with his and leading him to your couch. You are warm, he missed you. You are here and he misses you.

You both sit down, and you're looking at him curiously. His eyes fall to your lips, pillowy and rosy and he can't help pressing his mouth onto yours. It'll give him the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your lips and you lean away, confusion clearly written across your features.

"For crying the other day," he clarifies. "I've made you uncomfortable and you feel like you have to be cautious around me, and I'm sorry, I won't do it again."

"What are you saying? You didn't- you never..." you suck in a deep breath, inching closer to him. "Minho, don't ever apologize for that. please. You should never apologize for being human."

"But you are being distant," he says in a small voice, avoiding your eyes.

"Minho, I..." you bring your hand to his cheek, locking your gaze with his. "It's not what you think. I promise."

"Then what is it?"

You bite your lip, sighing loudly before speaking again. "You sobbed. And I had no idea you were hurting that much inside. I am so reclined on myself that I didn't notice. And I tried to distance myself so I'd sort my thoughts out. So, I could be there for you, fully. You're always here for me, and I feel... As if I failed you."

It's now his turn to cup your cheek, his thumbs gently brushing against your skin.

"I felt so loved by you that day. That's why I cried. because I've never felt that way before," he's quick to explain. "Yes, I was stressed and overwhelmed but it's not your fault. You were there for me when I needed you most. You didn't fail me; how could you think that?"

"Because it should've never gotten that bad. If I had noticed before, then I would've helped you and it wouldn't have gotten that bad for you. You don't deserve to feel sad, not when you’re... You. Someone like you shouldn't feel sad."

"Didn't you say we're humans? Isn't that what humans do? They fall down and they get up, I can't always be fine. It's not your fault."

"Minho you don't understand... How much more of yourself can you give to me, without hurting yourself in return?" You're so sure of these words you're uttering, as if you've drilled them into your mind by now. You couldn't be more wrong.

Minho blinks repeatedly, trying to gather the words in his mind properly. You weren't distancing yourself from him, because he had hurt you. But rather, so you wouldn't hurt him anymore. So, you'd be there for him more. A sudden relief floods his being. He isn't losing you.

Minho can't help the chuckle that escapes his mouth. He shakes his head slightly as he brings you to his chest. You're so warm as you wrap your arms around his waist. He still misses you but you're here, you aren't going anywhere.

"You memorized my coffee order. And my favorite pudding. You always bring me one when you come over. When you find a new flavor, I haven't tried, you always buy it for me. You look at me so excitedly when I try it. As if me finding a new favorite pudding brings your personal joy," he's talking softly, slowly, in the hopes that you'd understand what he means.

"You love spicy food, but you always cook without it when I'm with you. Because I can't handle it as well as you. You put snacks and water in my bag when I have dance practice, and then you come to check on me, even when you're busy too. You bought me an umbrella, and you placed it near the entrance of my dorm, so I wouldn't forget it. You give me the opened chopsticks package first, and you blow on my food so it wouldn't burn my tongue. And you let me pick the movie, every time. You let me pick it," he places a soft kiss on your shoulder, tightening his hold on you.

"You brush my hair away from my eyes when you think I'm asleep. And you make sure the blanket covers my body entirely, even if it means it doesn't cover you. I've never had that. Never had someone care for me this gently. Even when I'm not awake and I can't give them anything in return."

He leans back, smiling softly at you. There is a new palpable emotion in the air- love, in its most unconditional form. It smells fragrant and sweet- like you and him.

"I notice everything you do for me, every way in which you love me. You're here for me in more ways than you can ever imagine. And I love you. Please don't stray away from me. Promise me," he pouts slightly, nudging his pinky toward your face. You giggle in defeat, before wrapping your pinky with his.

"Didn't you think pinky promises were silly?"

"Nothing you like is silly."

"Not even that cheesy drama I watch?"

"Okay. Maybe that one is. But it makes you laugh," he trails off. "If it makes you laugh then I like it too."

"You'll talk to me more, right? About whatever's bothering you? When you're not feeling black yet?"

"I will, I promise. You too, right?"

"Mm. I will too."

"Good," he smiles, pecking your cheek softly. "I've missed you. And I don't mind feeling all the colors of the rainbow, as long as you're near me."

✹✹✹

The voices of your friends singing you happy birthday reaches you like the distant chirping of birds, fading away in the back of your mind with each passing second. You know that Mina is smiling at you, her head resting on Jeongin’s shoulders. And that Chan, Han and Felix are all clapping excitedly, their voices blending together in a somewhat harmonious melody. But you can’t seem to focus on any of it. Your eyes are set on Minho, who’s walking over to you, a vibrant pink cake in his hand. The surface of it is covered in candy- marshmallows and macaroons, and a dozen of lit candles. Their light flickers on Minho’s face, casting an ethereal glow on him.

And as your widened eyes meet his, he knows that it all just clicked in place for you.

Four months ago.

"What did you like to do, when you were younger?"

You stay quiet for a few moments, mulling over Minho’s question. The waves crash softly at your feet, the sound of them and Minho’s arms around you serving as a perfect cover to thread through your childhood once again.

"I had a bunny plushie. My aunt gave it to me one day when her daughter didn't want it anymore. She was going to throw it out, but I took care of it. We took care of each other, in a way. I used to stay alone at home a lot, and Caramelo would keep me company."

"Caramelo?" he giggles and you pinch his arm playfully. "I was six when I named it, sue me."

"Mm, and where is Caramelo now?"

"I left it in the house. I packed in such a hurry and it didn't fit in my suitcase. But I really wanted to bring it," you smile sadly and Minho can sense a shift in your tone, so he trails his hands across your arms gently, pulling you even closer to his chest.

"What else did you like?" he asks, placing a kiss under the shell of your ear.

"Playing in the playground, there was one really near home. I'd sneak out and go play in the swing, but there was no one to push me higher there," you chuckle slightly, burying yourself further in Minho's embrace.

"Oh, but I met a girl there when I was eleven, Lydia, I think. She was our neighbor, and she invited me to my first ever birthday party. Her parents prepared this huge cake for her, it was all pink with so much candy on top. I kept dreaming about having a similar one for my birthday. We also painted each other's nails and put on facemasks, and then we watched a movie. It was really fun," you recall, a wave of nostalgia washing over you. You were really shy and didn't talk to the other girls present, staying away in a corner. But Lydia grabbed your hand and pulled you next to her. She didn't let go during the entire movie.

You hoped she was okay, wherever she might be now.

"And... my mom took me one day to a hill near our home. We sat on a bench there, overlooking the city's lights. We didn't talk but she braided my hair since it kept getting in my mouth. That's my favorite memory with her."

Your voice is carried away with the wind, drowned in the waves. You hoped that one day your childhood memories will come back to you, like the sea foam dissolving at your feet. Gentle, incapable of hurting you anymore.

"You know what I really want now? A big cake for my birthday too," Minho suddenly whines and you giggle, turning around to look at him.

"Want me to bake it for you?" you tease and he nods, cradling your face between his cold hands. They warm up once they rest on your cheeks.

"Yes. I want the cats’ pictures printed on it, and..." he trails off, looking up at the sky. "I want it to be green.”

"Green?" you chuckle. "Isn't that a bit weird for a cake?"

"Are you questioning my vision?" he wiggles his brows at you, his hands coming to your sides.

"I am," you laugh, as he starts to tickle you, unwaveringly. You fall to the sand, and he's on top of you, hands roaming your body as loud laughter erupts from you.

Minho’s eyes soften as he gazes at your laughing figure, but he doesn't stop, not until you tap his arm multiple times, happy tears trailing from your eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Green is perfect, you are a genius!"

"Why thank you," he smiles, before leaning down and kissing your tears away. You shiver slightly, from the cold and the feel of his soft lips on your skin. He notices.

"Come on," he outstretches his hand and you grab it, standing up and dusting your pants. Minho squats slightly in front of you, and you giggle before climbing on top of his back.

"Don't you ever wonder who was the person who invented tickling? They were just sitting down and then they touched someone and they started laughing,” he suddenly muses.

"Right! And then they decided this was something they should keep on doing, and it stuck around for centuries."

"I think it's really cute. It says I love the sound of your laugh so much that I will sit there and tickle you just to hear it."

"And you just tickled me," you trail out. "I know," he mumbles, the tips of his ears suddenly turning pink.

"I like your laugh too, Minho."

"Just like?" He teases, in a futile attempt to diffuse his shyness.

"I love it. I love it so much I could pay my entire life savings just to keep on hearing it again."

"Stop," he whines and you giggle, swinging your dangling feet in the air.

"Have you ever heard your laugh? No other melody can compare. At this point, musicians should just retire."

"You're insufferable," he finally laughs and you sigh, melting into his back.

"And you like me."

"And I love you."

Present time

The realization dawns on you like a floodgate- Minho is recreating your happiest childhood memories.

From the pink cake of your dreams. To the obnoxiously glittery nail polish he brought home three days ago, spontaneously, you foolishly assumed. He insisted on having a pampering night, where you both applied face masks to one another, bunny headbands tucking your hair out of your face. You giggled as he painted your nails with the utmost concentration, and then begged you to paint his in return. He didn't explain why he wanted pink nails suddenly, you should've known.

You should've known when he suddenly knocked on your door at midnight, taking your sleepy figure to the playground near your apartment. "Why are you here so late?" you questioned, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

"We are sneaking out," he whispered in your ear, and you didn't question his flawed logic- who were you sneaking out from exactly? But all was forgotten as he pushed you in the swing, fueled by your growing high-pitched giggles. "Higher?" he shouted and you laughed loudly, the sound of it echoing around the park. "Yes, higher!" Until you felt as if you were close enough to touching the stars.

You should've known.

Minho places the cake on the table, his warm hand finding your lower back. He rubs it soothingly, as you mouth a heartfelt "thank you" to him, hot tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. You couldn't speak, afraid of bursting into sobs in front of all your friends. He understands what you're referring to.

It's far later into the night when your friends finally leave Minho's dorm. You've all cleaned up the place, soft music emitting from the speakers. You didn't need songs to fill the silence, the conversations flowing easily between you all.

You gather all the gifts you've received and take them to Minho's room- a pair of shoes you've been raving about from Mina and Jeongin, and new headphones from Chan, Han, and Felix, since your old ones stopped working not too long ago.

"You're okay?" Minho asks, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

"Better than ever," you beam at him, cupping Minho's neck and meeting his lips in a tender kiss.

"I'm still not done," he smiles secretly, brushing his lips against yours once more, before pulling away. You watch, curious as he heads towards his closet and takes something out of it. Your eyes grow wide as they settle on the gift in his hands. You can feel your lip quivering as you walk hastily over to him.

"Is this...?" you ask incredulously and he nods, a happy smile on his face. "Your Caramelo."

"How... When?" you stammer, as happy tears blur your vision, "How did you do it?"

"I have my ways," he smiles assuredly at you. "Do you like it? I'm sorry if I overstepped by bringing it to you," he adds softly, a hint of vulnerability in his words.

"No, Minho, this is the sweetest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. I can't believe it- I... I don't even know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," he smiles, his hand rubbing your arm affectionately. "I figured this plushie should be in a loving home, with you. It helped you back then and now you're strong enough to help it in return."

There are overwhelming emotions that we can't quite express with words- like sorrow, sadness, or in your case, happiness. That's why touch was invented, you believe. As you pull Minho for a bone-crushing hug, Caramelo snug between your chests, you hope that he can feel everything you failed to express through words. That your soul will speak to him in a way your mouth couldn’t.

"When you told me there is a friend of yours, who lived in my town. There was no friend, right?" you mumble into his neck.

"No, I just wanted to know your address," he whispers, arms tightening around your waist.

"Did you meet my mom?"

"Yes. She's the one who gave it to me."

"Did she tell you anything... about me?" you ask cautiously.

Minho remembers snippets of his conversation with your mother- the indifference she showed towards you, as if it wasn't her daughter, her flesh and blood that she discarded away so easily.

"Nothing of importance. I promise you."

"Thank you," you whisper, voice caught up in your throat, bound by the ropes of your overflowing emotions. "Thank you for healing me."

Sleep didn’t come easily to you that night, and as Minho snored quietly next to you, you untangled your limbs from his, before heading to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water.

You find that the lights are already on and that Chan is working on his laptop, eyebrows furrowed as he gazed at his screen.

"Hey," you greet softly, careful not to startle him.

"Our birthday girl," Chan grins and you chuckle quietly, before settling next to him on the couch.

"What are you working on?" you question, taking in the different settings displayed on his screen.

"Just a new song," he shrugs sheepishly, "I'm almost done with it."

"That's nice," you mumble, tucking your knees into your chest.

"I suppose Minho already gave you your gift," Chan speaks softly and you startle, turning around to look at him.

"He didn't tell me what it is, don't worry. But I assume he pretended as if it was no big deal, that he got it."

You nod silently, fearing that speaking would stop Chan from talking.

"I told him that he should just walk up to your house, present himself, and then ask your mom if he can take some of your stuff for you. But he said it’s too risky, and there is a chance she might say no. So, you know what he did?" Chan chuckles softly, and you feel the breath slowly escape your chest. "He spent weeks researching all the moving companies that work in your town. And then he bought us uniforms that looked like one of theirs. With the name tags and all. We rented a truck and we drove there, so we’d pretend as if we were moving the rest of your belongings. Your mom didn't question it thankfully, and I've never seen Minho as relieved as when he climbed back into the truck."

An overwhelming need to cry threatens to consume you, and you bite your lip harshly to stop it from taking over. Not in front of Chan.

"For him to go these lengths for you, means that he loves you a lot. But also, that he feels really loved by you. So, thank you, for loving Minho. I'm very happy you guys are together now." Chan smiles softly at you, before getting up and ruffling your hair slightly.

You quickly go back to Minho's room, before bringing his body tightly to yours. And as soon as you touch him, he mumbles your name in his sleep before throwing an arm over your waist.

"Thank you for loving me. I love you so much too," you whisper into his back, as your tears dampen his shirt. You wished that the words would reach him in his dreams, making them sweeter for him.

You didn't make a wish that day, as you blew the candles, foolishly believing that everything you've ever wanted was already around you. But you should've.

Maybe that would've stopped the anguish to come.

✹✹✹

There is a bad feeling nudged into the space between your ribs. You rub a soothing palm across your chest, in the hopes that it will calm your spiking anxiety. But you only feel your heart growing more erratic in your chest, and the sound of it only makes you panic ten times fold.

You’ve just woken up. You can hear the water running in the shower. Minho has stayed over since you both studied late into the night. You listen intently, a small breath of relief escaping your mouth when the water turns off. He’s okay.

You drag a hand tiredly across your face, before shaking your head left and right. You’ll have a good day, you’ll open the blinds and the golden sun will stream through your windows, and you’ll feel okay.

You don’t.

The dread lingers in your being throughout the day, making the simple act of walking weigh heavily on your bones. You try to distract yourself, by focusing on your classes and listening to Mina’s rants about her latest date with Jeongin. But to no prevail. So, you surrender to that feeling, today’s a bad day, but tomorrow doesn’t have to be. You’ll make sure of it.

It’s five pm when you finally walk up the stairs of your apartment. Minho went to grab you both something to eat since you’ll be studying again tonight. You wish he’d come home quickly, so you wouldn’t attach your anxiety to him. As long as you see him, then he’s okay.

You open the door, pausing by the front entrance. Something in you tells you to flee, to turn back, and never set foot inside. You don’t listen to it. If you paid attention to everything your mind tells you then you’d never truly live.

You quickly change out of your clothes, before turning on the TV. You mindlessly scroll through the show suggestions, and settle on one you haven’t seen before. You turn up the volume, making sure that the voices of the characters would drown the ones in your mind.

But then, your phone rings. It vibrates from the coffee table, the name of your aunt illuminating your screen. She calls you from time to time, but why is she doing it today? You don’t want to answer, not when there is a bulge in your throat suffocating you.

You watch numbly as the phone call seizes. You breathe out a shaky exhale. You’ll call her tomorrow.

The phone rings again.

You bite your lip harshly, hands shaking as you bring the device to your ear. You’re overreacting, you tell yourself. Nothing’s wrong. Minho will be home soon.

"What’s going on?" you ask immediately, the question slipping out of your mouth before you even thought about it.

Your aunt sighs softly, and then her voice floods your being. It sounds hoarse like she’s been crying. "Look, I…" another sigh, and you imagine her fidgeting with the hem of her dress. She always wore dresses. All seasons mingled. With pretty flowers sewed into them and sometimes even-

"Your mother died in a car accident."

Silence. You can't hear anything after those words are uttered. You know that your TV is still playing in the background and that your aunt is still talking on the phone. But it's completely silent. For five seconds. Where the world stills, as if to allow you a brief moment to process what you just heard.

Your mom. Gone.

But then, sounds crash upon you like a relentless wave. The shatter of the characters in the background, the ticking of your clock, the dull buzz of the refrigerator. And your aunt, she's still talking, telling you about the funeral and when it will be held and you can't believe what you are hearing.

It's all too overwhelming, everything surrounding you is too much to bear so you simply hang up.

You put your phone down on the table. And then you turn it off. That's one sound dealt with.

You turn the TV off and dismantle the clock from your wall so it wouldn't tick anymore. You then unplug your refrigerator. Has its buzzing always been this loud? You wonder. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Now it’s silent. It's what you crave.

Minho will come home soon. You should make him something to eat. You think to yourself. A fruit salad. It's warm outside and the fruits are refreshing.

So, you grab a knife from your drawer, and then you start peeling an orange. Then an apple. It's rugged, and half the fruit is wasted with the peel. You've never really known how to peel the skin properly. So, you put the knife down. The blade is slightly red, you notice. There is blood oozing from your finger. You cut yourself. But it doesn't hurt, so you leave it be.

Light floods your apartment, a stark contrast to the shadows within you. But you want it to be dark, and silent. You already took care of that last part. So, you pull down all the blinds and turn off the lights one by one. Now it's pitch black. Now it's quiet.

You sit on the floor, running your hand across the tiles. You count them, one, two, three. When is Minho coming home?

The floor is cold underneath you, the sensation heightened since your every other sense is muffled. You can't see, you can't hear, but you can still touch. You wished you couldn't anymore. The smallest sensation overstimulates you.

The front door unlocks, but you don't hear someone coming in. You imagine Minho standing by the door, looking around in the dark. It's okay, he'll find you. He always does.

"Honey?" he calls out and you reply from the living room, "I’m here."

You don't have to yell, it's quiet enough for your voice to be carried around your home with ease.

Minho has his flashlight on, you notice. He's looking for you and he finally spots you on the ground. You move a strand of your hair behind your ear, and you feel something warm smear across your cheek. You forgot about your cut- a reminder of the pain lurking beneath the surface, waiting patiently to consume you.

"Baby?" His tone is soft and careful, and you can see the worry brewing in his brown eyes. Why was he worried? You're okay. Nothing happened.

"I made you a fruit salad. It's in the kitchen. Can you please turn off the light?"

"Okay." His voice is calm, and you don't mind him talking. You could bear it. He was different after all, to you.

He’s pulled into the abyss with you, as he sits down next to your rigid figure. His hand rests on top of your pinkie, but you recoil from it. Not because you hate it, but his hand is warm and the floor beneath you is cold. That's a contrasting sensation. You don't want that. You just want a stillness, to feel like a straight line. Straight lines are always sure of themselves, of where they're going. You were tired of feeling like a bent one at the hands of the universe.

"What happened, baby?"

"Nothing."

"Okay. What did you do when I left, hm?"

"Nothing much. I was watching this new show, I think you’ll like it. And then my aunt called. She told me my mom died in a car accident. And then I went to the kitchen and I cut up some fruits. But I didn't know how to peel them. Can you believe it?" you giggle, your voice suddenly high-pitched. "I mean who- who doesn’t know how to peel the skin of an apple? Isn't that such a basic skill?" You're laughing now, you don't know what's funny, but you're laughing.

"And I cut my finger, but I didn't feel anything, Minho. I don't- I don't feel anything," you're still giggling, hot tears trailing down your cheeks rapidly. "My mother died and I don't feel anything. Why- why can't I feel anything? Minho, I can't- I can't-" You're hyperventilating, words straining to come out of your mouth. The breath is knocked out of you and white spots cloud your vision, like the stars that dance around Minho’s eyes. They seem kind enough so you don't fight them. You want to welcome them in the hopes that they'd take this unbearable weight off of you.

"Yn, yn, breathe for me, baby. Listen to my voice," Minho calls out and it's as if you're pulled in two opposing directions. He sounds scared, so you try to do as he says. You don’t want him to worry about you.

"You're doing so well, breathe with me, okay? Breathe in... Breathe out... Perfect, let's do it again," he instructs and you try your best to follow suit. You can feel yourself shaking, your hands moving as if they have a mind of their own. You are cold, too cold, and you can't help but wonder if it's how your mother is feeling right now too.

The thought seems to drive you over the edge and you let out a guttural sob. It racks from within you, reverberating from the depths of your splitting soul. It's a pain unlike any you've ever felt. You try to find something to compare it to, a sensation you imagine must hurt the same. But you can't find any. You can't find a metaphor to make the pain more bearable.

So instead, you let out a heart-wrenching scream, slicing through the silence you tried desperately to maintain. Your throat aches from the strain on your vocal cords but you pay it no mind, not when there is a pain bursting open every seam of yours, undoing every thread you so carefully stitched back into your soul.

Amidst your pitch-black apartment, you see yourself quivering in the corner, head buried in your hands. And then it’s thirteen years old you sitting there, the one who wished for something so horrible to happen on the birthday she spent alone, yet again. Your wish came true, you want to tell her. You tried to take it back, but it came true.

Minho gathers you in his arms, and you clung to him. You know he's trying to wrap you up the best he can, his arms around your back and his legs pressed on you. He's trying his best to stop you from falling apart. From breaking beyond the point of no return. And you think to yourself that you've passed it. You've passed it and he's clinging helplessly into your remains now.

✹✹✹

The funeral went by in a blur, its details elusive in your memory. At times it felt like a fever dream, a mirage conjured by your mind. And sometimes you tried to believe it, to lull yourself into a comfortable thought. Where you don't talk with your mom and she doesn't know how you are doing, but she's still alive. On the other side of the country. She's still breathing.

But this fleeting comfort is quickly shattered. The thought barely lingers, like a whisper in the wind, never staying long enough for you to finally draw in a full breath. Because the grief clings onto your skin, and you carry it with you everywhere, like a stench that won’t quite leave you. You wonder if other people can smell it on you too.

Minho hasn't left your side, once. He's always next to you. His hands are resting on your back or brushing your cheek tenderly. They are always near. And you hold them tightly. You practically memorized the lines etched on his palm. It's all you stared at during the funeral.

It felt wrong and unjust to be somewhere where everybody knew your mother, except for you. You felt as if you were left out, robbed of happy memories to mourn as well. So, you remained silent, gaze fixed intently on Minho's palm. And he didn't mind; he never does when it comes to you.

He's gentle with you, he's always been, but he's particularly gentle with you these weeks. The countless times he's cared for you blur together- his soapy hands skimming your body, massaging the shampoo into your hair when your limbs felt too heavy to move; the meals he cooked for you, making sure that each bite was cool enough before feeding it to you. How he always told you he was proud of you, at random times throughout your days. ‘What for?’ you wanted to scream, ‘I'm barely alive as it is’. "For breathing," he'd add as if he heard the thoughts swirling in your mind. "For being here. For waking up today."

He did your laundry and he folded your clothes. Sometimes he even picked your outfits and dressed you in the morning. Leaving pecks all over your face after each worn clothing. You wanted to smile, to tell him how much you loved him. How his love felt like a sun ray peeking through the cell hole of a prisoner. But you couldn't speak. So, you hoped he knew.

He unburdened you of all these mundane tasks, so you'd focus on other ones. Like attending classes and taking notes and writing essays. Because as much as you wished for it, the world did not pause for your sorrow. In the grand tapestry of existence, where did you stand exactly? You were nothing but a mere speck of light. Your emotions, as profound as they were to you, did not hold the power to halt the world's march, to compel universal mourning.

But Minho made your world stop, just like he promised, almost a year and a half ago. When you finally found your voice, he'd listen to you talk, your head on his lap, his fingers weaving through your hair gently.

"I feel like I’m mourning two people. The person I knew and the person she could have been," you told him one night and he hummed, listening intently to you.

"The what-ifs are killing me Minho. It feels like I’m suffocating each time I think of what could have been. She left so suddenly. But she should've stayed. Maybe our relationship would've gotten better."

"Maybe… or maybe not, you can never truly know. And it’s not your job to find the answers to the questions she left behind. Maybe she didn’t even have them herself."

You appreciated how his hand never left yours, as you journeyed through seas of uncharted emotions. The anger- that came with her leaving so abruptly, leaving you behind with a heavy baggage to dissect. The sadness- from losing the woman who will always be part of you. Because we don't kill our hopeful past selves, we simply bury them and they remain just under the surface of our souls, a testament to everything we've been through.

The nostalgia- that creeps in from time to time, conjuring rose-tinted memories in your head. Maybe her voice was softer here. She did ask about your day one time. Wasn't that her sitting on the benches in your musical play? But it wasn't, it was just your brain trying to soften the harshness of losing her.

It is how our minds cope with grief, your therapist says. Minho convinced you to go see one. Because love doesn't mend everything. And he needed you to be okay again, for yourself.

He's always waiting for you after your sessions end. With coffee and a fresh pastry. You didn't eat them at first, because they tasted bland and you'd rather not waste them. But one time you bit into the strawberry muffin and it tasted sweet and citrusy. And you smiled at Minho.

He stared at you in awe that day, and then he kissed you softly, pressing his pillowy lips against yours. His eyes mirrored galaxies, tears tracing constellations down his cheeks. "You look so pretty when you smile," he whispered tenderly and you felt emotion bubbling within you, stuck in your throat. But you didn’t want to cry. So, you only smiled more brightly at his words, and you kept his compliment stored safely within you, right beside every sweet gesture of his since that day.

Minho didn’t have the answers to all your questions. He didn’t always know what to say to make it feel right. But he stayed there, he tried his best, to heal parts of you that you never knew could be bruised.

You tried one day, to go through the day normally. You woke up, opened the blinds, and then you made Minho breakfast. You ate lunch with Mina, making some jokes here and there. And when you saw Chan in the line of the coffee shop, you went up to him to talk.

And then you got home and showered, put on makeup, and waited for Minho to come to you. As soon as he opened the door, you were on him, hands busy unbuttoning his shirt, your lips pressed wildly on top of his. You missed him, missed the way he made you forget as he touched you, everywhere. As he showed you how much he loved you.

"I want you, please," you whispered, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, your hands roaming across his chest. Your tone was begging and Minho could feel the urgency in it, so he nodded, he could never say no to you. He watched as you guided him to the couch, as you straddled his lap. You kissed his neck and he tilted it back to give you more of an opening. His hands were on your thighs, cautious. Your lips on him felt heavenly but he couldn’t allow himself to get lost in the pleasure, he had to keep an eye on you.

You were urgent, with the way you sucked the tender skin above his collarbones, how you grinded your hips into his. As if you were on borrowed time and you had to make him reach his high as fast as possible.

"Tell me you’re mine," you muttered, between the kisses you imprinted onto his chest. He could see the lipstick stains you left behind as if you needed to mark him up for everyone to see.

"I'm yours," he says, his hand smoothing the top of your hair. He could sense that something was wrong now, because your eyes were glazed over, and your kisses were getting sloppy, as if your mind was somewhere else. So, he grabs your hips to pause you. "I'm yours, angel. You hear me?"

"Tell me you won’t leave, tell me you’re staying," you take his hands away from your sides, clasping them in a tight hold. You capture his lips in a desperate kiss, and Minho can feel the tears streaming down your face. "Tell me you’ll stay, please, I can’t- can’t lose you too."

"Hey, hey, love. It’s okay, calm down," Minho easily frees his hand from your grasp, bringing you closer to his chest. It’s all it takes for you to start sobbing. "Who said anything about losing me? I’m still here, I won’t ever leave you," he shushes, his voice sounding like honey to your ears. It manages to muffle the sound of your erratic heartbeat.

"I'm so so tired Minho, so tired," you sob, burying your head in his chest. You felt as if there was pain igniting the end of each of your nerves. You couldn't run away from it because the pain became you. "I try to be strong, but I can't. It hurts to wake up and- and to try to go on as if nothing happened. The thoughts in my head don't ever stop and I can't- I can't do this anymore. Please make it stop. Make it stop hurting," you press your palm onto your chest, a useless attempt to soothe the burn within.

Why did it feel as if in your attempts to put out the fire raging within you, you only ended up fueling it even more?

"I would- I would if I could but I can't do that, I wish I could-" his tone is desperate, raw pain dripping from it.

"What if I'm not strong enough to do it myself?" you cut him off, finally asking the question that's been haunting you. "What if I can't fill this hole within me and it keeps on growing until it swallows me whole?"

Minho tightens his hold on you, rocking you gently in place, trying to lull your heart to sleep, so it'd stop hurting, even for a moment, even for a second. You know it's selfish to expect him to have all the answers, but he's all you have. He's the only voice you can bear listening to.

"I can't promise you that you'll ever fill the void left by her absence. It will keep on bleeding and throbbing, begging for a temporary patch-up. But one day it'll stop, it can't bleed forever. And around that hole flowers will bloom, like a sanctuary, watered by your overflowing love. Because it is your love that's hurting you, not your anger. Do not kill your heart to stop feeling, please. It will do that on its own, it won't hurt more than it can bear."

"It will take time. And if you run out of your time, I'll give you mine too. You aren't alone in this, we are a binary star, right?" he smiles softly and you nod slightly against his chest. "I read that to the invisible eye, they look like a singular star. I hope that to the universe we'd look like one person too, so they'd pass some of your pain to me."

✹✹✹

It’s been a few months since your mother died. You didn’t like the term passing away, because it entails that it was gentle, in passing, as if you were expecting it. But her death was sudden and it made your entire world flip upside down.

"Would you like to talk to her?" Minho suggested one night, his knuckles brushing against your cheek softly.

"Will you come with me?" you ask quietly.

"Of course. If you want me to, that is."

"I can try."

Minho drove you to the graveyard the following weekend. It felt weird to see her name etched on the grave, a reminder that this was all real and not a figment of your imagination.

"I'm not a daughter anymore." You speak after a while, tone coated in sadness, and acceptance. "But I think I’ve never truly been one, since you were never a mother to me."

"Is it weird, that I miss you? I don't even know what I miss exactly since you were never there. But I miss you. I miss having a mother. And I'm sorry, that you were so angry at the world you couldn't find it in you to love me." You pause, blindly reaching out to hold Minho's hand. He grabs it instantly. "But I won't carry your anger anymore. I don't want to be mad at you, for leaving so suddenly. I want to be happy. I deserve to be happy. And I hope that you are too, wherever you are now."

You turn around, a small smile gracing your lips, and Minho wastes no time in wrapping you in his arms, your cheek resting against his shoulder. He's proud of you, the emotion shines clear as day in his eyes.

"I wanna take you somewhere," he tells you and you nod, wrapping your arm securely around his waist.

The drive is short and you recognize the place fairly easily. It's the hill you told him about a long time ago, the one that held your happiest memory with your mother.

You both sit on the bench, your head finding solace on his shoulder. The view unfolding in front of you is still as breathtaking, and with each passing moment, the tightness in your chest seems to ease. Memories of your mother and this serene spot intertwine like delicate vines, bringing you a bittersweet sense of comfort. Because mourning someone isn't straightforward, not when humans are this complex, never strictly good or bad.

"Cold?" Minho asks and you shake your head no. "You're a human heater."

"Only near you," he smirks and you giggle slightly.

"I remember your hands used to be so cold."

"So, I could find an excuse to hold yours."

"Are you flirting with me?" you chuckle and he nods, a proud smile on his face. "Is it working?"

"I haven't run away yet, so I suppose it is." There is a newfound lightness in your voice, one you’ve been achingly missing for the past months.

"Come here," he taps his lap with his hands and you promptly lay your head on it.

"Look at the sky," he instructs and you do as he says, squinting your eyes. "What am I supposed to see?" you giggle, but then you feel it, the faintest snowflake falling on your nose tip.

"Go away, I don't want to watch the first snow with you," you tilt your head towards Minho, who's watching you, a soft smile on his face.

You giggle at the distant memory, when you both left Limbo, two years ago. The first time Minho rewrote your memories.

"As if I could ever love you, that'd just be signing a death warrant," you repeat your words from that night, a knowing smile on your face.

"How's that death warrant going?"

"Horrible, so so horrible," you say as you intertwine his hand with yours, squeezing it lightly.

"Mm. I suppose we can't be the exception to the superstition."

"How unfortunate," you smile as he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead, before looking back at the sky again.

He looks perfect from your view. You can clearly see the mole on his nose, the pucker of his rosy lips, and his long eyelashes framing his eyes. You are overcome by a feeling of love for the man beside you, and you stand up from your place to pull him in for a deep kiss.

"What was that for?" he smiles once you lean away, his fingers gently grazing your lips.

"Thank you, for today and for every day since I've met you."

"Of course, my love. You took a big step today, what color are you feeling right now?"

"Whatever color loving you is."

✹✹✹

Hills covered in verdant hues, rows of flowers bursting with vibrant colors, stretching before your eyes. The birds are chirping somewhere near, intermingling with the faint melody of the wind brushing against your skin.

"Here," Minho comes from behind, placing his knit jacket on top of your shoulders. Its warmth seeps through you, and you lean your back against his chest, melting into his embrace. His arms encircle your chest, resting comfortably on top of your heart as if guarding it from harm.

You feel your breathing slow down as you both look out the window. You are somewhere far from the city and its buzzing lights, a small white cottage surrounded by nature, where only you and Minho exist.

Minho nuzzles his chin on your shoulder, placing a chaste kiss under your ear. A light giggle escapes your mouth, as goosebumps rise upon your skin. Your body still reacts as sweetly to Minho, proofs of his love imprinted all over you. His touch is familiar to you but still as soothing, never losing its effect on you. You believe it never will, even when you're both withering down; his touch will still be the only thing making you bloom.

"This is nice," he whispers, sighing softly and you nod against him, raising your hand to settle on top of his. His fingers instinctively find your wedding ring, playing with it as they've done for the past two years.

"It's always nice with you," you say and he smiles softly, squeezing your hand lightly. You remember how it felt when he held it for the first time. How he hasn't let go since. It was only ever his to hold.

"We did well, don't you think? For our first time being alive."

His words make a gentle warmth stir within you. It is your first life, and you're lucky enough to spend it with him.

"We did," you turn around, to find him already looking down at your figure, a fond smile on his face. "To think we probably wouldn't be together if it wasn't for our law classes."

"No," he shakes his head, hands gently cupping your cheeks. "I would've found you. On a random evening when you'd stumble onto Limbo. In the supermarket where you'd buy your cherry shampoo. In the park you used to play in as a kid. I would've found you."

You've once read that when humans are about to pass away, a film of their happiest memories plays in front of their eyes. You know that many years down the road when you're on the brink of going away, you'll remember this moment clearly in your head. You'll remember the cicadas chirping far away, and the zesty smell of the lemon muffins you made earlier today. You'll remember the cold breeze ruffling your hair, and Minho’s warm hands on you. And you'll sigh contently, from having lived a life filled with love.

"My soul is dipped in yours. It will always find you too."

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stevie-petey · 4 months

Text

episode one: MADMAX

Steve is looking at Nancy so tenderly, and when he removes his sunglasses you see how much his eyes light up when she hits his shoulder and leans in close to him. “I missed you,” Steve tells her, his voice soft and sensual. It’s the way he says it that makes you want to run your hands through his hair, be the one in his arms as he kisses your neck and whispers how often he’s thought of you since you’ve been gone. You’ve felt his arms around you before, once. You know how securely he holds on, how his cologne lingers on your clothes long after he’s gone. You miss him, you miss everything.

Summary: what does steve fear more ? you or the plague ? currently it's you, some guy with an awful mullet stares you down in the parking lot (gross), nancy invites you to a party from your nightmares, and you become an official unlicensed therapist for will. yay for junior year !

Rating: general, slight cursing

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, descriptions of PTSD (slightly), swearing, and general angst and exhaustion

Words: 5.2k

Before you swing in: hello ! welcome back to the rewrite, hope yall are well :) heres chapter 1 of season 2 !!! so so so excited and ready to dive into this new season. things get a bit darker, feelings get even MORE complicated, and poor reader just really needs to take a fat nap and maybe some reassuring words. shes more angsty this season, so buckle up

October 29th, 1984

You originally gave Dustin the phone number to Bookstrordinary in case of any emergencies.

Now, you’re really starting to regret it.

For the fifth time this week, Dustin calls you at work to beg for money. Him and the boys recently started going to an arcade that’s opened up in town and have spent practically every day after school there this year. Sure, you don’t mind loaning your brother a few quarters, but at the rate he’s going he’s gonna drain your next paycheck.

Just as you’re thinking this, the phone rings.

Right on cue.

Alex, your coworker, smirks. “How much do you think he’ll ask for this time?”

“If I’m lucky, only a dollar.”

“Will asked me for three tonight, so I wouldn’t jinx anything.”

You gape at Jonathan, who has started hanging around your job after school just to have something to do. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” he laughs, pointing towards the phone on the counter. “Answer before Dustin sends a drone our way.”

You sigh and pick up the phone, which is on its second round of calling, and put on your best customer service voice. “You’ve reached Bookstrordinary, may I ask who is calling?”

“Don’t play dumb, Y/N.”

“Aw, I’m doing well tonight. Thanks for asking, Dustin.”

“I need five dollars.”

“Ya know, ‘please’ has such a nice ring to it.”

“... if I say please, will you give me the money?”

“No.”

Silence fills the other end. Alex and Jonathan are hunched together, trying to stifle their laughs. You send them a thumbs up, and they give you one back.

“You’re a horrible sister.”

“What!” You scoff at Dustin. “I think you owe me like, at least ten bucks now. Yet you don’t see me complaining.”

A loud groan, then an obnoxious scream. “I promise I’ll clean Mews’ litter box for a week straight if you just give me the money.”

“Tempting, and honestly I’d take you up on that offer, but I already spent my last paycheck on my Halloween costume. You’re outta luck.”

Dustin gasps. “You were gonna say no this whole time? You just wasted like, at least five minutes of my time! I could’ve been digging through the couch for coins by now!”

“Jesus,” you pull the phone away from your face as Dustin continues to shout. Jonathan lets out a loud cackle and Alex just shakes his head. “I can give you some money next week–”

The line cuts off. Dustin has hung up.

What a little shit.

“You remind me why I’m grateful I’m an only child.” Alex says, now walking from behind the counter to begin stacking some books. Technically your shift ended almost thirty minutes ago, but you and Jonathan prefer to hang around for a while. It’s rare to have some time with just the two of you (even if Alex is there as an unfortunate third wheel).

“Glad I can help.” You respond. Once he’s gone, you turn to Jonathan. “And you were right, Dustin indeed wanted more than Will’s measly three bucks.”

He laughs. “Figured as much. The look on your face was genuine disbelief when he asked.”

“Mhm, I’m scared these boys will turn into horrendous teens. The lack of gentlemen in Hawkins these days is astounding.”

“C’mon, I’d say I’m a gentleman. I mean, I’m riding on your bike pegs tonight to keep you safe.” Jonathan says, waving an arm in front of his body as if to present all his gentleman-ness to you.

“Sure, bee.” Although, he has a point. Joyce has the car tonight so she can drive Will to the arcade and Jonathan doesn’t like you biking home in the dark. After what happened last year, none of the Byers are particularly keen on letting their loved ones go off alone at night. So, to ensure your safety, Jonathan has started riding on your bike pegs all the way home.

It’s endearing really, wholly unnecessary, but endearing.

Jonathan flicks your nose. “Who else would be such a gentleman to you? Steve?”

Hearing Steve’s name sends a wave of varying emotions through you. Guilt, shame, remorse, longing. You miss him. You really, really miss him.

“I thought we agreed to stop talking about Steve.” You mumble, now busying yourself with a piece of paper on the counter.

After Will was found last year, you and Steve had gotten really close. He’d spend hours bugging you at work, he’d gotten you such a lovely Christmas gift that still hangs on your wall, and you’d grown close with him in a way you haven’t before with anyone else. He would’ve done anything for you, he cared about you with such genuineness, and you couldn’t handle it.

Summer came and the heat that came with it scared you.

You’d pushed Steve away, severed any connection you had to him. It was easier when you didn’t have to see him every day at school, but ever since junior year started, you’ve been in your own personal hell.

Steve walks past you in the halls without batting an eye. He doesn’t look your way, like the months you spent learning every inch of his wonderfully unique brain and the moles scattered along his face never happened; he doesn’t give you that smile that makes your knees weak. He’s avoided you like the fucking plague, which you can’t blame him for, but it’s only made things more awkward between him, Jonathan, Nancy, and you.

Jonathan sighs. “I’m sorry, bug. I just… he seemed good for you, ya know? I was actually starting to like the guy before you suddenly stopped hanging around him.”

You play with the piece of paper, hoping that if you don’t respond then Jonathan will just drop the subject, but a thought seems to cross his mind.

“Wait a minute. Steve didn’t like, hurt you or anything, right?” You don’t respond again and now he’s starting to get worried. “Y/N, I’m serious. Did he do something to you?”

The irony of the situation is so comical you want to laugh. Here Jonathan is, demanding to know if Steve hurt you and if that’s why you’ve stopped being his friend, when in reality it’d been Jonathan who hurt you. Jonathan, your oldest and dearest friend, is the reason you’re so fucking terrified of letting Steve in. Of falling in love with him.

You’re already in love with Jonathan, you can’t put yourself through any more hurt.

But fuck, you miss Steve. You’d come to rely on him and his obnoxious sense of humor that never failed to make you laugh. The way he so effortlessly filled the room with warmth.

“Relax, bee. He didn’t do anything. I just wanted to focus on Will and the boys more.” You lie through your teeth.

He gives you a funny look. “I know you care about the boys, but you know they’d want you to have some other friends.”

“I have you, that’s all I need.”

It’s all I can afford.

“Bug, I’m worried about you. You’ve all but thrown yourself into school, you work non stop here, and when you finally have some free time you’re spending it researching child psych for Will–”

“Just drop it, Jonathan!” You finally snap at your friend.

He stops, surprised by your outburst. He can see the angry flush in your cheeks now and the slight heavy breathing you do to try and calm yourself down. Jonathan drops his shoulders, defeated. He’s been worried about you ever since junior year started. You’re more withdrawn, you look like you haven’t slept at all, and now you don’t even feel comfortable telling him what’s been bothering you.

All Jonathan knows is that one day you were glowing while telling him a story about Steve and his stupid jokes, then the next day you looked frail and sickly as you told him that Steve was no longer visiting you at work.

Something happened between you two, he’s just not sure what or how to even help.

For once, Jonathan is at a loss.

–

“And then she chased Mike all the way down the street for her money! He got away!” Jonathan finishes his story with a grand flourish, laughing and hitting his steering wheel as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

You let out a weak laugh, exhausted from the night before. It’s early morning and you’re in the school parking lot, hanging in Jonathan’s car as always, and you feel like utter shit. You stayed up late last night reading this journal you’d found in the school library about acute trauma in children. It had been fascinating and there were some things you thought could apply to Will. Before you knew it, it had been three in the morning and you needed to be up soon for school.

Which leads you to now: slouched in the passenger seat, sunglasses over your eyes to block out the annoying sun, tiredly listening to Jonathan’s recounting of his phone call with Nancy from last night. Apparently they’ve progressed to nightly phone calls now.

Lovely.

Without meaning to, your eyes start to drift shut. The car is the perfect cozy kind of warm and the late October air wraps around you as if to lull you to sleep. Jonathan notices you’ve gone quiet and pokes your cheek.

“If you fell asleep I’ll tell your mom and she’ll put you back on house arrest.”

You slap his hand away. “Don’t do that, then she’ll just ban me from your house.”

“You were up all night researching again, weren’t you.”

“If you have to ask, then that’s probably your answer.”

“Y/N–”

You put a finger up, using your other hand to rub at your temples. A headache is forming and you’re three seconds away from just skipping first period to nap in the car. “We aren’t doing this again. Drop it.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I’m your best friend, it’s my job to worry about you–”

“And it’s my job to tell you to fuck off whenever you’re getting on my nerves–”

Suddenly a loud blue camaro comes speeding into the school parking lot, effectively drowning out whatever you’d been saying to Jonathan. The car revs its engine and almost hits a few students as it jerks its tires and then screeches to a halt, parking right next to you guys.

You and Jonathan look at each other.

“What the fuck?” You look out your window and are greeted with the sight of an attractive blond guy staring at you. His music is blasting so loud you can hear it through Jonathan’s windows.

“Jonathan,” you whisper, getting his attention. “Am I really tired or is there a guy with a god awful mullet staring at me right now?”

“He’s real.”

“Cool.” You continue to stare at the guy, unsure what to do. You’ve never seen him before, there’s no way you’d forget a face like that in Hawkins. He’s attractive, almost unappealingly attractive, and there’s a coldness to his beauty that makes you uncomfortable. He looks dangerous, like he knows how much power his beauty brings him.

The boy winks at you, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, and then gets out of the car, slamming his door rather harshly. It’s then that you notice the redhead girl, much younger than him, possibly around Dustin’s age, getting out of the car as well. She slams her own door and doesn’t even spare the guy a glance as she drops her skateboard down and rides towards the middle school across the parking lot.

Meanwhile the boy saunters inside, a lazy pace in his step that also holds immense confidence. He’s cocky, cool and collected, and he takes one last look around, as if to survey his new claimed battleground. You notice a few of your classmates gazing at him with interest, which you don’t really understand. He’s hot, but his attitude alone tells you everything you need to know about him.

Once he’s gone, Jonathan finally speaks. “Who was that guy?”

“No clue,” your eyes linger on the doors he’s just walked through. There’s something off about him. “But I don’t think we want to know… C’mon, if we don’t head in now we’ll be late for our first class.”

–

During your lunch period everyone’s buzzing about some upcoming Halloween party. As you’re walking towards your locker with Jonathan, you notice a few pieces of orange paper being passed around. You don’t pay much attention to them, but when Nancy joins you two she eagerly takes a few from the girl passing them out.

Nancy playfully shoves the papers at you and Jonathan. “You guys are totally coming to this.”

“We are?” You ask, eyeing the flyer wearily. You have nothing against parties, but the thought of being surrounded by a bunch of drunk teenagers in horrible costumes is frankly terrifying to you.

“You sure are, Y/N.”

“But Nancy–”

“‘Come and get sheet faced’.” Jonathan reads aloud. “Yeah, Nance. I think we’ll pass.”

Nancy groans. “I can’t let you guys sit all alone on Halloween. That’s just not acceptable.”

“Actually,” you correct her, annoyed by the assumption, “we have a tradition with the boys. We take them out every year to trick or treat and it’s always been fun. We won’t be ‘alone’.”

“No offense, Y/N, but spending Halloween with a bunch of middle schoolers isn’t much better.”

You make a face and look over at Jonathan for help, but he shrugs. “You gotta admit, it is kinda lame.”

“I can’t believe you’d betray me like this–”

Nancy smiles at this. “See? Plus, I doubt trick or treating with the boys will take all night. You’ll be home by 8:00, and Jonathan will be listening to the Talking Heads and reading Vonnegut or something, while you, my dear Y/N, will be baking a fresh batch of cookies and throwing away all the candy corn you find.”

“Sounds like a nice night.” Jonathan responds, and you nudge your shoulder with his. It does sound like a nice night, one you’re looking forward to.

“I forgive you for your earlier betrayal.”

“Guys!” Nancy stops at her locker now, slight frustration in her voice. “Just… Come on! I mean, who knows? You guys might meet someone and–”

Her words are cut off with a squeal as she’s suddenly lifted in the air and spun around, Steve having snuck up behind her. Nancy now puts all her attention on him, he has his arms wrapped low on her waist and he’s wearing sunglasses inside like some idiot, and your heart hurts. He looks good, too good.

Steve is looking at Nancy so tenderly, and when he removes his sunglasses you see how much his eyes light up when she hits his shoulder and leans in close to him.

“I missed you,” Steve tells her, his voice soft and sensual.

It’s the way he says it that makes you want to run your hands through his hair, be the one in his arms as he kisses your neck and whispers how often he’s thought of you since you’ve been gone. You’ve felt his arms around you before, once. You know how securely he holds on, how his cologne lingers on your clothes long after he’s gone. You miss him, you miss everything.

Steve, as if sensing what you’re thinking, risks a look at you. Your eyes meet his and for a brief second no one else exists anymore. It’s just you and him in the small Hawkins high school hallway, where he’s yours again in a way that’s clouded with “almost” and “not enough”, and you want to tell him how lovely he is and how horrible you feel for hurting him, but then he diverts his gaze and focuses back on Nancy and you’re thrown back into reality.

He isn’t yours. Hell, he isn’t even your friend anymore, and you’re the one to blame.

Once Nancy and Steve start kissing, you share a disgusted look with Jonathan and silently agree to leave.

“Young love, huh?” Jonathan jokes bitterly when you’ve left them behind.

“I hate it.”

And you do.

You’re really starting to hate this whole “love” thing.

–

The only highlight so far this school year has been you and Will growing even closer. When Jonathan told you that Will started seeing the Hawkins Lab people for treatment and to see how he’s been recovering, you pulled Joyce aside later that night to ask if it’d be okay if you spoke with Will yourself. Since everything that happened last year, you’ve only become more interested in psychology, and you’d be lying if you said Will wasn’t an interesting case study.

You told Joyce that you’d been doing your own research, reading journals upon journals, and she made you a deal. You could help Will as long as you also took care of yourself, that you wouldn’t place an even heavier burden upon yourself. Of course you agreed, promising her you wouldn’t, and that’s how your weekly chats with Will began.

Jonathan had been against it at first, telling you that you didn’t have to worry about Will because you already do everything else for the kids. You told him you could handle it, and secretly you liked helping Will because you were able to pour all your anxiety and complex feelings for Steve into research and studying. It was a win-win in your eyes.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Waters had been extremely understanding when you asked for Wednesdays off. After all, you’d been working at Bookstrordinary for almost three years now, so she was quick to make the accommodation.

Now here you are, another Wednesday spent at the Byers’ home. You’re sitting with Will in his bed, the both of you quietly scribbling with his crayons. You’ve learned that he’s more receptive if you draw with him, if you take your time.

“How was Dr. Owens today?”

Will pauses mid-scribble. “Fine.”

“Just ‘fine’? Nothing else?” Your head is down so he doesn’t think you’re studying his reactions, but you keep an eye on him anyways.

“Yeah. I told him about my latest episode.”

“You had another one? Would you like to tell me when?”

Will thinks for a moment, and you tell him that he of course doesn’t have to say anything if he doesn’t want to.

“Last night. I was back in the Upside Down… and there was this… this thing.”

Now you stop drawing. “Like the monster we killed last year?”

“Different,” he shakes his head. “This thing was evil.”

Will’s eyes are darting everywhere around the room, and you can see his growing unease, so you decide to put the topic to rest for now. Clearly the episodes are getting worse, scaring him more, so you shift gears.

“Okay, I believe you. I’m sorry for the episodes, but besides them how have you been feeling? Is school getting any better?” Earlier this month Will had confessed to you about the kids in school calling him “zombie boy” and treating him like a freak. You did your best to comfort him, and once you finished your chat with the boy you’d gone to Joyce to let her know.

Will sighs. “School is… school.”

You reach out and move some hair out of Will’s face. “I’m sorry, little bee. Middle schoolers are idiots, they’ll never understand how much you went through. I mean, I had to face that monster for only about twenty minutes. You had to hide from it for days, so you’re honestly incredibly braver than me.”

This gets a smile out of Will, which you’re relieved by. He’s been quiet lately, more closed off, and you’re worried that with the one year anniversary coming up, his episodes will only get worse.

A knock on the door, and then Jonathan pokes his head in. “Hey, guys. Mind if I join?”

“Actually, I think I should go. Bob’s been begging me for my cookie recipe, so I’ll leave you two alone.” You send a look Will’s way, a you better talk to your brother about this look, and he weakly nods his head.

As you walk past Jonathan out the door, you lean in close to Jonathan and whisper, “he’s struggling at school. Be gentle, kids can be fucking awful.”

He nods and squeezes your hand, silently thanking you, and you close the door behind you. While you want to help Will, make sure he’s adapting well, you also recognize your limits. He’s not your brother, Jonathan is, and you know he’ll be more open with him.

Joyce is in the kitchen with Bob, making some popcorn over the stove. He’s filming her with his ridiculously large camera and you can’t help but smile as you watch them. Joyce looks so happy around the guy, laughing more than she’s laughed in the last five or so years you’ve known her. She deserves this, she deserves a guy like Bob. Sweet, slightly silly, but good.

When Joyce sees you lingering in the doorway, she waves you in. “Hey, honey. Any luck with Will tonight?”

“A bit, he told me some of what’s happening at school. He still seems… off, but at least he was opening up. It’s a good sign.”

Joyce hums, but you can sense that there’s more on her mind. You look around to make sure Bob isn’t near, he’s busy digging through a cabinet to find a clean bowl, so you move closer to the woman and lower your voice. “What did Dr. Owens say this time?”

“Claims we need to just pretend everything is okay, despite the fact that it’s getting worse.”

There’s an edge in Joyce’s voice, so you’re careful with your words. “Well… I think he’s right.”

“You do?” Joyce turns to you, her voice loud with surprise, before she quickly remembers Bob is near and lowers it again. “Why do you think that?”

“I was up late reading a new journal I found about acute trauma in children. It’s been almost a year since Will disappeared, he spent days in complete fear, almost died… I mean, it makes sense that his body is remembering those traumatic effects.”

“So you think we should just leave Will alone, let him suffer through his episodes without any help?” There’s more confusion and fear than anger in Joyce’s voice, and you rest your hand against her arm.

“I know it seems counterintuitive, but the best studies we have all show that we have to let those who suffer from post-traumatic stress adapt at their own pace, through their own ways. They hate feeling pitied, and I have a feeling Will is starting to as well.”

Joyce turns the stove off and shakes her head at you. “You sound like Hop. I thought you hated the guy.”

“I don’t hate him,” you chuckle, now helping the woman peel off the foil and sprinkle some salt onto the popcorn. “He just reminds me too much of my dad, and we all know how that ends.”

“Well if you ask me, I think it’s because you two are so similar.”

You gasp. “How dare you!”

Joyce laughs and the seriousness from the previous conversation dissipates. Bob finds a clean bowl and together you and him pour the fresh popcorn in as Joyce prepares the drinks. They’re having a movie night together, and you want to cry because of how adorable it all is. Joyce deserves this.

“You know you’re welcome to join us tonight, Y/N. It’s Will’s turn to choose the movie.” Joyce tells you, but you politely decline.

“Normally I’d love to, but I should get going. I have some homework and I promised Dustin I’d bake him some Halloween treats.”

“Oh!” Bob turns to you. “Speaking of, you promised you’d give me that recipe of yours!”

You and Joyce share an amused look. “You caught me, I did. I’ll write it down right now and you have to swear that no one else will look at this. Deal?”

Bob nods, ecstatic, and you grab a piece of paper and quickly scribble down all the ingredients he’ll need and how to make the cookies. Joyce watches fondly, and you fill with warmth having pleased her. When you’re done, you hand the paper over to Bob and make him cross his heart, just to be extra sure he won’t reveal all your secrets.

“Scout’s honor!”

“Very good then, soldier.” You salute him, and then pull Joyce into a hug. “I really gotta go now. Can you tell Jonathan I said goodbye?”

“Of course, bike home safe, alright?”

You wink at her. “Scout’s honor.”

Bob lets out a loud cackle and you can’t believe that this guy is real, but Joyce is laughing along with him and you’re pleased she’s found someone as endearing and kind as him.

–

As soon as you get home you throw down your backpack and bunker down at the kitchen table. Your mom isn’t back from work yet and Dustin seems to be off somewhere doing god knows what, so it’s just you and Mews for now.

Mews plops herself on the table next to an essay you’ve been working on and you scratch her head as you work. You get lost in your writing, humming softly to yourself, enjoying this small moment of peace.

You won’t admit this to Jonathan, but he’s right. You’ve been overworking yourself, your body aches and your eyes droop with exhaustion almost every day now. But keeping yourself busy is what’s helping you stay afloat. The more you pile onto yourself, the less time you have to think about Steve and his stupid smile and stupid hair and stupid face.

In the middle of one of your sentences, Dustin flings the front door open and scares you. “Jesus, dude!”

He doesn’t spare you a glance, but when he sees Mews on the table with you he suddenly looks a bit alarmed. “Mews is here?”

“Yeah…? She’s helping me with this english essay.” You respond, confused.

“Huh,” Dustin thinks for a second, but seems to shrug it off. “Anyways, I’m home.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you gonna ask about my day?”

“How was your day, my dear brother.”

Dustin hops onto the table and shimmies his shoulders. “I met a girl.”

“What?” You drop your pencil in shock and Mews scatters, your exclaim having frightened her.

“Don’t act too surprised, geesh.” Your brother rolls his eyes, but then he frowns. “Actually, technically speaking I haven’t met her yet, but–”

“You have a crush?” You’re in shock. In your eyes, Dustin is still a baby, no older than six years old. And yet here is he, thirteen and talking to you about a girl.

“Yes, Y/N. Her name is Max, she has red hair and is new, and she’s totally awesome.”

Red hair? You remember seeing that girl in the parking lot earlier today. “Was she with that weird new guy, the one with a mullet?”

Dustin nods, so you poke him in the stomach and ooh at him. “I saw her this morning, she was prettyyyy.”

He shoves your finger away and blushes, which you find adorable. Dustin’s first ever crush, you can’t believe how old he is now.

“Yeah, she’s pretty, but she’s also just awesome. I think she’s the one with the new high score on Dig Dug.”

“Dig Dug?”

Your brother scoffs. “The arcade game the party always plays? Honestly, do you not listen when I tell you about my days?”

“Alright, fine. If you can remember what I told you I did yesterday, then I’ll apologize for not listening better.”

Dustin closes his mouth, unable to recall a thing.

“Mhm, that’s what I thought.” You flick his hat. “Anyways, since you officially like girls now, I’ve been dying to give you some girl advice.”

“Y/N–” Dustin groans, but you shush him.

“First things first, always be a gentleman. Max does indeed seem cool, but I’m sure she’d appreciate a nice and polite young man like yourself.”

Dustin nods. “Okay, be kind. Got it.”

“Good. Now secondly, we Hendersons are charming people, so just be yourself.”

“Duh,”

“Lastly, if she shows interest, tell her how you feel. Better you’re honest and true about how you feel rather than hide it and sulk.”

Dustin snorts. “Says you.”

You look away from him, slightly hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“C’mon, Y/N. When are you gonna tell Jonathan you love him? I mean, everyone knows you do, it’s about time you confess.” Dustin drones on, unaware of your hurt feelings. “And he’s obviously in love with you, you guys are disgusting to be around–”

“He doesn’t love me back.” You whisper, looking down at your paper. You feel pathetic, confessing this to your little brother.

Dustin freezes, now realizing you’ve gone quiet. He can feel your mood darken and he feels like shit for not noticing it sooner. He’s upset you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I thought he did, I mean the party and I all assumed…”

His words fade off, and you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. It’s embarrassing, you shouldn’t be pitied like this by your brother. “It’s okay, I know what you meant.”

“Y/N–”

You get up from the table and gather your things, shoving them into your backpack. “I’m gonna finish up this essay in my room, then I promise I’ll start baking those marshmallow puffs you like–”

Dustin jumps down from the table and blocks you from leaving the kitchen. “Jonathan is an ass–”

“Language–”

He doesn’t let you interrupt. “You’re cool, he’s stupid, and I’m here for you. Alright? Don’t make me pull a code blue on you.”

You wrap your brother into your arms, something he hadn’t been expecting, and allow yourself a small laugh. “No need for a code blue, I promise. Just, give me like an hour to sulk and then I’ll be as good as new. Okay?”

When you pull away, Dustin eyes you, but understands he won’t win this argument. The two of you handle your emotions the same way: alone, in solitude, away from prying eyes. He knows you just need some time to yourself, but he still feels like a jerk for upsetting you in the first place. “Fine, but if you’re sulking later I’ll flick your nose.”

You flick his nose and then quickly flee to your room, Dustin not far behind you. “Flicked you first!”

“Not fair!”

You slam your bedroom door and giggle as you lock it. Dustin bangs on the door, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. You tell him you’ll be out as soon as you’re done with your essay, and then go and sit down at your desk. Sighing, you dig into your bag and pull out what you need. Without meaning to, you look up and see your Spider-Man poster, your wonderful Christmas gift from Steve, hanging in front of you.

The small joy you’d been feeling vanishes.

The poster stares back at you, you can almost hear it calling you a pathetic coward, and you feel guilt claw at your throat. You close your eyes, remembering the cold from that winter day, and you can almost smell the cologne Steve had been wearing when you’d thrown yourself into his warmth. Sometimes, if you sit still enough, you think you can feel the ghost of his embrace.

You open your eyes.

Steve isn’t here.

Of course he isn’t here.

You exhale, feeling the familiar ache and exhaustion within you; junior year is looking quite grim.

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