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baepsaetan · 3 years

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Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Jungkook

Summary: You miss him so much, but it seems like getting to spend time with Jungkook is going to take a Christmas miracle.

Ao3 Link: here

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, side Namgi

Length: 17.6k

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings: Suspicions of cheating, misunderstandings, panic attack, suggestive content, swearing

A/N: Oooof I am finally done my Secret Santa fic for @thebtswritersclub and only - *checks calendar* - too late. So sorry this is so late @jjeongukkie! It got so much longer than I had planned, and while I had a lot of fun writing it, I did not plan it quite well enough to finish in a timely fashion. Still, I hope you’re able to enjoy a last blast of Christmas vibes and fluff and angst as you slide into 2021! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you have an awesome new year!

I always appreciate all likes, reblogs and comments! If you enjoy reading this, send me an ask! Happy belated New Year to everyone!

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“You’re not coming home now?”

Even as you say it, you’re vaguely surprised you manage to get the words out. Your lips are numb with shock and disappointment, and Jungkook’s wince on the screen of your phone just makes the feeling even more jarring. More painful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half pleading and half desperate. “It’s just, this project is so important, and we need to have it ready for rollout…”

Throat tight, the fingers of your free hand pushing into your thigh, you adjust the phone with your other before saying thickly, “You said it would be a few hours in the morning, Jungkook. It’s – it’s Christmas."

"I know, I know, I just..."

He’s still speaking, quick and anxious words about necessity and pressure, and while you’re listening, you’re thinking about the cute lingerie sitting next to you on the bed. You'd been planning a little gift for him when he got home, and when he'd surprised you with a Facetime request, you'd pulled them out of the drawer, thinking it might be a fun little tease to give him a flash of the red and black set. Now, though...

"Hey, Y/N, I'm sorry. Really." Biting at his lip, Jungkook somehow manages to look a bit pitiful, even with the dress shirt he's wearing, ironed to sharp definition. The collar of the black shirt is open, sans a tie – he’d mentioned this morning no one cared about perfect business attire while working over Christmas – and the bare curve of his collarbone just adds to the disjointed clash of his clean outfit compared to his dejected expression.

The look has your throat closing even more, and you try to force a smile. You're well aware of how stressful the new position has been for your long time boyfriend, seen the casualties of the job; late night arrivals at the apartment, distracted eyes while making and eating dinner, forehead creased with frustration every time his phone vibrates, fatigue that throws him into sleep before you and he have really even had any time to talk together. He's also been hitting the gym almost religiously lately, another outlet for stress, and while you love Jungkook's enthusiasm for staying active, two sessions a day, every day, is excessive for him. It also eats into what little opportunity is left for you two to spend time with each other.

But he's doing his best. You know that. You're sure of it. And he promised it would get better, soon.

Soon. So, you swallow the disappointment, and the thing that’s more dangerous, simmering below it and too perilously close to anger. You hitch on a smile, and hope it doesn't look quite as forced as it feels. "I get it, Kookie. I'm just sorry you have to work for so long. Will you be back in time for dinner?"

He hesitates, teeth still sawing into his lower lip as he jiggles his head indecisively and the camera frame shifts a bit. "I'm not sure but – probably?" Your expression must sink just as much as your stomach does, despite your best efforts, because Jungkook immediately grimaces, his hands making desperate little waves of abortive denial. "I mean, I will. For sure. I'll be home, okay?"

When he flashes a thumbs up, deliberately and extravagantly enthusiastic, you can't help but smile, just a tentative lift of your lips. "Just – I love you, Kookie. I hope we get to spend some of Christmas together."

"We will! Promise." Both hands are up now, clenched into eager fists under his chin, and he really couldn't look more earnest if he tried.

The smile comes a bit easier now, and you nod, feeling some of that enthusiasm reaching through the screen. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, you try to redirect the conversation, too painfully aware that sulking isn't going to help at all. "Have you eaten lunch yet? Don't miss it just for your stupid boss!"

His grin is a small, toothy thing. "Nah, I haven't. I –"

"Jungkook!"

"I was saving room for when I got home!"

"Hah! You think there's going to be food on the table for you?" This bickering is so much easier than anything else that you might say, and you fall into it with something like relief.

His eyebrows fall, nose scrunching dramatically. "On the table? Y/N, that's so unsanitary."

"So unsanitary...?"

At your puzzled look, the grossed out expression whirls away, replaced with a smirk that's so abruptly suggestive that you find your breath catching. The way his voice drops, becoming a low hum, just concentrates the effect. "I was saving room for you, of course. But I'm not gonna eat you out on the table, baby."

You huff in scornful incredulity, but it can't take back the fact that you almost choked a second ago. It also doesn't really hide the way your cheeks have heated up into a patchy red, and besides, Jungkook knows you too well. If anything, his smirk just gets even sharper, and he adds playfully, "Unless you have it on your wish list. Then I might consider it."

Fucking around with Jungkook on any surface is absolutely on your wish list, but you're too proud and currently too annoyed to tell him that. "With my luck, it would break trying to hold up your inflated ego."

"My inflated muscles, you mean," he says, and flexes. Which is just so obnoxious, and also the long sleeve hides his arms too well to be truly impressive.

"Do that again when you get home," you order imperiously, and immediately he bows his head.

"You got it, boss," he agrees, and it's that easy, sudden switch, that flexibility, that's at least part of the reason you love him so much. Jungkook is what you need him to be; he's always been comfortable with that role, and your flighty ass needs him in so many different ways. He's never failed you in that respect. Well – not much. You need him with you right now, after all.

Want, you remind yourself sternly. You want him, that's all.

Abruptly he stiffens, turns slightly. You hear someone speaking off camera, high and strained, and Jungkook replies in a confident voice, talking about something you don't have enough information on to fully understand. They have a short conversation before Jungkook says, "I'll be over in a moment, okay?"

Then he's turning back to you, the by now familiar crease back between his eyes. "I've got to go now, Y/N. I'll get out of here as quickly as I can, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Kookie. And try to eat something."

He nods, curter now, already turning away from the camera. "See you soon."

And you're left with a call ended screen and no reciprocal "love you". The flicker of warmth that had been blooming in your stomach wilts until there's nothing but a cold tightness left. For a few minutes you scroll aimlessly through your apps and messages, fingers restless for something the phone can't give. There are too many Merry Christmas posts, too many pics of friends and family having a good time together with gifts and food, and it grows the hurt in your gut. You and Jungkook had decided not to travel to any of your families' gatherings, to save some money this year after a big and expensive move, but that had been with the assumption that you would be able to take comfort in each other. Now...

Before too long, you give up, toss the phone aside. It lands next to the lingerie, and for the time being you leave them both alone, suddenly anxious to get away from the remote device and the painful reminder both. Your apartment isn't large, and it only takes you a few steps to leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen. You spend several moments milling around there, but you've already prepped everything for dinner tonight; the only thing left to do is the dishes from this morning's simple breakfast, eaten long after Jungkook had already bolted his and left. You clean them with desultory effort, trying not to remember that you and your boyfriend had planned to make something fancy together. The restless feeling doesn't leave with the dishes done, and you check, doublecheck and triplecheck everything before you're even halfway to feeling like this part of the apartment might not need anything else.

The living room, attached to the kitchen, has been decorated with reckless abandon. You've got at least an ounce of beauty aesthetic in your bones, and so does Jungkook, but for some reason when put together it equals a pound of ugly. The tinsel – red, gold, silver, and green – is flung about the room over pretty much any surface that will support it, along with red and green lights. The Christmas decorations are a hideous mash up of whatever you and Kookie have scrounged together from your families or garage sales or cheap outlet malls, plus a few modest clay additions of your own making. Several of the larger succulents and other plants are bowed morosely under the weight of ambitious ornaments, and the cactus on the windowsill looks positively garish with a star perched jauntily on its crown.

And you love it all so much.

Remembering the absolutely wild hour or so that you and Jungkook spent together decorating the apartment – such a rare and precious moment, since you moved here – makes your eyes start prickling with unbidden tears. Jungkook's staggering workload hadn't been so bad, while you were working; acting as a long distance design consultant for a large collection of homegrown companies tended to keep you busy, and you hadn't noticed his absence in a way that demanded you address it. Now, though, with Christmas an enforced break, since none of your suppliers or other contacts will reply to emails, your loneliness curls itself up in your chest, all barbs and agitation. You’re beginning to suspect that maybe the long absences have hurt you more than you thought.

One of your projects is on the coffee table, the spread of files and print outs of possible designs covering the worn surface. You've always preferred working with physical copies for the initial stages, moving to a tablet for more detailed work. You fling yourself onto the couch, telling yourself you might as well do something productive and hoping it might provide a distraction. That lasts for about half an hour, but it's a constant fight to keep your thoughts on the papers in front of you. The unhappiness is curdling your concentration, and more and more you're aware of a simmering resentment, sharp and insistent under your sadness.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There'd been so little conflict about moving when Jungkook got the job offer. You were already working remotely, and while the pay increase at Jungkook's new company wasn't that much, it was the promise of what could come that made it nearly impossible to turn down. Saying goodbye to your family hadn't been an issue; you were already living in a different city than them, settled there after university. It had been harder for your boyfriend, but not impossible, and despite both of you leaving friends behind, you'd left with excitement. Hope. The future opening up before you two, together.

With a sigh, you shove the papers away. Leave the living room and take shelter on your bed. Send and reply to some Christmas messages. Make a face at the snap Jin sends you, a little blurry, his flushed cheeks matching the red reindeer antler headband he's wearing. He's holding the gifts you sent several weeks ago, an adorable pair of windup salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears that can walk across the table, along with a few duck-shaped strainers. The caption makes you snort. I'm bearly making it without you, sis. I'm like a duck out of water. The next snap is clearer, of him and his two roommates, Jimin and Hoseok, all making heart signs. Thanks for the gifts! Hope you have a Merry Christmas!

He's in the same city as your parents, and you know he spent yesterday with them. Looks like he's having a great time with his roommates, too. Before the affection can sour, you save the photo and put your phone down again.

Kitchen, living room, bedroom. A discontented circuit you don't know how to break yourself out of. It feels so dumb to be making yourself even more miserable like this. You should phone one of the few friends who aren't with their families, or maybe your parents – hell, you could even phone Jin, he and his roommates would be sure to talk with you for an hour or two. But the thought of admitting you're alone, Jungkook having chosen work over spending the holiday with you, has your shame rising to scalding levels. The mere prospect of hearing and seeing everyone happy while you’re alone is another hurt, one that makes you curl up more tightly on the bed, clutching his pillow to your chest like it could fill up the hollowness settled in your lungs. Just like all of the sheets, it has his scent, light and flowery and soft, and it inspires an aching, cloying feeling that isn't really close enough to comfort, but you hold it tighter anyways.

The day drags on like that, swamps of self-pity drained by bursts of frantic activity. You clean up a bit more, work on a project, watch some TV. And then the rush of drowning loneliness fills up your lungs again and you're reduced to more aimless pining.

By three, with no texts from Jungkook and the need to start cooking soon looming large on the horizon, you send him a message. Hey. Gonna be home soon?

About half an hour later, you add a ? that still gets no immediate reply, and agitated tension has you wondering if you should call him. But what if you interrupt something? Get him in trouble? Worrying the thoughts ragged in your head, you resolve to give it just a little more time. Hell, for all you know, maybe he’s on his way home now.

At around four, your phone starts vibrating. Not a Facetime request, this time, but the name that pops up is welcome all the same. You answer almost breathlessly. "Hey Kookie!"

"Hey Y/N."

Right away you know this isn't the kind of phone call you were hoping for. Jungkook's voice is gravelly and tired, more like a bruise than a sound. Your shoulders slump, and you can't find it in yourself to say anything.

Your boyfriend tentatively breaks the silence a moment later. "Y/N, I'm sorry. Things are spilling over and I'm not going to be able to leave for awhile longer."

"..."

"Y/N? Are you -"

"How much longer?"

You can practically hear the wince. "I'm not sure yet."

"Jungkook..." But once again, the words catch in your throat, trapped by just how ungrateful and immature you feel.

"Look, Y/N, I was thinking. Maybe, if I come home too late, we can move dinner to tomorrow? I'm definitely going to be home all day, so we can have a nice breakfast and dinner and maybe open our presents and..." There's nothing in the quiet between you two. Certainly not your agreement. "I know I messed up and that this isn't fair to you, Y/N, and I'm sorry. Maybe – couldn't we just... reset? Start Christmas for real tomorrow?"

"Reset?" you repeat. "Like – what, like one of your video games?" The swampy depression is bubbling now, surging with the outrage that's been building all day.

"No, that's not -"

"We can't just reset, Jungkook. This isn't a level you get to just do over!"

"I know that, that isn't what I meant, you're -"

"I've been waiting here all day, Jungkook! By myself! Just waiting here for you! Do you get how bad that makes me feel?"

Jungkook sounds choked when he replies, though it's hard to tell if it's from guilt or anger. "I know I've made you wait, and I'm sorry. But the project -"

"I don't care about the fucking project! You should have told them to fuck off when they asked you to work!" You're full on shouting now, eyes stinging with tears, the sound tearing from your throat. "This has been the worst Christmas I've ever had, and you just want me to forget about it?"

His voice doesn't get louder. If anything, it gets quieter, smaller, coiling in on itself into a tight mass. "Do you think I'm having a good time? I've been working since 8:00 on Christmas day! It's not like I asked to come in, and they barely gave me a choice! I'm the junior here, do you think they would have been okay with me shrugging today off?"

"Today? Today?" Your laugh sounds too cruel, even to your own ears. "It hasn't just been today, Jungkook! This is just – more of the same! More ditching me – ditching us – for work. For some stupid reason I thought that you might consider Christmas an important enough day to knock it off for just one fucking second. But I guess not."

"I'm doing this for us! For – I told you how much work it was going to be! I thought you'd be okay with it!"

"And I thought there might be a tiny little exception made for Christmas. I guess we were both wrong!" you spit furiously.

There's a pause, heavy with the sound of both of your staggered breathing. You're too angry to regret what you've said – or at least, to acknowledge how much you regret it – and the bewildered hurt is travelling straight to your head, leaving you dazed and disconnected. Could Jungkook really have thought you were okay with what's been happening? Okay with being left alone for what feels like months now? How can you be listening to his tense exhales and still not understand the person on the other end of this call?

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Too polite, too gentle by far. Where the hell did he get off sounding like that? You know that's Jungkook – that he's far more likely to shutdown during an argument, to close off – but it leaves you clashing against air. No opposing force to clamp down on your own anger.

Heaving in a sharp exhale, shaking your head even though he can't see it, you say, "Do what you want, Jungkook. I'm not making the dinner if you're not leaving right now."

"Y/N..."

"Merry Christmas." You hang up.

It feels horrible. The phone is a dead weight in your hand, the anger an even heavier weight in your heart. You make a fractured noise, a frustrated scream that quickly trails into a barely checked sob. If you felt bad before talking to Jungkook, it's nothing compared to the mix of self-recriminations and resentment assaulting you now. He was just - why did he have to - why couldn't he -

Why did I have to say that to him?

You know Jungkook. How hard working he is, how dedicated, how keenly he wants to do well in front of and for others. He isn't working late because he doesn't want to see you; you're sure of that. It's just an inability to say no to his superiors. And... and you really haven't told him how unhappy you are with how often he's away.

But still. Couldn't he figure it out? Did you need to spell out your misery for him to get it? Is that really what your relationship amounts to?

Another aggravated exhale parts your lips, and you start pacing faster, needing the release. The next few hours stretch in front of you with wretched promise. What do you do now? Just wait by yourself until he gets home? Have to see his ashamed, hurt, averted eyes, the way he would creep into the apartment with a shield set between you and him? And then what? Go to bed with that block between you two, wake up and somehow try to pretend it doesn't exist tomorrow?

The tears flow down your cheeks despite your hands’ furious attempts to press them away and there's no way to stop them once they've begun. You cry, the way people often cry when they’re lonely, like silence is their only companion and they're afraid of scaring even that friend away. Quietly, then, no longer trying to hold the tears back but unable to give voice to the magnitude of your pain, either. The wet, soft sobbing quickly sends you back to bed, where you curl up once again, struggling for some kind of self-control.

God, you just miss him so much. Not today, not now, not – it's a void of the little things. The snicker when you berate him for being messy. His warm, gentle hands on your neck after a day hunched over a project, massaging out the pain. A little giggle as you watch a Ghibli film together. The shoving matches when you're out shopping and competing for who can get the most stuff on the list. The quick kisses and the slow kisses and the deep, hungry kisses that always lead to you waking up in his arms the next day, far later into the morning than usual.

You miss him so much, and you just pushed him away even more.

With a muffled sob you push your face further into the pillow, hating how pitiful this is, how much you're struggling to get your emotions under control. This is so – it's ridiculous, that's what it is. Childish. It's not as if you've lost Jungkook forever, and you haven't lost all of the things you love about him, either. It's not like you never goof off anymore, or cuddle, or talk. It's just – it's just that everything has been so much more frantic, hurried, and stressful since the move. It seems like there's never a moment where you can just sit together and love each other and think of nothing else.

The anger, remorse and dejection feed off each other, first growing and prolonging the wrenching feeling choking your throat, and you cry until time doesn’t mean much anymore. The grief is so horribly thick it’s like you can’t even breathe through it, let alone do anything but lie in bed. It goes on and on and – and then exhaustion overtakes your convulsive crying. Eventually, without ever actually being filled, the hollow ache contracts into a hard pit, the tears all forced out. Nothing else, though. The guilt and resentment and sadness are still there, dulled to a grey, insubstantial mass.

But at least you can think a bit. Listlessly, with all the colours drained out of it, but you can do more than sob. Wiping at your clogged nose and tear-streaked face, you find you can actually breathe, something of an improvement. You sit up, gently set the pillow back on Jungkook's side of the bed, giving the soft material one last swipe, trying to rid it of the wet evidence of your meltdown. No luck there, but it'll probably be dry before your boyfriend gets home.

If he gets home.

The bitterness of that thought is too tired to summon more tears from the hole in your heart or your head. You shake it away, more because you're just too drained to cling to the heavy emotion than because of some angelic impulse to forgive.

You know you have to do something. Anything. Literally anything will be better than just sitting here, waiting for Jungkook to come in, getting pricklier with each passing minute. With the Christmas dinner off the table, you suppose you could just pick up something to eat. Fast-food or something... have it ready for him to heat up when he was done work... like you're some trophy girlfriend.

Once again you need to stop yourself, biting back the wave of resentment. God, this isn't doing you any good, and it's so, so unfair to Jungkook. Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have agreed to work on Christmas. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to how far you've been drifting apart because of his long work hours. But at the same time, yelling at him over the phone wasn't the answer, either. He's probably having as bad of a time as you are, and with no private room to cry in, either. He'll be totally repressing the argument now, shoving it into a locker and subconsciously telling himself he's to blame, that he's a horrible boyfriend. Trying to listen to his coworkers and do his work with those harsh criticisms running low and dark through his head. That's how Jungkook is. He takes everything onto himself, especially if you give it to him.

Running your hands through your hair at the thought, pity clenching your chest, you abruptly get up. You and Jungkook definitely need to talk, and soon. But – but there's no reason to close out this shitty day with an even more horrible evening of strained silence and brittle rebuttals. Neither of you are particularly good at apologizing, even though you're both great at feeling guilty. You just don't have the words for it. So, unless you do something – make some gesture – this is just going to stretch into an awful, prolonged fight that isn't a fight at all, both of you retreating from each other.

It's unbearable. You can't stand it. So… you're going to do something about it.

Resolved, as resolved as you can be, you change out of your PJs. The weather's been quite warm, with no snow to speak of, so it's not like you need to bundle up much. After a moment of hesitation, you choose to snag the ugly Christmas sweater. It's got a comically drawn pink bunny on the front, absurdly muscular, with a red Santa hat settled firmly between its ears, and a myriad of red and green patterns crammed into the background. It was the rabbit's expression and the accompanying phrase that had got Jungkook to laughing until he was doubled over when he'd seen it at the mall last year. A challenging, almost intimidating grin is plastered on the rabbit's face, with the words This Bun Don't Want None in cheerfully bedazzled white underneath. Your boyfriend had quite literally begged to get two and wear them to the upcoming Christmas party, and he'd been too imploring for you to say no.

Slipping it on, with the accompanying memory of his hysterical amusement, crinkled nose, and bunny grin every time he caught a glimpse of you at the party, is the closest you've felt to peace in the last few hours.

You throw on some dark jeans and apply your makeup with a thoroughness that's a little much, given that you're not going anywhere for long. You don't care; it feels good to dim the red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks your breakdown has gifted you, to cover it over with something prettier. Finishing with the last of the mascara, you grab your transit pass and head out, closing the door behind you with a finality that could almost be a goodbye.

The air outside is cool, a relief compared to the stuffy apartment, at least for now. You inhale deeply, the mild cold burning your sinuses and clearing your clogged head a bit. In a while, you might regret not having a warmer layer on, but for now it’s a relief to begin to walk, to stretch both your legs and your mind from the cramped defensiveness the apartment had been inspiring. This is – this is a good idea. You’re positive about it now, and can feel your shoulders loosening, steps becoming brisker.

If Jungkook can’t come to you – well, you’ll just go to him. At least for now.

Your building isn't too far from Jungkook's work; you only have a short train ride and a shorter bus ahead of you, according to your phone. You’ve been to his work three times before, but always in your shared car, and you walk with eyes fixed on your screen, calculating the time schedules. Part of you wants to text him, send a little olive branch to smooth the way and let him know you’re coming, but a larger part longs for something romantic and cute to happen today. Fast-food might not quite cut it, but surely a surprise visit might? You won’t stay long, won’t interrupt his work, but just to see his face, confused and then quietly grateful and loudly gleeful when he realizes why you’ve come –

It seems like that shouldn’t be too much to ask.

The trip flies by; you're too anxious in your own head to notice much outside of it, and besides, there aren't many people out and about today. Probably busy celebrating with their families.

You bite your lip at the thought, and violently yank your attention away.

At this rate, you should sign up for a game of Olympic tag. Surely nothing can run as agilely as you've been doing, avoiding every uncomfortable idea.

Jungkook's work is downtown, and there are tons of fast-food options nearby. You pick a smaller chain, KTown Fried Chicken, that both you and Jungkook enjoy. It's hard to convince yourself the cashier isn't judging you at least a little bit for your weird presence on Christmas night. Or maybe she's just eyeing the sweater. That’s another possibility.

With only one other person in line, the food comes quickly, and then you're on your way. Somewhere between stepping off the bus and smiling awkwardly at the girl behind the counter, it occurred to you that you didn't know when Jungkook was actually leaving work. He obviously didn't pack up right away after your argument – he would have made it home before you left – but that doesn't mean he isn't going to be heading home some time soon.

What if you show up and he's not there? What if he shows up and you're not there? What would he think? It is entirely too much to ask your wrung out brain to decide if it would be hilarious, infuriating, or some kind of karmic justice, but you do know that you'd rather just catch him at work with this peace offering. Much simpler that way, so you hurry your steps, snugging your sweater a little tighter around your frame as you do so.

You make it to the imposing office building of Projeck at around six, which is, as it happens, when two of Jungkook’s coworkers are leaving the building. Jungkook talks about them quite a bit – actually, gushes might be a better word – and you’d met them at the office Christmas party a couple of weeks ago. Namjoon, a tall, elegant man with blonde hair currently dressed in a black turtleneck, is one of the lead game designers, and he holds the door open for Yoongi, an audio engineer. The older of the two, in an oversized, comfy hoodie markedly at odds with his companion’s attire, slouches through with a tired smile of thanks.

Both had made a good impression on you at the party (it helped that they were obviously fond of Jungkook and appreciative of his talents) and you’re a little relieved to see them. Solved the awkwardness of trying to get into the building without letting Jungkook know you were here. Both pause at the sight of you, confusion creasing their features, before a grin flashes across Namjoon’s face.

“Hey, Y/N! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” offers Yoongi as well, shoving his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’s wearing. His eyes are on your chest, a little furrow across his brow, and it takes you a second to realize it’s the bunny again. After a moment his lips quirk, quiet amusement in the expression, and it makes it easier for you to reply brightly.

“Hey Namjoon, Yoongi. Merry Christmas! Are you heading home?” The prospect makes you a little excited. If they’re leaving, surely Jungkook won’t be far behind?

“Yup,” Namjoon agrees easily. His head tilts a little, scouring over you quizzically, before his gaze finds the bag in your hand. “Are you bringing something for Kookie?”

“Yeah… He, uh, was working so late I thought it might be nice to surprise him with some food.” You say it more like a confession, shoulders tight with the knowledge that this is making you sound way better than you actually are.

Namjoon whistles, eyes widening. “Wow, that’s really nice of you.”

“I mean, I haven’t done much today so –”

“He’s not here.” Yoongi states it so bluntly that it takes you a second to process what he said.

“…not here?” you ask, dismayed.

“Nah.” As your stunned eyes fall on him, giving him your full attention, he shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. He left like… twenty minutes ago?”

“He did?” Namjoon demands, and Yoongi just shrugs again.

Clutching at the paper bag that suddenly feels pathetic and cheap, a stupid idea, you say weakly, “Oh.” You don’t know what else to say, and both of the men’s expressions are soft with a sympathy that doesn’t make you feel any less stupid. “I guess… I’ll go home, then.”

Shifting again, a movement that has him brushing briefly against Namjoon, Yoongi trails a hand up to his ear. “Uh, I don’t think he was going home? Or at least, not right away?”

"What do you mean?" Maybe he'd mentioned he was stopping to pick up dinner, too? Maybe the fast-food you're lugging around is even more useless than you'd thought? Why hadn't you texted him? Why hadn't you -

"He was asking me about the fastest way to get to, uh, the Golden Closet Gallery. I think he was dropping by there first."

"Did - did he say why?"

"Meeting someone? Maybe? I dunno, he's been quiet almost all day, and he rushed away pretty quick."

You stare at him, tired and confused and more than a little guilty at the mention of Jungkook’s withdrawn state. What are you supposed to make of all this? You know about the Golden Closet Gallery – of course you do. You and he went a couple times, early on after your move here, both of you taking a lot of enjoyment from the art displays. But – it couldn't be open now, could it? And even if it were, why would he be going? Who could he possibly be meeting? Was he trying to take a late tour to calm down? Something else entirely? And – it didn't even matter. It wasn't as though you could reach him in a timely manner.

You were just going to have to go back home, and – you weren’t sure. Certainly not eat. The thought of trying to swallow any food right now, with your stomach tearing itself into pieces of shivering disappointment, is too much. Maybe Jungkook would already be at the apartment by the time you got there. Maybe you two could just – sit together. Just be together.

You’re not sure what’s sadder; how much happiness that simple picture gives you, or how sad you are that it makes you happy.

Trying to straighten your crumpled expression, you smile. "Well – thank you for letting me know. Guess I get all of this for myself." Your laugh as you heft the fast-food bag is a small and lost thing. "Sorry to keep you guys. I hope you have a good night!"

You've just begun to turn away, aching to end the conversation before you start bawling in front of these two men, when Namjoon clears his throat, his gaze shifting to Yoongi for a moment. The other man jerks a shoulder, bobs his head, and Namjoon looks back at you. You shuffle a little, desperate to be away but not wanting to be rude to two of the few people at this company who actually seem to be lessening Jungkook's stress.

"Did you take the bus to get here? We could give you a ride if you wanted."

Your throat tightens, and you're already shaking your head before you've even thoroughly processed the offer. "No, thanks, I don't want to take you out of your way."

"Well, if you wanted to drop by the Gallery and see if Kookie is there, it wouldn't be out of our way at all. We live pretty close by." Yoongi nods in agreement, his round face scrunching reassuringly with something that's not – quite – a smile.

When you waver, Namjoon says with studied nonchalance, "Even if he's not there, Yoongi and I don't have any plans for tonight. We don't mind dropping you off."

Still, the thought of inconveniencing them because of your stupid planning – not to mention that you don't know them that well – makes awkward turmoil roil in your stomach. Reading your reluctant expression and apparently hesitant to press you, Namjoon relents. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“Y/N. Come on. We’ll save you a lot of time, and I’m sure Jungkookie would be mad if we didn’t give you the ride. He already throws stuff at me when he thinks I’m not looking; I don’t want him to start chucking shit that actually hurts.” Yoongi’s eyebrow is lifted, an inviting gesture accompanied by a smile with just a hint of gums, and you can’t help but respond, a rueful chuckle that slips out at the picture his comment puts in your head.

Jungkook had mentioned there were a few people he liked to mess around with at work, but somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that the quiet and slightly intimidating man would be one of his targets.

It decides you.

With a sharp dip of your head, you assent. "Okay, okay. Yeah, sure, and thank you guys. It means a lot to me, and, umm, if you need gas money or something..."

Namjoon throws back his head and utters a loud, barking laugh while Yoongi chuckles. "The company doesn't pay us enough, sure, but I think we can afford to cover this trip, Y/N. Besides, Jungkook's been working overtime so often, I feel like we practically owe you for stealing him so much."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you're quick to swallow. Grinning weakly, you follow the two to their car, a compact grey Honda that's seen better days. Namjoon tries to insist you take shotgun next to Yoongi, but you're far too flustered at the thought of taking his spot and practically dive into the backseat. The first few minutes are a little strained, the fast-food bag on your lap rustling every time you move. Namjoon shuffles through a bunch of Christmas songs on his phone and Yoongi hums to them under his breath, seemingly unperturbed every time his companion switches mid-note.

Eventually, though, Namjoon finds a song he likes enough to leave on, and you find yourself drawn into a relaxed talk with them. Yoongi throws in a comment here and there, and together the two of them are so – easy. They add teasing remarks about each other without pausing for breath, Yoongi praises an arching plotline Namjoon had finished storyboarding today, and when a particularly loud Christmas jangle comes on, Namjoon's already changing it before Yoongi has time to huff in displeasure. You know they're roommates – more than that Jungkook hasn't said – and there's something uplifting about listening to their comfortable conversation.

They don't leave you out of it, either. You talk about your home city. You talk about how you met Jungkook in university, when you both arrived late to a morning Intro to Computer Animation course and were locked out of the classroom as a result. (You'd whispered furiously at each other about who should knock first until another hectic student had come charging up, bleary with sleep, and literally ran into the door when it failed to open. That had pretty much dissolved the tension between you two.) On a wave of laughter from that story, you tentatively ask how the job has been for Jungkook so far.

He's always so keen to hide his stress, so anxious not to talk about it and burden you. It seems like these two coworkers might be a good way to get a better picture, rather than the stitched together portrait you've gotten from the late nights and short, hesitant answers he gives you. At the thought, you pull out your phone to see if he’s sent you anything, but you have no texts.

The laughter dwindles, and you hear Yoongi rattling the spit in his mouth loudly enough to be heard over the music as he makes a lane change. In the other seat, Namjoon runs a hand through his blonde hair. Their silence immediately winds you up, and your hand, holding the phone, falls to the side. Had Jungkook not been telling you something? Was it worse than the late hours? Was –

"This isn't a great company," Yoongi states flatly, when it becomes obvious Namjoon is still groping for something more tactful to say. "They make you feel like you owe them your finger bones just because they pay a bit above average, and if those aren't showing from hitting the keyboards enough, you're some kind of failure."

"Yeah..." Namjoon sighs. "They tried that with me, but Yoongi's been there for several years, he's the best they've got in the audio department, and he made it clear that if I left, he would too. So they pulled back a little. Jungkook, though..."

"He doesn't say no. I've told him to – told him I'll throw in for him – but he's really afraid he's gonna get tossed. Can't blame him. People get fired too easily at Projeck." His voice is disinterested, but Yoongi makes another lane change, too abruptly this time, and that, plus his tight grip on the steering wheel, is a hint that he’s not quite as untouched as he sounds.

You press your back into the seat, trying to give yourself a semblance of a spine as your whole body threatens to fold. You'd had an inkling that Jungkook was maybe conceding too easily to upper management, but it sounds like he's having way more than a little pressure to work late put on him. This – actually this sounds toxic. Crippling. And Jungkook hadn't said anything about it.

And you barely asked.

Gnawing on your cheek, you lapse into silence, struggling for something to say.

Namjoon looks back, brows pulling together at whatever he sees on your face. "He's trying to get ahead of his workload, Y/N," he says gently. "I know after today he doesn't plan on going in until after New Years. He said he really wants to spend time with you."

"He was literally moping all over the office today," Yoongi adds. "Was surprised he didn't break his computer screen, he was sighing on it so much."

They're trying to make you feel better, reassure you that Jungkook had missed you and hated being separated on today of all days. They are accomplishing the exact opposite of what they intend, but that's not their fault. After all, they don't know what you'd said to Jungkook over the phone. Part of you wonders if they'd even have been willing to give you a ride if they did know. You're pretty sure you wouldn't have been if you were them.

You might also have tried to run yourself over on the way out of the parking lot, if you were them.

Before you can pull anything resembling words from the mire of rabid guilt curdling in your throat, the car pulls into the Gallery's small parking lot. It's almost surprising to find that there are two other vehicles already parked, and with the way the night is going, it's even more surprising that you recognize one of them as Jungkook's.

"He's here!" you cry out, relief and something heavier saturating your voice.

With a pleased exclamation, Namjoon gestures excitedly, smashing his hand into the roof of the car with a loud thud in the process.

"If you fucking dent my car..." Yoongi begins, but their mild bickering slips by you.

Your eyes are straining for some sign of Jungkook. The parking lot is empty of people, and the big sign above the building isn't lit up. However, it looks like there are some lights on in the Gallery, spilling out into the dimly lit lot, and as you fix your anxious gaze on the interior through the wide glass windows, you think you see the dim form of at least one person moving inside.

He’s here. You’re literally lightheaded with the joy of that certainty. This day has stretched out with excruciating discord, but now, everything is drawing tighter, shorter, focusing into a promise of reprieve. Finally, finally, something’s going right. The blissful expectation of getting to see Jungkook is almost enough for you to forget about everything else. For this moment, you think you’d forego everything Christmas – the gifts, the dinner, the decorations, everything – just to press your face against his chest and feel him holding you.

Hand on the door handle, you keep yourself from leaping out and dashing to the building only with difficulty. “Thank you so much for driving me. I almost can’t believe we caught him.”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Namjoon replies. “Escaping from Projeck before eight was our miracle – looks like this gets to be yours.”

The three of you chuckle at that, and then you’re opening the door. “I’ll let Jungkook know you helped me. Maybe he’ll stop throwing things.”

“And maybe Santa exists,” Yoongi grumbles, but there’s no annoyance in his rasping voice. “’Sides, that’s not what I want from him. Tell him to think about what we’ve said, ‘kay?”

Assuming he means saying no to the boss more, you nod, emotional with how lucky both you and Jungkook are to have run into such kind people. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t really cover the gratitude their thoughtfulness has inspired in you, and on top of everything else you’ve been through today, it’s almost enough to set you to crying again.

Namjoon seems to sense you’re at a loss for words; at any rate, he fills in the space. “If things change for the better in the new year, we’ll see more of you, Y/N. In the meantime, take care! I hope you and Jungkook have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Your voice comes out husky with gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you. I – Hope you both have a Merry Christmas, too! And a Happy New Year!”

Then you’re out of the car, shutting the door carefully behind you, your jaw tight to keep back the ridiculous tears. Yoongi and Namjoon wave, you wave back, and then Yoongi pulls away, leaving you standing and waving in the parking lot until the car turns and is gone. You take a couple of deep breaths, a smile easing the urge to cry. The excitement hasn’t dimmed at all, and, clutching the fast-food bag tightly, you pivot towards the Gallery, little shivers of anticipation darting under your skin.

You practically run to the doors, and nearly commit the same mistake that student had, years ago, when they don’t open at your touch. The thought of smacking into them and announcing your presence to Jungkook that way has a low laugh bubbling in your throat. Yanking yourself to a halt, you try pulling and pushing on the doors, to no avail; they’re locked. You give them one last jerk, just to be sure, but they remain stubbornly shut. It’s not enough of a deterrent to dampen your spirits, though you find yourself bouncing impatiently on the soles of your feet, unable to get rid of the fizzy energy coursing through your veins.

You’re okay to wait outside until Jungkook comes out – it’s still not that cold out, and how much longer could he really be? – but nonetheless you start heading to the right, circling around the building, peering into the windows on the off-chance you can catch sight of your boyfriend and get his attention. The lights are off in some of the areas, but a few are flooded in a soft glow, and you skim your eyes over all that you can see. The more you look, the more confused you are about why Jungkook would be here. There are no other customers that you can see, so clearly, it’s not some sort of special Christmas showing. You literally can’t think of another reason he might be here. And hadn’t Yoongi said he was meeting someone?

It’s a mystery you can’t solve yourself, and you keep up your roaming examination. Most of the building has glass walls, except for an area near the back, and you can see inside fairly easily, where the lights are on. The Gallery is pretty typical, all open spaces and white, dismantlable walls, the better to more starkly exhibit the art pieces scattered across the wooden floors. There are paintings and sculptures, a few more abstract works, little plaques beside most of them –

But no Jungkook.

Lips pursued, you make your way further around, until you’re on the other side of the building, ears keen for any sound of a door opening. Wouldn’t that just be typical? While you’re wandering around out here, he comes out and leaves…

You should text him. A surprise visit is one thing, but at this point you being outside is going to be surprise enough. With that thought in mind, you begin fumbling in your pockets, awkwardly cradling the fast-food in one hand as you search for your phone. Not in your back jean pockets. A horrified panic starts building, and by the time you’ve clawed all the lint out of your sweater’s pockets, you’re certain. You don’t have it.

A memory, stilted and strained, of your hand falling to your side when you’d been talking about Jungkook’s stress in Yoongi’s car. In your anguish, it suddenly becomes clear to you; you’d dropped it. Forgotten to pick it up again. It was in the car!

For a second, you think that’s going to be the breaking point. The straw on the camel’s back. Your frustration peaks, eyes stinging, hands balled into fists as your excitement is drowned in self-reproach and an overwhelming sense of despair. Why were you so stupid? Fighting with Jungkook, sulking around the apartment, this dumb idea to get fast-food that’s definitely cold by now, and now – now this. You start walking again, barely looking, just planning to get to the front of the building and maybe collapse on the pavement. The crushing unhappiness doesn’t let up. Were you cursed? Was the world out to get you? Had you kicked a puppy in a past life? Why did you end up –

Your raging internal soliloquy is interrupted by movement within the Gallery. Someone is moving inside. Someone tall and muscular, with his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, long, shaggy black hair tucked behind his ears as he lounges against one of the white walls. He’s partially turned; you can only see half of his face, and even that not perfectly because of the narrow angle, but the sharp definition of his jaw is obvious, even from here. There’s something rectangular leaning against the wall next to him, wrapped in brown packaging paper, but you barely notice it. He’s talking to someone equally as tall, their back turned to you, but you barely register them.

Jungkook. It’s Jungkook!

It is not an exaggeration to say that for a second you doubt your eyes. Everything has just been so, so shitty today that you’d almost believe he’s a hologram or a figment of your imagination before buying that your flesh and blood boyfriend is standing some twenty feet away and that all it will take to end this horrible experience will be to catch his attention.

The person he’s talking to must say something funny, because his nose crinkles, lips rising as he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s just a giggle, quickly stifled, but it’s also a needle; the second you see that laugh, your bubble of disbelief pops with a force that’s almost audible. You can’t hear him, but at the same time, you can, fully aware of the way his snicker of amusement started out low and then pitched higher in tandem with his head being thrown back. The sound that isn’t a sound but a memory and a gift and a promise altogether gives rise to something hot and aching in your chest.

“Jungkook,” you say, barely aware of the name slipping between your tingling lips. There’s a rushing sensation in your ears, through your veins, like your blood has just remembered that it’s alive and is eager to prove it. The misery of moments and minutes and hours ago doesn’t disappear, but the sight of your boyfriend is enough to lift you out of it, to buoy you above the churning waves and set you, heart alight, in the clouds.

“Jungkook!” you call, a shout this time, and start waving. He doesn’t hear or notice you, attention fixed on the man he’s with. You still don’t recognize whoever it is, but then again, with his back to you all you can see is the vibrantly patterned orange shirt stretching over his shoulders and a fluffy bit of brown hair. However, whatever he’s saying has sobered Jungkook; from what you can see of his face, his lips have tightened, and he shakes his head now and again.

Who the hell is that, anyways? More vigorous gestures still don’t pull Jungkook’s gaze away from the other person. You know that any second now he’s going to look over and see you, break into a silly, bemused grin, rush over to the window, if only you could just– You’re about to tap on the glass when whoever it is abruptly steps closer to Jungkook. From what you can see, the guy’s large hands are moving passionately, persuasively, and a moment later he grabs Jungkook’s wrist, other hand rising up towards his face. You can’t quite tell what’s happening, except that Jungkook doesn’t shake him off or push him away. Doesn’t push him away, even when he leans closer, their faces inches apart, and the way they’re standing, you still don’t know who it is.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind that his personal space is being invaded. There’s an attempt at a scowl on his lips, but you can tell it’s fake, a laugh on the verge of breaking through. You realize your hand is still raised to knock on the window, and let it fall. Brows pulling together, you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. The other man leans in even more, and when their lips are about to touch you wrench your eyes away.

For a long moment you stare at the pavement at your feet, mouth moving silently, like you’re searching for a word that fits what you just saw happen. It couldn’t be what you thought. Any second now, a reasonable explanation is going to come to mind. You’re going to find some frame of reference that makes this understandable. There’s going to be something that changes your point of view, makes reality into fiction. Because this can’t be true. This can’t be happening.

Jungkook could not have just kissed someone else in an empty art gallery while he thought you were waiting for him at home.

Except that’s exactly what happened. You feel yourself change. You’re not a person anymore, not a human; you’re a wound, red and open and weeping. With a strangled sob, you suddenly find your feet moving to match your reeling thoughts, and you stagger away from the warmly lit building. The disbelief is like novocaine, numbing the screaming pain of the betrayal, but it’s not strong enough to force your gaze back through the window. Back to your boyfriend and whoever he’s with. Who knows what they’re doing now?

Stopping yourself from crumpling to your knees and curling into a ball takes almost all of your strength, and you can’t keep yourself from doubling over slightly, one hand across your middle as you stumble blindly down the sidewalk and away from the Gallery. You press on your eyes to keep back the tears, cover your mouth to stifle the high, anguished gasps you’re making, but it does little to fool anyone, least of all yourself. Each sob rips from somewhere deep inside you, opens up the injury even further, until it feels like you might very well be tearing your chest apart.

He couldn’t have. He just– he couldn’t have. You can’t reconcile what you saw with what you know, but how can they be two different things? How can your boyfriend – loving, loyal, protective – exist in the same place as that man who hadn’t mentioned he was meeting anyone, who snuck around on Christmas day to see someone else? How can Jungkook be a cheater? How? How?

How could I not have known?

Bewildered, you scrabble through your memories like they’re a pack of spilled cards, struggling to piece them together, to pick them up and put them in order after they’ve fluttered to the ground in a chaos of white and black and red. At first you can’t find a hint. Can’t find a reason. There’s warmth and laughter and closeness in your memories together, with only spots of friction and hurt. What could the memory of you throwing tinsel around Jungkook’s neck and him parading around the living room teach you about this moment? What could the recollection of Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your shaking form when you’d received news of your grandmother’s passing tell you that you should have already known? What could the shadow of his quiet admiration as you showed him your most recent design reveal to your befuddled mind?

Was the staying late the only clue? The only ace card that trumped every other moment together? Or had there been others? Did you confuse his withdrawal from you as stress when it was really guilt? Had the silence been resentment? Boredom? Was he really going to the gym? Or into someone else’s arms? Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong?

Is this your fault?

You don’t know what to do, and as your steps slow, tears still going strong, you realize you barely know where you are. It’s fully dark now, and people are passing infrequently, with the streetlights only vaguely reassuring as they spill over faces. You haven’t taken any side streets, just followed this main road passed gas stations and boutiques, offices and fast-food joints, so you’re not lost, exactly. But you don’t have your phone. How are you supposed to get home?

Home. Suddenly the ache is more real. Present. Demanding. How are you supposed to go home when you thought home was Jungkook?

What do you say to him? What can you say? The thought of facing him has you trembling with something approaching nausea. Or maybe it’s the cold. It’s late enough now that the temperature is dropping, your heaving breath misting from your mouth, and you hadn’t planned to be out so late. The sweater is doing nothing to keep you warm. The sweater…

“Oh, God…” you mumble, your fingers digging into the tacky material, creasing the bunny that had made Jungkook so happy. “What do I do?”

What do I do?

---

With a grunt, Jungkook shoves Taehyung away using a hand against his stomach, the other man’s breath spilling across his face as he huffs in surprise. The push is strong enough to send Taehyung staggering back several paces, and he nearly trips and falls. Even as he catches himself, Jungkook is regretting the violence of the motion. It’s just – he’s feeling so vulnerable right now, so strained, and his friend acting like a clown doesn’t help matters.

Rubbing at his stomach, the other man complains reproachfully, “I was just trying to show you what to do!”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing at his face. “I don’t remember saying I needed help with how to make out,” he points out.

Taehyung throws up his hands. “You’ve missed the point!” he exclaims in disgust. “Didn’t you see the concern in my eyes? The tenderness? Dude, I was stroking your face. That’s how it’s done!”

He snorts but the irritation is already fading, replaced by the amusement he’d had when Tae first started his shenanigans. Jungkook shakes his head, clearing his hair from his eyes, and relents a little. “Do you really think I should do it like that?” A beat. “Well, I mean, not like that. Better.”

With a grand gesture at their surroundings, Taehyung ignores the insult (or misses it, it’s hard to tell with Tae sometimes) and tells him, “You’re already doing better. You’ve got her a painting from an artist she loves.” He stops, points to himself. “Courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood art dealer, who sacrificed his Christmas night and drove all this way to make sure you got it. Plus, there’s the big news – she’s going to lose her mind when you tell her. Anyways, yeah, Koo, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna forgive you, even if you don’t use my sweet moves.”

“But I still don’t know what to say.” Jungkook hates how whiny his voice sounds, how uncertain. At the same time, it feels… good, to admit how he hasn’t got a clue how to make up with you. Or– That isn’t quite right. He does know, somewhere in his gut, in the palms of his hands, in the way his lips ache to skim along your skin. It’s just turning that feeling into words that’s struck him dumb.

“Dude, say what’s in your heart.” There is no one in the world but Taehyung who could say that earnestly and not sound like a weirdo, yet there the other man is, mouth set solemnly, somehow almost making sense. “You love her, you’re sorry for what’s happened, you want to hear her opinion, you’re working to make it better… Koo, you’ve told me all of that in the last half an hour. Now you just need to say it to her.”

“But what if…” He can’t even put it into words, the fear and uncertainty and guilt. Is he asking too much of you? Does he even deserve to ask anything? And what if… what if…

Reading him like a book, Taehyung smiles, simple and brilliant. “She’s going to forgive you. You’ve already forgiven her, so what else is there? Just the getting it done.” Still Jungkook hesitates, and his childhood friend says, a little more gently, “You’re a good person, Koo. I know that, and she does too. Talk to her. You won’t regret it.”

He hangs his head, slowly running his fingers against each other, exploring their lines like they might lead him to the courage he’s searching for. The call with you this afternoon had – shaken him. Although Jungkook had been aware – painfully so – that the two of you weren’t spending enough time together, he hadn’t realized how much it was harming you, and your anger had been both shocking and hurtful. Work had just sucked, so much, and to have you yelling at him…

But after the initial defensive reaction, he couldn’t get the thought of you sitting alone out of his head. It was never his intention to leave you for the whole day, but when he broached the subject of leaving with the boss, the look he got on his face, the way he said, “Well, of course, since I assume you’re done everything you were assigned,” had just been…

You still shouldn’t have left her. Jungkook knows that, knows equally that he didn’t have all that much of a choice if he didn’t want to get fired. It was the balancing act between those understandings that had his shoulders hunched, his cheek fair game to be chewed on. He was working on changing the situation – Namjoon and Yoongi were helping – but what if you thought it wasn’t fast enough? What if you decided you had enough? How can he bear to face you with that possibility on the horizon?

Taehyung gives him space, just hums under his breath and wanders a little, examining the various pieces on display. The Golden Closet Gallery isn’t one of his usual haunts – he tends to deal with artists further up north – but he’d come at Jungkook’s hesitant request, with an alacrity that still has Jungkook wondering what he’d done to deserve such a friend.

He’d had his eye on your favourite local artist’s website, and when the painting went on sale, he’d known he had to get it. However, Projeck employees didn’t get paid until the 20th, and by the time he had enough money to comfortably purchase it, the artist wasn’t available on short notice and wouldn’t have been around to give it to him until after New Year’s Eve. Taehyung is well known in the community, though, and the painter had had no qualms letting him deal with establishing the price and then handing the piece over. It was practically a miracle, even if Tae had only been able to slip away from his family on Christmas afternoon.

Eventually, with Taehyung’s deep baritone hum a soothing presence, Jungkook tamps his fear down. Gets it to a manageable level. At the end of the day – Taehyung is right. He loves you, more than anything, more than he thought he could love anyone. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

He looks up, clears his throat. “Thanks, TaeTae,” Jungkook says quietly. “I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

His friend beams. “Nah, you couldn’t have. But what else are friends for, right?”

“I’ll get you an early release copy of Urban Anonymous. I think you’ll like it,” he promises. “But in the meantime… I think I’ve got someone to, uh, speak my heart to.” For half a second Jungkook thinks he’s about to die from the sheer cringe of saying that, a blush flooding across his cheeks, but at the same time – it feels kinda good to say. Goofily so, and very embarrassing, but still.

If anything, Taehyung’s beam intensifies. “Then my job here is done! I should hit the road anyways, I wanna get back home. I promised my parents I’d make them something nice for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Sure you don’t wanna stay over?” Glancing out the window, taking in how dark it is, Jungkook feels bad to be sending Taehyung out on the road at this time.

The other man snickers. “And get in the way of a beautiful thing? Nah. Besides, you know I like driving at night, and it’s only a little over three hours. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” Jungkook snags the painting off of the floor, and together they walk through the Gallery, to the doors Taehyung had locked behind them when they entered. He unlocks them now, and they leave the aesthetically pleasing space, spilling out into the chilly night air. As Taehyung locks up, Jungkook glances around, breathing in deeply. Now that he’s resolved himself, he actually feels – a little better. Steadier, as though his world isn’t about to jerk out from underneath his feet.

Their cars are parked together, and once there Taehyung flings himself at Jungkook – scrupulously avoiding hitting into the painting, of course – and they hug, Jungkook staggering under the weight of his friend. The fond affection is a fluffy, sleepy thing, and, with one hand wrapped around Taehyung’s shoulders, Jungkook repeats, “Thank you, TaeTae.” It’s not eloquent, but with Taehyung, it’s enough.

They break apart, and Taehyung is grinning, a wide, boxy affair that has the nostalgia and warmth growing. “I’ve missed you, Koo. I’m glad we got to meet up. Tell Y/N that I miss her too, okay? And that I wish her a Merry Christmas.”

“We’ll have to get together again soon; Y/N will be disappointed she missed you. Although I know she loved your blue hair, so she’ll probably be sad you changed it.” It had even surprised Jungkook a bit when Tae had first ducked out of his car. The blue had just been so… riveting, and compared to that, the darker tone really changes how he looks. Not to mention that Tae went with a curlier style this time around.

Taehyung runs a hand through his fluffy brown locks before shrugging. “I got bored. Besides, I haven’t had brown in, what? Five years? It was a nice change.”

“It’s a good look. Almost as good as mine,” Jungkook teases, and Taehyung laughs in his deep, rolling way. “Okay. Merry Christmas, TaeTae. And have a Happy New Year! Don’t drive into a ditch, but if you do, call me.”

“I’ll get you to drag the car out by yourself,” Taehyung agrees amiably. “You look like you could manage it these days, and it’d save me the cost of the tow-truck.”

He gives Jungkook’s upper arm a cheerful poke, whistles in exaggerated admiration and then dodges Jungkook’s swipe at him. “See you soon, Koo! I’ll send you a text when I get home. Hopefully you’ll be too busy to read it until tomorrow.” And with a wicked little giggle, he gets into his car.

“Bye, Tae! See you! Thank you!” Jungkook waves until the other man has pulled away, blasting an R&B version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and then he gets into his own car. Being with Tae is like inhaling a warmer version of helium, all uplift and expansion. It suddenly occurs to Jungkook, with a little jolt, that he’s excited to get home.

No matter how scared he is, scared of the future and scared of the conversation ahead, picturing you, thinking of walking into the apartment and seeing your face, is enough to drive a sharp spike of joy through his trepidation. You are the best thing in his life, and even with this fight, even with the hurt still nestled against his ribs, he wouldn’t have drawn it any other way.

It’s as he’s starting the car that he realizes he got a text from Namjoon and didn’t notice. Hey Jungkookie. Can you let Y/N know we have her phone? She left it in the car.

He stares at the words, waiting for the moment when they’ll make sense. When sense is not forthcoming despite scrambling his brains for what it could mean, Jungkook types out a reply, his fingers sweaty with sudden anxiety.

what car? you saw Y/N today?

…Yeah? We dropped her off at the Gallery. Did she not mention it?

at the gallery?? when?

His heart is in his throat, the unease ricocheting to unprecedented levels, and Jungkook shoves open the car door, begins looking desperately around like you two could have possibly missed each other in the empty lot. When his phone vibrates thirty seconds later, he almost drops it in his haste to unlock it.

Thirty minutes ago. Around there. Is she not there? Is everything okay?

Jungkook rips his eyes from the screen to the empty parking lot and back to the screen, a bewildered trek that gives him no hints, and he doesn’t know the answer.

---

When you finally get back to the apartment, your hurt has become a cramped, flattened pressure at the back of your throat, and every breath scrapes painfully on the way out. It’s taken you close to two hours to get back. The first person you’d asked for directions had given you the wrong bus number, and while you’d realized it eventually, you’d been going the wrong way for a significant period of time.

Usually, you and Jungkook laugh at how bad your sense of direction is, but this is just more humiliation to stoke an already raging fire of shame. Your steps literally drag – you almost trip on your way up the stairs – and your fingers are tingling, almost numb. It’s gotten progressively colder as the night wore on, and by now the icy feeling has sunk deep into your bones, passed the hard exterior until its wrapped around the marrow.

You’d thought about checking into a hotel. You at least hadn’t forgotten or lost your credit card. There was something tempting about postponing the moment when you had to see Jungkook. But at the same time… If you didn’t answer your phone and didn’t come back, he might worry (would he worry?) and worse, he might get other people involved. What if he talked to Namjoon and Yoongi? Or phoned your parents or brother? You can’t stand the thought of having to explain to them what happened without any preparation – without even knowing what happened yourself.

So here you are, facing the door, empty-handed. You’d thrown out the fast-food at the first trashcan you’d come to after deciding to return. Would Jungkook be home by now? Had he finished with – was he done? Or was he still out there, still… You have to say it eventually, you try to tell yourself firmly, but your whole being cringes from making that acknowledgement, from putting it into syllables that might somehow trap it in reality. It’s not something you can manage tonight. You really don’t know what will be worse, him being inside or not, but you can’t just stand outside forever.

Forcing the key to the lock is no harder than flinging yourself off a cliff, and you approach it with the same amount of dry-mouth apprehension. Your hands are shaking so bad it’s hard to get them to align, but when you finally do, the click of the key sliding in is too loud, like its announcing that you’ve slunk back in shame to all of the apartment building inhabitants. A ridiculous notion, but you flinch anyways, heart seizing as your stiff fingers fumble with the little jiggle required to get the door to open. It takes you three attempts, your anxiety growing, and when you finally manage it, you’re so strung out with tension that you don’t hesitate. You just fling the door open and stumble through.

Straight into Jungkook.

For just a second, it feels like the magnetism you learned about in school. For just a second you fall into him like there’s nothing else in the world more natural than falling, and for just a second you press against his chest and feel dizzy with the light, clean scent that surrounds you. For just a second, as he catches your weight and closes his arms around you, calling your name with a voice of choked relief, you let yourself forget.

For just a second.

And then reality floods back in, a tainted torrent of regret and grief, strewn with rage and humiliation that drifts just below the surface. Though you’re so unsteady you can barely see, your lungs blocked and battling to heave in enough air just to keep breathing, you struggle to get away from him.

“Let go of me,” you say, dry and curt, and when his arms only tighten – more, you suspect, to keep you from pitching over than in denial of your demand – your efforts become harsher, more violent. Without room you can’t get any momentum to really push away from him, but your motions are frantic with the desire to do just that. There’s a panicked, screaming need to get away from him, to get enough space, like he’s the reason your lungs are crumpling in on themselves. “Let go, Jungkook!” you cry, your voice spiking up into shrillness, shattering the syllables of his name.

Like he’s been electrified, Jungkook jerks, his arms flying open. Instantly, let loose, you scramble away, down the entrance hallway. Just as off balance as he’d feared, you nearly trip over something long and cumbersome leaning against the wall that you’re too distraught to look at, and you have to windmill to catch your balance. A moment later you slam your shoulder into the corner of the wall as you try to take the turn too sharply. “Y/N, please, stop!” you hear, and wish you hadn’t. Barely registering the sharp throb in your shoulder, you catch yourself and keep going. Seconds later you’re in the bedroom, and you slam the door shut.

It doesn’t have a lock. Putting your back to the door, your air rattling hollowly out of your mouth – too fast, too shallow, but you can’t seem to calm down – you slide down the solid surface. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your forehead against them, eyes tightly closed, still gasping. Your eyes are aching, but you can’t cry against the immense pressure of overwhelming panic. There’s just a stinging sensation and a pulsing rigidity in your face, like each and every muscle there has chosen to stage a personal rebellion at the exact same time.

I can’t, I can’t, oh God, please, I can’t do this I can’t look at him I can’t I –

“Y/N?” Jungkook sounds like he’s directly on the other side of the door, but he makes no attempt to open it. “Baby, please, are you okay?”

His voice is so raw with worry that it’s red. The colour blooms across your closed eyelids, swathes of crimson and scarlet, and you imagine that it’s blood, trickling from the wound inside of you. You can barely tell where your back ends and the door begins, like any moment you might slide through it, or maybe through the floor, or through the ground, or maybe you’re already there, floating in nothing, and the red breaks into jagged pieces of black and orange and you still can’t breathe.

“Y/N? Can you talk to me? Just – say something, okay? Just so I know you’re okay.”

You can’t even manage that. Even if you wanted to. Even if he deserved to know. Throat moving convulsively, you choke out a sob but nothing else comes after. Just wheezing breaths, and you think you’re shaking but you’re somewhere outside of your skin so it’s hard to tell.

“Okay, okay. I’m – I’m gonna be here, okay? Right here. If you need me, I’m here.” Even through the hazy distortion swamping you, Jungkook’s clear, resonant voice comes through. Maybe it’s the concern, too heavy to be swept away by the raging panic. Maybe it’s the compassion, too anchored in you to be broken away by the tremendous pressure.

Or maybe you just know Jungkook’s voice so well that even your disassociation can’t make it unfamiliar to you.

“You’re doing good, Y/N. I’m still here. Just on the other side of this door.” A pause, a deep chasm of silence, and then he continues. “I think it’s a panic attack. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Later, you will be both annoyed and touched that Jungkook realized you were having a panic attack before you did. You’ve had a few throughout university, but none within the past year or two, and in the moment, you’d been too overwhelmed to identify what’s going on. The insight is helpful though, something to cling to and repeat to yourself. A grounding. It’s a panic attack. You’re going to be okay.

Jungkook keeps talking, slow and steady. Nothing serious. Just words. You lean on his voice just as hard as you’re leaning on the door, and, slowly but surely, in a stretch of time that doesn’t mean anything to you, the constrictive bands across your chest loosen. You sink back into yourself. The tips of your fingers make sense again.

And you start crying.

“Y/N? How’re you feeling?”

Funny. Now, with your throat something other than a fist and pain, you still struggle to say anything. This is a softer kind of crying, not quite quiet, with little, hiccupping gasps as the tears run down your face. Possible to speak through. You just don’t know what to say to the man who just talked you, with kindness and compassion, through a panic attack. Who cheated on you. Your fingertips might make sense, but nothing else does.

“I – Y/N, baby, I get that you’re upset, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” So anguished. Why did he have to sound like that? What right did he have?

You don’t know if it’s outrage or bewilderment or grief or pity that has you answering. Is it possible to have all of them in your mouth, gritty across your tongue? At any rate, your tone is as washed out as you feel, fatigued and grey. “I saw, Jungkook,” you whisper to your knees.

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Denial? Guilt? His reply is sluggish, thick with confusion. “You saw what?”

That makes you laugh – or not really, though the tortured sound was supposed to be one. “I was there. At the Golden Closet Gallery.” Will he really keep pretending after he knows you were there? Could he really be that brazen? The Jungkook you know couldn’t. There’s no way he could carry a lie like that, holding it effortlessly in the face of the truth. The Jungkook you know would blush, shuffle, collapse like a house of cards. He’s really not good at lying.

The answer isn’t a lie, but it confuses you all the same. “I know you were. Namjoon texted me to say he’d dropped you off, but – Where did you go? I – I drove around for like an hour trying to find you, and I couldn’t and when I got home you weren’t here…” The stream of words dies out like Jungkook can’t quite find any more to say, or maybe he’s embarrassed to say them.

When your reply isn’t forthcoming, confusion churning up anything you might spit out, he continues, more subdued. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you after what you just went through, I just– Are– How are you feeling? Was it – did something happen while you were getting here? Is that what took so long?” Another pause that you can’t fill, that stretches on and on as you try to understand what he’s talking about. How he can apologize for that and not the actual offense.

Abruptly his voice bursts out. “Why won’t you talk to me!?” Tighter and more uncertain than you’ve heard tonight. Maybe more afraid than you’ve ever heard him.

It rips at your heart, and you realize in a swell of furious sorrow that you can’t stand to hear him sound like that. With a sudden, unstable surge, you get to your feet. Immediately your vision falters a bit, and you stagger, but catch yourself before you fall, clinging to the doorknob. You take a deep breath, fighting away the residual nausea and light-headedness. It clears within a few seconds, and your hand tightens on the knob as you take a deep breath. You can’t just leave him standing out there. You can’t just leave this incomprehensible thing hanging in the frame between your two lives.

You open the door. Slowly. Reluctantly. But you open it.

His long black hair is a wild mess, pushed back from his forehead, strands sticking up here and there. Even as you inch the door open, he runs his hand through it, ruffling it even further. His shirt is wrinkled, only partially tucked in, one sleeve rolled to bare his forearm, the other slipped down almost all the way. With his jaw so tense it’s a wonder he’s not cracking his teeth, Jungkook stares at you, lips set and pale. He doesn’t look like someone who committed a betrayal only hours before; if anything, the anguished panes of his face speak to a betrayal committed against him.

You’re so, so tired. Too tired to grasp at the outrage that wisps at the edge of your consciousness. Sniffling to clear your throat, you wipe at your face, trying make yourself a little less pitiful. “I was at the Gallery, Jungkook. I saw you,” you repeat because it’s still so hard to think of anything to say. When his expression doesn’t change – unless his eyebrows furrow, just a little, in innocent perplexity – you exhale. “I saw you with that guy. I saw you…”

“That guy? Who do you–” Jungkook breaks off, examines you more closely, like you’ve given him something to be concerned about. “Are you talking about Taehyung?”

The name is startling in its sheer unexpectedness. What the hell did Jungkook’s best friend have to do with any of this? “Taehyung? No, I’m not talking about Taehyung. I’m talking about that guy you were with tonight, in the Gallery. The guy you–” The words catch, but only for a second. You push them through with a surge of vehement exasperation for the blank expression he’s wearing. “The guy you kissed!”

In another place, the nonplused spasm across his face would have been hilarious. As it is, it just heightens your frustration, and the way he starts sputtering does absolutely nothing to reduce it. Even when he finally gets himself together and manages to talk, your aggravation is here to stay.

Right next to your mortification, as it happens.

“I didn’t– Y/N, that guy at the Gallery was Tae! Could you not tell it was him? I know he has brown hair now, but…” Jungkook shakes his head, flipping his own hair back. The tension seems to have slipped from his jaw, at least a little, and it might very well have crept into yours. “Is that– Is that what this whole thing has been about? You thought I did something with some random guy?” His lips twitch, and it doesn’t seem like he can decide if he wants to smile or scowl, and you feel the beginning of a flush heating up your face.

“It was Taehyung! And I didn’t kiss him. I mean, he tried to kiss me but it was just to–” Abruptly there’s a wash of faint scarlet crawling up his cheeks – cheeks that are rounder than they were a second ago, as he looks down and away, gaze slipping from you for the first time since you opened the door.

“Just to what?” you demand, the challenge extra belligerent to make up for the belated shock of suspended relief that hangs like smoke over your head. Too intangible for you to catch with your hands right now, though present enough to burn your throat with its sooty possibility.

He’s still looking at the ground, the blush becoming more prominent, and he begins to shift, the rustle of his dress pants loud in the fraught silence. “Um,” Jungkook begins awkwardly, head ticking to the side the way it always does when he regrets saying something or doubts his ability to do something. “It’s just, uh… he was helping me.”

“Helping you.”

Jungkook winces at your deadpan echo. “Yeah. I, um, asked him to…” Hands drumming on his thighs, drawing your attention for a second before you snap back to his flushed face, Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet. “Uh… This is totally not how I planned this,” he mumbles, before hauling his gaze up to meet your own. “Hold on for a sec, okay? I just want to grab something.” For all that he’s definitely lightened a bit, the request is tinged with urgent appeal, his eyes scouring your face hesitantly like he’s afraid you’re going to retreat back to the room the moment he loses sight of you.

You’re not entirely sure that isn’t going to happen, but there have been so many emotional upheavals today you’ve just about exhausted your ability to feel more defensiveness. The more Jungkook speaks – the longer you’re in his presence – the more the sheer impossibility of what you’d believed is sinking in. He’s just – he’s Jungkook. Such a focal point of light and energy, such a reserve of easily offered comfort in a form so much more substantial than words. Somehow – maybe because of his prolonged absences, maybe because of your staggeringly challenging day – you’d managed to forget just what he is, but it’s in front of you now, demanding to be seen and acknowledged against the backdrop of what you’d thought. What had seemed so possible, even an hour ago, suddenly seems ridiculous when set next to the quiet solidity of him, of everything he is.

Wiping again at eyes that haven’t ceased watering yet, you nod.

He hurries away, down the short hallway and back towards the front entrance. You hear a thump, a muttered curse, a short dragging noise, and then Jungkook rounds the corner, hefting a rectangular object covered in brown paper. When you examine it more closely, you’re pretty sure it’s what you almost fell over when you ran inside. By the time he’s standing in front of you, the unwieldy item put on the ground and balanced against his knee, you’re pretty sure you know what it is by the shape and packaging alone.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re beginning to make connections. About Taehyung and the art gallery and the thing on the ground in front of you.

Jungkook just speeds up the process. “I was gonna wrap it in something nicer,” he offers apologetically, “but I was… Baby, I was so scared when Namjoon said you should have been at the gallery and I couldn’t find you and you weren’t at home. I thought – hell, I didn’t know what to think. That you got kidnapped or something.” He laughs, that shaky sound of amusement reserved for disasters that are absurd to imagine until they actually happen, and you shift, the heat crowding your face growing.

With a slight roll of his shoulders, he nudges the brown-wrapped object. “Anyways… Tae was helping me get this. For, um, you. Because I thought you might like it.” When you make no move to grab it, his eyebrows knit together. “Y/N? I swear, I didn’t do anything with anyone else. I wouldn’t do anything with–”

“I know.” You cut him off, unable to bear the imploring tone. It’s impossible to meet his beseeching gaze with the burden of your stupidity weighing on you, and you keep your eyes on your fingers. “I know you didn’t. Jungkook, I’m…” The winded feeling is still lingering, a hollowness in your lungs, and you have to inhale deeply just to remind yourself you can. Your anger at being abandoned by Jungkook for work died out so long ago it might as well be a relic, and with the betrayed grief swept so thoroughly out of your stomach, you’re left feeling strangely empty of anything but guilt.

“I’m so sorry. I – God, I’m so stupid. I saw you two and I thought – I assumed…” All of the logic that had founded your incorrect assumption is trickling through your grasping fingers, and you don’t know how to explain in a way that makes sense. In a way that justifies how you’d leapt to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” you continue unevenly. “I just…”

“It’s okay.” When you keep staring down, Jungkook moves closer, reaches out, tentatively puts his arm around you. Light enough that you could break away if you wanted to. You don’t. You absolutely don’t.

The contact feels like an anchor, pulling you ever closer to reality. Making the trembling relief that much more real. The embarrassment, too. “Really Y/N, it’s – I know today has been…” After a moment he sighs, faint and low, shaking his head. “Today has sucked so bad, and Christmas isn’t supposed to be like this. I get why you thought what you did. After everything that’s been happening, after I’ve – I haven’t been around.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” is your whispered protest, still unable to look at him. “I should have just talked to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would have saved us both a bit of panic. But Y/N…” He waits, waits longer, until you’re forced to bring your eyes up. Meeting the dark softness of his gaze summons up more guilt, more regret – but also a clear, undeniable relief. Light at the end of a pitch black tunnel. You’re not out of the darkness, but with those sympathetic eyes on you, you have a sense of striving. Like taking a step, and then another, is possible. And might just be worth it.

“Y/N, baby, it’s not all your fault. It’s on me too.” His arms are resting lightly on your shoulders, fingers gently rubbing across the nape of your neck. “I haven’t talked with you enough. Kept just pushing it off, pretending it’s okay.” When he laughs softly, his breath tickles your face. “Not quite okay, hey?”

Your strained giggle isn’t heartfelt, and it fades quickly. “In the car, when Namjoon and Yoongi gave me a ride, they said – It seems like work has really, really sucked. More than I thought it did.” You lean back, just a bit, his arms a steady support against your back, and search his face. He’s biting his cheek, little lines skittering across his forehead. This close, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, his skin sallower than it should be. He looks tired, but he doesn’t look away from you.

“Jungkook,” you say quietly. “How bad is it?”

Something flickers behind his eyes, a shadow of his normal reserve. You can feel the tightness in his body, the slight tremor that suggests he’s about to move away. The protective distance he clings to when he doesn’t want to worry you rears up – and you kill it with your hand, trembling only slightly as you tenderly trace your fingers along his temple, down his cheekbone, to cup the strong lines of his jaw. “Please, Jungkook. Tell me.”

The admission comes, fast and breathless, like he needs to get the words out before his teeth clench over them. “Bad. It’s bad. I hate it there.”

“Oh. I–” This is a different kind of pain from most of what you’ve been feeling today. More selfless, an anguish that extends and expands outward instead of curling up. “I’m so sorry. Kookie, I didn’t know. I should have but–”

“I didn’t tell you. How could you know?”

“I should have,” you insist.

His mouth quirks, a flash of teeth showing in mild amusement. “You can’t expect me to know you’re upset, but you should know when I am? I don’t think it works that way, babe.” When your mouth opens to object, Jungkook pulls you to his chest, cutting off your protest. You sink into his embrace, boneless and aching and grateful for the support, and if the gift’s hard frame weren’t digging into your leg, it would almost be perfect.

Perfect enough.

Pressing your face against his shirt, you feel him kiss the top of your head, arms still wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispers.

“I’m glad you told me about work,” you mumble into his chest, reluctant to draw away. “If I told you to quit today, would you?” You’re not really joking, even though you know what the immediate answer has to be. You don’t have enough savings for one of you to quit without any other prospects lined up.

“Actually…” There’s something restrained in his voice, teetering on the edge of anxiety, or maybe excitement.

Shock has you looking up, resisting the comforting pull of his warmth for a moment. “You did!?”

“Oh, uh, no,” Jungkook says hurriedly, biting at his lower lip. Far from pleasure, the reassurance has disappointment funneling into your heart, funds be damned. To say that Jungkook’s job was the mother of all evils would probably be both unfair and exaggerated, but if it’s making him (and you) as miserable as he says...

“It sounds really bad, Jungkook. Killing yourself trying to please a bunch of jerks isn’t worth it.”

“You’re right.” He’s smiling now, smiling completely, showing off his teeth. “I don’t know if I can keep working for them for much longer, but… Ah, I was so scared to talk about this, and here you are, making it easy!” In his excitement, he’s playing with your hair, hands restless as they dance around. For once, the mystery isn’t extended. “Namjoon wants to break off. Start a new company, one that’s not an absolute dumpster fire to work for. He’s got several other people lined up who are happy to go, and Yoongi, obviously, and he asked me if I would join, too!”

“Is that why they gave me a ride?” Even as you demand it, you can feel yourself picking up on Jungkook’s energy. Not too much – the exhaustion sucking at your bones won’t allow it – but still, the lightness in your chest is a far cry from the sodden despair that’s taken up space there for most of the day.

Your boyfriend jiggles his head back and forth. “I dunno. Maybe. But I think mostly they did it because they’re pretty nice people.” He sounds a bit awed as he continues. “We can’t start for a couple more months – Namjoon said something about getting funding from some rich guy, Bang Sihyuk – but I still can’t believe they want me to come along. I mean, some of the people are, like, the best there are, Y/N.” You can almost see stars shining in his eyes.

Your response is firm, albeit playful. “So, it makes perfect sense that they’re having you join! Kookie, you’re gonna fit in so well, because you’re one of the best, too.” And honestly, you’re not even just shovelling empty praise; Jungkook is a truly talented artist in his medium.

His smile grows, eyes thinning with happiness. “And – you’re okay with it? There aren’t any guarantees that it will work out, with it being a new company.”

The trials of the day – mostly made from your own mind, though no less difficult for all of that – pass through your head. The loneliness and anger and sadness. All of it dimmed if not gone entirely, simply because here you are in his arms, speaking to each other instead of covering your hurt up. “Jungkook, one of the few guarantees I have of anything is that I love you, and you love me. If you’ll be happy working with Namjoon, with moving companies, then that’s all I need to hear.”

With a low hum, Jungkook sweeps you into another hug, and you’re glad to give up what space is between you two. Enfolded in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat, is about the securest place you can imagine being. “I love you,” he says, voice thick with the truth of what he’s saying.

“I love you, too. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.”

“I haven’t even given you your presents yet. Here –” And you’re breaking apart again – although not really, because you can still feel the connection as a thin warmth snuggled beneath your ribs – and Jungkook bends down, picks up the item sandwiched between you two. “Feel up to opening it?”

“The mystery gift that almost broke our relationship? Yeah, I’m up to it.”

Nose scrunching, he hands it over, and in your haste to see what’s inside, you make short work of the brown packaging. You can’t honestly say you’re surprised with the first glimpse of the mahogany frame – you expected a painting – but as more of the brown rips away, you feel shivery awe cascading down your spine. Once the painting is completely uncovered, you clutch it with sweaty palms, well aware of how precious a gift you’ve been given. You’d recognize the style anywhere.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “oh my God, Jungkook, this is one of Ayeong’s, isn’t it? You – you actually got one of her paintings!?”

The quality is unmistakable. It’s a detailed piece, zoomed in on a small, dilapidated house. Almost everything about the house is bleak; the colours are all dull greys, blacks and browns, the porch is crumbling, and the shutters over the windows are chipped and cracked in places. However, right in the center of the house, taking up a good portion of the painting, is a door flung wide open, and the inside is flooded with warm colours and details in stark contrast with the exterior. There are people inside, crowded around the entrance, laughing and vibrant, and they dominate the doorway with their collective presence. One person, the only one who is looking outward, has her hand raised in greeting, as though inviting the viewers in.

“It’s called Homecoming.”

Soft and reverent, the name feels like an echo, a reverberation of your hopes and fears, and against a suddenly blurry vision, you smile. “It’s beautiful! It’s so, so beautiful. Thank you, Jungkook.”

“Do you feel like opening the rest of our presents? Or should we wait until tomorrow? We can grab your phone in the morning, too.”

Your fatigue drags at you, overwhelming even your hunger, but you try to rally, lifting your chin up. “What do you want to do? Do you want to open a present?”

His head tilts as he looks you over, a quick assessment. “I don’t have to. It’ll be nice to look forward to it later.” You’re absolutely positive he’s saying that for your sake, and it makes you just that closer to crying in gratitude for what’s in front of you.

Swallowing hard, you suggest, “How about tomorrow, then? We can…” You pause, scrambling for the memory, and then grin tiredly. “We can reset. Start over tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s laugh washes over you in cozy tides of amusement. “Now there’s a great idea. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

With a chuckle, you carefully set the painting to the side, planning on figuring out where to put it tomorrow. As soon as it leaves your hands, Jungkook is there again, claiming the free territory. His grip firm and warm, he asks you, “Do you wanna eat? Or maybe nap for a bit?”

Your panic attacks always leave you drained, and the fact that Jungkook remembers is just another fond ache to add to the collection in your chest. “Nap,” you reply gratefully. “But… do you wanna lie down with me? Just for a bit?”

He couldn’t have looked any more solemn, or any more beautiful, if he’d tried. Squeezing your hand, he says, “I’d lie with you forever, if I could get away with it.” A second later the somber façade breaks apart, leaving a blush and a squirming, quietly giggly Jungkook.

With a snort, you pull him along with you, into the bedroom, a tightness across your chest that has everything to do with just how much you love the man next to you. “Now I know you were with Taehyung.” That makes you remember, and as you both walk to the bed, you glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you going to tell me what Taehyung almost kissing you had to do with helping you out?”

As expected, his blush grows, painting his cheeks with a pale pink, but he surprises you by pulling you closer. With a hand under your chin, the other arm wrapped around your waist, he tilts your head up. Meeting your eyes with a tenderness that floods you with reassurance, he brushes a thumb along your lips, leaving a tingling trail. When it comes, his voice is hoarser than before, firmer. “He was trying to teach me something I already know.”

And then his mouth is on yours, steady and certain. Your lips soften against him, and time becomes languid, moving by the count of each breath that flutters against your lips. Jungkook isn’t demanding, not tonight; he kisses you sweetly, gently, conveying everything that he hasn’t managed to put into words. His body has a gravitational pull all its own, drawing you closer, and you skim your hands against his back, relishing the powerful certainty of his shoulders and the intimate confidence of his mouth on yours.

A second later, he sweeps you off your feet, and you gasp in surprise, breaking off the kiss. Jungkook places you on the bed, stands looking down at you with unmasked adoration. You open your arms, a wordless invitation that unwittingly bares the front of your top. His eyes fix on it, and if anything, they soften.

“I like your sweater,” he comments quietly, and as you laugh, he climbs onto the bed with you.

You take off the sweater in question, and your jeans and bra, easy and unhesitant in his presence. He follows suit, and then grabs your pajamas, placed as they always are at the foot of the bed. You wiggle into them, and for his part, Jungkook just throws on a pair of loose pants. The feeling of familiarity sinks into your system like a sigh of contentment, and when he pulls you against his chest, you snuggle into the embrace.

Wrapped in his arms, the smooth warmth of his skin pressed against your cheek, you let the drowsy bliss sweep over your body, and you relax, sinking against the sheets even as you curl closer to him.

Jungkook’s voice ripples against your mind, a soothing undercurrent taking you closer to sleep. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas,” you mumble. With one last faltering effort, you say, “Jungkook?”

“Hmm?” You feel the inquiring murmur just as much as you hear it, a smooth hum on your cheek.

“Thank you for coming home.”

#thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fic #bts fanfiction #my fic

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pastelwitchling · 3 years

Text

Alex was hiding something.

Normally, Michael wouldn’t have minded, but this was a secret from him, and knowing that Alex didn’t want to tell him was bothering him a lot more than he was willing to confess.

Alex was always painstakingly honest. The blatant lie was unsettling.

It wasn’t like he was keeping out of sight; Michael saw him plenty at the Crashdown or the Pony, and especially the Project Shepherd bunker when he felt antsy and wanted to go somewhere he knew Alex would be. But the airman was distant, like his mind was a million miles away. Like he was taking breaks in between work, and wouldn’t tell Michael what that work was no matter how many times he hinted that he wanted to know.

Hinted. Because outright asking what Alex was doing would’ve made it look like Michael cared. And he did, it was eating him up not to know where Alex was going and what he was doing all the time, but Alex didn’t need to know that.

It happened again one morning when Michael had walked into the Crashdown to find Alex at the counter, leaning on his elbows and scrolling through something on his phone. Michael came to stand behind him, close enough to inhale his sweet vanilla scent, and it was a testament to his concentration that he didn’t seem to notice someone standing so close to him. What was he doing?

“Busy?” he said, and Alex whipped around, eyes wide.

“Guerin,” he breathed, locking his phone and putting it in his back pocket. He tried for a casual smile, but it was too late. “Uh – hey.”

“Hi,” he said, forcing his lips to an amused smirk. “Did I actually scare you just now?”

Alex shook his head, pressing his lips together. “Guess my senses aren’t as sharp as they used to be,” he chuckled, the sound fake and nervous. “I should put in more hours at the base.”

And he turned around as if to hide his face. Michael should’ve dropped it then, should’ve let Alex tell him whatever lie he wanted. But that was just it. Alex didn’t lie, especially not to Michael.

“More?” he scoffed. “How? You’re already there all the time.”

Alex must have been busier than Michael thought, because he didn’t pick up on Michael’s tone either. Or if he did, he was pretending not to. He hummed.

“Yeah, we get really busy around spring.”

Michael pressed the tip of his tongue to the corner of his lips. “Alex –”

“Oh, thanks,” Alex smiled as the waitress came out with his to-go order.

Michael noticed it was enough to feed two people. His face fell. Was Alex seeing someone? Was that why he had been so busy lately? He had been scrolling his phone, was that because he’d been looking through texts? His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest at the thought. Alex had broken up with Forrest not that long ago, when did he have time to like someone else so much?

“See you,” Alex said with a small smile as he passed, not even looking at Michael. Michael caught his scent as he passed, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest.

Let it go, he warned himself as he heard the door of the diner open and close behind Alex. His hands clenched to fists, and the faint clacking of trembling plates and glasses rang. The ground quivered, and he briefly noted someone to his side go, “Is it an earthquake?”

But he couldn’t care what impression he was making, what people might guess. Let it go, he warned himself again. Let it go, let it go, let it go –

“Damn it,” he growled under his breath, and turned around, leaving the diner to find Alex opening his car door. With a rough, upward nudge of his chin, the door slammed shut, and Alex stepped back, startled. Then he looked up, caught Michael’s gaze, and something in his expression turned resigned, as if thinking, I should’ve known.

“Are you seriously going to do this?”

“Are you seriously gonna lie to my face?”

“I’m not lying,” Alex said, looking away. “I am busy –”

“Too busy for me?”

Alex pressed his lips together. “Okay, you know what? Fine. I’m looking into something, but –”

“Great. What?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

Michael shook his head. Since when did Alex hide things from him? The only time he’d ever hidden anything was . . .

“The spaceship piece,” he realized. “You’re looking into something about me, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t talk to me?”

Alex said nothing. Michael huffed a relieved, exasperated chuckle. “Private, come on, what do you think I’m gonna do?”

He searched Michael’s face a moment, as if silently deliberating with himself, and he sighed, his shoulders slumped. “Get your hopes up.”

Michael shook his head, reaching for Alex’s hand. A relief he didn’t know he’d needed hit him when Alex didn’t pull away. He moved closer, his other hand cupping Alex’s jaw.

“When do I ever get my hopes up about anything?”

He’d meant it to be a joke, but Alex’s frown deepened. “You pretend you don’t,” he said. “You’re not the realist I am, Guerin, no matter how hard you try to be.” He exhaled shakily and leaned in. Michael met him halfway, pressing their foreheads together. “If you knew what I was doing, and I – I failed –”

“Hey,” Michael said. “Nothing you do could ever disappoint me.”

He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d needed to be with Alex, to feel close to him and know he was here, not trying to avoid Michael, but to protect him again. He should’ve hated it; how desperately he needed to be with Alex, to inhale his scent and feel his breath against his lips.

For a moment, he couldn’t think of anything but that feeling of Alex close to him. He wrapped an arm around Alex’s waist and pulled their bodies tightly together. He heard Alex’s soft gasp.

“W-What’re you –”

“Giving us what we both need,” Michael breathed, bringing his other hand into Alex’s hair, reveling at the soft strands between his fingers. “Don’t ever ghost me again.”

Alex visibly swallowed and nodded, one hand tight on Michael’s jacket. His dark eyes looked up into Michael’s, and it was a miracle Michael managed to stay standing. Then he licked his lips, and Michael’s mouth fell open as he leaned in.

“Alex –”

But Alex was already stepping back, his knuckles on Michael’s jacket white, and Michael was glad to know the distance between them, no matter how small, wasn’t just bothering him.

Before he could ask Alex what he was doing, why he was moving away, Alex said, “Call Max and Isobel. Meet me in the Project Shepherd bunker tonight at midnight.”

Michael’s brows furrowed. “Alex, you can just tell me –”

“No, Guerin,” he said, something like apprehension in his eyes. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Alex afraid. “This is about all three of you. You should all know.”

Michael hadn’t wanted to let Alex go for fear that he would disappear again, but the urgency in his voice, the concern, it had Michael taking out his phone and dialing for his brother before Alex could even pull out of the Crashdown parking lot.

Neither of his siblings knew what to make of his request to suddenly come to the Project Shepherd bunker, but as soon as they found out that Alex was the one who had asked, they knew it was serious and stopped whatever they were doing. Alex rarely asked them for anything, let alone anything together. If he said it was important, they all knew better than to question it.

When Michael and his siblings had walked into the bunker, they found Alex and Kyle together, heads huddled closely over a chart of planets and stars. Michael’s brows furrowed as he neared it. It looked like one of his old alignments, discarded and forgotten years ago, but it had more writing and lines drawn over with pens, writing along the corners, equations and different arrows on other, smaller pieces of paper taped on top. It looked like weeks’ worth of work crammed onto one table.

“Hey,” Alex said, glancing up. “Thanks for coming.”

Michael’s priority at the moment was getting close to Alex, so he wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in against him, and, more importantly, away from Kyle.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked.

“What is all this?” Max said, still staring at the map of planets like he recognized some of them and was trying to remember where.

Alex sighed shakily in that way that always made Michael want to hold him and protect him from the world. He tightened the arm around his waist, all but pressing Alex’s back to his own chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs.

“This,” he said, “is a working theory. But just for now. We’ll know soon enough if it’s accurate or not.”

“What do you mean?” Isobel shook her head, looking to Kyle. “What’ve you guys been doing this whole time?”

“Well,” Kyle said, looking almost as tired as Alex, “it was actually Alex’s idea.”

Alex stepped out of Michael’s hold, squeezing his wrist quickly before letting go. “It – the last time I came down to your bunker, I saw this map and I realized it was familiar.”

Michael was frowning. He tried to listen, but he couldn’t focus with Alex so far away. Still, no matter how many steps Michael took towards him or tried to reach for him, Alex still kept a distance, and Michael didn’t know why.

“Familiar?” Max raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Alex glanced at Michael, then said, “In the – the Project Shepherd archives.”

Michael’s brows furrowed, and he looked to Max and Isobel to make sure he’d heard right. “You’re saying Project Shepherd had this map?”

“They had one like it,” he said. “Some of the planets were in different parts of the solar system and the stars didn’t exactly align, but these symbols here?” he pointed at the little curved drawings along the corners, and Michael realized that he recognized them, too.

“They’re the exact same from the spaceship piece Guerin has, with lights – here, these glowing things here? I tracked their recorded heat signatures and they fit the pods’ signatures exactly. Decades worth of work in these charts, so –”

“So he called me,” Kyle said, “and we’ve been working out a way to connect the two maps ever since.” He smiled humorlessly. “So many things I never needed to know about stars and galaxies, but hey, why would I want to spend my nights at the bar with my best friend when we could be working on astrology alignments in a dark bunker for weeks on end? You know, like all the cool alien conspiracists.”

“Okay, first of all,” Isobel said, “you’re not an alien conspiracist if you know actual aliens. And second –”

“Where did you even get access to this?” Max asked, looking between Alex and Kyle and settling on Alex. “Aren’t your dad’s colleagues going to notice that these charts are missing?”

“I’m the best hacker the Air Force has had in a century,” Alex said with a surety that made Michael instinctively reach out to touch him, even as his eyes stayed on the alignments, searching. “No one will find anything I don’t want them to.”

“Alex,” Michael said slowly, not daring to hope. “Is this what I think it is?”

He looked up and saw that Alex had been watching him carefully, and suddenly, the distance made sense. When Alex had first asked to know everything about Michael, Michael had shown him his spaceship and told him he’d wanted more than anything to leave the planet. What if he was given the choice? Alex had been so terrified that he’d kept a piece of the spaceship hidden for months, something he wouldn’t have done for anyone else. But because it was Michael, because Michael was special, he’d done what he’d needed to do to keep him.

And then Alex had said he wouldn’t stand in his way, and Michael hadn’t stopped him. No wonder he was so terrified now, of what Michael might say, of his decision.

Max shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell us you were looking into this?”

Alex hesitated. “Because there was a smaller than one-percent chance I was right, and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Alex?” Michael said.

Alex swallowed and looked down, like he already knew what Michael would want, what he would choose, and it was so heartbreaking that Michael almost didn’t want Alex to tell him at all.

But Alex was still Alex, still strong, still self-sacrificing, still too in love with Michael to think of himself.

He swallowed and straightened. He glanced at Max and Isobel, the realization and apprehension dawning on their faces, then his eyes settled back on Michael. “I think Kyle and I got it right. I think we may have found your planet.”

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex fic #malex fanfic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

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alexiessan · 4 years

Text

Never alone - Chapter Twenty Three - Soulmate AU

AO3

Previous - Here - Next

Master List

Marinette didn’t sleep that night. Neither did Damian. She had spent the night in his arms, doing her best to not break down. Cloud had been there too, offering her hugs to comfort her. The dog had gotten so much bigger now, almost bigger than her own small frame, and fluffier than ever.

Having both her boyfriend and Cloud to hug helped her a big deal.

Damian made sure to make her talk about small things to distract her. They watched movies, and Dick joined them, worried about his future sister-in-law.

Marinette and Dick ended up singing along the characters when they watched Mamma mia, while Damian watched from the couch, obviously wondering what he was doing there.

But the Eurasian girl was a bit happier than she was the night before, so it was a win for the youngest Wayne. He knew it wouldn’t last, but at least, Hawkmoth didn’t get to take advantage of her emotional state.

They all fell asleep on the couch in the early morning.

Marinette didn’t have the strength to face Plagg for a whole week. It was only after a day at school when she talked to Adrien for the first time since he gave the ring up, that she decided it was time to have a talk with Plagg.

Adrien had seemed happy when she talked to him. She didn’t know if genuinely was happy or if he was really good at faking it, but he had an entire conversation with her with a smile on his face.

It was like he was a different person than he was a week ago when he had his existential crisis over his father being his enemy.

So, when she went home after meeting with Chloé for their group project, she put the ring on, its aspect changing automatically to her own taste, and Plagg appeared in front of her, a sad smile on his tiny face.

“Hey, bug,” he began and she could feel her eyes water when she heard the sadness in his voice. “Hey, none of that now. I know we’re both having a hard time, but it’s better that way, really.”

Marinette frowned. “What do you mean?”

The cat-like kwami sighed. “I’ve lost some of my chosen in the past. Some died. Others used the Miraculous for bad things and had to be put down or lost their Miraculous. Adrien chose to give the ring up so he wasn’t tempted to help his father by giving him half of the Miraculous he’s seeking,” he let out a wet laugh. “Honestly, I didn’t know the kid had it in him to do that. He can’t stand up to his father, but he still did the right thing.”

The fashion designer nodded, knowing how hard it must have been for the model to make this decision.

Adrien Agreste wasn’t the perfect teenager that everyone believed he was. He knew how to make it seem like he was perfect, but he wasn’t. Adrien… Adrien was a bit of an enabler. Being isolated by his father for years didn’t help in his social abilities, and his friends had to explain a lot of things to him. Like, what sexual harassment was, or why it’s wrong to let a liar get her way. Why it’s wrong to put the feelings of a girl he barely knows above the feelings of one of his closest friends. Why it hurt said friend.

Sometimes, if it wasn’t explained to him, Adrien wouldn’t understand, and wouldn’t put the effort to.

So, no, Adrien wasn’t perfect.

He had hurt her, both as Chat Noir when he forced his feelings on Ladybug, and as Adrien, when he told Marinette to put her feelings aside so a liar wouldn’t get akumatized, without a care about the designer’s own risk at akumatization.

He had hurt her, but she had forgiven him because he was her friend and she cared about him.

But, just like Plagg, knowing Adrien, his decision surprised her at first.

She felt bad for it, but she had thought, for a moment, that he was going to betray her.

Taking a deep breath, she scratched Plagg behind his ear. “I’m sorry you lost your partner,” she apologized.

Plagg let out another wet laugh. “I’m sorry you lost your partner.”

Pursing her lips, she gathered the black kwami in her hands. “But you didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

The kwami of destruction floating up next to her cheek, nuzzling against it.

“It’s okay. You don’t always get the luxury to say goodbye,” he floated in front of her face so he could look at her in the eyes. “We’ll be fine. And Adrien will be too. Now, we just need to end this whole thing, alright?”

Marinette laughed, but it was empty. “Alright.”

They waited a little bit before acting. They didn’t want to act so soon after Gabriel revealed himself to his son. If they acted and something went wrong, then the man could think that his son denounced him and could do something to him.

They didn’t want to risk it, so they waited until mid-March.

There were some Akumas during February but they were easy, which meant that Hawkmoth had plans for a much stronger Akuma later on. Hopefully, they would defeat him before he could act on it.

February has been a good month for them, and they enjoyed life a bit more than usual. Her project with Chloé was done and at the end of their presentation, they got a good grade. She was still seeing Chloé outside of school from time to time, beginning a tentative friendship.

She was glad to witness Chloé’s change.

Alya and Nino were doing better and remained friends. They even met Léa, Nino’s soulmate. They weren’t dating yet, but Marinette could see that they liked each other. She just hoped that when they started dating, Alya would be able to handle it. She had made so much progress in accepting her break up, she would hate to see her go back to how she was just after the breakup.

Damian and she finally got to spend their first Valentine’s Day together. They kept it simple, though, going out for dinner in a cozy restaurant, walking back to the Wayne’s apartment, and ending the night with a movie, cuddling with each other, Alfred the cat on their laps and Cloud at their feet.

She has been working on a dress for Damian’s prom and couldn’t contain her excitement. It amused Damian to no end and he would tease her about it and they would banter for a while.

Marinette was happy, and the sooner they got to defeat Hawkmoth, the happier she was.

Damian observed his girlfriend from the chair in her room. She was working on her dress, almost finished with it. He couldn’t wait to see her wearing it, knowing that she would be gorgeous in it.

He smirked, knowing that him going to prom with a date would shock everyone at school. It would amuse him for five minutes before finding it annoying, but he was good at ignoring the stares.

He hoped that Marinette would be able to ignore them too.

Looking around the room — with so much pink — he couldn’t help but think that a week from now, they would fight with Hawkmoth. He had no idea what would happen, but somehow, he wasn’t worried.

He had a feeling that everything would be alright from them.

Still, Marinette was being anxious over it, and he wanted to do something to help her relax.

Perhaps a weekend outside of Paris would help? They hadn’t left Paris ever since their little trip back in fall, and it would only benefit them to leave the city for a day or two.

Plus, it was getting warmer — too much, if he was being honest, and, wow, was the planet in danger — so they could go hiking somewhere.

Getting up, he walked to her, hugging her from behind. She leaned into him and he kissed her softly on the neck, going up until he was kissing her temple.

“I was thinking,” he began in a whisper, not willing to break the silence by being too loud.

She hummed in answer, leaning more into his chest.

“We should go somewhere this weekend, you know, to relax a little.”

Marinette sighed, but it was a happy one. “That would be great,” she admitted, turning around so she was facing him. “What were you thinking about?”

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her up and brought her closer to him so he was hugging her. She returned the hug, putting her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

It was something that she did often, and Damian found out that it helped her relax.

“How about we go hiking somewhere? I heard there are great spots for it in Normandie.”

“It’s beautiful there. A bit cold and rainy though, but we should manage,” she looked up, smiling at him and he found himself smiling back.

“Good. We’re leaving tomorrow?”

She nodded and he leaned forward to kiss her.

The weekend has been great, but too short in Damian’s opinion. He didn’t get to spend time alone with Marinette too often. There was always someone to tag along with them, and this time, they had been able to enjoy each other much more than usual.

This is why, on their way back in Paris, he decided they could take the next step in their relationship.

“I was thinking,” he began, making Marinette look away from the train’s window to look at him. She smiled at him, much more relaxed than two days ago.

“We’ve been together for almost two years, now,” he said taking her hand in his. “I was thinking we could take the next step, you know?” He saw her nod, still smiling at him.

Looking into her eyes, he felt relieved that she wasn’t expecting him to propose. Good, because with the way he was speaking, it could have seemed like it, but it wasn’t.

“When I get back to Paris for College, would you like us to live together?”

Marinette beamed at him, this smiled he loved so much on her lips.

“Really?!”

“Really,” he nodded.

And then, his arms were full of his girlfriend, who was kissing him.

“I would love to,” she exclaimed once she put distance between them.

They met halfway for a kiss, sealing this promise.

Then, it was time to confront Hawkmoth.

The day before, they went to the police and presented their evidence against Gabriel Agreste. They told them that they would act the next day and would appreciate it if they could wait in front of the Agreste residence to arrest the man.

After reviewing the evidence, the police easily agreed.

Marinette chose to put the ring in the Miracle Box. If things were to go south, then Hawkmoth would only have one Miraculous and not both.

It was better to be safe than sorry.

She was so nervous that even Damian’s word and touch couldn’t relax her.

But she didn’t have to worry at all.

Defeating Hawkmoth was anti-climatic.

She had always imagined a great battle. Blood, destruction, screams. Something messy that would attract the city’s attention and would be followed by everyone.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sanscœur were the former’s office, working on whatever it was they were working on.

They weren’t expecting them at all.

Robin and Nightwing were very good in combat. Way better than she was, and way better than Gabriel and Nathalie were.

They didn’t have time to transform before Robin and Nightwing took them down.

All she had to do, in the end, was to restrain them and take their Miraculous.

“Gabriel Agreste, Nathalie Sanscœur, you used the Miraculous for selfish reasons. As the Guardian of the Miraculous, I declare you unworthy of wielding one.”

Without waiting a bit, she took their Miraculous, stocking them in her yoyo.

Gabriel and Nathalie were escorted to the police to be properly arrested, and Ladybug could only stare after them.

It was over. Hawkmoth’s reign was finally over.

Paris was free.

“Are you alright?”

Robin’s hand on her shoulder was warm and when she turned around, the warmth and love in his eyes made her tear up.

And then, finally, she broke down.

She collapsed in his arms, crying for the first time in years, not having to worry about her feelings being taken advantage of.

She cried in her soulmate’s arms, and he held her.

He held her until she stopped crying.

Tag List:

@bigpicklebananatree @animegirlweeb @crazylittlemunchkin @northernbluetongue @cutechip @justafanwarrior @iloontjeboontje @resignedcatservant @maribat-is-lifeblood @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @toodaloo-kangaroo @mikantsume @dast218 @amayakans @zestyzealot @lunarwolfspn @corabeth11 @marinettepotterandplagg @olynix @aestheticnpoetic @hot-neighbour-nextdoor @thehufflepuffranger-blog @k-poplunardreams @tis-i-beanbandit @bluesimani @laurcad123 @notmycupoftea26

#maribat #daminette #maridami #damian x marinette #ml x dc #mlb x dc #miraculous x dc

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seeaddywrite · 4 years

Text

not a place, but a feeling

a/n: written for alex manes appreciation week 2020, day 1. i used the theme ‘home can be a person,’ but took a lot of liberties, whoops? thanks as always to @soberqueerinthewild for catching all of my repetition, wacky tenses, & holding my hand through the last 5k words of this fic, haha.

warnings: starts with forlex, but this is very clearly a malex fic & forrest does not end up particularly happy. angst with a happy ending, as per usual. 8k+ wordcount.

________

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Alex mutters to himself, turning the key in his SUV’s ignition for the third time and hoping for a miracle. The engine wheezes, sputters a few times, and finally settles into a high-pitched whine that sets Alex’s teeth on edge. Apparently, the ‘check engine’ light on his dash that morning had been more urgent than he’d expected -- and now, he’s stuck somewhere between Jim Valenti’s old hunting cabin and town. Fantastic. He’d already been running late to meet Forrest thanks to taking way too long to pick an outfit for their first official date, and now he’s over half an hour late.

As if it read his mind, Alex’s phone starts to ring, Forrest’s name flashing across the display. Groaning, Alex accepts the call and tries to crank the engine one more time. The attempt results in a screech and an alarming puff of smoke emerging from beneath the hood. With a bitten-off curse, Alex yanks the key from the ignition and throws the car door open, hastily putting a safe distance between himself and the smoking vehicle. Logic tells him that the smoke isn’t necessarily a precursor to an explosion, or even a fire, but years of military training and instinct are impossible to ignore.

“Hello? Hello? Alex, are you there?”

Alex glances from the still-smoking SUV to the phone in his palm, the source of the tinny-sounding voice calling his name. Frustrated with himself, he smacks a hand against his face and answers, hoping Forrest hasn’t already hung up on him. “Hey, yeah, I’m here. Sorry -- my car doesn’t want to start, and I guess I cranked it one too many times, because the engine just started smoking.”

For a moment, the only thing Alex hears on the other end of the line is blaring music. “I should probably not be relieved that your car blew up, huh?” Forrest asks, a self-deprecating laugh clear even through the pounding bass in the background. “I was starting to think you were standing me up.”

“What? Why would you think that?” Alex asks, putting the call on speaker so he could pull up Guerin’s contact information and start a new text while he listens. There’s no one else he could call at this hour, and he needs to be able to get to base on Monday, one way or the other. Michael would probably be able to fix the SUV, and even if he couldn’t do it overnight, he’d at least get Alex a loaner car for a few days while he did. And, after that, Alex wouldn’t have to worry about something like this happening again anytime soon; he could trust that Michael would actually fix the problem entirely, unlike any other mechanics in Roswell -- or in general, honestly.

My car gave up on me halfway to town. Any chance of some help?

It only occurs to Alex after the message has gone through that he should probably be a little more apprehensive about texting Guerin out of nowhere, but he’s really not. The two of them make a hell of a team, and after spending so much time together unravelling the mysteries of Nora and Tripp, and everything that came after, Alex is more confident than ever that Michael will always be part of his life -- even if it’s not in the way he’d initially hoped it would be. They’re family, whether or not they’re sleeping together, and Alex doesn’t doubt that anymore.

“Well, you weren’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going to Planet 7,” Forrest is saying, answering Alex’s question about why he would stand him up, and Alex feels guilty for not giving him his full attention. “And I kind of pressured you into it. I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

It’s a fair assumption, Alex supposes. He hadn’t been thrilled with the suggestion of going to Roswell’s only gay bar, even after finding the courage to push his father’s hateful words and judgements out of his mind for long enough to pull Forrest into a kiss in the middle of the Wild Pony. But he’s not the kind of guy to agree to something he really doesn’t want to do for a date, and he’d assumed Forrest would know that -- like Guerin would have. But Forrest is different from Michael; he has no reason to take Alex at his word, lacks the intimate knowledge of who Alex is that Michael has somehow managed to collect through ten years of hook-ups, break ups, and hurt feelings. And that’s not Forrest’s fault -- so Alex needs to learn to communicate better, somehow, if this has any chance of working out.

“I’m still planning on coming,” he promises, looking out at the darkened horizon, visible only because of the moonlight. “Seriously, I would’ve been there already if it weren’t for the fact that my car decided that tonight was the night it was giving up on me. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

There’s an audible smile in Forrest’s voice as he responds, and Alex feels vaguely proud of himself for managing to put it there, despite everything. “Okay, awesome. Want me to come get you? It’s late, so I doubt anyone’s going to be able to tow you before morning. And trust me, you don’t need to rough it in the desert overnight to prove what a badass you are. I already know.”

Alex laughs, and opens his mouth to retort -- but his phone dings, signalling an incoming barrage of messages, and Alex opens them with a swipe of his thumb, once again distracted from the phone conversation.

Let me guess. You decided to ignore your check engine light again.

Or was it an oil change you put off for six months?

You realize routine maintenance isn’t actually a suggestion, right? You either get it done, or you end up stranded in the middle of the desert begging for a ride.

On my way now with the tow now. Can you give me anything more specific than halfway to town, or am I supposed to just drive and hope for the best?

Alex snaps a picture of the nearest mile marker with the flash on, and sends it to Guerin with a quick, I plead the 5th. See you soon.

“Hello? Alex! Alex, are you --”

Alex winces guiltily and puts the phone hurriedly back to his ear. “Sorry, sorry, I’m still here. What were you saying?”

Again, all Alex hears for a long moment is the thudding of the bass from whatever stupid pop song the DJ is playing, and he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. He already basically missed their date, and now he’s only half paying attention while Forrest is kind and understanding about it. Alex doesn’t deserve his patience.

“I was asking you where you are. I’ll come get you, and we can still get in a few hours of shitty music and half-off beer,” Forrest reiterates patiently, though Alex can tell he’s starting to reach the end of his reserves of understanding. And, considering the circumstances, Alex doesn’t blame him.

“No, don’t worry about it! That’s pretty far out of your way. I already have a tow truck coming, so I’ll just have them give me a ride into town, and I’ll meet you like we planned.” Alex pauses, reflecting on his words and wondering when, exactly, he’d decided to avoid using Michael’s name… and why. It’s not like Forrest didn’t already know that the two of them were good friends. It’s not like it meant anything, that Alex called Michael to help -- his car broke down, and Michael is a mechanic. None of that added up to anything that he needed to lie to Forrest about.

And yet.

“You found a garage open at this hour in Roswell?” Forrest asked incredulously. “I can’t even get fast food past eight, so you’re going to have to share some of your black market contacts.”

The expectation of a laugh is pretty obvious, so Alex manages a slightly strained chuckle. “Uh, well, I can probably hook you up with a burger at the Crashdown after hours, but that’s about it,” he retorts, even though Liz is long-gone, and the chances of after-hours snacks at the diner are a lot lower without her. “I just called Guerin, tonight. He pretty much runs Sanders’ garage these days, and lives out back, so it’s no big deal for him to come get me.”

Alex opts to ignore the fact that he knows Michael doesn’t usually drop whatever he’s doing to rescue stranded motorists who aren’t smart enough to get their vehicle to a garage when the ‘check engine’ light comes on when he’s not working. That’s just what friends do for each other, and Alex would do the same, if their positions were reversed.

“Oh.” Alex doesn’t know Forrest well enough to read the emotion in the short syllable, but he’s not naive enough to think he sounds pleased. “You two must be pretty good friends if he’s giving up his Friday night plans to come pick you up, huh?”

It seems like a loaded question, so Alex just says, “We’ve known each other a long time,” in response, and glances up as a set of slowing headlights wash over him. Sanders’ tow truck pulls off to the side of the road in front of Alex’s SUV, and Michael waves from the window, familiar curls bouncing from the motion. Alex waves back with a grin.

“He’s pulling up now, actually, so I’m going to get off of here. I’ll give you a call and let you know when I’m five minutes out, if you still want to try to spend some time together tonight?”

Alex watches as Michael hops out of the truck and starts toward him with the usual swagger in his stride. It’s hard to tell what he was doing before he got Alex’s text, because he’s wearing the same ragged jeans and worn jacket that Alex has seen him in a hundred times, but there’s enough volume in his curls to suggest he put some effort into his hair. A date with Maria, maybe? Or hanging out with Isobel, who loved to make fun of his hair if he didn’t put the effort in?

“Yeah, okay,” Forrest says, recapturing Alex’s attention for a minute. “I’ll stay and have a few drinks, and I’ll see you when you get here. Tell Michael I said ‘hey.’”

“Will do,” Alex says, and ends the call just as Michael reaches him, hand extended for the keys.

“So?” he asks, and despite the darkness, Alex knows exactly what the teasing expression on Michael’s face looks like. It’s always the same -- a furrowed brow, a mischievous glint in his eyes, even as he manages to keep his lips from turning up in a too-obvious smile. It’s a look that never ceases to make Alex’s heartbeat speed up, even now, when they’ve moved past any real chance of romantic reconciliation. “Which one was it? Check engine light or skipped oil change?”

Alex rolls his eyes, but tosses his keys into Michael’s open palm. “Look, it’s not my fault that the check engine light comes on when you need an oil change -- who wouldn’t assume that’s the problem and keep driving?” They’ve had this argument before; Alex always takes his car to Michael when something goes wrong, and Michael always has to point out that Alex sucks at taking care of an engine. At this point, Alex would almost be disappointed if the mocking stopped.

Michael shakes his head in faux disappointment and disappears to pop the hood, leaving Alex to follow behind and watch. Another wave of smoke wafts into the night sky when the hood opens, and Michael sends Alex a disbelieving look over his shoulder. “Seriously? How many times did you try to start it when it made the grinding noise? A hundred? This would’ve taken me two minutes to fix if you hadn’t kept pushing it.” He’s pulled a flashlight from somewhere and is shining the beam down into the guts of the SUV, staring at what, to Alex, looks like a bunch of hoses, wires, and smoke.

“Sorry,” Alex says sheepishly. “Don’t worry about it tonight if it’s going to take a while -- I’m sure you had plans. We can just tow it back to town and worry about it again on Monday, during actual working hours.”

There’s a clank and a thud, and another plume of smoke curls up from the engine. Michael groans, and straightens up to slam the hood closed. “Yeah, okay, I give up. Let’s just get it on the truck and I’ll figure out what you did to it when I can actually see what I’m doing.” They both take a few steps back, and Michael turns, looking down the silent road for a minute before glancing back at Alex. “I’m going to cheat, since there’s no one else around. You can just get in the truck if you want. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Michael doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s staring intensely at the SUV. After a moment, with a slide of gravel and the squeal of tires, the SUV moves up the ramp on its own. There’s a thud as the connections fasten under the guidance of Michael’s metaphysical hands, and a few minutes later, they’re on their way back into Roswell.

For once, the silence between them isn’t loaded with things they should have said. Alex is reclined in the seat, relaxed and comfortable with someone he trusts driving -- but the ease of the atmosphere evaporates quickly when Michael asks, “So where am I dropping you? Do you need a ride back out to your place?”

It shouldn’t be this hard to tell Michael that he’s meeting Forrest. They haven’t been together in a long time, if they ever really even were -- and Michael has Maria. It’s not like he’s going to be upset. But the words feel stuck in Alex’s throat as he opens his mouth to answer, and his stomach squirms unpleasantly. “Uh, no,” he says. “I’m actually … meeting someone. At Planet 7.” His eyes are locked on the road straight ahead, but Alex can’t help himself; he glances at Michael through his periphery to check for a reaction.

Michael’s shoulders have lost their comfortable slouch, and his spine is rigid. He obviously still cares about who Alex is spending his time with -- but Alex isn’t going to apologize. They’re both moving on, and they need to remember that.

“Yeah,” Michael says finally. “I kind of guessed. You’re pretty dressed up for a night of snacks in front of the TV.”

Alex glances down at himself, taking in the dark-wash jeans and button-up shirt he’d selected for the occasion. “I guess so,” he agrees, sighing. “Uh, what were you doing with your night, before you were rudely interrupted by my smoking engine?” It’s not the most graceful subject change, but Alex doesn’t really care as long as they’re away from the topic of Forrest.

Michael snorts. “Trust me, I was relieved you called -- it’s my night to babysit Max and make sure he doesn’t take off after Liz. Towing a car is way more exciting than watching him boohoo into his beer.”

“I’m surprised you’re not glued to Maria’s side, since she just got out of the hospital.” Alex had only been trying to keep the conversation moving steadily away from his own date that night; he doesn’t expect Michael to go rigid in response. He blinks, turning in the passenger seat to get a better look at Michael’s expression, but he’s gone blank.

“Maria and I are over.” The answer, when it comes, is terse and definitely over-simplified, but Alex knows better than to ask for details. If Michael wanted to share, he would have already, and while friends might have license to pry into each other’s personal life, Alex doesn’t want Michael doing the same in return, so he stays quiet aside from a soft, “I’m sorry.”

The drive loses the easy sense of camaraderie after that. Alex spends the next twenty minutes into town fighting with a small, cruel voice in the back of his head that keeps whispering celebratory words about Michael’s break-up. They’re friends now. Friends don’t think like that, but even after a decade of separation, it’s hard not to think of Michael as more than a friend. Alex hopes that he just needs some practice; otherwise, none of this is going to end well.

Planet 7 isn’t exactly in the middle of town, but Michael finds it without any direction. Alex slides out of the passenger seat when he sees Forrest coming toward them, smiling, and glances back at Michael. “Thanks for the help, Guerin,” he says earnestly. “I really appreciate it.”

Michael nods, his expression still tense, though Alex thinks that’s less about his break-up and more about Forrest, now. “No problem. If you need a ride home, just let me know.”

Forrest has reached them by this point; one of his arms falls over Alex’s shoulders, and Alex only startles for a moment before relaxing again when he realizes who’s touching him. Michael’s eyes narrow slightly, but not enough to be noticeable to someone who isn’t really looking.

“That won’t be necessary,” Forrest tells Michael pleasantly, though he’s standing closer than he ever has before when they aren’t joined at the mouth. Alex sighs inwardly -- this is what he’d been trying to avoid. He doesn’t want Forrest thinking he needs to compete with Michael. Competition and jealousy in a relationship never ends well, and Alex wants one good thing in his life. Surely that’s not too much to ask? “I’ll make sure he gets home in one piece. Thanks for bringing him though, Alien Dude!”

Michael nods at Forrest, then glances back at Alex, an unreadable expression in his dark gaze. “I’ll call you tomorrow about the SUV,” he promises. “It might take me a couple of hours, but I’ll get it up and running for you by Monday. You need to be on base by six, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Guerin -- I owe you one.” Really, he’s lost track of who’s one-upping who when it comes to favors, but Alex isn’t interested in keeping score, and he doesn’t think Michael cares much, either.

Michael nods at them one more time, his eyes lingering on Alex’s face for long enough to make him start to squirm, and then he’s gone, disappearing in a plume of exhaust and the groan of overworked machinery, leaving Alex and Forrest staring after his his taillights and Alex feeling strangely bereft.

“All right,” Forrest says, his voice twice as cheerful as it had been only a moment ago. “Let’s get the night started, shall we? You missed out on Happy Hour, but I scored you a feather boa anyway.”

Alex laughs, letting the teasing ease him back from thinking about Michael and into focusing on Forrest and their plans. This is the path he’d chosen, the person he’d chosen. He’s never going to give up on being a part of Michael’s life, and he’ll protect the aliens and their secret with everything he has in him to make up for what his family did to theirs. But Michael can be his family without being his lover, and Alex needs to stop confusing the two before he winds up heartbroken and alone all over again.

Sometimes, love just isn’t enough. Cosmic doesn’t mean much without commitment, without trust, and there are too many complicated feelings between Alex and Michael to make a go of it. So he smiles, leans into Forrest’s side, and allows himself to be led into Planet 7 with a warm arm draped over his shoulders.

*******

Despite the anxiety leading up to their first few dates, being with Forrest turns out to be surprisingly easy. He’s smart and funny, quick with a witty comment or self-deprecating joke, and never pushes Alex further than he’s willing to be pushed. He understands Alex’s service background and love of writing, even if music isn’t his preferred medium, and encourages Alex to dress and act in a way that makes him feel true to himself. Alex smiles a lot around him, and laughs, and starting their relationship feels like sliding into an old, worn jacket -- soft and comfortable, without any real friction.

“So, basically, you’re bored,” Maria summarizes, after Alex finishes telling her about how smoothly things are going. They’re in the Wild Pony just after opening, Maria in her usual position behind the bar, Alex sitting on a stool opposite. She’s only been back to work for a few weeks after her stint in the hospital, but there’s no sign of weakness in the way she runs her business -- or the way she’s looking at him now.

“What? No! That’s not what I mean,” Alex argues, shaking his head quickly. “I said things are comfortable between us. That doesn’t mean I’m bored!”

Maria raised an eyebrow, her brightly-painted fingernails tapping against the bar. She’s dressed fairly conservatively tonigh in a flannel shirt and a pair of form-fitting jeans, but her nails are painted in pastels, a minor homage to her usual style. “Sweetie, you’ve been dating for what, two weeks? Relationships that new aren’t supposed to be easy, and definitely not comfortable. Two weeks in is like the honeymoon! You’re supposed to want to spend every waking moment together, to have to fight to keep your hands off of each other -- and instead of telling me about how hot he makes you, you’re comparing him to an old coat.” Skepticism drips from her words, and Alex crosses his arms over his chest and stares back at her in return annoyance.

“We’re taking things slow,” he says, and winces inwardly at the defensive tone.

While it’s true that Alex hasn’t exactly had to fight to keep his hands off of Forrest, he hasn’t been fully honest about them agreeing to take their sexual relationship slowly. Alex isn’t a prude, and it’s not that Forrest isn’t exactly his type. He’s just been unsure about taking that next step. Every time their dates end up at Forrest’s place -- and it’s honestly just a coincidence that Forrest has never stayed at Alex’s. It’s just always worked out that way; Alex isn’t trying to keep him out of his personal space -- and their goodbye turns into a little more than kiss, there’s always something holding Alex back from letting the moment continue. Forrest is great about it, and smiles when Alex pulls away, but after four dates and four attempts at moving onto second base, Alex can tell he’s starting to get frustrated.

Honestly, so is Alex. He doesn’t know why he’s so reticent to sleep with his boyfriend. Forrest has always been embarrassingly up front about finding Alex sexy, and he’s never so much as blinked at the realities of Alex’s amputation or scars -- but even so, Alex can’t do it. He’s just not ready.

But he’ll be damned if he admits any of that to Maria. Alex has no desire to know how she’d read into that information whatsoever.

“Uh-huh, right. Slow.” Maria pours a shot of whiskey into two glasses and slides one across the bartop to him, eyebrows raised in challenge, and Alex makes a face, but clinks his shot glass against Maria’s and knocks it back. “Okay, great. Are you drunk enough to tell me the truth now, or --”

“Whoa, shots before the sun goes down? And here I thought I was the town drunk.”

When Alex turns, he finds himself face-to-face with a smirking Michael Guerin. He’s wearing his usual jeans and open-collared shirt, black cowboy hat tipped forward on his head, and he’s obviously trying to act nonchalant. But Alex knows that he’s been avoiding Maria ever since she broke up with him -- Maria had been complaining about it half an hour ago. With that in mind, he looks at Michael again, and sees the tense lines around his eyes and the sharp edges of his smile.

“I think I’ve got a ways to go before I’m even tipsy,” Alex retorts, shaking his head in bemusement. “But you’re welcome to join us and see how many shots it takes.” In the weeks since their last meeting, it’s gotten easier to be around Michael without worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing. They’ve relaxed back into their usual banter, supported by genuine care for each other, and Alex isn’t spending every second of every interaction analyzing microexpressions anymore. It’s a nice change, and he’s planning on doing whatever he can to make sure it sticks around this time.

“You have no idea how much I wish I could,” Michael groans, and gestures over one shoulder with his thumb. Alex follows the movement and finds Isobel and Max Evans settling into a table at the back of the bar. Isobel’s perfectly-lined eyes are rolling in what can only be exasperation, and Max just looks miserable. There are bags beneath his eyes, and his hair and beard have seen better days, while Isobel is her usual immaculate self in floral dress with a flowing skirt and an updo. “Iz decided she’s had enough of Max’s moping and wants to get him laid.”

The disbelieving noise that escapes from Alex’s throat really isn’t a reflection on Max’s looks -- he has no doubt that, if his heart were in it, the defacto leader of Michael’s little family could find someone to take home with him. But the guy is clearly miserable and heartbroken over Liz’s departure, still. There’s no way Isobel’s going to convince him to pick anyone up tonight, no matter how many beautiful women she parades past the table.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Michael says, shaking his head. “I told her she’s crazy. Max has been pining over Liz for longer than he’s known how to speak in complete sentences. There’s no way he’s moving on that easy -- but you know how Isobel is.” He shrugs, a what can you do? sort of gesture, and Alex is stopped from answering by Maria clearing her throat pointedly from behind the bar.

Michael glances her way, his shoulders tensing for a second, but his smile is only slightly strained. “‘Sup, Deluca?” he asks. “I need three of whatever you’ve got on tap.” The interaction is wholly impersonal, and Alex almost winces for Maria, who definitely didn’t miss the cool tone in Michael’s voice as he spoke to her. Obviously, he’s still upset about the break-up, or at least holding onto some hard feelings. It’s not like Alex can blame him either, as much as he wants to be able to take Maria’s side, or at least understand her perspective. But Alex knows what it’s like to love Michael Guerin, and he knows what it’s like to lose him, and he can’t understand why Maria would put herself through that if she didn’t have to. She hasn’t really explained herself, either, to Michael or to Alex, so it’s almost impossible to empathize.

“You should come hang out,” Michael invites, when Maria turns away to get his drinks. “There’s already a crowd, so she’s going to be too busy to chat soon.” He’s right; the Pony has filled up while Maria grilled him on Forrest, and there’s already a line forming at the bar. For now, the second bartender has it covered, but it won’t be long before Maria will have to devote her full attention to running drinks. “You get company, I have someone to buffer and maybe stop me from killing one of my siblings . . . it’s a win-win situation, really.”

Alex chuckles, and nods his easy agreement. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about Max Evans after what he did to Flint -- it’s not like he hadn’t had a good reason to want the man dead, considering what he’d done, but despite all of his sins, Flint is still Alex’s brother. But it’s hard to look at the guy moping in a bar full of people and see a cold-blooded killer, and Alex wants to like Max. Plus, Isobel is always good for a laugh and at least one ridiculous story, and Alex never needs much of an excuse to spend time with Michael. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “But I’m telling you, if Max starts crying into his cup, I’m out of there.”

“Deal,” Michael agrees with a laugh. He heads back to the table with Isobel and Max, his body language getting looser the further he gets from Maria. Alex wonders if he realizes how much more relaxed he seems as he rejoins Max and Isobel -- before Max’s death, that was the last word he would have used to describe Michael in his presence, but now, it’s like something has clicked between them, and Guerin is clearly most comfortable with his family.

Alex tries not to hope that extends to him.

“He’s still giving you the cold shoulder, huh?” Alex asks, once Michael is out of earshot. He’ll go join them in a minute, after he has a chance to say goodbye to Maria and try, one more time, to figure out why she’d ended a relationship that seemed to make her genuinely happy.

Sighing, Maria nods. “Guess so. I was hoping that it’d get better, once he finally started coming back to the Pony, but --” she waves a hand in Guerin’s vague direction, the golden bangles on her wrist clacking together. “I get a ‘hey, how are you?’ and a ‘I’ll take a beer, please,’ and that’s about it. He doesn’t even try to get out of paying anymore, and I never thought I’d be bummed about that.” Her nose wrinkles, and Maria hunches forward over her elbows on the bar, looking run down. “I miss him, you know?”

Alex knows. Intimately. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have broken up with him?” he suggests leadingly, hoping that he’ll get a reason without having to ask, explicitly, why Maria had ended things. The suggestion sends a brief shock of something through his chest, but Alex doesn’t let himself stop to analyze it.

Maria rolls her eyes, but there’s a lingering sadness in them that Alex could pick up from across town. He knows Maria too well to fall for the act she’s putting on, and they both know it. “I had to,” she says finally, the words slow enough that Alex can tell she’s thinking it through even as she answers. “I didn’t want to, but—“ The sentence hangs in the air between them, but Maria doesn’t finish; instead, she shrugs. “I didn’t doubt that he loved me, you know. That wasn’t it— I know he thinks it was. But when you went missing, he just... didn’t think. Didn’t stop to ask for help, or wonder what he was walking into. He just started off on this crusade to get you back, all on his own.”

Alex opens his mouth, ready to tell her that Michael would have done the same for her, and that kind of recklessness probably isn’t a healthy, positive trait in a stable relationship, but Maria silences him with a look.

“Every time I called, every time I needed him— it wasn’t like that. He was always there, he always showed up for me— I’m not complaining! But Michael never jumped without looking, without thinking first, when it came to me. He was never desperate, or past reason, you know? He always managed to keep his secrets, or protect his family while he was saving me. But he didn’t do that when it came to you. Michael thought you were in real, mortal danger, and his first instinct was to do whatever was necessary to save you, and screw whoever else it might hurt.”

What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He sees where Maria is going with her explanation, now, and he’s not proud of the small, smug feeling hiding beneath the incredulity growing under his breastbone. “Maria, that’s not --”

“And,” Maria interrupts, raising her voice as if determined to be heard, whether Alex wants to listen or not. “As stupid as it sounds, considering the sci-fi horror movie our lives have become, I want someone to be that desperate at the thought of losing me.” Maria laughs, then, a short, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t want to play second-fiddle to the one great love of his life, Alex. As much as I love him, as much as I believe he loves me, dating isn’t fair for either of us.”

Alex stares at her, his lips parted as he flounders for the right words. He’s torn between trying to convince her that she’s wrong, that he and Michael are doing well at being friends and that it’s enough, and telling her that maybe she’s right, that it was never going to work out, and he wants her to be happy.

“That’s not— he’s not—“ Alex can’t argue, really. He knows, deep down, in the same part of his subconscious that knows the sky is blue and the grass is green, that Michael would do anything for him, and Alex would do the same in return. Even when they couldn’t look at each other without wanting to scream or cry, they’d always done their best to protect one another, and Alex doesn’t think that’s ever going to change. He’d promised Michael, once, that he’d keep him safe from his family, from the government, and Alex isn’t going to go back on his word on the off-chance that Michael and Maria might manage to work things out.

“Look, Maria,” he says finally. “Helena asked him to build a weapon of mass destruction.” The words feel the words like they’re being torn from his throat, but Alex perseveres. “And he did it. If she’d wanted him to build a bomb that could kill everyone in town, or more— he really might have done it, no matter who got hurt, just like you said.” Another full shot glass appears in front of him when he pauses, and Alex throws it back without a second thought, hoping the liquor will ease the ache caused by reliving everything that’s gone wrong with Guerin. “And how am I supposed to live with that? Knowing what he might do? What I could do, if our roles got reversed?”

The question is as good as admitting that Alex still has feelings for Michael, and he knows it. Hiding things, especially feelings, from Maria DeLuca has always been all but impossible, and this time, she’d barely had to give him a nudge before he spilled his guts. Damn it. How is he supposed to go over and drink with Michael and his family now?

“See? The fact that you didn’t even try to deny it is pretty telling, Alex,” Maria says, her lips quirked at the corners. “Instead, you immediately jump to how dangerous the lengths you’d go to for each other are. And yeah, maybe it’s a bad idea for you to be together -- I don’t know. That’s for you two to figure out.” Soft hands tighten around his. “But I had to make a choice for myself, too, and now I’m sure I made the right one.”

The noises of the bar and growing crowd around them fill the silence until Alex squeezes Maria’s hands and moves to pull back to say goodbye, before Guerin comes back to ask what’s taking so long -- the last thing either of them need is for Michael to overhear this conversation. But Maria’s grip tightens instead of releasing, and when Alex glances up at her, eyebrow raised in question, she’s staring at him with a strange intensity that tells him he really, really doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say next.

“Don’t you think that Forrest should have a chance to make that choice?” she asks, and Alex yanks his hands free as he slides down from the barstool, more than ready to tell Maria to have a good night and leave. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Alex, but dating him is no different than Michael dating me. And--”

“And what, Maria?” Alex demands sharply. “You want me to tell you that I’m not sure about Forrest? You want me to admit there are times when we’re together that I have to remind myself that he’s not Michael, and I can’t expect him to know stupid things like the fact that I never remember to get a freaking oil change? Yeah, okay! I’ve been in love with Michael since I was seventeen. I can’t just flip a switch and stop feeling that way, even if it’s the right thing to do!”

Flustered at the sudden deluge of feeling and irritated by Maria’s pushing, Alex barely registers when Maria’s gaze jerks to one side and widens. “Alex -”

But he’s been holding back for weeks, months, years of watching Michael with other people and trying to open himself up to dating, too, and Alex isn’t ready to stop talking now that he’s started. So he ploughs forward, ignoring her interruption. “But you can’t compare yourself with Forrest, either -- it’s not the same. We’re dating! It’s fun, but he’s not in love with me. It’s not --”

“Alex!”

“Oh, no, don’t interrupt him on my account.”

Fuck. Like he was free-falling from a plane without the guarantee of a parachute, Alex’s stomach sinks and flips.

Forrest.

Alex spins around to find the guy he’s supposed to be dating standing less than a foot away, back and to Alex’s right, just a little in front of the crowd that now stretches from the entrance to the bar itself. Horror and guilt bloom in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. Alex struggles to make his mouth form words, his mind spinning as he tries to put together an explanation for whatever Forrest had just heard -- and what had he heard? How long has he been standing there? Alex honestly has no fucking clue, and the horrified, apologetic expression on Maria’s face suggests that she doesn’t, either. “I --” Alex shakes his head and forces a smile on his face. He can only hope it doesn’t look too fake. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” he says, biting his lower lip.

Both of Forrest’s eyebrows lift high enough that they disappear into his hairline. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty obvious,” he drawls, arms crossed defensively over his chest. Alex’s heartbeat speeds as the uncomfortable moment stretches between them, and for once, he’s grateful when someone drops a quarter in the jukebox and starts blaring an old country song at top volume. It cuts through the awkwardness a little, at least. “I came to meet a couple of friends who wanted to talk about plans to expand Open Mic night -- so, imagine my surprise when I came over here and heard the guy I’m dating talking about still being in love with his ex.”

Alex grips the edge of the bar, hard, and looks down at the floor. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he says quietly, the words barely audible over the din of the bar. “Can we maybe go somewhere to talk about this? I know I owe you an explanation, and I didn’t mean to --”

But Forrest shakes his head before he can even finish the sentence, lips thin and eyes hard. “Look,” he says, and the timbre of his voice matches the look in his eyes. “We haven’t been dating long, and you really don’t owe me an explanation. I’ve known you have history with Guerin since we met at the barn, and it’s not like I haven’t had plenty of clues since then that you’re not over him.” He runs fingers through his vibrantly blue hair, looking away from Alex while his jaw clenches and unclenches. When his gaze meets Alex’s again, the anger is still obvious, but this time, resignation is, too. “I mean, come on. You called him to come pick you up for our first date, when I could have come to get you just as easily after the car died. And last week, when you were talking to Liz in the car? You should have seen the way your face lit up when you started telling her about how he’s thinking about going to college or whatever. And that song -- fuck. How did I miss that the song was about him?”

Forrest paces in a small circuit around the barstools in their immediate area, and Alex remains silent, unable to say or do anything to defend himself or correct Forrest -- because everything he’s said is true. Alex may not have realized it, and he’d truly gone into this relationship with the best of intentions, but he’d never really wanted Forrest. He’d liked the way he felt with Forrest, enjoyed being flirted with and pushed out of the comfort zone he’d hidden within for so long, and Alex had mistaken liking Forrest’s company for romantic feelings. And all the while, he’d been trying to push away real romantic feelings for Guerin, like he’d been doing for the last decade of his life.

God, he’s such an asshole.

“So. Here it is. I’m going to go home, get drunk, and hate you for a while. You’re going to leave me alone. And then, in a few months when I can look at you without wanting to either yell or cry, we’re going to be friends. Because there aren’t enough gay guys in Roswell, and I think we could both use a friend who gets it.”

It’s such a Forrest way of breaking up with Alex that he almost laughs. It didn’t seem like anything could ruffle Forrest’s feathers -- it had been one of the things that drew Alex to him from the start. That constant calm, the feeling that no matter how chaotic and out of control Alex got, Forrest would be steady. But a desire for control, or something easy, isn’t a good enough reason to be with someone, not when Alex has always thrived in high-pressure situations, has always sought out the adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s a side effect of his ruined childhood, but Alex has always preferred the chaos of his time with Michael to anything else.

Alex swallows, his smile small and a little sad when he nods at Forrest. “Okay. I can do that. But seriously, I really am sorry. I really thought that I could move on, and I wanted to try with you because you always made me feel so brave.”

Forrest sucks in a breath, shakes his head again, and disappears into the crowd, headed toward the exit.

Alex doesn’t go after him.

******

It takes Michael about twenty minutes to find him after Alex leaves the Wild Pony. He’d considered sticking around and drinking until the shame and guilt melted away into an alcoholic haze, but ultimately, Alex has enough problems without adding alcoholism to the list. So he’d said goodnight to a still-apologetic Maria, avoided the stares and whispers that came from being dumped very publicly in a small, gossip-mongering town, and slipped out into the street.

He walks home, thankful for the house he bought that’s only a mile or so from the Wild Pony and the fact that he’s able to walk for a mile without the pinching and aching his old prosthetic had caused. He’ll be sore tomorrow, probably, but it’s worth the night air and the chance to clear his head. The confrontation with Forrest had been so public that Alex is feeling more embarrassed than guilty, at this point, but he knows that when that dies down, he’ll be angry with himself for hurting someone that way. No, Forrest hadn’t been in love with him, but that didn’t excuse the way Alex had treated him -- and he’s going to have to deal with that, somehow.

“You know, I’m pretty sure normal people don’t walk down abandoned alleys at this hour,” a familiar voice says from behind him, and instead of jumping at the unexpected presence, Alex lets go of the tension he hadn’t known he was carrying. Michael Guerin’s voice has always meant security, to Alex, even when it wasn’t guaranteed.

“Good thing neither of us are normal people,” Alex shoots back, stopping to wait for Michael to catch up. When they’re shoulder to shoulder, he starts forward again, falling into step with Guerin without even thinking about it. “I thought you’d still be at the Pony-- it’s awfully early, if you’re trying to keep that town drunk title.”

Michael huffs a laugh. “What do you mean? They ended the night with a floor show, so I figured the bar was closing.” He should probably be offended by the joke, Alex thinks, or at the very least embarrassed that Michael most likely overheard everything Forrest said, but he’s not. Instead, he’s just glad that Michael cared enough to chase after him, even now.

They walk in silence for a while longer before they arrive at the fence around Alex’s yard. He opens it with his key and gestures Michael inside -- he’s come this far, after all, and he isn’t trying to make an excuse to leave. Alex kills the security system and leads the way into the kitchen, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket as he goes. “You want coffee?” he asks, heading straight for the coffee pot that’s served him well for the last several years.

Michael shrugs. “Sure, if you’re making it anyway.” He leans against the wall of cabinets a foot or so away from where Alex is measuring out coffee grounds, one foot propped casually behind him, arms hanging loose at his sides, and Alex can feel the weight of his stare as he flips the power switch on the coffee pot. But neither of them say anything, and the anticipation of the moment when someone finally breaks is enough to make Alex’s pulse speed up.

“So, are we going to talk about this, or --?” Unsurprisingly, Guerin is the first one to give in and speak.

Alex turns to face him properly, fidgeting with the bottom of his henley as he does. “Do you want to?”

It’s a fair question. Every time Alex has tried to talk to Guerin about their relationship, about the chance of moving forward, Michael’s been the one to say ‘no,’ or to walk away, and Alex doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to try again without some reassurance that this time will be different. He doesn’t mind fighting for Michael, doesn’t mind protecting him and loving him from a distance, if that’s what he needs, but there’s a limit to the number of times he can put himself on the line and be vulnerable only to have it thrown back in his face.

There’s a beat of silence, but ultimately, Michael nods. “Last time we talked about this, I couldn’t unravel what your father did to my mother from you and me,” he says quietly, his grease-stained fingers drumming idly on his own arms. “And I needed to know if I could find something -- someone -- who didn’t have the same power over me that you always have. Being with you has always made me feel like I’m in free fall, and I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t about to be a fiery crash landing.”

It hurts more than Alex expected, to hear that, but he knows he’s given Michael reason to worry. “Yeah,” he sighs, flipping the coffee pot off when the light comes on, signalling that it’s done brewing. “Is that still how you feel now?” If the answer is ‘yes,’ Alex doesn’t know where this conversation will lead, but he needs to know either way.

“Alex, I’m pretty sure I’m always going to feel out of control when I’m around you,” Michael says bluntly, taking a step forward, his gaze intent on Alex’s face. “You and me, we’ve never been easy, and my bet is that if we try this, we’re going to have to put some effort in to make it work -- but my mom never got the chance to be with Tripp. She had a lot more reasons than I do to be afraid, or to run in the other direction, and she didn’t, because she knew that love was worth it.”

Reading Tripp’s journal had been an emotional experience for all involved, but Alex wonders if he missed Michael having this revelation that day. He’d been caught up in his own thoughts, his own regrets for himself and his father, and the people they might have been if Tripp survived, so he supposes it’s possible.

“I don’t want to spend any more time wondering if we can be happy together,” Michael continues, suddenly close enough that Alex can feel his breath against his face. As usual, his mere proximity makes Alex’s cheeks feel warm and his stomach feel tight. He couldn’t speak now, even if he wanted to interrupt. “I don’t want to wake up every day for the rest of my life with the same hollow feeling in my gut when I realize you’re not in bed beside me. I don’t want to watch you date anymore assholes who make you smile, and I -- fuck, I want to be able to remind you to get your damn car serviced so you don’t end up stranded on the side of the road!”

Alex’s laugh is a little wet, and he’s reaching out to touch Michael’s stubbled cheek before his mind registers the action. He’s utterly overwhelmed with Michael’s admission, blown away by the honesty and the affection and the care, and God, he wants. He aches for Michael in that moment like he’d spent the better part of a decade aching for him in another part of the world, homesick for a person who wasn’t his anymore, and Alex wants to reclaim that home now more than ever.

Michael swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively, and continues, “I still can’t look away, Alex. And it hasn’t been our time, but now -- now I think it could be. If you still want to try this with me.”

This time, Alex’s laugh is incredulous. “I thought you heard what Forrest said at the bar,” he says, his expression impossibly fond as he looks back at Michael. “I’m in love with you. And I’m done running.”

The impulse to do it again will come back, he knows. Alex’s spent his entire adult life running, in some way or another, and that’s not going to vanish overnight because he has Michael. But he wants to stay, now. He wants to make a home with the man in front of him, wants to tie their lives together in every conceivable way and spend the rest of his days protecting Michael and making him happy. And that’s a pretty solid foundation on which to build.

Michael’s smile is wide and earnest in a way Alex has so rarely seen, and he drinks it in, promising himself that he’s going to take every opportunity to make Michael smile that way in the future.

And then, without overthinking, without worrying about what happens next, Alex closes the remaining distance between their bodies and seals their lips together in a hard, affirming kiss. Michael’s arms close around him, and Alex allows himself to melt into the warm, strong chest in front of him, content in the knowledge that Michael won’t let him fall.

For the first time since he went to war at eighteen, Alex Manes is officially home.

#alexweek2020 #alexappreciation2020 #my fic #malex fic #not a place but a feeling

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revasserium · 4 years

Note

Hey! Can i please ask for 5 + Oikawa? Thanks!

hq!!reqs temporarily: closed ; all other reqs: open

send me a number a character and i’ll write you a drabble ;

5. love as one of the dead languages oikawa ; 3,718 words, assassin!au

a/n: this will… maybe. have a part 2… maybe.

for him, love was never a question, and death almost always the answer. it was never a question of why, only how and where and when. but then again, he’d never questioned the who either, assassination as a trade, or the stock of lives taken like tally-marks against his skin – sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear them screaming.

the first time he meets you, it’s at the grocery store. you bump into him, one airpod hanging from your ear, a loaded shopping basket swinging from your arms. you turn with wide eyes and a cherry-stem mouth to apologize for not paying more attention.

he tells you it’s okay, smiles, and glances at the things in your basket.

“big party this weekend?”

you shake your head, grinning up at him, “nope! i just really like cooking. so i cook a ton of food and bring it to all my neighbors. there’s an old lady that lives two doors down from me who loves it! and she has the cutest cat – his name is mr. meowmers.”

oikawa blinks, your voice chiming through him like church bells, the sound of it something he doesn’t think he’ll forget in a hurry. there’s a light in your eyes that makes him wonder if you’ve ever tasted the pain of heartbreak, another part of him that hopes (wishes, like a child on a shooting start) that you won’t ever have to.

“ah…” is all he musters before you’re off again.

“he’s a really cute cat, but i think i’m a little allergic. i always get the sniffles when i visit them. or maybe it’s just cause the old lady hasn’t dusted in like… 87 years.”

oikawa laughs, and the realization shocks even himself. when was the last time he’d laughed like that – a completely unweaponized thing, reactionary and natural. he tries to think back and finds that he can’t remember.

“oh shit! sorry, i’ve gotta go – the weather forecast said it was gonna rain and i left the goats out on the window. bye! and sorry again for bumping into you!”

he doesn’t have the chance to ask you your name; he spends the remainder of his shopping trip wondering why he’d ever want such a thing. it’s not like him to be so… sentimental.

two days later, he moves into a new safehouse. and it’s in a nice enough building, if a little dated (built in the 80′s, or something like that), doorman and mailroom – he thinks he’ll be sad to leave. it isn’t till he hears someone knocking on his door that he frowns, pressing the large sniper rifle he’d been assembling back into its case and kicking the entire thing under the couch before peering cautiously into the peephole.

his stomach drops out of his body at the sight of your face.

your cheeks a little pink, your bottom lip caught in your teeth.

you reach out to knock again, but oikawa pulls the door open with a colgate smile.

“hi! i’m sorry to bother – oh! it’s you!”

you blink up at him as he leans casually against the doorframe, wondering what on earth you’re doing here.

“ah – yes, it’s me,” he says with a small flourish of hands, his heart thumping against his ribcage. the world swaying beneath him because why the hell are you here? and more importantly, why does he care so damn much?

“uhm – i was wondering if i could borrow some sugar? it’s just – i was baking and i was halfway through mixing everything before i realized that i forgot to buy sugar that one time at the store and – well, the old lady, she likes stuff really, really sweet, even though her doctor’s been telling her that she needs to keep the sugar intake down. and –” you teeter on the balls of your feet, rocking forwards and backwards as you babble on and oikawa can’t help feeling just a bit endeared.

“do you live here?” he asks, catching you in between breaths.

you nod, your smile widening tenfold as you point to the door diagonally across from his. his heart sinks into the place where his stomach used to be.

“yep! just over there.”

oikawa forces another smile and jerks his head towards his living room, “i can get you some sugar if you give me a sec. how much do you need?”

you purse your lips, your eyes glittering with what he imagines is an entire galaxy of just-born stars, “just a cup! oh – or maybe two – to be on the safe side. in case i need them for the cupcakes. yeah, definitely two cups.”

oikawa nods before retreating back into the apartment. he scoops out two cups of sugar from his untouched sugar box into a large bowl and returns to the door, handing it over with a smile.

you bow your head, your hair fluttering around your shoulders – its only then that he notices how long it is, falling around your face like a waterfall, sleek and smooth and –

he wonders if it’s soft. girls’ hair usually is. he wonders if it’ll smell nice too.

he resists the urge to lean foward and check.

“thank you! i’ll bring you some when they’re finished – and uhm – well,” you stand back up, your cheeks three shades darker than they were before, “thanks, again,” you totter along the edge of your words, and he leans in, as if drawn forward by some invisible force – perhaps gravity, perhaps something much less physical. but he stops himself.

this is not the time, nor the place.

“you’re welcome! and, thanks in advance! i’m sure the cake will be delicious!”

he watches you scurry a back to your door, bowing once more before you turn into your own apartment, the sliver of it he catches when you open your door is bright and a veritable explosion of pastel colors.

by the time you disappear back into your own apartment, oikawa is already hitting speed dial on his phone.

“tell me you didn’t fuck this mission up already.”

oikawa scowls at the sound of iwaizumi’s voice.

“i’m not always a fuck-up, have a little faith.”

iwaizumi lets out a bark of laughter, “right, like that time you accidentally left your gloves on the rooftop of the shinjuku hit? or that time –”

“okay, okay – shut up! i get it, so i’m a little… scattered, but i always get the job done, don’t i?”

iwaizumi snorts across the lines, “yeah. by some godforsaken miracle.”

oikawa smirks, “i’m pretty sure being forsaken by god is a prerequisite for assassination as a career path. isn’t that like… on the pamphlet they give you at job fairs?”

“alright, what do you want?”

oikawa slumps down on his sofa, “the girl living diagonally across the hall from me. in unit 1012 – whatever info we’ve got on her.”

silence. and then.

“do i even wanna ask?”

oikawa grins, glancing down at the bit of sugar caught on his shirt, “depends. do you like cupcakes?”

two days later, he returns from a particularly grisly assignment, his joints aching from a completely unwarranted bar fight, the front of his shirt completely soaked in blood and beer. he doesn’t even want to think about how he might smell.

“rough day at work?”

every muscle in his body tenses at the sound of your voice. his hand rests on his door and he somehow manages not to break the handle off the hinges.

he turns towards you, pressing his lips into a rice paper smile.

“something like that. some of the coworkers wanted to get some drinks after and uh – things got a little messy.”

you laugh, your shoulders shaking, your eyes alight with mirth. he watches you with a muted fascination. he’s never known anyone to laugh as freely as you do.

“a little, you look like you murdered a guy!”

he laughs, “oh, homicide via tequila shots is a pretty frequent occurrence in my life, so, you’re not entirely wrong.”

you smile, ducking into your apartment only to return a moment later with a platter of freshly baked cookies.

“here, i made these today – macadamia nuts, you said you like them, right?”

oikawa nods, cautiously reaching out to take a few, hoping that you won’t notice the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

when he finally pushes through the door of his own temporary abode, he finds iwaizumi sprawled across the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

his eyebrows are millimeters from disappearing into his hairline.

“homicide via tequila shots – really?”

oikawa scoffs through a mouthful of cookie, pulling his sullied shirt over his head and tossing it into the basket by his door, lovingly labeled burn pile.

iwaizumi eyes him with a curious expression.

“i got the file, on the chick in 1012.” he waves a thin folio in the air before tossing it down onto the table by his feet. oikawa swallows, licks the crumbs from his lips before picking up the file.

he nods, skimming over your name, birth date, birth place, social security, nationality.

“studying criminal psychology, interesting.”

iwaizumi cackles, “that girl? criminal psych? please say sike.”

oikawa frowns, “you never know, she could have been onto us since day one.”

iwaizumi rolls his eyes, “us – you mean you? letting her borrow sugar.”

oikawa scoffs, “it’s just sugar, and it’s not like i’ll ever use it for anything.”

“right, cause you can’t cook worth a shit.”

“i’ll filet your ass if you keep on going off –”

“you know that this can’t be a thing, right?” iwaizumi’s voice dips into a lower register, his eyes going dark as he leans forward to fix oikawa with a look.

oikawa narrows his eyes, “of course i know it can’t be a thing – i let her borrow sugar. it’s not like a fucking proposal for marriage –”

iwaizumi shrugs, “with you, i’m never sure.”

oikawa pouts, raising his hand to toss your file back at iwaizumi. but he stops himself with a sigh. he opens his mouth to say something, but a series of knocks at the door tells him that you’re on the other side of it. probably with another tray of some baked good you’d spent the whole day making.

he takes a breath and opens the door.

“hey! i made challa bread – cause the couple in 1017 are jewish and – oh, were you about to take a shower? sorry –”

oikawa glances down at his bare chest and flashes you a sheepish grin.

“i was about to hop in the shower, but damn, these look really good. did you have to braid it yourself and everything?”

you nod, the excitement painted so plainly across your face he feels his heart stutter.

fuck.

“here! uhm – this one’s for you. and uh – if your friend wants some, he can have some too! i’ll let you get back to your – uhm –” you glance at his chest again before flushing the most darling shade of pink, “showering,” you finish, bowing as he reaches out to pick up the large loaf of challah bread. he waves his free hand as you scramble back to your own apartment, glancing over your shoulder once more before ducking behind the door.

oikawa closes his own door with a sigh.

he meets iwaizumi’s gaze with a flatline one of his own.

iwaizumi looks from the loaf of bread in oikawa’s hands back up to his face.

“not a marriage proposal, huh?” he scoffs, “damn, you’re fucked.”

oikawa stares down at the freshly baked bread in his hands before heaving a sigh.

“get out of my house – i still need to shower.”

iwaizumi gives him one last once-over before pushing to his feet. he brushes by oikawa with a grimace, pausing by the door even as oikawa sets the challah on the kitchen counter.

“y’know, it’s the first time i’ve heard you call anywhere a house.”

oikawa stiffens. “it’s called a safehouse, isn’t it?”

iwaizumi lets out a mirthless laugh, “yeah, but the way i see it now – it’s the farthest thing from safe for you.”

and then he’s gone, before oikawa has the time to snap back, or perhaps throw something at the back of his head. oikawa glares at the place where iwaizumi had sat on his couch and vows to wash the pillow covers the next day. he glances back at the challah bread, and then to the file still on his coffee table.

maybe, just maybe, he should find a new safehouse. he takes a cold shower and decides to invite you to dinner next week instead.

“i thought you said you’d made lasagna before!” you laugh, bumping oikawa out of the way with your hip, bending over to inspect the damage he’d managed to do in the four minutes you were in the living room picking a movie to watch.

“i have! in cooking mama – and garfield makes it look pretty easy,” he says, pouting as he leans over you, trying to watch what you were doing with the lasagna but he can’t concentrate for the smell of your shampoo. green apple and jasmine flowers. coffee beans and petrichor.

you almost smack into his nose as you lean back up, closing the oven door with a snap.

“it’ll be ready in about four more minutes. and is john wick okay with you?” you glance over your shoulder at him. he licks his lips before flashing you a sheepish smile.

“maybe something that’s not about killing people?”

you smile, “what, not good with blood?”

oikawa shrugs, “something like that. what about marley and me?”

you gasp, “so you’re okay with a dog dying, but not with people?”

he yelps, shaking his head, “i mean, no! it’s just – you had a lab when you were younger, right? so i thought maybe –”

you quirk your head, “how’d you know i had a lab?”

oikawa blinks.

well shit.

the timer goes off and you jump, turning back to the oven. the moment passes like any other moment, and with you tittering about how hot the lasagna pan is, oikawa tries to remember that breathing shouldn’t be so difficult – but it is. he forces himself to breathe in, and then out, and then in again.

you end up watching something on the disney channel, but oikawa’s too distracted by the way your leg is pressed up against his for the entire duration of the movie to pay attention.

the lasagna is good (no thanks to him), and when the movie ends, you turn to smile at him, a bit of sauce on your upper lip. he reaches out to wipe it away and time slows around him, the way it usually does right before he pulls the trigger, every millisecond coalescing around him in stark, mind-numbing clarity.

you lean forward at the same time he does.

the second before he kisses you feels like an entire eternity – one that he can stretch and bend to his will as he pleases. something he can mold between the palms of his hands – these hands that have only ever known death now cupped around your cheeks like they’re learning how to hold life for the very first time.

he kisses you with trembling lips and when you pull back, you flash him a tiny little frown.

“why’re you shaking? i’m not going anywhere.”

oikawa lets out a breathy laugh before leaning in to kiss you again, harder this time. his lips more sure, though his mind is the furthest thing from sure – he can’t shake the tightness curling in his chest, wrapping his heart in a thick gauze of worry – when he pulls away again, breathless and lightheaded, he wonders if this is what fear feels like.

real fear. like the phobia of heights, or falling.

or rather, falling in love.

shit. fuck. goddammit.

the next time he meets iwaizumi, the latter is much too pleased with oikawa’s clear distress.

“not gonna say i told you so,” he says, smirking as he tosses back a glass of scotch.

oikawa glares, nursing his own glass between his fingers, “well you just said it, so fuck you.”

iwaizumi raps his knuckles on the bar for a refill. it appears a moment later, and he promptly downs this one as well.

“well, you know my advice. nip it in the bud – kill it before it –”

“she’s got a name –”

“fuck oikawa, i was talking about the relationship, not actually killing her.”

oikawa tosses back his own drink, grimacing as it hits the back of his throat.

“could’a fooled me.”

iwaizumi frowns before flagging down the bartender and tapping at oikawa’s glass.

“we’ll take the rest of the bottle.”

the bartender regards him with a dubious look before iwaizumi tosses down his black card and the bartender bows, scurrying away to fetch the drink.

“he’ll probably upcharge you for that,” oikawa says, not looking up from his empty glass.

iwaizumi shrugs, “who cares. company card.”

oikawa allows himself a helpless sort of grin.

“maybe i’ll just tell her,” he says, swaying in his seat as the bartender returns with the bottle of tequila and iwaizumi’s card.

iwaizumi thanks the man before turning back to oikawa.

“what, that you kill people for a living? please don’t – i’ll end up having to take you out, and we both know you’re not gonna enjoy that.”

oikawa laughs, “you wouldn’t kill me.”

iwaizumi heaves a long sigh, “wouldn’t i?”

oikawa shakes his head, and a moment later, iwaizumi laughs.

“you’re right. i probably wouldn’t. which is why they’d assign someone else to you. someone without any emotional connection – and then you’ll be just another target. just another mark.”

oikawa nods, “just another mark,” he repeats, even as iwaizumi refills his glass.

“so,” iwaizumi says, slipping off the barstool, clapping oikawa on the shoulder, “like i said, kill it before it gets worse. and i mean –” he shrugs, “if you gotta kill her too. well, that’s just how it be sometimes, right?”

oikawa grunts, downing his drink before pouring himself another.

that night, he gets home way too late, only to find you curled up on his couch, his jacket tossed over your shoulders.

he smiles as he crouches down next to you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers linger against your skin. he watches the way you sleep, peaceful, without a single sign of bad dreams. what must it be like, to be so innocent and unhaunted by the cruelties of the world? to fall asleep without the fear of death looming over your next waking moments.

he leans in, his lips moments from yours when you awaken again, smiling as he kisses you. tender and sweet.

“rough day at work?” you ask, blinking sleepily up at him.

“yeah,” he says, smiling as you push yourself up onto your elbows, barely stifling a yawn, “sorry i’m so late. there was a big project that needed finishing.”

you nod, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he scoops you up into his arms. he carries you to the bedroom and lays you down in bed, kicking off his pants and shucking his shirt before crawling into bed next to you, curling up around you with a long breath.

you relax into him, your heartbeat steady beneath his palm as he holds you close.

after a moment, you giggle, twisting around in his arms till you’re face to face, your hands pressed against his chest. you lean up to kiss him, nipping playfully at his lower lip as you do.

“quit being such a scardy cat, like i said, i’m not going anywhere.”

he smiles and crushes you against him, burrowing into the junction of your neck, the place where you smell the most like you. he takes a deep breath, and then another. they both come out shakey, and you card your fingers through his hair with a sigh.

“do you wanna talk about it?”

oikawa shakes his head.

“okay then, we don’t have to talk about it – but here’s what i know – i know that you’re a good person. and that you like cats more than dogs, but you’re also super loyal, like a dog. you suck at cooking, but you’re not terrible at baking, and you like classical music with violins in it. i know that you’ve got your heart in the right place, and to me, that’s all that matters.”

you hold his face between your palms like it’s something precious.

he hiccups and wonders if it’s at all healthy to be feeling like this – to be so full of some unnamed emotion, to be boiling with it to the point where he’s sure he’ll burst. he kisses you, hard, and hopes that somehow, someway – this will all work out.

though he has no idea how.

he pulls back with a watery laugh.

“you’re the best.”

you smile and lean in to nuzzle your nose against his.

when you pull back, he settles into the pillow, hooking one of his legs over yours with a contented grin.

you trace the line of his nose with your forefinger, bringing it down to his lips, where he presses in to give you another kiss.

“tooru?”

“hm?” he hums, allowing the tiredness to seep from his body and into the sheets. he thinks that whatever it takes – whatever that might be – to make all of this, all of this with you, work out – he’ll worry about it tomorrow.

you lick your lips.

“can i ask you something?”

he smiles, a little sleepy, a little (or maybe a lot) in love, “sure, shoot.”

you take a breath, hesitate for a moment before –

“why do you always smell like gunpowder?”

—

taglist: @thewaterlily @dorkyama @vventure @parkersvibes @lena-chan009 @tickles614 @therandomfandomcollector @undertheseabass @miyulovestowrite @writing-in-monotone @lceiji @writeiolite

pls let me know if you’d like to be add/removed.

#haikyuuwritersnet #oikawa tooru #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x reader #haikyuu scenarios #oikawa #haicuties #floofy floof floof #and i guess a little bit of angst?#but not rly that much? this is just weird idk where the fuck this is going #pls let me know ur thoughts? i honesty am just...... v v v v unsure about this LOL #that feel when i usally dont do plot at all and sudden write something with something that resembles a plot O_O;#idk how to handle

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Klaine Advent Drabble 2020 - “Up in the Air” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Kurt is heartbroken after his plans for a romantic Christmas with Blaine are demolished when he gets locked into a flight he'd been trying to switch. Blaine reassures him that it will be okay, that they'll have their romantic celebration when Kurt's feet are back on the ground. But is Blaine possibly hiding a secret that just might sweep Kurt off his feet? (1638 words)

Notes: Written for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'join'.

Read on AO3.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Kurt grumbles, rushing down the corridor that leads to his gate with his carry-on in tow and his heart pounding, trying to give off the impression that he’s not rushing.

Appearance is everything in the flight attendant game.

He was supposed to get an hour sit before this flight, but the one he was on was late by close to forty-five minutes! He has roughly a minute-and-a-half to reach his destination, covering the distance of two football fields, and that’s not the crappiest part of his day.

“Pick up pick up pick up pick up! Blaine! Ugh!”

This is the fifth time he’s tried to get a hold of his boyfriend to tell him the bad news. Try his hardest, he couldn’t trade this flight out for one that leaves after the holiday.

His plans to join Blaine for a romantic Christmas have officially been canceled.

“Pick up pick up pick up pick up,” he chants as he checks in with security and heads for the boarding area.

“You’re late,” his friend Monica teases.

“I had three seconds to make it here from the complete other side of the airport,” he replies with a forced smile for the waiting passengers. The flight attendants can get away with making snide remarks as long as they keep a smile on their faces.

“At least you did it in flats!"

"Wah wah wah," Kurt teases back, giving Blaine’s number one last try before he'll need to turn off his phone and stow it away for the duration.

He's in for a long night - a soul-crushing series of flights, each one taking him farther and farther away from the man he loves.

Finally, Blaine picks up.

“Hey! Kurt! I was hoping you’d call!”

He sounds eager, Kurt thinks. Shit! “Hey.”

“Are you okay? It sounds like you've been running.”

“I have.” Kurt stops in the crook of the tunnel, out of sight from both doorways, to catch his breath. He has one precious minute before he has to perform his pre-flight checks with the crew. And here he is, spending it breaking a wonderful man’s heart. “Look …” He squeezes his eyelids tight, on the verge of frustrated tears “… I’m sorry, Blaine. It’s not going to happen.”

A moment of confused silence. Then realization. “Oh, no! Shoot!”

“I warned you there was a four percent chance it actually would. It’s impossible to make plans over the holidays. It would have taken a miracle.”

“Yes, but, Christmas is the time for miracles.”

“I know, I know,” Kurt says in a shaky voice. “Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Blaine says in a soothing voice. “I understand.”

“I know you do.” Kurt sniffles, pulling a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and dabbing under his eyes before they can get puffy. “It’s just … I know how I am. I’m the clingy, jealous type. I want to see you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I don’t want you to resent my work. Or me.”

“Kurt, I could never resent you! I knew what I was getting into. This is one trip you couldn’t switch, and I understand why. This is just a hiccup. That’s all.”

“A hiccup on one of the most important holidays of the year.”

“There will be plenty of time after the holiday rush for us to spend together. I’ll see you soon. We’ll lie in bed together, hold each other in our arms, and it will be better again. You’ll see.”

Kurt nods in response even though Blaine can’t see. “I’m trusting you.”

“I appreciate that.”

Kurt hears footsteps hurry down the ramp, Monica whispering, “Hurry up, Kurt! We have to go!” as she passes. He watches her disappear around the corner and onto the plane. He sighs. “I love you, Blaine.”

“I love you, too. Have a good flight.”

“I will,” Kurt chokes out, blowing a kiss into the phone. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Kurt hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket. He grabs the handle of his carry-on and continues on his way. Halfway down the ramp, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Before he even takes it out to check it, he knows it’s a message from Blaine.

He should have waited until he got on the plane where there’s a bathroom to duck into because it unravels him more than he is.

I love you, Kurt. And I’m pretty sure I always will.

***

Kurt doesn’t want to be here.

He doesn’t want to be flying over Miami on Christmas Eve.

Not when he has a sexy man at home waiting to see him again.

Kurt loves his job. He really does.

He stumbled into it unexpectedly. It was supposed to be a stop-gap while he worked his way to Broadway - something to pad his bank account, keep food in his belly, and a roof over his head while he got to experience life, hone his craft. And even though he's held on to his dreams of Broadway fame, this job stuck. He has never regretted a single flight in his entire career …

… until this one.

God, what he wouldn’t give to be at home right now, watching cheesy movies on Lifetime, snuggled in Blaine’s arms!

Kurt doesn’t pay much attention to the passengers as he maneuvers the beverage service down the aisle, dishing out Diet Cokes and mini bottles of vodka and Crown Royal. He makes eye contact, nods and smiles, but that's it. He can perform this part of his job on autopilot, has perfected the art of appearing engaged while, in his mind, he goes over notes for an audition or takes a stab at writing his memoirs.

He knows the bare minimum about the passengers on this side of the plane from the things they let slip out of excitement or need - an older lady flying to see her daughter for the first time in ten years, an unaccompanied minor, a row of sorority sisters on a holiday excursion. Everyone is mellow, polite when he stops to ask them what they want from the cart. But there’s always one clown in the bunch.

And Kurt finds his sitting in Row 27, Seat E.

“Soda?” Kurt asks. “Coffee? Tea?”

“A medium drip, please? Or maybe a flat white?”

“A-ha. That's one coffee black for you,” Kurt says, his tone chipper, but sharp around the edges, barely glancing at the man as he hands over his drink.

"Perfect. Thank you, Kurt."

"You're very welcome." Kurt internally groans when the man uses his name. The airline requires all customer-facing employees to wear a name tag for passenger comfort "in a time of need" (or so says the employee literature). In this age of social media, it's used more by the Karens of the world to flame what they consider 'inappropriate conduct' without impunity. All claims are thoroughly investigated, and require passenger and employee corroboration before disciplinary action is taken. But it's gotten to the point that he doesn't Google his name and the name of his airline in the same sentence anymore.

It keeps him sane.

Kurt doesn't mind passengers knowing his name.

Just so long as they never use it.

But this man said Kurt's name like he owns it, and that Kurt doesn't appreciate. Not from strangers.

Kurt's eyes flicker up once it hits him.

He knows that voice.

But how in the hell can it be here?

'I'm projecting,' he thinks. 'I miss my boyfriend, I wish that he was here, but he's not here. No. I'm not going to look at the occupant of this seat and see ...'

“Blaine?” Kurt stares at 27E perplexed. It is him! Unless there's been a gas leak the pilot hasn't told them about yet, Blaine is sitting right there, looking as adorable as ever! Maybe more so, his smile bright and goofy with his master plan revealed. “Blaine!”

“Well, well, well ...” Blaine turns in his seat, attempting a casual recline against the rigid armrest, masking the pain on his face when its sharp edge digs into his back. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I didn’t know you’d be …! Wha---when did you even get a ticket?”

“A few days ago. Your friend Monica helped me with the details. I had to grease a lot of wheels, seeing as most holiday flights were already packed, but I’m on every one of your connections. I figured we can spend your layover together.”

“And what if I had managed to get the time off?”

“I would probably be out close to a few thousand bucks, but it was a chance I was willing to take.” Blaine tilts his head down so he can look coyly up at Kurt through long, thick lashes. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes! I … I don’t know what to say!”

“Say that you love me," Blaine says sincerely. "Say that you’ll have a little more faith in me.”

“I do have faith in you. It’s just sometimes … I don’t have all that much faith in myself. In my overall appeal.”

“Well, your overall appeal is so strong, I spent a small fortune to take this journey with you.” Blaine chuckles when he notices they’ve garnered attention from other passengers, wondering what happened to the drink cart but watching quietly to see the drama unfold. “So why don’t we enjoy the journey? See where it takes us?”

Kurt grins, his cheeks burning when the sorority sisters occupying the seats behind Blaine awww, and the older woman claps.

Kurt rolls his eyes when other passengers join in.

Only at Christmas, he thinks.

Then again, isn't this what he wanted?

His cheesy Lifetime movie?

His improbable Christmas miracle?

Kurt smiles. “That sounds like a plan.”

#klaine advent 2020 #klaine advent: join #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine

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captainkippen · 4 years

Note

Valentine’s Day high school edition

send me fic requests

Valentine’s Day

“Hey, so who’s that guy?”

“Which guy?”

“Over there in the corner. The big scary basketball guy.”

Andi and Buffy turned to look over at where Cyrus pointed. It was lunchtime, the cafeteria was overcrowded and loud, but by some miracle they’d managed to get to their usual table without having to fight off any unruly freshmen in the process.

Buffy frowned. “That’s TJ Kippen. He’s a senior.”

“He’s Amber Kippen’s little brother,” Andi added.

Cyrus knew of Amber, Andi’s girlfriend, even if he hadn’t met her in person yet. She was away at college for the moment, but Andi had demanded he say hi to her last time they Skype. She was nice, if a little intimidating (though it appeared that trait ran in the family).

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I ran into him yesterday,” Cyrus said. “He told me to watch where I was going, then picked up my books for me.”

Buffy snorted. “Sounds like TJ… except usually I think he’d leave you to pick up your own books. He must’ve been in a good mood.”

Remembering the way TJ had scowled at him as he’d shoved the newly bought physics textbooks back into Cyrus’ arms, he thoroughly doubted that ‘good mood’ was a setting he’d be capable of.

“So aside from making enemies with TJ, how’s your first week been?” Andi asked, stirring her spoon around a questionable looking stew before making a face of disgust and shoving it away. “Does Buffy need to threaten anybody for you?”

Cyrus laughed. Even though it had already been a full month since he’d moved to Shadyside with his mom and her new husband, they’d been nice enough to give him time to adjust to the new area before throwing him straight into the deep end at school. Not that it made much of a difference - showing up halfway through the year was going to be awkward whether he liked it or not. Thankfully, he’d met Buffy and Andi at a local diner, The Spoon, and they’d offered him a spare sweater when he spilled milkshake all down his front. Being saved from complete humiliation was the kind of bonding experience that made fast friends.

“It’s all good so far, no threats necessary. I think my history teacher might have it out for me though, he gave me so much catchup work to do. I might die.”

“You can borrow my notes,” Andi smiled, patting his hand kindly. “What about other students? You know Valentine’s Day is coming up… anyone catch your eye yet?”

Buffy groaned. “Andi he’s only been here a week, give the boy a break.”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask! Some people like talking about their feelings, Buffy. Not everyone wants to ignore the fact they have a crush.”

“God, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t have a crush on Marty!”

Cyrus let the two of them fall into a comfortable bickering match with a smile. His eyes flickered over to the table where TJ was perched and he found himself grateful all of a sudden that Buffy had distracted Andi from her question.

February 14th was met with an explosion of pinks and reds from the Student Events Committee. Cyrus stared around in disbelief when he entered the hall - there were hearts everywhere. Literally everywhere. Usually, he was a big fan of Valentine’s Day. Every year he’d make cards for all four of his parents along with his Bubbe Rose and at school he and his friends would exchange little heart-shaped candies with a laugh, then spend the rest of the day using them to make puns. This year the spirit wasn’t quite there. Homesickness tugged at his heartstrings and he wondered whether his friends back home were thinking of him.

It was oddly lonely.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Andi grinned, bounding up to him and holding out a small red parcel in her hand.

“What’s this?” Cyrus asked, unwrapping it with a smile. It was a cookie covered with pink frosting and little edible hearts. “Oh wow, thanks Andi! But I didn’t get anything for you?”

She waved him off and linked her arm through his as they started to make their way down to their lockers. “It’s cool, I do it every year. I’ve got one for Buffy too. Speaking of Buffy, do you wanna go to The Spoon with us after school? I invited Marty too, but don’t tell her that.”

“Don’t you have a Skype date with Amber?”

“No,” Andi sighed. “She has class. She’s going to call me later instead.”

Cyrus was about to complain how lucky she was to have a girlfriend to even call on Valentine’s Day when they reached his locker and he found himself rooted to the spot. They both stared at it for a moment, dumbstruck.

“Do you think somebody made a mistake?” He asked.

“Open it and see,” Andi said.

On the door somebody had taped a little red envelope. Cyrus reached for it with shaking hands and read aloud;

“‘If I could have all the time in the world, I know what I would do: I’d spend the time, in pleasure sublime, just by being with you.’ - Joanna Fuchs

Will you be my Valentine? Meet me at the swings in the park after school.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Your Secret Admirer.”

“I guess you can’t come to The Spoon after all,” Said Andi, looking a little forlorn.

Cyrus gaped at her. “What are you talking about? I’m not going on this date! It could be from a murderer! Besides, it probably wasn’t even meant for me.

“I think if it was a murderer they’d be a little more subtle about it.”

“And what if it’s a girl?” He asked. “What do I do then? I don’t want to upset anybody!”

“You’re overthinking this. You were the one saying the other day that you wanted to make new friends! This could be your chance to do just that. C’mon Cyrus, live a little.”

“No way,” he said, firmly. “I’m not going.”

The park was actually kind of beautiful, in a clean suburban sort of way. Cyrus held tight to the phone in his pocket, ready to run and call the girls if anything went sideways. He was still convinced this was a mistake… or worse, a prank. Oh, he didn’t know what he’d do if it was a prank. He didn’t really feel like having his first introduction to a new school as the loser who got stood up. Maybe he should just go home. He toyed with the idea for a moment, but something inside him kept his feet walking. Was it the hopeless part of him that thought this was actually a little romantic? Or just intense curiosity? He couldn’t tell.

By the time he’d reached the swings he was still in the midst of an internal battle over whether this was a terrible idea or not, so it was no wonder he had no time to prepare himself for what happened next.

“Hey,” Said TJ Kippen, getting up from one of the swings and approaching him with a smile. “You got my note.”

Cyrus stared at him.

“… Are you okay?” TJ asked. His smile faded, giving way to a look of concern. “Look, I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I- I’m not really good at this stuff? I just thought… you know what, this was stupid. Sorry. You’re probably not even gay, I just-”

“Gay!” Cyrus blurted out suddenly. “No. Wait, yes. I mean, no you were right. I am gay. Very, very gay. I just didn’t realise the note was from you, I… it’s TJ, right?”

TJ winced. All the intimidation and meanness had evaporated from him and left a hunched, awkward looking teenager in its wake. He ran a hand through his hair and looked around with a deep sigh. “Yeah, I’m TJ. God, I can’t believe I didn’t even remember to introduce myself. I’m such an idiot.”

Cyrus couldn’t fight the smile that crept up on him. “You’re not an idiot. I think it’s sweet. I mean, the communication could’ve been better here, but still. Sweet.”

“Oh. That’s good then.”

They stood there for a moment, just smiling at one another, until TJ seemed to remember what was going on all of a sudden. He cleared his throat.

“So did you want to get burgers or something? I know a great place in town. Have you been to The Spoon?”

And with that, all the loneliness Cyrus had felt earlier began to disappear.

#tyrus #andi mack #my writing #Anonymous

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sun-flower-children · 5 years

Text

BTS x Male Reader who has really bad eyesight

request: Can I request BTS x male reader how would they react to their boyfriend being almost blind (like having really bad case of short-sightedness which it's getting worse) without glasses (like he can't see even his fingers without them but his hearing is better {like you are losing one of the senses then the other try to replace this one which you are losing}) while they were playfully teasing them and then they get to know how serious it really is? And thank you for reading all of this ♡

Kim Namjoon:

Namjoon had just come back from a productive day in the studio and he was ready to finally relax with his boyfriend. He had already changed out of his work clothes and into something comfortable for the night. Laying down he began thinking about the last time he had spent time with you like this. ' It has been a while, hasn't it 'but before he could go on thinking about his significant other, there was a large crash in the bathroom. Without another thought, he sprang up from his spot on the bed and made for the bathroom. After opening, he found the source of the commotion."Babe, you have to be more careful when getting out of the shower." Namjoon lifted you up and placed you on the counter of the vanity so he could tend to your knees and best he could. During this time you explained what had happened. You were trying to get the towel off the special railing, but it just so happened to be attached to the cabinet. So when you tried to pull the towel, and becoming frustrated you pulled down the towel along with the cabinet. Your injuries were a result of the metal parts coming into sharp contact with your skin. Becoming flustered at how stupid you felt, Namjoon cupped your face." (Y/N) sometimes I get really worried about you. I wish you would take better care of yourself or ask me to help you. When I'm touring I fear something terrible may happen to you and I won't be there for you." While smiling softly you lean in to kiss him on the lips but only managing to get half of yours on target. Namjoon lifted you up bridal style and lay you down on the bed. Passing you one of his huge shirts, he kissed you on the cheek making you redden more. 'Finally' thought Namjoon.

Kim Seokjin:

Jin was enjoying a nice day at the beach. He had rented a private beach so that he and the members could enjoy a bit of time to relax. He also invited his boyfriend, who he hadn't seen in ages. Presently he was rubbing your back with sunscreen in hopes of no complaints on the way back home of sunburns. "(Y/N) how do you plan on beating Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon in volleyball if you can barely see past your fingertips without your glasses?" He saw you shoulder slump downwards as you sighed heavily. " I...I don't know." Jin knew that ranting on again about how you could hurt yourself without them but he also knew that you just wanted to have fun without having the constant pressure of you thick glasses. " Jin..." (Y/N) began but stopped."Baby, I understand you miss playing sports but with our eyesight, anyone would worry. PLus your mom made sure that I would take care of you when we went over for Christmas. What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn't listen to your mom? Huh?" Now you had turned around facing Jin with a tired facial expression. Jin brought his hands up to hold your face and kiss you. First your eyelids, your temple, your cheeks, and lastly your lips. "How about I make it so if they hit your face they automatically lose, and owe us dinner?" (Y/N) faces lit up and hugged the elder with all of his might. Laughing they both fell onto the sand." I love you hyung." Jin giggled "I love you too baby."

Min Yoongi:

Yoongi was in the kitchen looking for all of the snacks they had for movie night. Every cupboard was searched through and when he was satisfied he made one trip with enough food to feed a village. You were sitting in the middle of the couch wrapped up, by Yoongi, as a burrito sipping some of your favorite sugary drink. As soon as Yoongi gets comfortable, he starts the movie. Sighing happily he starts eating and feeding you and the same time. You were trying to get his attention by talking to him but he would start putting food in your mouth before you could. Your hands were stuck in this cocoon of warmth Yoongi had provided. Beyond the straw you were drinking out of, you could really see much. A large blur of color and the brightest of those colors were moving. Halfway through, Yoongi pauses it for refills on his drink. As he gets up he looks at you and realizes something very important is missing. Sitting back down he says, "Darling I am so sorry for not getting your glasses for you. I really wanted us to have a nice relaxing time together, I forgot." Yoongi was expecting maybe a little backlash from (Y/N) but instead, he got laughter. " Maybe you could say sorry by untangling me from this prison, giving me my glasses, and then watching the movie and cuddling together?" Yoongi smiles back and your cute face and giggles."That sounds great."

Jung Hoseok:

To Hoseok's surprise, his boyfriend wanted to go to the gym with him. They had planned out a workout together and decided that it would be fun to go together. Hoseok thought that his boyfriend wasn't the kind to go to the gym often and workout. When they got there Hoseok was given the single pleasure of seeing this boyfriend without a shirt on. They had only been in this relationship for seven months. They weren't totally new to being close to one another, but they definitely had not done the deed. Seeing his boyfriend without a top on made Hoseok blush. A lot. He took a quick glance in the mirror and saw the unmistakable redness on his face. Looking over to his left was (Y/N). Before he could blush anymore thinking about how (Y/N) somehow has a neat set of abs, he heard " Ah fuck!" from his special someone. Apparently (Y/N) had knocked over some workout equipment and the rack ended up falling over his legs. Hoseok rushed over to see if (Y/N) was okay. The nerd had gotten away with a single bruise, to Hooks relief." Didn't you see where you were going? I know you aren't wearing your glasses, but you're wearing your contacts at least. Right?" He looked at you expectantly but all he saw was guilt plastered all over his face. Hoseok smiled as he helps (Y/N) up. "Come on baby. You know you can barely see anything, it's a miracle that you got into the gym without breaking a bone!"

Park Jimin:

Usually, Jimin would have something planned, but today he was alone until his boyfriend would come by around three to hang out. As he was folding some of his laundries, he smiled as he thought back as for how he and (Y/N) met. They were at a fashion convention of sorts and Jimin was walking around semi-disguised looking at all of the pieces that were being modeled and on the racks. He was in such a trance by all of the beauty that he bumped into someone. The someone being a handsome young man that had champagne over his shirt and hair, papers in a fray, and he was putting his hand on the floor as he was looking for something. Jimin tried his best to help the stranger as he also mumbled a long string off sorry. When he looked back at the man Jimin couldn't help but be a bit flustered." H-hi, I am really sorry for knocking you over, I really didn't mean. I apologize for getting my drink all over your shirt and oh! There is some on your face and hair...are you okay? Do you need something?" Jimin was not ready for the gaze that he had found in the handsome person." You have a beautiful voice, I can't see you right now but I bet you're beautiful too" He was shocked. Out of everything he thought would come out of the mouth that he totally didn't have a few fleeting thoughts about kissing, it definitely wasn't that. From there they traded numbers so that Jimin could make up for tripping him over and making him lose his glasses. Jimin sighed, finally done with folding all of his laundries and putting them in their corresponding places. There was the sound of the key slotted into the door knob, and Jimin slowly made his way over to (Y/N) so that they could spend their evening together.

Kim Taehyung:

Taehyung found himself in another art gallery. Lucky for him he had managed to come in on a day where one of the artists of the more well-known of these paintings was going to speak. The session was set to be at five and his watch told him he had more than two hours to spare. He would go around admiring paintings, and when inspiration struck he would pull out his travel sketchbook and doodle whatever idea that was. Eventually, he found himself in the speaker for that evening's sessions room. Taehyung saw a plaque doe the artist and he began to read. To his astonishment, the artist was very close to being blind. Taehyung took a double take at the paintings and back at the plaque in disbelief. (Y/N) (L/N) seemed to be a very young but wise beyond his years kind of person. He stood in front of a large painting and looked into it, trying to understand and feel what the artist wanted him to feel. There was the sound of the shutter of a camera, a sound Taehyung knew only too well. He turned his head and to camera lens was pointed at him. The man holding the camera got up and walked towards him."Hey, I am sorry for not asking if I could take a picture but you looked...there."Taehyung, as an idol, was used to people taking pictures of him and complimenting him like this afterward. He noticed the man wore very thick glasses. They began to talk, and he thought this man was a quirky and happy kind of person. After a while, the session with the artist and to his surprise, the guy with the glasses was (Y/N). Taehyung listened carefully to his words taking notes and after it was over he confronted (Y/N). "Why didn't you tell me?" (Y/N) giggled." How was I? It was my first time seeing an angel clearly".

Jeon Jungkook:

Jungkook woke up with (Y/N) in his arms. Smiling down at his boyfriend, he observed how cute (Y/N) was when he was sleeping a how there was a single eyelash on his cheek. Jungkook tried hard not to wake (Y/N) up as he turned around to grab him the phone. Unfortunately his plan was foiled as he heard the noises of the bed sheets rustling and of (Y/N) yawning and sighing. Jungkook begins kissing his face, everywhere his lips would reach. Nose, eyelids,forehead, temples, cheeks, and his lips. (Y/N) would break into a smile at Jungkook's antics. " Jungkook I can't see. Stop it" laughed (Y/N). Jungkook rubbed his nose on the crook of your neck. His hair tickled (Y/N)'s left cheek and he let himself rest the side of his head on Jungkook's. " Babe I need my glasses, I can barely see anything. You head is a black blob." (Y/N) felt Jungkook smile against his shoulder. He lifted up his head and looked right at (Y/N). Jungkook could see (Y/N)'s eyes squinting and trying to see him a tiny bit clearer. Because (Y/N) couldn't see him properly Jungkook took advantage of this situation by attacking (Y/N)'s face with butterfly kisses. He felt hands grabbing his shirt, (Y/N)'s pulling him closer. He fluttered his eyes closed, eyelashed contrasting the pink on his face as Jungkook pressed dainty chaste kisses on his cheeks."Want to grab breakfast?"

MASTERLIST

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janiedean · 5 years

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I have to tell you something but PLEASE, please, don't be mad. I love Brienne, and I loved her with Jamie, and I'm mad and sad that they didn't get to have their happy ending...but I don't think his ending was shit. Or OOC. First at all, book!Jamie is not TV!Jamie: his relationship with Cersei is different, not as sick or manipulative. He loves his siter and is loved by her in a more "helthier" way: in the show she told Tywing the truth about them, and it's huge considering the love for power1/?

He watched her lose their 3 children, he learned about her walk of shame to get back to Tommen, he witnessed Robert’s humiliations. I think he would have stayed with Brienne if she knew his sister was safe, but he couldn’t be happy if his siter died and he did nothing to save her. He needed to be that person, otherwise all his growth would be lost, and he would have dragged Brienne in his spiral, and he didn’t want to make her miserable. To me he is still an honorable man, bc when there was a chance to do something, he did it: he killed the king to save KL, he fought the dead army, but over and over he said that the Lannister army didn’t stand a chance against the dragons or the Dathraki, he was not a fool. His speech was not about NOT CARING, it was about knowing there was nothing he could have done. He did good, he was good, and till his last moment he tried to be honorable, he tried to be the person Brienne inspired him. P.s.: Still heartbroken that he died, but I think there is some poetic justice with Cercei crashed by the symbol of the power she tried lo long to hold.

anon, I appreciate that you’re being nice and I appreciate that you’re trying to find some sense in this entire thing, but… okay, I’ll go over it and please don’t take me as *me* being mad or whatever but I don’t think a few things were clear here so I’ll try to do it now:

jc in the show is not healthier. it might be different, but it’s not and the fact that it might have been less obvious doesn’t mean that they didn’t drag that toxic mess out for four seasons when it had no reasons to exist. now: I was down with looking at it until s4 because that was book canon and I can deal with book canon. I had to look at three more fucking seasons of that toxic abusive mess happening and I don’t know if it’s obvious or not, but if I have one thing, like one in the universe that I can’t deal with, that I hate and that makes me feel sick more than anything else it’s emotional/psychological manipulation. and show!jc has that in spades and I can’t. like, as it is right now I’m pretty damn sure I’d take reading explicit thramsay fic that ends horribly with annexed detailed fanart than even rewatching five seconds of a scene where those two are in the same frame and is2g if they had kissed at the end of 8x05 I’d have thrown up. please for the love of everything if you think it’s better than book canon your prerogative, but don’t come at me informing me of that because I can’t. especially not right now;

I honestly can’t give much of a damn about the stuff c. suffered when 80% of that is her damn fault and I’m especially talking about tommen who only did that because she gave zero shits about his opinion in anything but we’re supposed to think she’s a good mother or that she cares which makes me especially sick because people have decided that for her out of nowhere when we all know how much leeway they give catelyn for that and I’m honestly done with it, and maybe it’s not inconsistent that he’d care, but it’s inconsistent how they wrote it;

because I mean if they showed some half-regret over leaving brienne or she was mentioned or if the entire thing was addressed instead of spending four episodes building it up and then did in four minutes what it took six feet under an entire season to do with nate and brenda back in the day is bad writing, has no consistency, it also murdered tyrion as a character because I can’t believe that in the span of two episodes he goes from I’m happy that you’re happy to WELL I DON’T HATE MY SISTER SO MUCH JUST GO TO PENTOS when ah, wait, c. sent bronn to kill both of them?

also ‘who ever cared abotu the innocents’ or whatever the fuck that line was??? wow, that’s all this asshole has ever cared about in canon to the point of losing his reputation for it not counting c. or tyrion at least in the very beginning of the series when everyone thinks he’s an ass, and I have to buy that this episode was halfway decent writing?

also: even if I was okay with jaime’s ending - which I could have been if at least it amounted to something because that entire episode was a plot hole after plot hole (where’s widow’s wail? he waves WITH THE FAKE HAND??? WTF??, did he ring the bells so he actually helped destroy the city without knowing dany would lose her shit through jon connington’s ghost possessing her? if bran didn’t rat him out bc he had A ROLE TO PLAY what was the damned role since he hasn’t done anything until now that warranted it??? just the first four) and he didn’t even… help cersei or take her out like he literally was there to just give her some basic human comfort and rocks fall everyone dies, what’s the sense of it?? -, anon, this entire narrative leaves brienne horribly;

because sorry but in the best of chances she’s not pregnant and someone lies to her and tells her jaime went there to stop cersei and tried to be honorable (which given what they made him say about not caring for the innocents makes it bad writing but nvm) and she can think okay, I waited years for the right guy to trust/open myself to and then he left me like that but at least he did it for a good reason now will I ever trust anyone again, maybe, and I assure you that getting over such a thing is not too easy, but that would be the best option. mid-bad option: she still thinks he did it for the right reasons but she’s pregnant so hey, she has an illegitimate child from a man who left her like that to go into a senseless death making her believe she was wrong about him and breaking her heart and she has to play single mother in tarth without him or maybe she can hedge knight along with the kid or leave him with pod or smth but that doesn’t look good on jaime either. or worse, she’s pregnant and she finds out he went just to die with cersei and didn’t even mention her or anything to tyrion along the way so she did all of the above…. for a guy who at the end of it as the narration puts it just went back to die with c. and a kid he didn’t even know might be real or not when she could have given him what he always craved/wanted/needed and left her like that? like, anon, even if it was a good ending for jaime, there is no bloody way that brienne gets out of this mess of a season with a dignified ending unless they somehow manage to pull a miracle out of their arses and sorry but their writing has been so bad that I honestly doubt it, not even david milch showing up like the calvarly could salvage this crap of a finale, and for all characters tbqh, not just them;

on top of that, sorry but it passes the message that brienne, only rep. in this show for nonstandard attractive people who spends years thinking she’ll never find love and suddenly thinks she can be happy with the guy who also fulfilled her greatest dream and opens herself up to him putting her vulnerability on the line (and while I don’t really think the whole virginity thing is that much of an issue since she actually did manage to give it to the guy she wanted it does mean something in this context)…………. shouldn’t have done it because wow, left like that without a second thought and without being addressed in the next episode at all by at least tyrion who has spent the previous four episodes either admiring her or trying to get her and jaime together never mind jaime? wow, I mean, I surely signed up to see the character I always saw myself in getting this shit treatment by people who obviously didn’t understand either her or jaime at the bottom of it for as much as I still think 8x04 did it right until the end?

anon, I appreciate your optimism about that narrative, but this episode was so badly written that it managed to about destroy the narratives of characters that weren’t even in it (sansa and brienne, and let’s not even discuss sansa because lmao), to have every single person but davos and possibly jon but meh behave ooc given what half of their lines said if not their actions because even if we take jaime’s actions as your reading (legit) what they made him say was still atrocious and ooc and same for tyrion, let’s not even touch dany or sandor/arya or really anyone that wasn’t davos. I cannot, in all good conscience, find anything good about this mess because it was badly written. period. even if we decide that the plot and motivations were fine and we try to make them make sense the way you did, the execution was shit, the dialogue was shit, it looked like they weren’t even trying, it did a disservice to every single character that was in it except davos who was there for five seconds to smuggle stuff and I honestly, honestly, cannot even find the force of will to try to make sense of it.

this entire season has been a gigantic plot hole, it wasn’t coherent within its own narration see ep. 2 clashing with ep. 8, 90% of what happened post 8x02 was for shock value without giving a single fuck about making it look in character and making the characters behave nonsensically - and I don’t mean just jaime, I mean all of them to serve the undoubtedly wtf shocking ending they have in plan for us which if I guessed already I’ll hate with the force of a thousand suns, and I’m honestly done with trying to make sense of this thing because nothing makes sense anymore. I appreciate that y’all are trying but I give up. I can’t make sense of a narrative that goes like ‘we’re doing this because it’s cool and if it doesn’t add up with everything we did before who gives a fuck’, and I honestly can do without trying to find a silver lining in a show that has totally twisted the message of the books and turned into an angst fest for which everyone has to be miserable at all costs or it’s not good tv, and that’s the last I’m going to say about this specific matter because:

a) I’m tired, b) I want to finish my spitefics and ignore this mess ever happened and concentrate on doing something that makes me happy, c) if I just keep on thinking about how bad this was IN GENERAL I wish jaime was my #1 problem I just feel worse and I don’t need it, d) the fact that they did brienne this dirty and she wasn’t even in this episode is really leaving the worst sour taste in my mouth and it’s already bad enough that I have to hope her ending is only 80% crap and not 100% crap, I honestly can’t with discourse that tries to find any basic sense in how this episode was conceived and executed beyond my problems with jc, jaime’s writing and the fact that they managed to get wrong one of his three most basic character traits that has nothing to do with brienne or jb for that matter.

thanks for being polite and nice about this and I swear I’m not mad but I honestly can’t with this episode and I would appreciate if from this point on anyone could refrain from trying to make jc sound better than it is where I can see it/where I can’t blacklist it because it’s really not a good idea right now. thanks again and have a possibly nicer than than mine. ;)

#Anonymous #ask post #only slightly less toxic than chernobyl's ruins #anti-cersei lannister #anti-cersei #anti-lannincest #anti-jaime x cersei #got negativity #game of thrones spoilers for ts #jaime x brienne for ts #otp: i dreamed of you #guys i get it but no #and now i'm going to do some work see y'all later

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btshogwartsfics · 5 years

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Fortune’s Fool

Summary: In a surprising turn of events, Min Yoongi requests your help in his hunt for the perfect Christmas gift. *Continuation of Series of Fortunate Events

Pairing: Yoongi x Ravenclaw!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Hey, guys! Look I know this is very late, but I just wrote this up today because I didn’t want to leave you guys without anything for Christmas! (So please excuse any errors or mistakes as I’m sure there are plenty. I will edit it tomorrow but I can’t do it right this minute! I’m sorry!) This is a spur of the moment continuation of Series of Fortunate Events, taking place in the same universe. It’s honestly a Christmas miracle I got this done before today was done, so I hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! I know I promised a Jimin fic, but that’s still in the making, so I hope you guys understand! I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and will have a happy holidays!

Side note, this was actually supposed to be a much shorter drabble for the prompt “Are you sure it’s illegal to kill carolers?” <333

It’s with light steps that you carry yourself to the library today. Heading straight to your usual spot, you pull your scarf up further to cover your neck. Being that you’re about halfway into December by now, the castle has gotten much colder. Still, you trudge back to your small corner, rubbing your hands together for extra warmth.

The library is fairly empty today, more so than what’s normal at the least. This is more than likely due to all the students running amok trying to find some last minute Christmas presents before the train to King’s Cross that will take the majority of them home arrives this weekend. You, having bought your small share of gifts in October, thankfully don’t share the same problem.

You count off the last bookshelf before your cozy corner comes into view.

Some might say it looks lonely back here and maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t bother you as much as it probably should. You don’t have anyone to fill the void in the first place, so you tend not to imagine how much better it would be if you did. It won’t do you any good, anyway.

As you set all your study materials out and spread your homework across the tiny desk by the window, you can’t stop your eyes from drifting behind you.

It hasn’t been much longer than two weeks since you caught Yoongi and his two friends -you’ve come to learn their names are Hoseok and Namjoon- planning out the details of a surprise party for a fourth person there in that exact spot. That was also the first time you had ever spoken to him, if you can even call what you did speaking. It more like the first time Yoongi had ever spoken to you while you just gaped at him like a fish out of water.

You cringe inwardly upon remembering how you had just stared at him like he were some sort of madman. Definitely not your finest moment. Still, you haven’t spoken to him since the day he cornered you at Seokjin’s party. The only time he’s even so much as acknowledged your presence was in the halls in between classes. If you’re telling the truth, you had actually hoped to at least perhaps see him in the library, but he hasn’t been back here since then, either. You’d thought that after the party you two could maybe start a friendship of a sort, but it seems he had other ideas.

Shaking the dull thoughts from your head, you turn back to your unfinished work and set about completing it. Luckily for you, you had read up on the new defensive spells for Defense earlier this year and it didn’t take long before you were packing your things back up. Glancing around you, you debated if checking out your favorite book for the seventh time would be too excessive. However, you weren’t given long to think it over before an unfamiliar bag was thrown carelessly onto the desk you were sitting at.

Glancing up at the sudden intrusion, you came face-to-face with the last person you expected to see here.

“I need your help,” Yoongi announces without hesitation, his black bangs falling flat against his forehead and into his eyes.

Your eyebrow arches in instinct, curiosity already prickling at your mind. “W-with what?” You stutter, deciding against beating around the bush. You hate small talk, anyway.

“I-” He starts, but his words seem to get caught in his throat and he can’t finish. He takes a moment to calm himself and stares back at you with those eyes that remind you strangely of chocolate for how detached they normally seem. “I need help Chris… sh… ping…”

You frown, trying to decipher his words which were said under a quiet breath. “S-sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Yoongi sighs and takes a deep breath. “I need your help Christmas shopping.” He says with difficulty, eyes no longer coming up to meet yours. Instead, they’re latched onto his bag, refusing to catch your stare.

You open your mouth to ask another question but close it before you can voice it. Casting a quick glance over Yoongi, you easily deduce that more questions would probably only make him more uncomfortable than he already is. It’s clear from everything to his expression to his posture that even asking for your help was possibly a challenge for him. The last thing you want to do is scare him off now, so you nod silently to yourself, not bothering to seek his eyes.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” You repeat, watching as his face slowly tilts up to look at you. Forcing down a smile at how suspiciously he regards you, you shove your hands into your pockets. “I’ll help you Christmas shop.”

He blinks. Once, twice. “You will? Just like that? No questions, no conditions?”

You shake your head with a shrug. “Not really. I mean, I don’t know when we’ll go considering the train comes this weekend, but… no, not really.”

Yoongi looks you up and down for a few more moments, but eventually, he nods in confirmation. “Well the train for Hogsmeade is open all week for Christmas shopping, so we can go there whenever you’re free.”

“I’m always free.” You blurt without thinking. You cringe at your bluntness, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind.

“When do you have your free period?” He asks without missing a beat.

“Uh, my last period is my free period.” You reply, your mind whirling from the way your conversation seems to come naturally, jumping from topic to topic.

“Great, then I’ll skip last period and we can go then.”

“What! You can’t just skip a whole period to go Christmas shopping!”

“Why not?” His eyebrows furrow and his lip juts out into a small pout which, much to your dismay, makes him look absolutely adorable. “I have Potions and Slughorn loves me. He won’t miss me for one class.”

You eye him cautiously, weighing your options. On one hand, it’d be great to spend that time with him so that you can finally work on making a friend. On the other hand, if someone catches Yoongi sneaking onto the train, that could mean detention or worse for both of you.

Yoongi heaves another sigh and reaches for his bag. “Look, if you don’t wanna go, that’s fine. I can do it myself.”

“No, wait!” You cry, reaching out to stop him from leaving. His eyes fall to where your hand is clamped around his wrist and you drop it quickly, tucking a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “Uh, I’ll go, but if you get caught, I’m not getting detention for that.”

The Slytherin in front of you barks out a small laugh as if you’d said something funny. “Okay, deal.”

“Deal.”

Silence stretches out between you for a series of seconds and you contemplate if reaching out for a handshake would be overstepping your boundaries. In the midst of your doubts, a throat clears and you look up to see Yoongi has beat you to the punch, his hand outstretched for you to shake.

Your eyes fly between his hand and his face for a moment, and Yoongi rolls his eyes. “It’s a handshake, not a death sentence.”

With a start, you take his hand and shake it firmly. Retracting it, you adjust your bag on your shoulder and the air around you seems to thicken. “So, uh, tomorrow, then?”

Yoongi clicks his tongue in response. “Tomorrow.” He confirms with a nod. “Be on the train at around five-ten. It leaves when the last classes start so we’ll have about five minutes to find a compartment.”

“Got it.”

Again you fall quiet and Yoongi takes this as his cue to leave. “Right, uh, see you then.”

“Yep.”

The boy leaves without any more input, not bothering to wave goodbye before he’s off. You wait about two minutes after he’s gone to finally let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

The next day you’re stumbling as you race to the train to Hogsmeade. It’s currently five-thirteen and you’re wondering if maybe you and Yoongi had overestimated exactly how fast you’d be able to get there. Shuffling your way to the train and weighed down by all the layers you’d worn, you probably look more like an overgrown penguin than a human at this point.

You’re heaving when you finally board and you immediately see Yoongi at the end of the hall, looking around for his late companion. The train is practically empty save for the few students who managed to get enough free time to go at this hour. Well at least finding an empty compartment won’t be too much of a problem.

“Yoongi!” You call, waving your hand in a wild gesture.

He notices you instantly and his eyes rake all the way down your body, an eyebrow raised. “Why do you look you’re wearing an oversized Santa costume?”

You huff in exasperation as you walk past him and into an empty compartment. “It’s freezing outside and I get cold easily.” You explain with a tiny pout.

Yoongi scoffs, but you swear there’s a hint of a smile there somewhere. “Jesus, how many layers are you wearing?”

You ponder this for a moment, mentally counting how many layers you have under your winter coat. “Hm, four I think.”

“That’s insane.”

You roll your eyes, but turn to him to see what he’d worn for your… outing? You’re surprised to find that he’d only worn a thin t-shirt underneath his coat and a beanie. He hadn’t even brought gloves or boots. Instead, he adorns a set of beat up black converse. You begin to wonder if he planned on getting hypothermia.

“What?” He demanded after catching you staring, but for once you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed.

“You’re gonna freeze out there.” You stated simply, leveling him with one of your most serious stares.

He shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t get cold easily, so I’m fine.”

You narrow your eyes, trying your best to look unthreatening and just concerned, but you’re not sure how well that works out as Yoongi clicks his tongue and turns to stare out the window. You follow his lead and do the same from your side of the compartment. You lean your head against the cold surface and allow your eyes to fall closed. The consistent rhythm of the train lulls your brain to a soft sleep.

“Hey, hey Y/N! Wake up, we’re here.” You hear a familiar voice say, muffled slightly by your post-nap haze.

There’s a slight pressure on your shoulder, shaking you awake. You whine a bit before you pick your head up from its position against the cold window. You rub at it irritably and Yoongi bristles lightheartedly.

“You shouldn’t have fallen asleep like that. Now you’re going to have a crick in your neck all day.” Yoongi complains from his place beside you and you stretch out your arms above your head.

“Noted.” You yawn, blinking away the sleep. When he makes no move to get up, you gesture uncertainly to the door. “Well, uh… let's go.”

“Right, uh… right.”

Making your way off the train, the two of you walk along the streets, eyes scanning the windows of the various shops. Yoongi stays a good few inches away from you at all times, but you continue to walk somewhat side by side. Clouds of condensation follow you both as you walk around, no particular destination in mind. You’re about to stop at one of the stores, but then something dawns on you.

“Who exactly are you shopping for?” You question when he dismisses yet another shop.

He spares a glance at you but then goes back to examining the line up of stores. “My parents, my brother, and my friend, Taehyung.”

You immediately recognize the name and match it to a face you remember seeing a few weeks ago. The blonde Ravenclaw boy with that boxy smile. He’s a bit younger than you two, if you had to guess you would say maybe a fifth year. You don’t know much about him, but you suppose that’s what Yoongi’s for. You’re just the idea bank.

You process the rest of what he said, letting all the information sink in. You hadn’t known he had a brother. Then again, why would you? The hard truth is that you really don’t know him that well. Maybe a bit more than most, but that’s not saying much. You don’t even know his favorite color…

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What?” He frowns, taken aback by your sudden random question. “That’s a bit out of the blue.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. I was, uh- just wondering.” You stammer, shaking your head. You facepalm internally, chastising yourself for asking such an irrelevant question. It’s really no wonder he hadn’t talked to you sooner. You look away from Yoongi and go back to scanning the shops nearby.

It’s not until moments later that Yoongi says anything, but when he does, it elicits a small smile from you.

“...I like black.”

Almost an hour later and you and Yoongi are still walking around Hogsmeade empty-handed.

“Yoongi, I don’t even know I’m supposed to be looking for.” You bug, pointing out for the second time a key problem to this… outing. “I don’t know these people. I don’t what they are like. How am I supposed to know what to buy them?”

Yoongi drags a tired hand across his face and rubs at his eyes in frustration.

You sigh looking at him, and decide that you need a break. Garnering your courage, you reach for his wrist and drag him along with you towards The Three Broomsticks.

“What are you doing?” He mewls, sounding rather like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten what he wanted for Christmas. It’s a stark contrast from his tired appearance which compares more to a retired old man than a child.

You clear your throat before speaking, telling yourself that taking a minute to sit down will be beneficial for both of you. “Come on, you need a break. Let’s get a butterbeer or something. It won’t do any good if you just brood the whole time.”

From your peripheral vision, you can see Yoongi eyeing you curiously, probably wondering where your sudden burst of bravery came from. Truth be told, you’d like to know the same thing. But alas, some questions are just destined to remain unanswered.

“Fine.” He mumbles under his breath and you force down a grin at the cuteness of it that probably wasn’t intended.

The bell chimes above you as you enter, greedily taking in the warmth from the nearby fireplace. One of the few waiters dashes over to seat the two of you, leading you to a rather isolated table near the back.

As you sit, you begin to warm up and shed your coat and scarf. After a while, even your gloves are discarded onto the table. You both order your respective butterbeers and silence envelopes your hidden corner. The confidence from earlier seems to disappear and you’re left avoiding eye contact like you’re a first year with a crush.

“So…” Yoongi starts after an extended awkward silence. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Hm?” You turn to face him, your eyes wide and expectant.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not liking to repeat himself. “Well since you asked me, I just thought I’d ask, but it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

“Blue.” You answer, gesturing to your Ravenclaw scarf. “I like blue.”

He nods, offering you a hesitant lift of his lips. You try to return it in kind, but it just comes across awkward. You huff and decide that this isn’t working.

“Do you wanna play a game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah, why not?” You question, hoping that being direct will work a bit better than staring out the window as if you were here by yourself. “It can help us pass the time.”

“What kind of game?”

“Uh, maybe like, a question game?”

“A question game?” He mocks, his soft features turning to a look that seems very unimpressed.

“Yeah, sure.” Suddenly you’re not so sure anymore and you really wish the floor would swallow you whole. “I mean, I don’t really know you that well and yet here I am helping you Christmas shop for people that I know even less.”

For a moment he doesn’t say anything and you think he might not even answer at all. But he just nods to himself, leaning against the table. “Okay, fair point, but I go first.”

You open your mouth to object, admittedly wanting to be the one to start off the game, but he arches an eyebrow at you and you clamp your mouth shut. Nodding mutely, he grins in satisfaction.

As he stares at you, he begins to frown. His look turns thoughtful and determined as if simply looking at you will give him all the answers.

His face scrunches up in a pout and he sighs. “This is harder than I thought.” He whines.

A laugh falls from your lips and you tuck your hair back from falling in your face. “You could ask what my favorite class is.” You supply, also at a bit of a loss.

Yoongi blanches, dumbfounded and shocked. “Really?” He presses, but the makings of a smirk play on his mouth. “Of all the questions you could’ve asked you choose that one?”

“Hey!” You protested defensively, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I had gone first I would’ve asked something different, but you had to go first so I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He chuckled lightly and glanced at the fire before looking back at you. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What’s your favorite class?”

You hum in concentration, purposefully prolonging your response. “Well, I quite like Arithmancy.”

Yoongi gapes at you incredulously. “Said absolutely no one ever.”

You scoff and shake your head. “Okay then, what’s your favorite class?”

He leans back in his chair with a smirk on his lips from teasing you. “Definitely Potions.”

“Alright, fair enough.” You concede, your first question already forming in your mind. You open your mouth to ask it, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of your drinks. Each thanking the waiter, you both take a large sip before continuing.

Wiping butterbeer off your lip, you look back to him. “So question: how come you didn’t ask one of your other friends to help you today?”

Taking a big gulp of his drink, he shrugged nonchalantly. “Are you familiar with the concept ‘Secret Santa’?”

“I’m acquainted with it, yes.”

“Well, my friends and I do this every year, but the problem is some of them can’t keep their mouth shut.” He explains, rubbing his chilled hands together. You give him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look, but he just rolls his eyes. “So in order to keep all the gifts and ‘Santas’ an actual secret, we decided not to tell each other anything at all.”

Understanding dawns and you snap your fingers. “Meaning you can’t shop together if you don’t want your gift spoiled.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, do you have any idea what Taehyung would want for Christmas?”

“Not really.” His smile fell slightly and you missed it instantly, craving back the warmth it brought that seemed to work better than both the fireplace and the butterbeer combined. “My first thought was to go to Zonko’s, but he practically owns two of everything from that store. There’s nothing in there that he doesn’t already have.”

You hummed in reply, racking your mind for anything that could help you place him. “So you’re saying he’s a bit…” You searched your mind for the right word. “...troublesome.”

“A bit?” Yoongi laughed, somehow adding in a hint of spite partnered with a sort of fondness you didn’t know was capable at the same time. “Last month he let three nifflers loose in the castle and got himself detention for three weeks.”

You gasped, a laugh on the tip of your tongue. “So he’s the one who did that!” You allowed yourself a chuckle, finding you feeling rather relaxed in the presence of another person for once. “There was a whole debate in the common room last month. To be honest, most of us thought it was a Gryffindor.”

“At times I swear he might as well be.” Yoongi jokes, but he can’t hide the smile that paints his face. It solicits one from you as well because you swear his smile is more contagious than any sickness you’ve ever had.

“I don’t know.” You declare, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure there’s a reason the sorting hat put him in Ravenclaw.” You jest, surprising even yourself at how easy it is to talk to him. Conversation just seems to roll off your tongue, something that’s never happened before in all your seven years at Hogwarts. “You never know, maybe he’s a true genius.”

Yoongi laughs, his eyes not leaving yours. You find it hard to look away, but eventually, embarrassment gets to you and you blush, diverting your eyes back to your drink. “...maybe.”

You tug gently at the sleeve of your sweater, your mind racing to find something helpful to say. After all, you still had four people to shop for and the day is already dwindling. There’s a thought at the back of your mind, struggling to be heard and you fight to remember it.

Concentrating on the thought you refuse to let escape you, you gasp as it suddenly comes to you. You snap your head up to tell Yoongi but stop short at the sight that greets you.

Min Yoongi, notorious for his cold stares and hard attitude, who most people claim is off-putting at best, stares at you curiously with a mustache on his upper lip, made entirely of foam.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth, struggling to hold back your laughter. It looks so out of place on his usually stoic face that it almost causes you to slip. However, your facade finally cracks when he pouts, clearly in utter confusion as to why you’re acting the way you are.

Yoongi just waits for you to calm down, still having not noticed it yet. As you gasp for breath, you try hard to point to your lip. “Your-your face…”

His eyebrows furrow and a single finger goes cautiously to his lips. His eyes widen in realization as his finger meets the offending foam and his wipes at it furiously with his coat that he never removed.

“What-What were you gonna say?” He mumbles as your breathing settles down finally.

“Well, I think I know what you should get Taehyung for Christmas.” You smile, truthfully quite proud of your idea.

“What?”

“So there’s this book I saw at the bookstore a few weekends ago-“

“Taehyung doesn’t read much.” Yoongi interrupts, causing you to pout.

“Just let me finish.” You shoot back, and he sighs, gesturing for you to continue.

“I saw this book and I think, based off what I’ve heard, that he’d really appreciate its context.”

“What is it called?”

You smirk to yourself, hoping you’re not wrong. “101 Best Wizarding Pranks for Dummies.”

It’s quiet for only a second before Yoongi erupts into a fit of laughter. It’s loud and choppy, but you think that given the chance, you could listen to it all day. You smile to yourself, for the umpteenth time that days, something very uncommon for you. But you find you don’t really mind. It’s a nice change.

“That’s perfect!” Yoongi snickers, holding onto his side in an effort to ease the pain there. “You have to tell me where you found it! He has to have that.”

And you do exactly that. After finishing your drinks and splitting the bill, you walk Yoongi to the bookstore where you saw the item in question. After a bit more wandering around, Yoongi insists you two go back to the castle and you spend the rest of the train ride back finishing your game.

It’s Friday and you’re running around Hogsmeade in a worried frenzy.

The train is leaving tomorrow and you’ll be home for the holidays, but you refuse to leave until you’ve gotten the last gift you need. Counting the shops as you pass, you finally find the one you’re looking for, going in without any pretense.

“Hello, ma’am!” The shopkeepers carols merrily. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”

“Do you happen to keep a set of black winter accessories?” You ask, only partly out of breath from dashing across the ice before the store closes. “Namely, boots, gloves and scarves?”

The keeper looks slightly taken aback by your abruptness. “Yes, we have one each of them in our winter department.”

You smile, thankful you’d gotten there just in time. “Great! I’ll take them.”

The smell of oil pricks at our nose, causing you to wrinkle it from the strength of the fume. A chill curls up your spine and you burrow further into your coat.

You’re sitting in an overcrowded compartment with several students you don’t recognize on your way to King’s Cross. The train is filled with chatter as people wait for the doors to open so they can go home to their families.

Holding our breath, you send up a prayer that you’ll be able to catch him before he’s gone.

Exiting your compartment, you immediately look around for Yoongi, clutching the wrapped present in the gift bag you have at your side. You hope he likes them, seeing as you hadn’t had much time to think up a more suitable gift.

Thinking back to your outing -was it really an outing?- with Yoongi, he’d come to regret not bringing any gloves or more layers to bundle in. The snow was layering more thickly now than it had been a few days ago and you think that if anything, he could at least put them to use.

You shiver again as the wind whistles in your ears, the sound mixing with that of the group of carolers that stand nearby. They sing in tune and to each, creating a beautiful harmony to the soft Silent Night. You’re head snaps back and forth as you continue to look for a certain Slytherin when suddenly a more sickly thought comes to mind.

What if he doesn’t want it? What if he just plain refuses it before you can give it to him? What if he rejects your friendship before it even truly begins?

As you begin to lose yourself in worry, a voice you’ve come to recognize in any crowd calls out for you. Turning to face who had called your name, you’re shocked to see Yoongi himself attempting to squeeze his way through the band of students hurrying to meet their loved ones.

Surprise stuns you into silence, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice as he closes the big space between you. “Uh, hey, Y/N.”

“Yoongi,” you stutter, at a complete loss for words, your large vocabulary seeming to fail you. “Hi.”

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you regard each other quietly. The air that was just sharp and cool, seems to turn heavy the longer you remain silent but words cannot find you. The only sound to enter your ears is that of the carolers singing their songs.

Yoongi suddenly sighs, a drawn out, tired sigh that one would associate with carrying a heavy burden on their shoulders. “You think it’s illegal to kill carolers?”

His attempt to lighten the mood works and a light laugh falls from your lips. “I think it’s safe to say it is.” You quip and Yoongi shakes his head as if he’d just been given some news he hadn’t wanted. You smile at him shyly, wondering why he’ d come to talk to you. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of replying, the raven-haired boy merely shrugs, raising his left hand to reveal an ornately wrapped box, topped nicely with an intricate bow. Your mouth falls open and your eyes lift up to meet his. You blink, trying hard not to stare.

It’s not until you spot the remnant of a blush dusting his pale cheeks do you mirror his actions to do the same, not quite trusting your words to do you justice at the moment. Yoongi’s eyes widen as he regards your large gift bag, chocolate orbs meeting yours in the middle. You can see yourself them, nervous and uncertain, and you swear you’ve never been happier in your life.

“Uh,” You murmur bashfully, struggling not to choke on your words. “Merry Christmas, Yoongi.”

You extend the bag out towards him and his takes it with a soft touch; light and careful. He looks it over for a few moments before handing his box over to you. You take it in much the same manner, being cautious so as not to jostle it around too much.

Yoongi offers you a smile and it’s warm and soft, just like his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You depart that day with lighter steps and happier sighs. Your mother comments on ‘the boy you were talking to’ when you get home, your dad grumbling about how glossy your eyes look today. You just shake your head at them, tucking Yoongi’s present under your Christmas tree, keeping your eye on it every day until the twenty-fifth.

It’s a blue sweater. Expensive and warm and cozy and exactly what you’d wanted for Christmas. There was a single note attached to it, the lone ‘thank you’ written in perfect calligraphy, his signature at the bottom.

You made a mental note to thank him the next time you see him, seeing as you didn’t have his address to send an owl or his number to make a call.

You wore that exact sweater the day you boarded the train to go back to Hogwarts. You caught sight of him as you found a mostly empty compartment. He was surrounded with his ragtag group of friends so you didn’t bother to address him, but you couldn’t help the beaming smile on your face when you saw him dressed to the nines in all the new things you’d given him for Christmas.

As always, he seemed to sense your stare, because his eyes catch yours and he gifts you a smile that put all the Christmas lights and tree toppers you’ve seen this season to shame.

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