#though i will get around to finishing my walker au someday

[ninzied]

into the woods

based on the prompt: you know that scene in TWD where shane is being all cute and kissing up lori’s stomach? that but make it kastle.

rated m. 3k.

“She should’ve been back by now.”

Frank scours the tree line along their campsite, as if she’ll walk out of there any second. She hadn’t taken much more than a toothbrush with her, only a hand towel and a bottle of water to rinse off. How much longer does she need with those things?

“You worry a lot,” Sarah remarks. She doesn’t look up, measuring out coffee grounds for their pour-over stand. “For someone who’s ‘just friends’ with her.”

“Remind me again why I agreed to this weekend,” Frank says with a scowl.

“I could use a refresher myself,” says David. He’s emerging from their tent, zipping it back up the side before stretching. “From what I recall, Karen’s the one we invited. You’re the one who chose to tag along.”

Frank arches an eyebrow at their surroundings. “Thought my invite was implied.”

David makes a protesting sound. “You don’t have a monopoly on manly activities, you know.” He comes over to Sarah, drops a kiss on her forehead in greeting before taking one of the lawn chairs next to her. “I can camp. I can do camping. I’m a survival guy too, remember?”

“Ignore him,” says Sarah. “He gets grumpy before his morning coffee.” She leans over their fire and removes the kettle of water, which has just started to boil.

“There’s one thing we have in common,” says Frank. He nods his head toward the tent David vacated. “Kids still down for the count?”

“Both of them out like a light,” David confirms. “That ghost story Karen told them last night worked a little too well.”

“Trouble falling asleep?” asks Frank, not unsympathetically. “Or was it nightmares?”

“Leo came up with a sequel, actually,” says David. “Which she insisted on recounting in very vivid detail. None of us really slept after that.” He scrubs a hand tiredly over his eyes, but he’s also grinning a little, like he can’t help but be proud of this fact.

Karen would be proud too, Frank thinks, and pictures the smile he’ll get from her later.

“How about you?” Sarah asks Frank, her tone perfectly, deceptively innocent. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” says Frank.

The look Sarah gives her husband is a lot subtler than the one she receives in return.

Frank clears his throat. “You two got something you want to say?”

David shrugs. “Only that it’s a pretty small tent you and Karen are sharing.”

“We made do,” says Frank.

Truth be told, though, David’s not wrong.

Karen had borrowed the tent from Nelson, who, as it turned out, hadn’t gone camping since he was about ten years old. It had been a tight squeeze—that palpable warmth in the thin sheets between them, the soft little sighs Karen let out in her sleep, had all been nothing short of torture to Frank.

But the Liebermans are on a need-to-know basis only.

David is opening his mouth to say something else when Sarah interrupts him. “Here,” she says, “drink this,” and presses a tin of steaming black coffee into his hands.

“Guests first,” says David, but Frank’s already standing.

“I’m good for now,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’m just gonna go for a walk.” He stoops down, checks for the blade inside of his boot.

“Karen’s a big girl, you know.” David takes a sip of his coffee. “I just don’t see how this is going to win you any points in her book.”

“Oh, let him go,” Sarah chides. “He’s not going to rest easy otherwise.” She calls cheerfully after Frank, “Tell Karen that coffee will be waiting when you guys get back, all right?”

…

If anything, Frank figures he could use the time away from the others.

Last night had been exhausting, with the Liebermans up for about half of it, and then Karen so close yet just out of reach. He’d behaved himself perfectly well, but the ache of all that longing for more hasn’t left him, and so he tries to walk it off instead.

Frank steps into the trees, the morning sun filtering through in soft, muted patches of light. They’re barely into September, but the leaves here have already started to pack themselves down into the ground. It makes his job easier, tracking which way Karen has gone.

She can take care of herself; he knows that. But she knows he’s going to worry. It’s something that they’re working on, meeting each other halfway. Still, Frank reasons that there’s a time and a place for these kinds of concessions, and out here in the woods is not going to be one of them.

Frank has been walking for about ten minutes when he steps into a snug little clearing, and suddenly, she’s there.

“Karen?”

She’s a few yards ahead of him, lounging with her back against the trunk of a large maple. She’s resting her arm on one of its thick, gnarled roots, and she—

She has her nose in a goddamn book.

It’s a small paperback of Agatha Christie. One of those rare finds that she’d unearthed from the half-price bin down the street from Frank’s place. It’s where she’d gotten her inspiration for the ghost story she told them last night.

Frank knows this because she’d read it aloud to him three nights ago. The book hasn’t left her side of the bed, until she packed it for this trip. She must’ve tucked it into her hand towel before leaving their tent earlier.

Karen glances up as he approaches. She doesn’t seem remotely surprised to see him there. In fact, she’s looking at him with a teasing kind of impatience, like he’s kept her waiting, and—

Oh.

Oh.

He’d been planning to steal a kiss or two at most from her before they headed back to camp, but she clearly has more than that on her mind.

Always two steps ahead of him, his girl, and he wonders if that isn’t one of the things he loves most about her.

“Frank,” she greets him, lightly admonishing. She puts the book down. “What took you so long?”

She stands as he strides over to her, a disbelieving smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“This what I think it is?” he asks her. He palms the sides of her rib cage, walking her slowly backward until he’s pinned her to the tree.

“Mm.” She winds her arms a little slyly around him. “You know solving murder mysteries always gets me in the mood.”

“You mean like last night?” He leans down, capturing her mouth in a kiss. Her hands are already pulling at the hem of his sweatshirt, gliding up his body and tugging the fabric over his head.

“I’ve been dying here, Frank.” Karen gasps out as his mouth moves over her jawline. “I thought they’d never fall asleep.”

“I know. Fuck.” Frank snakes his hands beneath her clothes and under her bra, cupping her breasts with a small but satisfied groan. “Couldn’t take it either. Wanted you so bad.” He remembers the reason for the Liebermans’ insomnia, and the kiss he presses to Karen’s collarbone contains the definite edge of a smile.

“What?”

“Tell you later,” he murmurs, stepping back and pulling her with him. With the toe of his boot, he carefully rearranges his sweatshirt over a stretch of some soft-looking moss.

Karen breathes out a laugh, nudging a kiss to his ear as she asks him, “Exactly how much time do you think we have?”

“Enough,” he says, and lowers her onto his sweatshirt.

He kneels over her, nosing her shirt out of the way as he deposits open-mouthed kisses up her bare stomach. He pauses over her belly button, circling his tongue there. She tenses all over with a sigh of content before shrugging her top off and tossing it to the side.

He licks a trail up her body, feeling the hitch in her breath as he reaches her rib cage. When she clasps his shoulders, he goes willingly, rising and settling himself over her. Their mouths meet, lips parting instantly, deepening the kiss.

“Mm—” Karen moves her hips into his, chasing the friction between them. She’s in a thin pair of leggings, his erection pressed up against the junction of her thighs. He can feel the heat of her, even through his sweatpants, and it only fuels his arousal, has him aching to be inside her right now.

He groans a little, breaking the kiss for a moment. There’s a few breathless seconds of them fumbling with each other’s clothes, of Frank’s vision tunneling out when she reaches down and grasps him.

Christ.

He pumps himself in and out of her hand, bending over to kiss her again. Their tongues slide together, and he swallows the sound of her cry as he slips two fingers down, feeling how wet she is for him.

His mouth falls to her neck, sucking kisses to her pulse point as he replaces her hand with his. He strokes himself before rubbing the full length of his dick up against her, pressing down into her clit with each pass back and forth.

She arches against him with a throaty little sigh. He loves this kind of foreplay with her—the liquid heat of anticipation, the throbbing ache of that sweet almost just on the other side of this moment.

And fuck does he love watching her this way, too. The soft, breathy exhales, the swell of her breasts as she writhes beneath him. The way she bites her lip, and moans.

“Can you come like this?” he asks her, voice roughened with desire. He knows he won’t last long inside her, and he wants her to finish for him at least once.

“Yes.” She’s moving her hips in tandem with his, finding just the angle she likes, the right press and release to send her over the edge into orgasm. “Yes—oh, Frank—yes—mmm—”

She shudders beneath him, her eyes squeezing shut as her mouth falls open in a silent, rapturous oh.

He kisses gently up and down her throat as she descends from her high, slowly relaxing back into him. Frank’s trying to breathe through his own need for release when she threads her fingers through his hair, coaxing his mouth back to hers.

He slides into her slowly, the air between them going shallow as they take a moment to adjust. In some ways, entering her is always going to feel like it’s the very first time, new and yet so familiar. Like the act of loving this woman comes from a place that goes deeper than memory.

Their mouths move together, unhurried, as he pulls out and sinks back in. She clutches his shoulders, pulling him closer. Each thrust of his hips has his body shifting up against hers, and he savors every inch of it, the feel of skin on skin. He cradles an arm around her head, moving his other down to slide a hand up the back of her thigh.

It has him going deeper, and she clenches around him, spine arching back. Fuck. Fuck, she feels incredible, like some kind of fever dream. Her mouth is so very warm on his, their tongues entwined, their kisses splintering apart on a gasp before they’re coming back together.

For these few blissed out moments, this is all that there is. The two of them wrapped into each other, all that soft, pale skin beneath his hands, the little moans she’s letting out as he pounds and pounds into her. It’s rougher than usual, but she only pulls him closer, hooking a leg around his waist and rolling her hips up to meet his.

Heat unfurls down low in his belly, pleasure clenching up his spine. “Karen—fuck, I—” He buries his face into the crook of her neck, trying to hold off for her as long as he can.

She turns into him, mouth finding his ear. “I’m close,” she breathes. “I’m close. It’s okay. Just—ooh—”

She cranes her head back with a soft, keening sound, and he wraps his hand over the side of her neck, kissing up her jawline. He rides her through her second orgasm, and then his own pleasure builds to his breaking point, and he’s coming apart.

Karen’s arms are around him when the strongest waves have subsided, leaving behind the small, lingering shivers. He finally collapses against her, boneless and spent, simply breathing her in for long seconds.

“Fuck.” He brushes his mouth over her shoulder, nudging her bra strap back in place. “That was…” He grunts a little as she turns them onto their side, draping a leg over his waist.

“It was,” she agrees. She looks even softer in the sunlight from this angle, and Frank inches closer, threading his fingers through the golden glow of her hair. “Guess we should head back soon. Before they call an official search party on us.”

“Guess so,” says Frank. He tightens his arms around her, and she snuggles into him, neither of them making any real attempt to move. She gives him a kiss, long, and sweet, and so indescribably tender that he could put down roots into this moment, never let it go.

Finally, with a small sigh of concession, Karen shifts up onto her elbow. She reaches behind him for something, retrieving the bottle she’d brought with her.

She bends down to kiss the crease between his brows, and smiles. “Water?”

…

They walk back to the campsite hand in hand.

Sarah’s cleaning up from breakfast, a thermos of coffee and a full plate of bacon, eggs and toast set aside for them.

“David took the kids down to the lake,” she tells them without turning her head. “They wanted to wait for you, but I told them you’d see them when you got back.”

“’Course,” says Frank, feeling a little pink in the ears. “Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you stay behind for us.”

“It was no trouble,” Sarah says breezily. Then, still with her back turned to them, she adds, inscrutable, “Better me than David, I will tell you that.”

She’s still stacking some plates, so Frank sneaks a last kiss to Karen’s temple before he releases her, making his way over to some much-needed coffee. He takes a long drag as Karen goes to help Sarah, the two of them falling into easy conversation about Leo, her writing ambitions, how absorbed she’d been around the campfire last night.

He doesn’t interrupt them, except to come over with the plate of food for Karen. Predictably, she reaches for the coffee instead. “I’ll have something in a bit,” she says, “promise,” and he gives her a look, but decides not to press the issue with Sarah standing so shrewdly nearby.

At one point, he glances up from a piece of bacon just as Sarah reaches over, and plucks part of a leaf from Karen’s hair. Sarah lets it go without so much as a comment, simply continuing on wherever they’d left off.

Later, Sarah passes by Frank as they’re getting ready to leave. “I think there are grass stains on the back of your sweater,” she mentions to him, almost conversationally, and he hesitates a moment before grabbing a hoodie to change into.

He pulls out the sandwich he’d made from their breakfast and passes it over to Karen on the walk, in exchange for the thermos of coffee. His hand instinctively finds the small of her back every time a rock or large root juts up into their path, and after Karen’s done eating she takes his hand instead, twining their fingers together.

If Sarah’s feeling smug about it, she doesn’t let it show—much.

Leo tackles them both as soon as they’ve made it to the lake. “Hey, Pete!” Then, as if she can’t hold it in any longer, she brandishes a notebook and says, “Karen, I have the best idea for a story tonight.”

“Honey,” Sarah starts, with an amused kind of warning in her tone.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” says Leo, looking confident. “This one’s not nearly as scary.”

“Tell me,” says Karen, unable to suppress a smile.

Leo starts to tug her away when she pivots back on her heel a little, and says to Frank matter-of-factly, “By the way, you probably don’t want Zach to see you two holding hands.” She looks meaningfully out onto the water, where Zach and their dad are focused enough on their lines not to have noticed them all there yet.

“Leo Lieberman,” Sarah scolds gently as Frank exchanges a bemused look with Karen.

“He’s too young to find out what heartbreak feels like,” says Leo sagely. “Sorry, Mom. I know you told him she’s already been spoken for. But as his big sister, it’s my job to look out for him.”

“Fair enough,” says Karen, giving Sarah a wink. There’s a wistful quality to her smile now, her gaze soft on his when Frank squeezes her hand. She clears her throat, and gestures down at Leo’s notebook. “Now let’s see what we’re working with here.”

…

Their tent isn’t quite big enough to fit them in lengthwise, so they’re turned slightly sideways, Frank spooning her as they drift off to sleep. He’s hard against her rear in the morning, but they both do their best to live with it, Karen pressing a chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth as they’re getting dressed.

David’s on coffee duty, and Frank lends a hand as Karen folds herself up in a chair and reads to them the morning headlines on her phone.

It’s slow, and quiet, and so easy that Frank almost forgets they’re not home. Karen hums out a thank you when he brings her some coffee, stooping down to brush a kiss to her forehead.

“Here you go, sweetheart.”

And it’s like any other morning, except this one has David staring at them like he can’t decide what has just happened, and just how long it’s been happening for.

“Blanket?” Karen offers, trying not to look too amused, as Frank drags a chair close to hers. She tosses it over them, and he takes her hand before leaning over to steal a sip of her coffee.

“Did you know about this?” David whispers urgently to his wife when she steps out.

“Know about what, honey?” asks Sarah, kissing his cheek as he frowns at her. “Why, did you see something?”

“You mean other than the obvious?” He gestures at Frank, who’s leaning in to whisper something to Karen. In his periphery, a look of recognition is dawning on David’s face with almost comical slowness. “Shit. You’re right. It was really obvious, wasn’t it.”

Sarah pats him on the shoulder. “So, what are we doing for breakfast today?”

And just like any other morning, Frank feels everything outside of this moment fade, his world narrowing to the small, private things—the warmth of Karen’s hand in his, the glances they steal at each other, and the way she bites her lip when she’s trying not to smile.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #thanks anon for the prompt! #and for waiting *checks watch* #2 months too long for me to finally get around to posting this #also there are no zombies here #though i will get around to finishing my walker au someday #!

[dropsofletters]

avenue of tears

— summary: listening to the latest album of the living daydream that is the drummer jeon wonwoo isn’t quite the best idea when, supposedly, it’s written about an ex. missing him to bits, she decides to plug in her earphones, and get lost in the words written by him, for her, perfectly put together to describe what was once broken…but can now be healed.

— title: avenue of tears — pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader — genre: drummer!au ; podcast host!au ; friends to exes to strangers to lovers!au — type: fluff ; angst ; drama ; humor ; suggestive ; romance — word count: 19,796

For the first time in her life, she can say she is happy while having a sore-throat.

Well, there have been other good times in her life that have included such a symptom—the after-effects of a concert, the times in which she really believed the vocalists of the bands she loved would end up looking at her and falling in love, or when she screamed out of joy, whether on amusement park rides or from pure happiness. Having a voice is enough of a gift; saying and speaking out our thoughts, the most divine of talents that one can possess. Using that voice for the first time in her own podcast is a blessing.

Though, no amount of throat-clearing can get the staff backstage to open up some space for her to walk in. In some parts of her life, being talkative does not compare to being loud, and this is one of those moments she wishes her throat wasn’t dry and in the need for tea, simply to shout to the slow walker in front of her just so she can get to her boyfriend faster. Perhaps, feel the roughness of his calloused fingertips rub against her palm when they hold hands, and he gives her one of those lazy smiles that beg for her to give him a kiss.

The room has gray walls, and around four bands have gathered in the same space. She smells everyone’s deodorants mingling together, and she doesn’t know if the stench is favorable or she’d rather not smell anyone at all, even if it’s not an unpleasant smell. Masculinity exudes from every band, lacking the female character that should exist in rock by now, but someone’s bleached blonde strands of hair, long enough to reach that person’s waist, remind her that there is a representative of female power in this giant gig for small bands.

The vocalist of Wonwoo’s band.

The chopped strands of her hair are, thankfully, long enough to welcome the rotten pair of scissors she uses before every show, not standing split ends, and also not standing the way she calls out her real name. You see, one year ago, the vocalist would’ve been called Eunkyung, with pretty straight hair in chocolate brown, curves covered in small sprinkles of ink, sporting a little black dress of a nice day, but that’s far from the case. Now, Eunkyung has taken up the name Love, an ode to what she hates the most, cutting her hair like she cuts the men out of her life, sporting leather pants and chains falling from her shoulders, cheeks hollowed in absolute distaste of the place she finds herself in, but quite enjoying the bottle of beer she brings up to her mouth.

“Eunkyung!” She calls out again, waving her hand in the air but not getting a reaction. Instead, she stops on her tracks, the sole of her boots barely lifting from the ground as her eyes scan the room. Eunkyung stands out because of her hair, but it’d be difficult to find Wonwoo’s dark head of hair. “Love!”

With the bottle of beer perched up between her rosy lips, Love lifts her hand in the air to greet her, trying to call her over only to stop her ministrations. The little ounces of oxygen left in her lungs ask to remain on her chest before she passes out, her white boots probably dusty by the amount of people who have stepped on her.

Love moves in between the groups of people, pushing people away with a force that could barely be contained in her tall body, never once letting a single droplet of beer fall on the floor. Just when she reaches her, Love wraps her fingertips around her wrist, tutting her name out in a raspy tone, perfect for the edgy tune in the new band. “Shit, what are you doing just standing there? Could’ve gotten your shit stolen.”

Her hand absentmindedly cradles the back pocket of her jeans. Her phone is still there, thankfully. “Sorry, didn’t know I was dealing with prisoners and not with rock enthusiasts.”

Love chuckles at that, now much different from the person she used to be, tattooed up to her neck, flowers blooming on the thin skin. If she looks from close enough, she believes her jugular palpitates against the dark ink. “Here, they’re about the same.”

Once they reach the corner the band had taken up, she finally gets a glimpse of people she has met. In Wonwoo’s apartment last year, for example, when a list of names had been written on a whiteboard and each sounded worst than the last. A man with a burgundy and green beanie sits with his bass on his lap, thin legs parted and yet, seemingly thicker because of his baggy pants. His head is thrown back, as if the chatter around him doesn’t distract him from his thoughts, looking ahead at the ceiling as if there’s something interesting on there. She really does look up, just in case Hansol has found the secret to life in that damned white ceiling.

The bassist doesn’t seem to be paying attention when she directs the question towards Love. “What did he smoke?”

Love finishes her beer in one go, patting her hand against Hansol’s leg before taking a seat on it. The two childhood friends had been the ones to start this whole band ordeal—and to be quite honest, it’s all thanks to them that Wonwoo got the guts to be in a band. Love’s Midnight may not be doing quite well right now, but it will someday. “Vernon didn’t smoke a thing. If anything, I’m the one looking for a smoke.”

“Weed’s bad.” Hansol, or by his stage name Vernon, says from his spot as he finally concentrates on the conversation at hand. His brown eyes seem gentle, even when his dark eyebrows join in a frown. “You’re gonna fuck up your voice.”

“So what?” Love asks.

“We don’t have a vocalist, then.” Hansol continues, pushing her off his lap to put his bass back inside its case, rubbing his sweaty palms against his black pants. “And we don’t have anyone to back you up. My singing is not as good. Andy’s singing is shit and Wonwoo sounds mysterious when he sings, but put him on the front of the stage and he’s going to black out.”

At the mention of her boyfriend, she can’t help but feel a smile creep up her face. Wonwoo was supposed to only be her little cousin’s drum teacher, a little part-time job he had to keep the dream alive, but one of those times her aunt couldn’t make it, she was asked to drive the little boy to class. There, Wonwoo captured her attention, and just before she left with regrets, she had slipped a paper with her number onto his palm.

And he had called.

And now, seven months later, they’re there. Coexisting in the same world, uniting their loose threads, and living out of it.

Well, he’s not there.

“Where’s Wonwoo?” She asks, resting her hands inside the pockets of her jeans, and a little grin appears on Hansol’s face at the mention of his name.

“He’s—”

Hansol’s deep and tranquil voice cuts short when an interruption comes through in the shape of the shortest of the band, purple hair done a mess and yet, matching with the hickeys trailing up his neck, doing his best to conceal it with the thick choker around his neck. Andy, the band’s guitarist, whose innocent features bring him just about any lover to his side, thinking he understands them, listens to them…but he’s a player.

And a damn good one, too. “Twenty bucks and I’ll tell you where he is.”

“Twenty bucks and you shut up.” Her tongue is witty enough to reply, and the sound of familiar laughter stirs her heart alive. When her hands spread on top of Andy’s shoulders, pushing him to the side to look for Wonwoo, she sees him nearing them, perhaps accompanying Andy in the process, black hair falling upon his forehead in sweaty strands, framing his elongated face, rounded ears, enigmatic eyes and tender, thin lips.

He gets closer, enough to wrap an arm around her and make her feel the coldness of the chains on his leather jacket, as dark as the rest of his outfit, but she knows the red shirt underneath is the tank top she bought him not too long ago. “Don’t give him your money. He’s a scam.”

“Girls don’t say that.” Andy shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and gently rubbing the hickeys on his neck.

“I doubt they get to tell you anything at all.” She answers, twirling on Wonwoo’s arms until he’s hugging her completely, his taut chest breathing in and out, meeting hers in the middle. “There’s only so much you can know about someone while having sex.”

“Listen—”

Love stands up from her spot to wrap her arm entirely around Andy’s shoulder, smiling wickedly at the people in front of her. “Instead of arguing with our two lovebirds and the reason why our love songs are good, why don’t we look for a blunt?”

“Be careful out there.” Wonwoo conquers, lifting one of his eyebrows as if to question Love’s actions. The woman simply chuckles, already dragging Andy away for her.

“The only difference between a cigarette and a blunt is social norms, Wonwoo.” Love complies, clearly talking about the smell of cigarettes that breathes out in the aftertaste of the cologne and mint in him. He picked it up not too long ago, and hasn’t been able to get away from nicotine since then.

Hansol, once again too lost in his own world, doesn’t seem to notice—or mind—when her lips meet his in one of those brief dances of excitement, a smile barely able to conceal itself on her face when she looks into his glistening eyes. “How was the gig?”

“Tiring.” He answers, tugging at the collar of his leather jacket. “Love insists we have to look edgy, but this make me sweat buckets.”

“It makes you look hot.”

A tinge of pink creeps up his ears, smiling widely when he moves her from side to side. “What’s with all the love today? You’re awfully happy.”

How not to be so when she’s with him? Awakening to the sound of his fingers pattering against the counter of his kitchen, mumbling out the lyrics of the songs he is always writing. Wonwoo is not only a dreamer but a dream, a sight to look at and a potion inside her stomach. If she could, she’d throw up hearts at the mere mention of him, but the impossibility only further explains her infatuation for him. Love, love is this.

“Well…” She trails her voice, just at the same time that her hands take place by his abdomen, toying with the fabric there. “Did you listen to the podcast today? First episode early in the morning. Not a lot of people tuned in, but twenty is more than nothing, right?”

His black hair covers the darkness that looms over his eyes, lips faltering that smile to instead part delicately. Even his body moves away at the mention of the podcast, little droplets of sweat intensifying on his neck. “T-The podcast was today?”

A sigh leaves her before she could stop it. Forgetfulness is not his thing, but it seems to be today. “Yeah. I told you today before you went out to practice.”

“Shit, sorry.” Wonwoo lets his hand hover on her cheek, lips leaning forward to join hers, but she can’t even purse her own to meet him, leaving him with her blank expression instead. “I went to the gym after practice, and then I was too busy to actually listen—”

“You decided to go to the gym instead of listening to the podcast I have been working so hard on?” Nights spent listening to her favorite albums, preparing topics and asking Minghao to help her achieve the best quality in sound. Publicity done just about everywhere, asking her close friends and family to listen. Twenty people had listened, and none of them was Wonwoo. Her boyfriend.

“It was a mistake.” He whispers, like the boyfriend he is, not forgetting to pour all his emotions out in the pout of his lips. Giving her another kiss, she wants to stay angry, let the pits of hell stay inside her, but his eyes glimmer as if he means it when he promises: “Maybe, next time I will listen, okay?”

Maybe. A relationship should not be gray; it’s either black or white, it’s yes or no, never an in-between. Never a maybe.

But she takes it, because Wonwoo is just the type to say things without thinking. His ‘maybe’ may mean ‘certainly’.

His ‘maybe’ may mean ‘I’m sorry’.

Or it just is meaningless. Not ‘maybe’ at all.

###

Pen to paper. Cigarettes to lips. A mess done person, or a person done a mess.

The press has met the man that she has loved for over eleven months, and yet, she feels like each article that gets out about Love’s Midnight just makes her know the people in the band a lot less. This thought crosses her as her feet come in contact with empty bottles of soda, thrown across the floor of the hotel room they rented for their first real gig. Wonwoo’s cigarettes have been his lover for the night, as well as his lyricism notebook, but Andy seems to be having other ideas in the cheap room next door. It may be just some hooker, but something in her gut tells her that the lack of Love on the afterparty gives her an indicator of who it may be…

The reaction is long gone when she closes the door behind her, sporting her best dress—the one Wonwoo always talked about, the one that had his eyes lingering on her legs a lot longer than necessary, unable to keep his hands off her waist whenever she used it. The attention from him was well received, and yet, it was lacking tonight. The lonesome yellow of the lightbulb in front of them flickers, her heels click against the tiles on the floor, and he doesn’t even pull away from his notebook, humming out the notes to the song he is writing. At least, he’s not the one with the hooker.

But, what kind of thought is that?

It’s not the kind of idea she’d normally have about Wonwoo. Her Wonwoo, all rock songs but soft heartened words. Yet, with each passing month of his newfound stardom, she sees him less. Feels him less. Talks to him in ways that feels as though he is a stranger, and not the kind that wants to meet her. Definitely not the interested strangers they were in the past, the reason as to why they fell in love.

The lighter in between his fingers basks the cream walls in a faint light, the first smoke of the cigarettes leaving his lips and then, he keeps his hand up, a little bit twisted to keep the ashes away from his notebook. She moves closer, the back of her thighs meeting the edge of the bed when she calls out his name. Nothing. Wonwoo feels like nothing these days.

There, in a pretty dress, and yet not of his liking, pushing the pink fabric to fit more of her body, like a woman in her honeymoon. Insecurity latches to each portion of her uncovered skin, clearing her throat to catch his attention as she rests her extended palm on his back.

The toned muscles seem to welcome her touch, but his face remains stoic, hair standing out in various spots, dark eyes packing worries inside his heart. “Wonwoo?”

“Baby, I’m busy.” Annoyance exists in his tone, though it’s almost imperceptible. These days, all his feelings seem to be this way—happiness is the same as sadness, as annoyance and worry. Wonwoo is just a blank canvas, and she can’t seem to paint him. “Can’t seem to finish writing this song.”

“Maybe, it’s just not a good song.” The words don’t come out in the way that normally would. He has been talking about this song for three days, maybe it’s about time he drops it. Maybe, it’s time for them to drop this strange silent treatment between them—

“What?” Finally, he looks over his shoulder, his lips barely wrapping around the cigarette before each blow of smoke is thrown her way with his words. “What do you mean the song is not good? You haven’t even heard it.”

“If you can’t write it, it’s because you’re not inspired for it.”

His eyebrows raise up at that, taking his notebook in between his finger and stomping his cigarette against the bedside table, perhaps leaving it for later. He turns on his back, on the verge of becoming silent again, when he stops tapping his pen against the notebook. “What do you know about music anyways? It’s not that easy to write a song.”

A laugh escapes her nose, because she’s not half happy at the man in front of her. “The podcast I have, the one you don’t listen to, talks about music and I have a minor in something music-related. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I listen to your podcast.” Wonwoo defends, letting the notebook rest on his taut abdomen as he lifts his hands to rub at his eyes. “I just don’t have enough time to listen to you talk for more than an hour—”

Her legs can’t seem to stay still then, standing up from her spot on the bed and making sure to pull her dress as far as possible. Somehow, being looked at by Wonwoo at this moment feels absolutely horrendous. Earlier this afternoon, she would’ve loved to have his hands all over her, his lips mouthing the things he loves the most about her. Right now, he’s impossible. “Isn’t that what a boyfriend should do? Listen to his motherfucking girlfriend?”

“I listen to you, oh my God!” He throws his head back, covering his face with his hands before sighing. “Babe, you’re being irrational. You come in here and tell me my song sucks, and now you’re making this about our relationship?”

“Well, you were the one that told me I didn’t know anything about music.”

Wonwoo stops for a moment, uncovering his face to look at her with what seems to be despair. “Then, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Her heels click harshly with each step she takes towards him. “You can’t just say sorry like you’re bored. Saying sorry has to be meaningful.”

“That’s just how my voice sounds.” But she knows that’s not the case. Deep, tranquil, that’s his voice, but that doesn’t mean it’s not meaningful. That doesn’t mean he can talk to her in a way that feels as though he has never loved her.

“No, that’s not how your voice sounds—”

“Babe—”

“Wonwoo.” She closes her eyes tightly, kneeling to take the empty bottles of soda in between her hands. “Who are you and what did you do to the man I fell in love with?” The question is rhetorical and not meant to be answered as she continues: “You’re messy and uninterested, this is not—”

“Maybe, if you let me speak, I’d be able to tell you what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, so there’s really something wrong?” Far too entranced in her anger, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Is it me? Am I the wrong thing in your life?”

“When you get like this, maybe.” Wonwoo conquers, standing up and taking the resting empty bottles of soda before sighing. “Hey—”

“No. Repeat that.”

“Give me a break.”

She takes him by his arms, then, his tank top moving with the motion as she makes him turn towards her. Tired eyes to tired soul. One for him. One for her. “You really want me to give you a break? Because I could totally leave you if that means you being happy.”

Wonwoo has always been a selectively silent man. His lips don’t part unless necessary. He loves being a listener, not a talker. She wishes he would’ve stayed silent that night, but he didn’t, instead frowning deeply as he pushed his body away from her. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t listen to me. So, maybe, it’s better if we give each other a break, don’t you think?”

She has to scoff, pulling her dress further down her thighs as it had ridden up, yet not once breaking eye contact with him. “Why call it a break? Why don’t we just break up and that’s it? Call it fucking quits so you can go fuck some other chick that actually listens to you, baby boy?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” He answers, shoulders rising and falling as he gets closer to her. “Don’t talk to me at all if you’re going to be like that.”

“Well, tough luck. That’s just how I am.” Her voice drops a few octaves, pushing at his chest to get him away from her. His eyes seem to change, then, ever so present in his feelings, burning through him when he calls his name and tries to reach for her, but she is halfway through the room when his skin barely grazes her.

“Baby—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me. Don’t you talk to me. Don’t look for me. Don’t…” Her voice breaks then, breathing out slowly when her hand comes in contact with the handle of the door. “Don’t, Wonwoo. Just don’t.”

“Hey, sorry, you know I love y—”

“Don’t.” She whispers, loud enough for him to hear when she opens the door. Why is that, even when the air in the corridor feels fresher than the one basked in cigarettes in this room, she feels more suffocated when she leaves?

Right, because she never listened to him.

And he never got to talk honestly to her.

###

“Listen, you’re a podcast host. I think you should really leave the coffee aside and go for tea and honey.”

One of the biggest wonders in this world is how in hell Minghao’s blonde strands of hair seem to be soft even when he dyes it continuously. The other wonder is how such a sweet voice like his seems to have the pointiest of remarks just at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps, that’s why Minghao is the tech of her podcast, and not a host to be exact. He’d be far too honest about the newest releases in music. What she’d call ‘something different yet not tasteful’, he’d call it ‘absolute garbage taken out of the trash, eaten by a dog, and then thrown up onto the floor’.

But hey, that’s just Xu Minghao.

Twirling on his chair, he writes something down on their shared document for this week’s podcast, two years on the run and yet, doing better than ever. Thousands of listeners check up each week, either on YouTube or on Spotify, to tune in and talk about the newest music dropped into the world. Mostly rock, but she doesn’t forget some other genres if they catch her attention enough.

He runs his fingers through his hair, leaning back on his seat and parting his jean cladded legs, fixing the plain yet expensive t-shirt resting on his slender body before she responds. “Get on with your life, Hao. If I don’t drink coffee, I could totally die.”

“Stubborn as ever, I see.” Minghao tuts, lifting his cat-like eyes from the screen just as he clears his throat. “Your kidneys are the ones dying.”

“As long as it’s not my vocal cords, we’re fine.”

“You’re not going to die because of lack of caffeine. That’s just stupid.” Yet, his eyes keep concentrating on the screen, organizing both good and bad albums to talk about, maybe a sprinkle of singles here and there as not to make the podcast too long. However, just as the straw of her iced coffee meets her lips, Minghao’s face stands out in their office setup, widening his eyes at what he sees on the screen. “You’re going to die because of this, though.”

Exaggerations are not his thing. That’s why he is so poised even when the audio cuts off, or when her voice breaks. Nothing impresses him, nothing leaves an imprint on him, so her body moves to his side before he could completely finish his sentence. “Why? Why? Why? Why would I die?”

Minghao doesn’t let her look at the screen of his laptop, instead reading out the title of the article he read online for her. “Love’s Midnight has released a new album after their one-year hiatus. The drummer, Jeon Wonwoo, surprises with his songwriting skills in their new project: Valentine. The release date is next week and…” Minghao turns to her then, eyebrows lifted as he inspects her features. “Apparently, it’s an ode to a past lover.”

It’s been two years since she opted to never hear those names again. Love’s Midnight. Jeon Wonwoo. Even Eunkyung, Hansol and Andy had been completely eradicated from her thoughts.

Valentine, perhaps because they had gotten together on February, but what are the odds of Wonwoo actually writing a song about her? An album, at that? He had never reached out, not by hand, not by text, not by a single call. Wonwoo had dissipated after a few missed calls, as if he had given up, and it was for a cause.

“Well, we’re not talking about their album next week.”

Minghao shakes his head harshly enough for a few strands of his hair to jump at the motion. “We have to. Love’s Midnight has been huge for the past two years,” The lack of her in their lives must have been the reason of their success. All friends of hers, now nothing in comparison. “And with the departure of Andy and the entrance of lady-killer Hoshi into the team, we better have all the fangirls tuning in for our podcast.”

Andy. The innocent features, short height, the banter in between them. She had not even gotten to know he had left. “Why did Andy leave?”

“Ooh, messy stuff.” Minghao conquers, not one for gossip, but one for knowing it all. “Love and Andy were dating since the start, right?” Now, that’s not the story she knows—Andy and Love were pals for lust, but they were never really a serious thing. “They broke up. Andy departed because of how difficult it was to be around her, and that was it for them. That’s why the hiatus happened, but now Hoshi joined them.”

“Who’s that Hoshi dude?”

The tech turns to his laptop, writing down the name quickly on the search before an image popped up in front of them. Pierced ears, rounded cheeks and sharp eyes, all highlighted by makeup on his cheeks to make him glisten like the sun, the thick eyeliner matching his leather jacket and his pushed back hair full of gel. He seems to be blonde in that picture, but in the one next to it, his hair is darker, playing guitar on stage with Love, who’s singing in the microphone. Skinnier than ever, with her eyes hollowed out and yet, the smile never leaves her face.

“I see,” She starts, pushing her body away when she sees a glimpse of Wonwoo with his hands up in the air in the back, ready to smack his drums again. “We’re not talking about them, though. I don’t care about anything Jeon Wonwoo can write.”

But her heart picks up just at the mere sight of him. Would he be alright? His health, fine? His lungs still working perfectly or is he still in the way to addiction to nicotine? Does the loneliness still haunt him at times in the middle of the night, or has he found someone else already?

“Don’t be like that,” Minghao states, rolling his eyes at her. “It’s just an album, and you haven’t listened to their music in a while. It was two years ago, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“What if it is about me?”

The question haunts her, makes her feel insecure in a way that she hasn’t felt in a while. Maybe, she fears to know what he really wanted to say—the regrets or the acceptance, the things he felt. If it made him happier or sadder. If he, to this day, hasn’t been able to love someone equally as much as her, because she knows she can’t. No man can compare to the fluttering feeling that came with him. “It’s just a few songs. I think not all of them are about you. Besides, it can be any past lover…and I’m sure you weren’t Wonwoo’s first girlfriend.”

Not his first love, and definitely not his last. A sigh leaves her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest. If she spoke about his album, maybe she’d prove to herself that he was wrong. Music exists in her blood, she acknowledges it as part of her, and he can’t tell her that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about anymore.

“I’ll give it a listen once it drops out.”

With a dizzy smile on his features, Minghao claps his hands in excitement. “Well, look who made you agree to something for the first time in his life.” Sending his two thumbs his way, he chuckles. “This guy.”

###

Being the center of attention has never been of his liking. It’s not the thing Jeon Wonwoo is known for, but it’s the thing their publicist wants him to do.

Flashing lights end up all over him, makeup-less and yet, not caring that he is showing every imperfection on his skin. He cares about what he has to say, though, to take out the buried memories of a past love just for the sake of an album, or for healing. The documentary they’re doing about Love’s Midnight, however, is another ordeal he can’t seem to understand. Not quite feeling connected to the camera in front of him, the white background, the staff that gather as if they want to listen to him. They don’t.

Hansol is somewhere by the corner, getting his makeup taken off for his own interview—people want it to be realistic, or so they say. Somewhere around the room, Love is singing at the top of her lungs—not reaching those notes that had once been the point of her knowledge, but still sounding like an angel sent from heaven. Hoshi is the only one nearby, seated with his legs crossed, looking at Wonwoo in understanding. Not equally as introverted, but somehow capturing the essence of dread in Wonwoo’s soul.

He shrinks into himself, each curvature of his muscles hidden by his posture, though the tank top on him does nothing to conceal what he knows will get him compliments, but never too meaningful. He sends a smile to one of the staff members that passes by him, fixing the lights one last time and asking him to take off his glasses. He does, never the type to say no.

“So, Wonwoo…” The cameraman says from his spot, learning his questions like the palm of his hand, and no amount of preparation and knowledge could’ve prepared him for the question thrown his way. His mind knew it was going to happen, but much like a teenage student in high school, he didn’t prepare. “What’s this album about?”

Her.

It’s not a ‘what’, it’s a ‘who’.

It’s his February 21st, his little memory in a pink dress, his ode to the drums, the reason why he sometimes touches the piano in hopes of composing a song. The only smile he can’t seem to remember perfectly, from the shade of her lipstick to the way her lips felt against his. The little smile she gave him after their first kiss, the way she called out his name, the only ode he has been able to give to the world…his memories of her.

“It’s about love, heartbreak, healing. All of the like.” He says, clearing his throat soon after, only to watch the cameraman move his hands, instructing him to say more. His eyes close for a second, letting out a breath that mingles with an uncomfortable laugh. “It’s about someone I loved dearly. Someone I don’t want to forget.”

“What did you love about them?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you love about them?” The cameraman asks, and Wonwoo has to lean back on his seat to capture the gasp that was about to leave his lips. He was never one to say it much—those three words that would have otherwise made her feel better. She’s talkative, he’s not.

What did he love about her?

Was it the love that she made him feel? Was it the movement of her hips, the shape of her lips, the way she spoke about her issues as if the world was falling down on her? Was it her enthusiasm, her happiness—?

“That everything about her made me want to be a better person.” His head nods once, twice, trying to further convince himself that it’s okay that he doesn’t have her. She’ll always exist in his music, in his rhymes, in his handwriting as he gives another poem to her—another melody to cherish her. “She was the only woman I ever imagined myself loving for a long time.”

Yet, he can’t clean up the mess they made. Can’t return to the avenue they left abandoned because it had taken too long to get to their goal. With one last breath, he hears another question:

“Care to explain some songs to us?”

But the words never come to him. They didn’t back then, they don’t now.

###

Okay, an album. She has listened to thousands of those, maybe even millions. It shouldn’t be an issue for her to sit down in front of her computer, plug in her earphones, and just let the melody of Love’s Midnight songs fill her eardrums with absolute bullshit. Cheesy love bullshit that never happens.

But this is not yet another album.

This is an album about her.

Minghao could be right, though. What are the odds of Wonwoo actually remembering her, much more in the form of lyricism? This thought is what has her pushing her earphones inside the laptop, sighing deeply as she presses play. The introduction shouldn’t be that difficult to listen to, and the artwork is simplistic, something of the like of a sunset merging into artwork in its abstract form. It feels romantic, but it isn’t about her.

The first song changes it all.

The first track of nine has Love’s strong vocals, reaching her high notes like they are part of her voice, slow and steady with that edge of slow rock, a plea for a lover to trust them even when they don’t seem to be showcasing their truest intention. A fool, the song speaks about over and over again, blaming themselves for not being able to point out their realest feelings to their lover.

The bass is heavy on the second track, and Hansol—Vernon, in this case—hasn’t lost a single ounce of his talent to fame. Metaphors speak about Wonwoo’s growing love for literature, grieving the end of a relationship and cladding it in pride. A man who can’t seem to understand the finalization of his relationship, covering it with more wrongdoings, and yet, begging for another yesterday, another chance. Something that has her tightening her hand against her heart, listening to Love’s voice dragging feelings through the pits of hell.

The third track is the one she likes the least, and it’s the one that seems to be the most about her. Talking about smiles, laughter, reminiscent of times much happier and yet, mixing a sound that she would’ve never imagined from Wonwoo’s band. It feels like she is walking on the streets of Madrid, waiting for a lover, letting the Spanish guitar pull her in only to dizzy her. Far too happy. Far too difficult to understand with their bitter ending.

The fourth track feels like him, enough for her fingers to hover over the space bar to pause it a few times. Slow, steady, and the pain of the break-up is felt through every single note. Loneliness haunting, drowning and drowning him into this pit of nonexistence. Love’s voice seems to fit every feeling, and she wonders if it’s just her amazing way of portraying sentiments, or it’s common for people to go through so much pain.

Fifth track, and the echo of it makes her feel even lonelier in her room, leaning back on her gray bed and fluffy pillows to close her eyes lightly. Drunken feelings, it speaks about, a man in the middle of a party with the smell of smoke clinging to him, speaking his feelings into the microphone as if they come directly from his heart, remembering how his life seemed to be easier, much easier when it was simpler. The minimalistic whisper coming from Love’s voice indicating: “I’m good, what about you?” in such a broken tone has her sending a weak smile to the air.

She’s not half as good as he is.

Insecurities seep through the sixth track, and her back cracks by the time she moves again, wanting to hear this from up close. This past lover comes haunt him in his dreams, and he only wonders if they’re happy. The sixth track is far more commercial than the rest, reason as to why it doesn’t surprise her it’s the one, they dropped with a music video she has yet to see. The allegories indicate that this lover, maybe, has found someone else, and the thought alone makes them sleepless. Insomniac. Saddened.

Huh, wouldn’t even surprise her if Wonwoo was the one that found someone else. Each of her dates have ended in her going home without a single kiss, not wanting to have anyone but him.

The seventh track shows Wonwoo’s talent by the drums perfectly, upbeat and coming directly from the 80’s, Love doing her best to portray the meeting of two lovers and the immediate chemistry between the two. A pink dress is mentioned, and the only thing she can do is purse her lips together.

Fuck Xu Minghao.

Fuck him for making her listen to this motherfucking album.

Fuck that pink dress that she keeps in her closet.

The piano on the eighth track takes her breath away, far more heartfelt than anything they have ever done—far more mature than anything she would have imagined from Wonwoo’s little band. The fear of losing someone, one last goodbye, the speech through a break-up. It speaks about turning and twisting, about running out of things to say and saying the worst ones. Tears gather by her vision when she hears that female voice speaking all the pain, she has gathered in her heart for only four minutes. It feels like a lifetime.

Getting Wonwoo to sing for her was difficult. It’d have to come after long conversations, when he was really tired, or when she couldn’t sleep. His voice in the last track was unexpected, so much that she wouldn’t even be able to recognize his voice if only she had not listened to it for almost a year of her life, every single day. His deep tone breathes out words of wanting someone back, but not knowing if he should trust his heart or his brain. Starting slow and then building up to a pop beat, it’s a nice song to snap fingers to, yet, she can’t bring herself to do anything but stare at the screen.

He’d still try for her, he says. In some point of his life, or when he wrote this song, he wanted her back.

He’ll always want her back with him.

And it’s with that thought that she closes her laptop, breathing out harshly at the same time that she texts Minghao.

To: Hao.

I hate you for making me listen to this album.

Track number three sucks ass.

Yet, her fingers hover over the search bar, letting the line tickle the write surface with its glow before she is writing down his name. Jeon Wonwoo, but with an addition—girlfriend, she wants to know who this could be about if it’s not about her—

The first pictures that pop out break her heart in a million pieces only to deliver it across the world as a souvenir. Wonwoo is getting out of a party with some model by his side, long dark hair cascading down her back, a little black dress cladding her elongated body, shiny legs in display as a shy smile creeps up her red lips.

Want you back my ass.

Maybe, it’s this model he is missing.

###

Blue lights bathe his skin in its sinful glow, seated by the entrance of a bar. Their usual spot packs people as if they’re the box of cigarettes on his coat’s pocket, one long stick of nicotine dangling from his lips only to be lit up by someone else. Some of the people gathering around him, perhaps, or the femme voice that has been asking him personal questions for the past hour. Short answers have escaped him, but seeing how risqué they are getting and how uncomfortable he is, he can’t bring himself to care.

Tonight, he’s supposed to celebrate the release of Valentine, his newest album. The happiest night of his life, it must be, but it’s far from that. Droplets of champagne pour from the ceiling, cheers being heard as yet another electronic song plays in the background. Eunkyung is lost in God-knows-where, Hansol has embarked in a conversation about the universe with a group of college students, and Soonyoung is dancing as if he doesn’t have a care in this world. He probably doesn’t, and that’s the dream.

It feels weird. Earning money and success from his sentiments should make him feel better—narcissistic in a way that fuels his ego, but only makes him feel as though the headlines are eating him alive. With each person that nears him, he feels more faux. A product, nothing more, nothing less, enough to be dismissed when he stands up from his spot, blowing out smoke into the condensed air. Some bump his side, staining the expensive leather of his coat, but the conceptualization passes him by quickly. At least, he gets to feel something.

Footsteps are heard beside him by the time he opens the door to the bar. If he’s lucky, he may get to go to his apartment, smoke another cigarette, and head to bed quickly. However, just when the black, sleek door slides from his fingertips to close it down, the flashes of cameras attack his features. Each regret is highlighted by yet another paparazzi throwing themselves at him as they ask the same old questions. The only thing that people seem to wonder about him.

“Who was Valentine about? Please, tell us the details!” One of them screams directly to his face, the microphone grazing his bottom lip and making him stumble back. He tries to smile, but the beam falls down by his fakeness.

“Wonwoo, over here!” One of the shortest interviewers says, waving his hand in the air to capture his attention. “Was it about Eunji?”

Right, Eunji. His publicist would love if he simply said it was about her.

The woman comes in the shape of a goddess, and the tremor of her voice brought a distraction for one night. A distraction, compliments that are void, words that did not have to have meaning, and the frustration of not being able to move on. Eunji said she understood—she, too, had been going through some kind of heartbreak and the relief was needed, but each text that came after said events went directly through his head and towards the deleted pile. One night was enough.

Blowing the air of his cigarette in the air, his mind desires to give the paparazzi what they want. Be the good boy he has always been in a band of people who have stood out for their unique qualities, but tonight, when it’s about her and the success tastes like blood and iron on his tongue, he doesn’t want to be who he used to be.

Jeon Wonwoo, did everything to be one of the most well-known drummers of the year, and ended up alone in the process.

“It’s just for someone, let me be.” He whispers, pushing through the seas of people with his bodyguard trailing right behind him. One good thing comes from fame, but just as he is getting away from the bar, the clicking of cameras still following along with the words from the paparazzi, he hears a lively voice cut through the air with worry.

“Wonwoo, what do you think you’re doing? That’s bad publicity.” Soonyoung speaks quickly, brushing his blonde hair away from his face to showcase his reddened face. The honesty must come from being a bit tipsy.

“Sorry.” It’s the only thing he can bring himself to say, because he knows it’s bad publicity, but isn’t it bad enough that people have been speculating about the muse behind his album? And none of the suppositions are right.

“Stop smoking and look at me for once.” Soonyoung indicates, and Wonwoo parts the cigarette from his lips for a second, quirking one of his eyebrows as they walk together. “What is going on with you?”

“I’m about to become a million seller by exploiting my past relationship and I’ve been getting more attention than usual in the process.” The night seems to swallow each and every single one of his worries, leaving him with a sigh. “I think I’ve just had enough.”

“That’s what happens, dude!” Soonyoung conquers, as if trying to make him feel better. His arm wraps around his shoulder, moving him from side to side. “You’ve done something great for our band, and you’ve been able to let go of all those pent feelings.”

Ha. That’s something he hasn’t done at all. How stupid does he have to be to be in love with her when it all ended so wrongly? Besides, it’s not like she would’ve waited for him—he was a dick, and she has all the reasons to find someone much better. The thought has him putting the cigarette up to his lips again.

“I suppose.” He shrugs, watching a limousine pull up not too far away from them. Since when did he forget about the existence of taxis and started to be too rich for his own good?

“The publicists are going to be so mad at you.”

Wonwoo stops at that, looking ahead and back, ahead and back, not knowing if he should move forward and drag himself to the past. Was it easier when no one cared? Is it easier now that he has all he ever wanted?

Was this all he ever wanted at all?

“Soonyoung…” He says those words into the air, playing a smile into his features as if he feels it. He doesn’t. “Can’t we just get in the car and not talk about this for a second? Let’s talk about any other band but Love’s Midnight.”

Something in the blonde man switches, opening the door to the limousine as he nods with uncertainty. He doesn’t like being looked at like that—as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life…

Because it’s damn right.

But hey, at least he’s almost a million copies seller, right?

###

“Huh, I listened to an album this week,” Her voice drags with the continuation of her sentence, eyes trailing up until she meets Minghao’s, far too concentrated on the sound of her microphone, on stopping the echoes and making sure that those who tune in live do get to hear her properly. She has to muffle a laugh. Nervousness makes her sound stupid. “Well, duh, of course, I always talk about music and listen to albums…but I listened to a weekly favorite just last week.”

Each day has been worse than the last. The headache doesn’t leave her, finding herself humming the tunes to Love’s Midnight songs—that one song, the last track, keeps playing in her head as if she had been the one who composed it. Whatever. It happens. I’m sure most of the women in music who had songs written about them felt the same way. Maybe, Courtney Love felt like this. Could’ve been worse, at least Wonwoo didn’t pull a Lennon and wrote a song along the lines of “Dear Yoko”.

She fixes the beanie on her head, staring forward at the white doors of her office, the coldness seeping through her sweater, a shiver going down her spine. “It’s Love’s Midnight latest album, Valentine. You guys were recommending it a lot this week, wanted me to talk about it and all…” Her fingers start to play with the straw of her drink, trying her hardest not to take too many pauses. The podcast is live for some, after all. “And it’s here. I’ll talk about it.”

With the last ounce of sanity left inside her body, she takes a long sip of her drink, smacks her lips and starts pouring out her thoughts into professionalism.

“Track number three sucks. Sorry to anyone who is a fan, but track number three is the corniest, stupidest thing I’ve ever heard from them. No hate, just truth.” She lifts her hands in the air, watching Minghao lift his gaze to mouth something to her. Don’t, he says, and she remembers that was the last word she told Wonwoo. Fuck. “In all honesty, though, I liked the conceptualization of the album. I think that…uh…they could’ve added some spice here and there. Everything felt like a pile of heartbreak—”

The screen by her side lights up, showing up the live chat and the viewers speaking about the album.

Jeon Wonwoo wrote it for a past lover. He must be heartbroken.

Track number three is the best, though.

Finally, you’re talking about Love’s Midnight. Favorite band.

“But yeah, Love did amazingly with her vocals, contrary to what one would believe. She went to high highs and low lows, exquisite in her vibratos, that raspy tone of hers still captures everyone who listens.” Looking up at the ceiling, she swallows thickly. So much to say about nine tracks about her, and still the words don’t come out. “H—Vernon, he’s very good with the bass. You know, maybe our tech Minghao will agree with me on this, but Vernon is the one who makes the songs feel profitable, like it can be heard in a club, can be heard in the car, both adults and teens can like his sound. Definitely one of the pillars of the band, I think.”

Minghao nods his head from the booth, and she feels a little bit of warmth in the room. She’s not alone—if she fucks up, she’s not alone.

“Hoshi. Didn’t even know Hoshi was in the band until our tech told me, haven’t been really up to date with Love’s Midnight…” Because watching him play would only bring back the memories of the first time they met, the feeling of his skin tattered in tattoos under the weight of her hands, the tremble of his voice, the tender way he held her. Like she meant something. Like her words meant something. Until they didn’t. “God, his solos? He’s—I think in this era, in this generation of musicians, it’s impossible to stand out as a guitarist because there’s hundreds, thousands, millions of good guitarists. Haven’t seen Hoshi live, but I’m looking forward for the acoustic sets with his talent. Just from listening to him, I feel like he has real talent.”

Her eyes divert towards the screen, shaking a bit when she reads a question on her opinion about Wonwoo’s songwriting skills. There, she can imagine him sprawled on his bed, his notebook covering most of his face as he looks at her from the corner of his eye, sending a shy smile her way before venturing into a new world, writing her in it as if he cared.

Did he ever care?

“Ah…what I think about Jeon Wonwoo’s songwriting skills?” Saying his name out loud has her scrunching up her features. If she closes her eyes, he’s there, so she keeps them wide open. His voice calls her out—baby, baby, I didn’t forget you. “I think they could be better.”

It’s at this time that Minghao scoffs from his spot, shaking his head as he places his hands behind it. Liar, his pretty lips mouth at her.

“Wonwoo, whoever this album is about,” Me, she thinks, it’s about me and my stupid dumb smile when around him. My insecurities. My world. “I don’t know, it feels fake. Maybe, it’s just me…” Her voice trails for a second, shaking her thoughts out before sighing. “They’re good, they’re just not…you know, they’re not ‘album of the year’ worthy. He seems to be stuck in the same topic and I can’t judge his range if he’s only written about…one thing…you know, like—” Shit, she’s really digging her own grave right here. What is she supposed to say? That she liked it? “Like, yeah, we get it, you’re heartbroken…but, I mean, judging from what he has written in the album…he fucked up, too, you know?”

Maybe, she should just read some comments. Reassure herself that she’s not sounding like the one who had an entire album written about her.

Emo boy energy, doesn’t surprise me. Very Jeon Wonwoo-esque. One of them writes.

The drums were sick, though. Say hi to me, host!

People say it’s about Song Eunji.

Song Eunji. Model. Wonwoo’s latest known lover. The pictures flash before her eyes as she thinks about it. Maybe, it’s really about Eunji and not about her…

Why does the thought make her sadder?

“So, yeah, I’d give it an eight point seven out of ten. Favorite track is track number nine. Hoshi is the backbone of this band to me now. That’s it.”

Regret clings to her like a leech. Song Eunji. Jeon Wonwoo. An album. Failed dates. A broken relationship. Why is love always extra difficult for her?

###

“Come on, babe, lighten up.”

With rosy cheeks, her friend, Jade, speaks those words like there is enough space in this party for her to feel free. There isn’t, quite clearly, but Jade is on the brink of her youth, ready to mess up her long hair, get on some tables and drunkenly sing to the world, albeit a bit messily. Her family, all consisting of enormous classic musicians, rooted from the most intricate and exclusive of schools, would shake their heads at the sight of Jade, already rid of her shirt and practically dragging her body towards her to wrap an arm around her shoulder and keep herself steady. The bottle of champagne Jade had been drinking from is brought up to her lips, and she has to take a sip if she doesn’t want Jade to start whining in a high tone, able to break through the bass-boosted music in this club.

It’s Jade’s birthday, and Minghao is nowhere to be seen. He probably left early—her fault for trying to play matchmaker between Jade and Minghao over a year ago, but her apologies had never been enough for the awkward blind date she had set up for the two of them. If there’s one thing Minghao can’t stand is lying, and much more if it’s about his romantic life.

To be quite honest, she thought it’d be a match. Stylishly rich guitarist of a local band, Jade, and stylishly average tech of her podcast, Minghao.

Maybe, she was wrong.

“Shit, Jade—” She’s already taking off her jacket from her shoulders to drape it across Jade’s chest, who simply looks down at the fabric with a scrunch of her nose. “You’re on your bra.”

Jade chuckles sweetly, because inherently, she’s dulcet. The kind of girl that wipes your tears after a break up, lends you some powder after you throw up in a bar’s bathroom, and the one that just wants everyone to have a good time. Everyone including her. “Babe, it’s Victoria’s Secret. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Everyone is going to see your nipples.”

“You know, it’s better for me to have two very healthy nipples than not have them at all. So, whoever wants to see, can see.” With that, her jacket is given once again to her, staring at Jade who brings up the bottle of champagne up to her lips, the pink liquid trailing down her cheeks and her chin. “Why are you here all alone?”

Because the music is shitty, Minghao is nowhere to be in sight, and Jade was playing a game of body shots not too long ago. College has been long dead for her since a while ago—and she doesn’t think she’d be confident enough to have someone drinking directly from her body.

Props to Jade, of course.

“Ah, maybe because I wanted to leave soon?” She asks, rubbing the back of her head to play with her messy ponytail. It had been sleek once, but being around this amount of people, dancing against one another, and trying to move through them while also avoiding anyone getting too close to her, was a difficult task that ended up getting her a bit riled up.

“Shut up!” Jade screeches, wrapping her arm around her once again and resting her cheek against hers. “Shut up, babe! You’re not leaving…anywhere…no.”

That’s the drag of her voice, the clear sign that Jade will be too drunk tomorrow, drunk enough for her not to remember if she leaves her alone here—

But shit, she can’t leave Jade alone. She’s shirtless, meaning that her Versace shirt must be somewhere on the floor, or covered in vomit, and she’s drunk. God knows what could happen if she leaves her alone.

“I’m not leaving you, don’t worry.”

“Yay!”

“But I should clean you up, you’re all sticky from the alcohol, Jade.” She replies, already making her way through the masses of people to find the bathroom. It must be by one of the corners, but she’s not too sure in this club. “Why did you drink so much?”

“Because—”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Just because.”

When the bathroom’s door is only a few meters away, she sees him. The song that is playing in the background is too robotic for anyone’s taste, but the one that plays inside her head is the one she mumbled to him before they fell asleep once.

‘Love of my Life’ by Queen.

Because if there’s someone that she loved in this world, in this hellish world that they dare call real life, it’s Jeon Wonwoo.

Closed eyes, head tilted back enough for his Adam’s apple to bob when he takes another drag of his cigarette. Nicotine is his lover for the night, while Love seems to tell him something angrily, fingers threading through her bleached blonde hair, dying at the number of products she puts on it, fried at this point. Wonwoo looks like himself, but he also doesn’t. She knows those black strands of hair, and how they curled against her fingertips when she tightened her hold on them after a kiss. Her mind recognizes those lips, now pink yet chapped, but when they wrap into an answer that blows the smoke into the air, he doesn’t seem like her Wonwoo. His eyes open, he stares at Love as he speaks to her, but Love’s eyes are already looking at someone else.

Eunkyung is calling out her name and there is nothing that seems to stop her as she stumbles away from her seat.

It’s at nights like these that she wishes to be forgotten. Get on a car, preferably old, drive until her feet hurt or until the gas runs low, wearing a thin jacket as she listens to classics. She’s tired of this new version of her life that she can’t seem to get used to. People that she thought she knew seem to be far too different now, with Eunkyung not existing when she reaches her and Jade. This is Love, the vocalist of Wonwoo’s band, with eyes so hollow she almost feels dead, and a mouth that wraps up in a smile that begs for a second chance.

Because everyone wants to go back.

But no one can.

“It’s been so long since I last saw you!” Love’s arms wrap around her to take her away from Jade, but her friend doesn’t seem to mind as she giggles mindlessly. Love’s hold is strong, calloused hands meeting her spine as she cages her face on her shoulder. There are tears there, an unspoken word, perhaps the need to feel like herself again. This is not Eunkyung. “Where have you been?”

“Somewhere. Always here.” She replies, pulling away and yet, capturing Wonwoo’s gaze in a single second. His eyes are already on her, twinkling heavenly in the pits of hell, and she has to give a step back to deny the gravity in between the two.

“Wonwoo’s over there. Let me call him over—!”

Little by little, she loved him.

And little by little, she shall erase the memory of him.

“No, sorry. Me and my friend are going back home.” She replies, wrapping her hand around Jade’s wrist, pulling farther and farther away from the people she had known the most. Yet, she doesn’t know them now. These people on world tours, selling millions of copies of their albums, making money out of their past…those are not people she had known.

And she doesn’t want to know them again.

Her feet bring her out of the club, and she swears she feels someone behind her, but with rushed steps the feeling becomes barely a ghost. Then, nonexistent. Finally, in the car she starts to think about it.

May the stars only know if it was him going after her.

###

With him, it always feels like one of both said something wrong. Or, rather, didn’t say anything at all.

What’s with her, this feeling of talking too much and saying too little? What’s the regret that overtakes her when her head leans back on her seat, listening to the song Minghao has put on per her request, played for their viewers and yet, not quite admitting to her most intricate of desires even on a verse? Her eyes stare at the ceiling, imagine him in front of his drums—imagine him calling her beautiful, holding her head, longing for her. All things she wants now, all equally as impossible.

A week since she last saw him, and she likes to believe Wonwoo went trailing after her. It’s the only thing that keeps her up at night—the questioning of reality and a dream. Maybe, he was never behind her—it could’ve been one of the partygoers, one of those drunken people that don’t know where to step, or it could’ve been him. Why does she feel her lungs relax against its own confines when she imagines him?

Because this is Wonwoo. The one who writes songs about her. The only man that she can’t seem to get over. Memories that come back all the time, because he’s in every single one of them. Wonwoo’s name spill from her tongue without knowing, his songs come to her in the shower without meaning to, and his scent is felt on every portion of her bed. He hasn’t been there in years, but it’s almost like he left only yesterday.

It was two years ago.

Two years, and she really should get over him.

Her eyes divert towards her computer screen, watching the messages pop in slowly before she sees a collection of digits. It’s a date—the date in which everything ended, continued by a text that has her mouth drying up.

I want to see you again.

It has to be a coincidence; it really has to be so. It could be that someone’s important date was two years ago, in that night in which everything ended. She sighs deeply, clearing her throat when the song finishes itself and she has to talk again.

“Well, now we have to talk about that album—”

Another message pops up, but it’s impossible. Wonwoo rarely listened to her podcast, and when he did, he never said anything.

Love’s Midnight album is about who you think it is about.

Please, let me see you again.

She wants to see him again, too. It’s that feeling that keeps her up at night—knowing he could be close, but never close enough.

“Ah, in case anyone comes across a bunch of messages in the chat about seeing me again. It’s just some ex.” She tries to chuckle, but her voice has long gone left for something duller, stranger, as if she can’t get used to talking when it’s about him. “Already seeing someone dude, sorry.”

Seeing who?!

Minghao lifts his gaze, his hat doing nothing to conceal the disappointment on his face. What can she do? Admit that she feels jealous whenever she hears those rumors about who the album is about? That she has looked at pictures of his possible lovers and yet, the feeling never quite settles well with her?

The last man she saw was a man of wealth—son of a record label owner, very much into music, yet not quite in a band or participating anywhere as a solo artist. Mingyu was a nice date; the kind that made her laugh, ate a lot with her, drank a good glass of burgundy colored wine with her…but he wasn’t a forever. Wasn’t even a kiss. Mingyu became a friend after, and then, she didn’t want to date again.

But it’s what she has to do. If Wonwoo can go date some Eunji, and possibly write one or two songs about her, she can date whoever…

Right?

Right?!

###

The documentary didn’t show exactly how Love’s Midnight came to be what they are today.

People love a good story. Movies are a profitable job because of that, and books keep on fueling fantasies for those who can’t live in a better world for the same reason. What happens is, if something is boring, people don’t care. There has to be sentimentalism; enough to move anyone to tears, or make them feel inspired. Everyone who has been legendary has gone through a story of pain, only to reach their best spot. There’s a downfall in between, but the point of union always brings the grand finale to life.

In reality, Love’s Midnight happened because of Hansol. Eunkyung, who now can’t seem to stand anyone calling her that name instead of Love, worked part-time in some bar downtown. The place was ratchet, with hidden call-people expecting someone to capture them for the night, some drunkards that got a little bit too loud, and the owner, who’d always thank Eunkyung’s presence, calling it Love’s Midnight whenever clients gathered around…because her drinks were that good.

Hansol said, as he happened to be sitting down in Wonwoo’s couch, that it sounded like a band’s name. Andy was there, too, partly rubbing the skin of his arm after getting his first tattoo, and also hardly listening—but it seemed to be fitting for him, to join their forces and make a group. Originally, Eunkyung was supposed to be a guitarist, but Wonwoo would not even dare step in front of masses of people to sing a goddamned song about love.

What did people who watched the documentary believe now? That it was because of Andy’s nickname to Eunkyung. Love, when they were lovers, and the midnights they spent together. It earns them more money, yes, but it’s also heavily exaggerated to have people asking for more. Andy and Love were one of the biggest couples years ago, after all, and people thirsted more and more for their little interactions, even if they were nonexistent at this point.

Luckily, Hoshi is now with them.

But people are now even more interested in the band, and the arenas for the concerts of their world tours have been selling like hot bread. The problem is that being in a van with his three bandmates gets more tiring with each and every day that they spend pretending to be people they are not. They have to be cool, edgy, attend parties when they are told to, drink alcohol like it’s water, talk like they think of themselves as the most mysterious in this world. He can’t even call Hansol his real fucking name without having one of their managers tug him by the arm and correct him to Vernon.

The news outlet displays itself on the television screen. Hoshi keeps strumming on his guitar, and Vernon doesn’t seem to mind as he lays sleepily on his bed, ready to knock off. Love is somewhere in the back with someone she met in the afterparty of the concert—some groupie that she can’t seem to get her hands off of. The worst part is that he can’t seem to continue writing this song for the next album, because a picture of him is displayed on the screen.

“Who do you think Valentine is about, Rose?” One of the hosts asks, moving her short hair away from her sturdy shoulders to look at her taller counterpart.

Rose plays with the strands of her bubblegum pink hair, smacking her lips together before she speaks up. “People say it’s about Eunji Song, but I think there’s a line of girls that say it’s about her.”

“Wonwoo’s totally a womanizer.” Another host says, fashionable in the way he dresses, one leg crossed over the other. “We have fourteen idols who have been linked with him, three models, one entrepreneur and all in the last two years. We don’t even know who could’ve slipped the public eye.”

Rose takes a sharp breath, her teeth clattering in a way that has Wonwoo closing his eyes tightly. Two models, and that was about it. Neither lasting more than a week. Neither meant to be more to him. Just two people that he happened to come across with, and helped him forget. Well, tried to, at least. “He has even more lovers than Vernon!”

“Vernon’s been with the same girl for a while. Maybe, he could learn a thing or two about a committed relationship.”

The first host chuckles at their words, shaking her head in the process. “Everyone’s into drummers. I think he just likes the attention.”

The lonesome tune of Hoshi’s old guitar stops playing in the background, and Vernon’s soft snores mix with the cars passing by. His fingers reach for the remote, turning off the TV before those words stain his heart even further.

“Want to talk about it?” The bleached blonde man in the room asks, resting his cheek against his guitar to pay his utmost attention to him. “Vernon knows. Love does, too. But you’ve never told me what happened with your Valentine.”

Maybe, Hoshi seems like the kind who doesn’t take anything seriously—but he does. His eyes glaze over as he quietly speaks into the night, but Wonwoo can only stand up from his seat, eager to lock himself in his own room and think of what exactly happened. He doesn’t know what’s going on inside his head. “It’s nothing special,” But it is. Wonwoo believed in a lot of things—that Van Gogh was the best artist of his generation, that knowledge is the best form of revenge, and that she was his person. The only individual in this world that could see him for who he was and still, gauged him to be better. “Just what happens to everyone.” He fixes his jeans then, hanging low on his hips when Hoshi scoffs.

“What happens to everyone?”

“…Just, falling in love and never being able to make it work.”

“That’s not your fault.”

He stops in front of the door that leads to his room, and he wants to believe what Hoshi says. Maybe, if she had understood him as an artist, they’d be together. Perhaps, if he had just listened to her, he wouldn’t have written an entire album about heartbreak. It was not inherently his fault, but partly, like DNA that splits in two and creates the atrocity of what they were. The beauty in the fallout. “I’m heading to sleep.”

A hand wraps around his thigh, caging him in his spot when Hoshi, with a widened gaze, asks: “Who is it about?” The gossip must’ve gotten to him, too. Secrecy at its finest made an entire festival for the world to enjoy. “Like, who out of all the women they say it’s about…the album is actually written for.”

“None of them.” Wonwoo conquers, pushing his body away from him with a dizzied smile on his face. “…And that’s all I’m saying.”

“Wonwoo—!”

“I’m not saying who it is about.”

“…Damn it.” Hoshi adds, finally leaning back on his seat and returning to his guitar, soon after playing a tune with a few invented lyrics: “Jeon Wonwoo has a stick up his ass…”

The door closes behind him with a swoosh, all thoughts of rationality building themselves down out of pure impotence. The room is far too tiny, and Hoshi will join him sooner than later when he finishes his little guitar rendezvous, but that’s far from the point now. With each step he takes towards his bed, the more he notices his phone. Changed it like four times in the past two years because of crazy groupies, obsessed people sending him threats and just because he could do so. He wanted change so much that he doesn’t need it anymore.

The bed welcomes his weight as if he had never left, molding to his every curve, bouncing at his mere presence. His fingers subtly reach for his phone, lurking through his contacts like a man searching for answers.

His past lover is taken, and he’s stupid enough to press down on her contact even when he’s not drunk. Not an ounce of alcohol clads his vision, his stance, and that only makes it more pathetic.

But, how could she be taken? If love’s not as easy to get rid of for him, it should be difficult for her, too.

The ringing stops, and someone picks up, though the voice that welcomes him is old, a femme to be exact, but definitely over her sixties. “Hello?” She asks on the voice, and Wonwoo closes his eyes tightly out of embarrassment. “Who is calling this late?”

Right, a sixty-something-year-old woman is probably not used to two in the morning calls.

But who is, actually?

Out of embarrassment, his thumb presses down on the red button and he’s once again left with his silence. This has to mean that he should stop—calling his ex-girlfriend, who said was taken, is not the worst thing he has done, but it’s outright pathetic. For a second, he thinks of texting someone else—a friend, a model, a singer, someone who clearly wants to pay attention to him, who wouldn’t mind having the star of the year talking to them about anything and everything but her.

Yet, his mind can only think about an old friend, and it’s not even a friend to start with. Calling him would earn him a few insults, so he opts to text the only direct line he has to what he wants to get back. The thread that could move him closer to getting an answer.

To: Xu Minghao.

Hello, Minghao. This is Wonwoo.

Jeon Wonwoo from Love’s Midnight.

Minghao probably recognizes him more as his friend’s ex-boyfriend, but hey, he doesn’t know what to say.

Still, he mentions her name.

To: Xu Minghao.

Do you have her number?

I really need to talk to her.

For a few seconds, he wishes he could dissipate. Of course, Xu Minghao probably has made his life, twirled in his bedsheets and perhaps, with a lover that fits him better than he ever fit his ex. He’ll probably get insulted nonetheless, knowing just how protective he is over the podcast host. It’s two in the fucking morning, Wonwoo’s not drunk, but he really wishes he was so he could have an excuse for being…

Stupid.

A dick.

From: Xu Minghao.

Are you drunk?

To: Xu Minghao.

No.

From: Xu Minghao.

Are you planning on getting drunk?

To: Xu Minghao.

No.

Her number is linked soon after, not without forgetting to add something else.

From: Xu Minghao.

Anything you say can and will be held against you.

I’ll know if you do something stupid.

Don’t fuck it up, dude.

The thing is that Wonwoo is a thinker. Immature at times, or most of the time, but really an overthinker. His dad always told him that going through life as if he’s in a game of chess would help him make right decisions. Count every movement as a step forward, but also a step closer to either winning or losing. Each and every action could cause the fallout of others, of himself, or absolute success. He doesn’t know where he stands as the phone rings and he awaits her response.

“Hello?”

That groggy tone, he has heard before. Whenever someone wakes her up from a nap or a deep night of sleep, her voice seems to be eerily quiet. It’s the only time he has heard her something far from perfect, not as knowledgeable as she is. Love-filled confessions were given at the peak of the night, when Wonwoo’s fingers would ghost over the delicate spot on her waist and she’d grasp his hand with her warm ones and say: I love you.

Muffled, silent, followed by sleep, and yet so meaningful.

“What do you mean you’re taken?” Wonwoo wants to say a million things. Say hi, and indicate that her podcast has only gotten better. That he’s sorry for not believing in her, or rather, not knowing how to show it. However, his mind is clouded with the image of her, holding hands with someone else, kissing someone else, being in absolute love with someone that is not him—and making it work. Egotistic as it can be, he is.

The bed ruffles, and for a moment, she’s silent. Too unlike her until she breathes out, much more awake now, surprised even. “Wonwoo, why are you calling me?”

The only time he has heard that surprised tone was after their first kiss. One would think that someone as beautiful as her would’ve kissed him with little to no reaction after, but his collarbones can almost feel the weight of her face at the memory. Her features hid away from him, the dumbest of smiles accompanied with a few giggles of her own. It was as if she had been waiting for him, and he had taken too long.

It’s not that different now.

“I—Uh, I needed to hear you. Hear from you.” Wonwoo doesn’t know what to say, straightening up his position on the bed and taking his pillow to slot his fingertips against the fabric. “I told you what I really felt and what I did, and all you do is ignore me.”

“I’m not friends with my exes, sorry.” She replies, and Wonwoo is about to retaliate, but the words have come back to her. Angry. Burning. Scalding. “And why in all the fucking hell would I have to tell you why I’m taken?”

“Because—” He wants to be honest for the first time in a while. With himself and with her. “Because we used to be friends before we were lovers, and I still care about the kind of person you’re seeing—”

“Do you really care?” The scoff that leaves her lips brings a frown to his face. “Go ask one of your models, or Song Eunji, about who they’re seeing and what they’re doing with their romantic lives. You don’t need to protect me from anything.”

Oh, so she knew about Eunji. “I’m not with any of them.”

“And you’re not with me, either.”

Wonwoo has to run his fingers through his messy black hair in order to grasp onto something else, or organize his thoughts before he goes absolutely insane. “I’m not.”

Silence. “So, why are you calling?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you loving someone else.” He breathes out, and before she could interrupt him with one of her pointy, correct, honest speeches, he bares his heart and soul. “…I’ve only been yours, I’m still yours. I want to know who it is that made you not want to be mine again.”

Again must not be in her vocabulary, and if he listens close enough, he can hear the change in her breathing, as if she starts to live life slower. “So, you date some model and I’m supposed to stay single?”

Fuck.

“I didn’t date her.”

“Then, you slept with her. Or various women, I don’t know.”

He can only stay silent.

“I know we broke up, and it’s totally okay for you to do that, but why would you ask me to stay waiting for you, when you didn’t wait for me either?”

“Okay, shit, sorry.” Wonwoo tries to reorganize his thoughts. He’s stupid. She wasn’t wrong when she said most men are stupid in the past, and now he has entered the spectrum. “I did it because it just…I just…I needed to get you out of my head.”

“By sleeping with other women?”

“Two.”

“Oh, two.” She releases, sarcasm thick in her voice. “What would you do if I said I have had more than two?”

Wonwoo closes his eyes, imagining her going on dates or perhaps, simply looking for someone in a bar. For men to sweeten her lips with a taste of their own, before treating her like less than what she deserves. It’s not what he wants for her, but it’s the same medicine he took. “It’d suck, but it’d be acceptable. We are not together.”

“Exactly.”

“…But who is it?”

“Who?”

“Who is the person you’re seeing right now? Out of your repertoire of people.”

She remains silent for a few seconds, as if she’s thinking too deeply, and yet, Wonwoo can’t keep his mouth from running. For the first time in his life, he wants to say a lot instead of saying nothing at all.

“No one.” She whispers into the dark night, the lullaby of his dreams coming directly from his lips. He wants to call it a second chance, but it just means solitude. “…Because unlike you, I wasn’t able to move on as easily.”

“I didn’t, fuck, I didn’t move on.” Wonwoo replies, laying on his stomach as he hides his face on the sheets. “I was just stupid. I don’t know how to explain myself.”

“Do so or I’ll hang up. Last chance to hear my voice—”

“I wanted to get over you, and I thought I’d do what most rockstars do. I’d just sleep with someone and feel powerful, like I don’t care…” His voice trails, eyes glistening when he lifts his gaze. “But I do care. I care about you.”

“…I don’t know if I should trust you.” The insecurity is palpable through her voice, as if she’s a star in this sky and she’s only getting farther away from him. Tiny, miniscule for her; big and bright for him. “Wonwoo, we didn’t understand each other then, when we were barely starting to be the people we wanted to be. How would we understand each other now that my podcast is doing the best it has ever done, and you have about every woman in this damned country wanting to throw their wet panties at you?”

Looking up at the ceiling, Wonwoo wants to say the truth. What he has always regret not telling her. “I’ll always try my hardest for you. I didn’t do it then, but I’d go back and do it differently if I could.”

The line cuts short after she hangs up, leaving him with no more than a sharp intake of breath.  

###

The chocolate on the man’s ice-cream cracks under the force of his teeth, sliced nuts meeting the white substance in between—vanilla ice-cream, most likely, with a few lines of caramel. She had forgotten just how much Mingyu seemed to enjoy life, lips forever petrified in a smile as he looked around in the ice cream shop. Her delight has disappeared into the depths of her stomach, but Mingyu is on his second ice cream. Not a care in this world. Not a single wrinkle on his face to indicate he is feeling the weather a little bit strongly. He’s just eating, living, existing, breathing.

Jade tagged along, because something about her being in his father’s label and Mingyu absolutely needing guitar classes means that they had to ask her to come to their little ‘not a date’. Judging by the way Jade’s cheeks stain pink, and how she continuously play with the strands of hair, becoming a shy version of herself she had rarely gotten to see—unless they went to a concert and got to meet the artists backstage—, she thinks there is a reason why everything felt so inherently wrong with Mingyu, and with her setting up date for Minghao and Jade.

The young woman’s eyes glaze over when Mingyu smiles at her, and her fingertips reach for his lips to rub the chocolate away. Those stares, in between shyness and comfort, in the stage of not knowing what to say and yet, doing everything all at once—she lived that with Wonwoo, and she knows they’re probably less than a month away from calling it the truth.

So, she stands up, because if she can do something right in this life it’s making two people get together, even if she has to fake a few actions in the process. “I’m getting another ice cream. Want one, Jade?”

“We’ll share.” Mingyu adds, already putting his newly bitten chocolate ice cream up to Jade’s lips, and he barely ignores Jade’s widened eyes as she wraps her lips around the sweet and bites on the chocolate.

“Okay…” She whispers, lifting her hands in the air with her phone dinging in between her fingertips. “I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t miss the way that Jade whispers ‘take your time’, before Mingyu joins her with sweet laughter.

Ugh, love.

It’s so motherfucking annoying when you don’t have it.

But, let’s admit it—it’s cute in its early stages.

To: Hao.

So, when I set you up with Jade…

From: Hao.

You mean: Worst idea you’ve ever had?

To: Hao.

Yeah.

Did you hate me for it because Jade’s not your type, or because you knew she’d be a better match for Mingyu?

From: Hao.

Jade denies it, but she’s always had a thing for Mingyu.

To: Hao.

Oh, tea?

From: Hao.

I guess.

She drunkenly admitted it to me once.

Well, initially she said she wanted Mingyu to tie her to a ceiling fan and make her spin.

But I continued to talk her out of it and she admitted that she thought he was cute.

And I’ve been working on building up her crush on him for a year straight.

To: Hao.

Trust Xu Minghao on finding the love of your life.

Upon approaching the counter to order her ice cream, she hears someone softly calling out her name. It’s a delicate voice, definitely not used a lot, as if the air could take away the words in one single swish. Locking her phone as she turns to the side, she sees a smaller young woman by her side. Probably on her teens, with black hair and red highlights, a band t-shirt representing the pinnacle of her youth. Long ago, before Jeon Wonwoo even existed in her life, she may have looked like this.

“It’s you.”

But she wouldn’t have said that to a complete stranger, lowering her voice to a deep whisper as she clings onto her backpack. The pins read Love’s Midnight name and logo, making her swallow harshly.

“Sorry, I don’t know you—”

The teen fan gets her phone out of her pocket, lurking through her pictures as she speaks. “You’re the woman Valentine was written about,” The lisp on her tone is ever-present, clinging to her every syllable as she shows the device to her, pictures with Wonwoo displayed one by one, moved by her finger to show even more proof. Her face behind important pictures of their first few gigs, a few messages in social media that she was sure she deleted before— “Fans have been going crazy trying to find who it was about, but I saw you in the pictures and decided to look you up.”

She has to take a step back. Fear overtakes her. A young fan could do anything they wanted with this information, and if she was able to find all that…this is not the normal kind of fan. With shaking fingertips, she clasps her phone against her chest. “Did you follow me here, kid?”

“No. This is dad’s ice cream shop.” A smack of her bubblegum fills the air, twirling her finger against the straps of her backpack. “…I just saw you here and I thought it was destiny.”

“It’s not destiny.” She speaks, curt and clear. “And also, I’m not the woman you’re looking for. Sorry.”

“You’re in all his pictures from the past—”

“We were friends.” And she doesn’t know why she’s explaining this to a teenager, instead of actually calling her father and telling him that her daughter is batshit crazy. “And it’s none of your business, ain’t it? If you really like a celebrity, you need to learn how to respect their privacy.”

“Everyone is looking for his Valentine, and if I am right with my assumptions, we’ll finally get to know—”

“What do you earn from it?” Turning around, she spares one glance at Mingyu and Jade, with Mingyu looking at them with a frown on their features. Confusion, definitely. “Whoever it is, that’s the drummer’s issue.”

“It’s you! It’s so you!” The teenager says, a smile on her face as she jumps on her spot. “The blog’s so gonna love this!”

Grasping her hand with force on top of the teenager’s, she sighs deeply. “Don’t do that. That’s wrong.” She starts, eyes raking over the room before clearing her throat. “One day, you’re going to be older, and you’re going to realize those people you look up to are as normal as you are. You don’t need to make them more important than they already are, for you or for anyone. Don’t let being a fan of someone take over your life.”

The teen looks down at their joined hands, eyelashes fluttering with the heavy mascara, chest going up and down with each breath she takes, deeper than the last. “Okay, sorry…” She whispers, pulling away from her. “I must’ve gotten it wrong.”

“Don’t worry, I was also a fan of some people in my time.” She shrugs, returning her gaze to her friends to give them a tight smile. Everything’s alright. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Alright, thank you.”

The problem is that only that night when she gets home, Minghao links her straight to an article, written fresh from the oven and reading:

Forty Women (+1 Unexpected Guest) That Can Be The Inspiration Behind Love’s Midnight’s Valentine!

Scrolling down with shaking fingertips, she prays to the heaven for her to not be in that list—for it to be another rumor, another person that has been wanting to be thought of by Jeon Wonwoo, but once she reaches spot number forty-one, her heart feels like it has fallen out of her chest.

Her name is on the forty-first spot.

41. Podcast Host, Communication Major, Music Minor: This one is the most unexpected, yet the newest guess. Fans were able to compile pictures of two or three years ago of Jeon Wonwoo and this podcast host. Not only that, but she seemed to be close friends with Vernon, Love and Andy! Ouch!

Personal pictures were attached under the small paragraph, tugging at her heart strings.

Isn’t that the pink dress Wonwoo always talked about? Or could it be Song Eunji’s favorite color?

As if things couldn’t get any harder…

###

This is Eunkyung’s little dream. Her tea party filled with reporters, cameras, flashes, cigarettes and bodyguards. Everyone says that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger—and he feels like he has become a weightlifter with how much he has coped with, leaning back on his seat as the reporters in front of them beg to eat them alive. Each question pointier than the other, each silence dragging on for longer than the last. The center of attention is not the album, not Hoshi’s guitar solos or Vernon’s enigmatic bass skills. The center of attention is that Jeon Wonwoo had fallen in love, and couldn’t seem to get his old lover back.

His friends are different, and so is he. It should make him feel better that the evolution is ever-present in their lives, but it isn’t. The man he sees projected on the glass of water in front of him is exactly who he would’ve never thought he’d become. His black hair is pushed away, forehead is full display, not a single imperfection left for the world to see as he’s covered in makeup. The red leather jacket makes him sweaty, but he still wears it. It’s a gift from Versace and there’s only two of them in the entire world; he just has to wear it, according to his stylist.

One of the reporters stands up from his seat, fixing the blue sweater atop his toned body. The long strands of his black hair give him a bohemian look, but the preppy outfit and the glasses make him look somewhat nerdy. He could definitely be a reporter in music, but Wonwoo doesn’t really give a shit, does he?

“Wonwoo, excuse me—” The man starts, voice as nasal as ever as he brings his recorder up to his lips. “Forty-one women have been linked to be your muse for the latest album, but only one of them stands out.” He already knows the answer. Song Eunji. If rolling his eyes was an option, he’d do it, but he’s been staring at the cameras flashing for too long and his eyes feel like they may give up on him at any moment.

“Sorry, uh, we said no questions about that.” Wonwoo leans forward on his microphone, offering a brief smile in order to keep it at peace. The least he wants is drama for being an absolute diva.

The reporter doesn’t listen, calling out her name as if he knew her. As if they had shared cups of coffee, mornings where conversations merged into memories, nights in which her tears couldn’t be stopped with memories of either really good or really bad times. “…Podcast host and communication graduate, whose connection with you was clarified by your fans after finding pictures from two years ago, seemingly in a relationship with you.”

Fuck.

Where was his publicist when he needed her the most?

He didn’t know that his fans were able to find such things. Each trace of his past with her had been deleted—for the sake of his band, and for the sake of forgetting her. “I won’t make any statements.”

“So, you do admit that you were in a relationship with her?”

“I said,” He presses his lips to the microphone, lifting his eyebrows in the process. “No statements. Meaning, no comment.”

“Ignoring my question is a confirmation, Wonwoo.”

This time around, Vernon is the one who takes place in the interview. “Ignoring his complaints about not wanting to answer is a confirmation of your lack of knowledge in reporting, sir.”

The masses in front of them go crazy, each asking questions louder than the last, penetrating his ears with absolute hatred. Wonwoo stumbles backwards by the time his body leaves his seat, shaking his head when his manager tries to reach out for him, make him sit down before he absolutely ruins his career. Yet, the only person he can think about is her. His fans had found her, the reporters knew about her, too. A life void of privacy simply because of him.

Once backstage, his shoulders tense, cradling his phone in between his hands and bringing it up to his ear. The phone rings a few times, but she always hangs up. Each and every call is ignored exactly in its beginning.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I didn’t tell anyone about us.

Tell me you’re alright, please.

Please, answer the phone.

Are you okay?

Why aren’t you answering?

I’m sorry for everything.

Regret bites at him, slices him to bits as he sits down on the sofa, hearing the commotion outside and yet, doing nothing to conceal it. Love would hate him for this, tension rising between them ever since he became the center of attention—but he never asked for this. If he could take it back to the time in which he had her, and Love’s Midnight only played small gigs in some bars downtown, he would.

And he’s been meaning to.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I know you didn’t tell anyone.

I’m alright.

I just need time to think of what I’m going to do.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I could book a hotel for you so you feel safer.

Paparazzi are going to look for you.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I’m staying at Minghao’s, don’t worry.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

Fine, but take care of yourself.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

Wonwoo?

He can imagine her, calling out his name softly as if she had never left him, as if everything was alright—

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

Tell me.

To: Jeon Wonwoo.

I need you to take care, as well.

I don’t want you to stress out over this.

From: Jeon Wonwoo.

I’ll take care, baby.

Before he could regret what he said last, she left him on read. As if she had heard him too, but decided not to listen.

###  

The only beverage Minghao’s going to give her while staying at his place is lukewarm tea with honey. No matter how hard she tries to get him to give her coffee, it doesn’t happen.

The cars pass by the windows, stuffed by her breath that fans upon the clear glass. Her heart can’t stay still, much like her hands, fiddling against the other, waiting for the bad news. They have arrived—the world knows her, and past the comfort of Minghao’s place, she knows there are cameras flashing in front of her house. They had captured her before she got here, and after endless twists from Minghao, they managed to get to his apartment safe, sound and unnoticed.

Each and every insecurity is highlighted by the cameras. The fact that there had been someone else after her mocks her—tells her that people are just going to end up comparing her to those after her, or even before her. Ghosts that never existed in Wonwoo’s life, too. Some may be taller, some more petite. Some may have a clearer tone of voice, others may be unable to speak in anything other than profanities. Some may kill it on the guitar, and some may kill for a guitar. Everyone in Wonwoo’s life has been so different and yet, she’s the only one with an entire album written about her.

It’s winning the feeling of feeling unique that makes her feel less like shit. Wonwoo cared enough about her to write a million apologies in the form of notes, for him to pour his entire heart out in a guitar, a set of drums, a piano, a voice, the bass—all inspired by her, they rotate around her like the constellations around the universe. The smile she misses had dissipated with the memories of them, and she wants to bring them back. Fuck two years, more than six hundred days, because time is just a concept we don’t understand.

“Hey,” Minghao’s hair is not disheveled, put-together like he’s about to go over the runway with the newest pajama collection from, probably, Louis Vuitton. His body leans against the doorframe, wood against his soft skin, looking at her with worry as she sits on the bed of the room in Minghao’s apartment that he doesn’t use. “There has to be some good to this.”

“Yeah?” She asks, tilting her head far enough for her forehead to rest against the window. “Tell me what it is.”

The tech moves closer until he is in front of her, delicately kneeling in front of her before patting her leg. “This could bring potential listeners to our podcast—”

“Or girls that will hate me because I’m dating their rocker fantasy. Minghao, get real.” Her voice isn’t meant to sound so sharp, but it does. Her world shatters while Minghao can only see from up close, first row, even.

“Don’t think about them. Think about you.”

“What am I supposed to think about?”

“What you want out of this. If this is only a sign from the world to just get in contact with Wonwoo and clear things up. His career, yours, your relationship—” Minghao is speaking too fast, fingers fiddling with his own hair before sighing. “And if you’re not going to do it, I am. I can’t keep seeing you haltering your life because a relationship didn’t work. You are the one that needs to get real.”

She pushes his hand away then, crossing her arms over her chest to shelter herself. “Well, hear me out, you haven’t been in love, but I have. It’s damn fucking annoying when it doesn’t work, and you think that’s the only man that will ever get you, know you, feel you like he does. It’s not the same when you imagined your entire life with a man and he’s suddenly taken away from you. He changes. Twists. He’s not the same anymore, but you know that deep within him, there’s that man you love.” Her chest shakes with every breath she takes, and Minghao takes this time to step away from her. “And you wait for him. Wait for the day he realizes that you never meant to make him feel bad, and hope that he never meant to say the words he said to you. You don’t know what regret is, but I do—”

“Just mend it.”

She wishes it could be that easy. “And then, what?”

“Why do you always have to think about the future?” Her eyes inspect Minghao’s features, as if pulling away every thread of his enigma.

“Because the future is always happier than the present, ain’t it?”

His hand hovers over her shoulder, as if he wants to touch her, shelter her, but he doesn’t. Instead, Minghao smacks his hand against his side, looking for his phone before speaking up. “It’s up to us to make our present happy, too.”

The only response he gets is the sound of her sipping on her tea. Bland tea that Minghao loves, but doesn’t keep him in the room as he closes the door behind him with a thud.

For some moments, she can only look ahead. The cameras follow her, and it wouldn’t surprise her if she closes her eyes, only to awaken to the world trying to get information about her—a picture where something sags in her body, or her pimples are visible, or the stress marks around her face become wrinkles. However, even sleep seems to be out of town today, and she can’t do much but watch some movies on TV. Let the world decide for her again. The Notebook. Then, she couldn’t quite look at the screen without tears on her face.

When sleep welcomes her, it doesn’t stay for long.

It’s like the culprit that opens the door to the room, closing it behind him with an accidental bang—like the way he left. When her eyes can finally clearly see the outline of him in the dark, Wonwoo becomes a living being after years of trying to erase him. Dark hair pushed away from his face thanks to the droplets of rain that had coated both his leather jacket and his black t-shirt. His boots squeak against the flooring when he moves, stopping whatever force brings him closer to her. Eddie The Eagle plays in the background, but no star has ever been as bright as him. As the twinkle in his eyes when he breathes out his name as if he had never forgotten the lullaby in it. As if, for some reason, she’d always have a taste of that tongue and those lips, even when they are nowhere near or over hers.

Proof that love exists beneath him, over him, in him, is when he asks: “Are you alright?”

She could say no, or even just confirm it. Her words could turn into lies or truths, but they decide to stay in between. With him, saying too little or too much is granted to be a loss. “…I could be worse.”

Wonwoo lets the jacket fall on the floor with a thud, and before he could part his lips to say anything else as he nears her, she asks:

“How did you get in?”

“I was hiding in some hotel downtown, when I realized I just couldn’t leave you alone through this.” His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper when the wind keeps blowing on the windows, rain pattering like droplets of paint. “So, I called Minghao, and he told me he’d leave the door open and I just could get in.”

“No one followed you, right?” Worry piles in her expression when mirrored in his starry eyes. The music of their love has lulled to a weak piano tune. They fell, lifted themselves up, only to be pushed to the ground again.

“I made sure no one did.” And the weight of him falls on the edge of the bed, the gray bedsheets wrinkling under his wet presence, leaving an imprint of him. A memory as strong as the ones she holds of him. “I’m sorry this is the way we ended up meeting again.”

Chances, figures in percentages that we don’t expect. We hope for them, and rarely get them. The chance of meeting Wonwoo again was lost thanks to his lack of privacy, but it would a lie if she said she hadn’t been worrying about him all night. In the edge of the bed, biting at her nails, wanting nothing more than to reach out for him.

Who loves you now, Wonwoo?

Who loves you more than I do?

Is it the world? Your fans? Your bandmates? Is it someone else?

Have you been loved at all while I have been gone?

“It had to happen someday,” She whispers into the night, bringing her knees up her chest, taking her coat off and tossing it his way. The cotton material meets his hands quickly, draping it over his body as if the tears that had been dropped in the same garment manage to warm him up. “Not the way I expected it to happen—”

His lips quirk up in a shy smile, shivering with happiness and glee, or perhaps from the coldness of the room. “You expected it to happen?”

It’s her time to shut her mouth for a second, thinking of the next step. “…It’s one of those vague daydreams I have. What would happen if we met again?”

“And what did you think was going to happen?”

“…That I’d try to run away.” She replies, and his smile falls at that moment. Yet, she doesn’t want to lie to him. “But if you got close enough, I’d start thinking of your hands around my waist, or the little kisses you used to press to my hands when you held them, and I wouldn’t be able to keep myself away from you.”

Wonwoo gets closer, like a wanderer trying to land on his preferred island. Swimming through their insecurities, the issues that pulled them away— “I like that.”

“You do?” She asks. “I think I sound stupid.”

“…Love’s like that.” He shrugs. “I took the stupid decision to write an entire album about you, but here’s the thing: I don’t regret it.” His words condense every single bit of coldness inside her chest, letting the tremble of his voice awaken the senses that never left her, loving him to death. “If writing a song about you is a sin, take me to hell.”

Kicking him softly on the leg, she chuckles. “Metaphorical as ever.”

“I like to read.”

“I know, you liked reading more than talking to me.” There, one of the issues of their relationship arises.

“And you don’t know how many books I have wished to un-read just to hear you talking again.” He replies, sighing soon after as he plays with one of the threads of the blanket. “But that’s life. I make bad decisions, they bite me in the ass, and then, I try to mend it.”

“And how are you planning to mend it?”

His arms extend at that moment, taut muscles contracting against the wet shirt. “I offer a hug for the night, if that’s alright.”

She wants to say no, but her body welcomes his embrace, feeling his strong chest pressed against hers, the curve of his spine, the way his scent always seems to be there—so warm, so his, so memorable, and yet, unable to feel as strong as a perfume. It is as though the scent of him drenched in rain makes her feel better, not quite as cold as in that bed alone, even when her skin clads itself in goosebumps. Her heart thumps with so much force that he probably feels it against his waist, in the way he leans back and cocoons her into place. She can’t look at him, just because she knows herself, and she’s one centimeter away from falling.

“It’s what I need.”

“Good.”

Zero point five centimeters away from falling.

Then, his breathing becomes tranquil, and his lips rest atop her hair.

Zero point twenty-five centimeters away from falling…

Zero point seventeen…

Fallen.

###

She knows he is still in that apartment when she hears his fingertips drumming against the counter.

You know, that’s also one of the issues of their relationship…the one they had two years ago. Waking up to the sound of Wonwoo playing whatever ACDC song on their kitchen counter wasn’t a pleasant noise in the past. When she’d go to the bathroom, phone perched in between her fingertips, she’d feel the rhythm thrumming through the tiles, interrupting her precious time of privacy. He’d do it before going to sleep, when bored, when watching a show but on her legs. It’s one of those things she’d ask him to stop doing, but as her eyes open and she comes face to face with the opened door, she feels safe.

Because Wonwoo is there, and that’s more than she could ask at this moment where her name is imprinted in every magazine. Her hand looks for her phone, and for a moment, she wants to stop. God knows what most of the pages she follows on her Instagram page must have written about her—gossip sites that she is not proud of following, but does it to have topics to talk about in her podcast. Whatever. She’s a nobody, there is surely one or two things about her—

But when the light of her phone casts down on her with horrid pictures of her going through the seas of paparazzi to get out of there as soon as possible, she feels shallow.

She’s not a podcast host.

Not Wonwoo’s ex-girlfriend.

But Song Eunji’s rival.

Comparisons, one after the other, from physical appearance to the ultimate statement coming directly from Eunji. Some messages that could be understood as a simple song lyric, if it wasn’t from Wonwoo’s song itself, displayed on a throwback picture of the two of them. Finished, with of course, as much class as the model can have on an apparent drunken night, when she writes down on her caption—

Shout out to the man who writes an entire album about me and yet, can’t last more than four minutes in bed. Love you, Woo.

The laughing emojis after surely don’t settle well in her stomach.

She has to put the phone to the side to think about what bothers her—Wonwoo being with Eunji could be it, but it could also be Eunji taking the spotlight that does it. Maybe, it’s just the fact that she’s involved in all of this, covers thrown away from her body as she goes towards the kitchen, only to watch her best friend and ex-boyfriend seated face to face. Minghao, peacefully drinking from a cup of warm tea, and Wonwoo making conversation as he plays whatever difficult song he can’t seem to get out of his head.

It’s the fact that she hates it—this feeling that tells her she’s proud of being his muse, but in secret. It’s the fact that, all this time, she’d rather have him than anyone else—words be forgotten, actions be damned, only at this moment when his eyes meet hers again, and he dares say:

“Good morning. Slept well?”

How not to think of the fact that, after pushing him to the bathroom to get him to change into warmer, drier clothes from Minghao’s closet, she ended up falling sleep on his arms? That being in silence felt comfortable when around him? That healing is not quite complete when she can’t have him?

“Better than I expected.” She whispers, moving over until she is closer to him, inspecting his features before breathing out softly. “Eunji said the album is about her. People are going crazy over it.”

Wonwoo’s features soften for a second, head thrown back when a groan escapes his lips. “It’s not—”

“I need you to tell me why you wrote an entire album about me.” Her eyes don’t close, honesty overtaking her when her hands ball to her sides, breathing controlled, world stopping just for her to listen to him.

Wonwoo’s brown eyes shake, looking over to Minghao as the dullest shade of pink takes over his face, bathing him in an enchanting glow. “To forget about you,” He says, though he laughs at his antics a bit soon after. “Didn’t work out.”

“Why did you want to forget about me?”

“I thought you’d never come back.”

“And did you want me to come back?”

“From the moment you left that hotel room.”

“Why?”

“…I’m going to leave.” Minghao announces softly, already parting ways to go to his room with his mug of tea, but she can’t keep her eyes away from Wonwoo much longer. The question lingers in the air, just in time for him to connect his hands with hers.

“Why, Wonwoo? Why write about me, think about me, when you could’ve just let go?”

“It’s not that easy when it’s about you.” He says, a small smile playing on his features when he pulls her closer, not all at once but step by step. Slowly, she falls in between his legs, looks into his eyes when he lets sincerity live within his words. “I got everything I could ever wish for, and I still wanted you.”

“…Oh, God.” Her smile can’t hide itself when she wraps her arms around his shoulders, head resting on his chest as she chuckles. “Why do I like that so much?”

“Maybe, because you wanted me back, too?” The hope lingers on his voice, and she has to pull away for a second, looking up and down his features as she licks his lips.

“Let’s fix this entire mess first.”

“I’ll deny you are my album’s muse if that makes you feel better.”

For a moment, she feels the weight falling off her shoulders, but instead, she perks up, spine straightening when she says: “And why not confirm it instead?”

“Would you want to? This world I live in, it’s not good—”

“If I have to confirm a past relationship just to have you again, I will. I would.”

“…I won’t do that to you.” Wonwoo whispers, lips pressing to her knuckles like they used to at the earliest stages of their relationship. “You know what I want to do? Mend the lost time with you. Think and heal together. Talk to each other. I don’t want anyone else but us having a say on what we are…not stardom, not the band, not anyone.”

When she looks into his eyes, it feels like the old Wonwoo is back. Not the rockstar drummer that everyone has fallen for, but Jeon Wonwoo who’d laugh at the idea of ever being famous.

And it’s nice to think the world is different today, that they’re alone and there are not a thousand pictures of her online.

“Let them talk,” He finishes. “The only person I want to listen to is you, anyways.”

An avenue of tears has welcomed a sweet lake, and when she has seen her reflection in the water, she captures Wonwoo’s figure beside her. Maybe, they can get through this together. Perhaps, music united them, separated them, and now it has brought them back together again.

That’s the magic of love, isn’t it? Trusting again.

“…And you’ll hear me talk a lot about the past two years, Jeon Wonwoo.”

With a smile, he answers. “And I’ll gladly listen.”

Though, the only sound she gets to hear is the small intake of breath from his lips when she leans forward and tastes the early morning cigarettes in him. Everything she has ever wanted exists in him, so imperfect and yet, so fitting for her.

#wonwoo scenarios #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #wonwoo au #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #drummer!au #yea i wrote about wonwoo bc whenever i have wifi i have binge watched gose lemme be #also SUPER inspired by one of those ask games i did and hehehehehe i'm excited

[innerpostmentality]

Timing Is Everything

Inspired by Choices: The Royal Heir Book 1 chapter 10 – The Bachelor Party All rights to Choices characters go to Pixelberry. I appreciate their work and their inspiration. This features: Liam, Drake, Maxwell, Bertrand, and Bastien Word Count: 7300+ a smidge. It’s long. I apologize but I hope you enjoy. Rating: Let’s call it M. It’s a bachelor party…. So if you aren’t M then please put it on your reading list for when you are a little older. This is an AU where Stephanie (MC) chose Drake instead of Liam. Liam met Hyclea (OC) and they are currently engaged. Liam is not naming Drake and Stephanie’s child his heir. Savannah and Bertrand are about to get married. Authors note: I’m a native Texan and while we are noted for our great out doors and the mosquitos might eat you and the raccoons might steal your picnic the odds of running into a bear are significantly less than running into a bobcat or coyote. Tagging: @bbrandy2002 @tornbetween2loves @custaroonie @ao719 @texaskitten30 @sawyer0akleyscowboyhat @furiousherringoperatortoad @kennaxval @kingliam2019 @stopforamoment @hopefulmoonobject @gardeningourmet @darley1101 @drakewalkerwhipped @bobasheebaby @cora-nova @indiacater @emceesynonymroll    Maxwell was so excited about Bertrand’s bachelor party camping trip that he planned with Drake and Liam’s help he was practically bouncing. They had let him handle the evening camp activities and he had been nervously awaiting the arrival of the boxes of goodies he ordered after weeks of intensive research about bachelor parties. Since Drake and Liam had decided that the bachelor party was going to be a camping extravaganza in Texas he knew that it wasn’t going to be possible to have a girl jump out of a giant cake. And Savannah wouldn’t like that anyway. Drake had the early part. Liam the afternoon and lunch. And he had the evening and drinking and games.   He wasn’t really sure how much champagne he needed to order. At Beaumont Bashes as much bubbly wound up spilled to various attempts at opening bottles with medieval weaponry as wound up in glasses so he finally asked Drake if he thought twenty four bottles would be enough?   Drake lifted a brow trying to figure out if Maxwell was serious before he smirked. “I guess that depends on how big the pool is?”   Maxwell’s eyes got big, “Pool?”   “Twenty four bottles for four of us? You can’t possibly think we could drink that much so I was guessing we were going to be bathing in it? Which is a novel idea. Or you could give Bertrand eighteen bottles as a gift to enjoy with Savannah later I suppose.”   Drake smiled thoughtfully as he contemplated the fun he might have with Stephanie and three cases of champagne. “I think you may be on to something, Max. Take six with us and save the rest for a present for them.”

  He considered Drake’s advice but when he was packing he decided to take two cases since there were only six bottles in each case. Always better to have enough and his research had shown that one of the primary activities of a bachelor party was drinking, not just drinking but drinking excessively.  The other primary activity of bachelor parties, the sexy naughty part was tougher to figure out. Out in the woods in a foreign country, house guests of your brother’s fiancées family that lived waaay out in the country you couldn’t get strippers, there wouldn’t even be a television to show bawdy films on. And then he found it, the Cock-a-Deux a penis casting kit! Everything you need to turn your willy into a gift that will wow your partner! They had kits that let you make sculptures, candles, vibrators, chocolate, night lights, dildos, intimate gifts that would be fun. It was perfect! He ordered kits to make candles. Then he thought they might like vibrators since you might not want to see a candle shaped like you burn away; and the ladies might like a vibrator better. Then he decided that chocolates might be even better. Then he thought you might need a test kit that was just plain. So he modified his order again. Then he got nervous worrying about it not arriving in time. Then yesterday when he was getting really worried Scary Aunt, Leona had brought him the package from Intimate Ideas.    Maxwell grinned as he packed his sixteen Cock-a-Deux kits in his oversized duffel bag and set it on top of the ice chest where he had put the champagne before climbing into bed.

   Pounding on his door woke him up and he squinted blearily at his phone, 5:30am. “Up and at em, Maxwell! We’ve got horses to saddle and the fish won’t wait.” Drake called from his door. Then the door was opened and a cowboy hat was sailed like a Frisbee to land on his bed.     Drake woke Bertrand next and walked in as Bertrand spluttered to lay a pair of jeans and a denim shirt on the foot of his bed before setting a nice Stetson on top. “We’re going camping and Liam and I thought you could use some appropriate attire. Get dressed. Liam is making us coffee downstairs.”                                                  ------------------

     Liam smiled and handed him a cup of coffee when Drake came into the kitchen chuckling. “How’d it go?”     Drake saluted him with the coffee cup. “They were pre-verbal though Bertrand did make some noises of outrage as I barged in his room to deliver his outfit. I told him you were making us coffee.”     Bastien walked in and gave Liam a short bow, “Your Majesty, the tents and equipment are loaded in the SUV. As soon as we have everyone’s packs the security team will take everything to the camp site and set it up for you.”    “Would you like some coffee, Bastien? I really appreciate you taking care of this. I know it’s a bit unorthodox.” Liam sipped his coffee and smiled at the head of his guard.    “Thank you Sir, your offer is kind but I am fully caffeinated at this time.” Bastien smiled.    Liam shook his head chuckling. “Someday Bastien you are going to have to try my coffee. And that day you will be sad for all the years you have turned me down.”    Bastien bowed, “It is a certainty, Sir.”    There was a loud ‘thump’ bang, ….. ‘thump’ bang,… ‘thump’ bang, “Woah” ‘Thump’ bang, ‘Thump’ bang, “WoaH, WOAH, WOAH!” clatter, Boom. “Oh dear…” from out in the hall.   “Maxwell Percival Beaumont! What have you done?!” Bertrand’s bellow echoed down the stairs.    “Don’t Look Bertrand! You’ll spoil the surprise!”    Liam and Drake looked at one another and burst into laughter even as Bastien dashed out into the hall.    At the foot of the stairs Maxwell was sprawled over a large overturned ice chest. A dozen bottles of chilled champagne and ice were strewn across the entry; and a duffle bag large enough to carry a body in lay in the midst of the mess.  “Lord Beaumont are you uninjured?” Bastien asked with immediate concern.  “Oh, Yes. Just, could you keep my brother from coming down here while I clean this up, Please?” Maxwell looked at Bastien with his big blue eyes pleading.  Bastien lifted a brow at the young man but went up the stairs to speak with Bertrand who was in the midst of getting dressed and had only opened the door to chastise Maxwell for the disturbance while he finished dressing.   “All is well, Your Grace. I assure you there was more cacophony than calamity. And your brother seems unfazed by his sleigh ride down the staircase.”   Bertrand nodded and closed the door.     Bastien spoke in his ear piece, “Geno could you please come in and assist Lord Beaumont with reassembling his parcels for the camp. We’ve had a bit of a mishap.”  A moment later the young guard came in and helped Maxwell clean up the ice and get all the champagne loaded back in the ice chest then they took the chest and the duffel out to the security SUV’s.

 Maxwell joined Liam, Drake and Bertrand in the kitchen a few minutes later. He stopped short as he took in his brother dressed in jeans and denim. “Wow, Bertrand! Country stylin’. Savannah is going to love it.” He pulled out his phone and started snapping pictures of the three of them.  “Do you think she will like this, truly?” Bertrand looked at himself a bit uncertainly.  Drake slapped him on the back. “Welcome to the family. Denim is like Walker family colors. You look good, Bertrand.”  “These jeans are somewhat tight are they not?” Bertrand was frowning slightly as he lifted one leg then the other.  Maxwell laughed. “Savannah will love that too.” Liam and Drake nodded their agreement.  Bastien came in the kitchen and bowed to Liam. “Sir the SUV’s have departed. The horses are ready and Dimitri and I will be accompanying you on horseback.”  “Very good, Bastien.” Liam smiled at him then grinned, “Bastien might I impose on you to take a photo of the four of us before we embark? If you could send it to Maxwell I believe he’s making a memory book of this adventure.”    Bastien gave a small smile then pulled out his phone as the four men arranged themselves holding their coffee cups up in a toast for the picture.    The ride out to the campsite was beautiful and brisk in the cool morning air. The horses were prancy enjoying the coolness of the morning and inclined to a fast pace with the slightest encouragement. So it was only around 7:30 when they got to their campsite. A nice wooded area with massive pecan trees all around a bend in the San Saba river. Their tents were already set up and their gear stowed inside when they arrived. Drake ducked in his and came out a minute later with fishing gear and a tackle box.     Bertrand’s eyes got wide as he looked at Drake. “Surely you jest?”     Drake laughed. “You know better, Bertrand.” A breeze blew across the river and there were several ‘thunks’ as ripe pecans fell from the trees. “Oh, and you might want to keep your hats on. It’s pecan season. They’re tasty but hard on the head when they are falling. At least we won’t go hungry even if we don’t catch any fish.”    Liam brought out some folding chairs and a cooler. “I have it on good authority that traditionally one drinks beer when fishing in these waters.” He popped the cooler open and handed each of them bottles of icy Shiner Bock beer.    Bertrand sipped it and made a face. “This is rather harsh at breakfast your Majesty.”    Drake lifted his bottle and clinked it all around. “To good beer, good friends, and good fishing! Bertrand, it gets better the more you drink. And I’m certain there is a monster large mouth bass with your name on it just waiting for you to toss a lure in.”    The next several minutes were occupied with Drake getting everyone’s fishing gear set up and instructing Bertrand and Maxwell on how to work the lures. He was about to sit down when suddenly Bertrand hollered, “Oh… Oh… I seem… Oh my.” The ragged whirr of the break on the reel sang as the fish ran for freedom.  “Reel him in, Bertrand!” Drake yelled.    Bertrand started cranking the handle on the reel the pole bending and swaying as he fought with the fish. “You shall not prevail, scaly denizen of the deep!”    “Drake! Drake! I think I have one!” Maxwell yelled as his reel sang with the line peeling from it. He pulled back but the line kept going out.    “Reel Maxwell. Use the reel.” Drake grabbed the dip net and headed for the bank where Bertrand was managing to pull the tiring fish into the shallows.    “It’s a nice one Bertrand. I told you there was a fish waiting for you.” He skillfully scooped the dip net under the fish and hoisted it out of the water. Drake slipped the hook out of the bass’s mouth and held it up for Bertrand to see. “I’m guessing this one is over 4 pounds. Nice work Bertrand!”    Bertrand had a huge smile. “Ha! That shall teach you to test the metal of a Beaumont!”    Maxwell was struggling with his as the tip of the pole zig zagged wildly and the reel began to whine again. “Keep the tension, Maxwell. Think of it like a dance. You’re leading but you have to keep the tension.”    Drake slipped Bertrand’s bass on a stringer and secured it to the root of a big cypress tree that grew right at the water’s edge its roots extending down into the river. Just then he heard Liam’s reel start singing. The King had been fishing with Drake before and so was grinning and handling the fish with expertise.    An hour later everyone but Drake had caught multiple fish. Drake had been kept busy scooping up their catches and freeing the ones that were deemed too small to keep. And they had caught enough fish not only to feed the four of them but also to send some back to the house for the ladies to enjoy. Bertrand and Maxwell had become new fishing enthusiasts and grilled Drake as they made their way back to camp with the gear about where they could acquire such gear and if he would show them where they could fish when they got back home.     Liam grinned as they got back to camp and saw the large box he had requested be brought sitting next to his tent. Drake passed another round of beers out to all of them then went to take the fish for the house to Bastien. When he returned with a giant picnic basket Liam was explaining the box.    “I thought in light of this auspicious occasion that I would arrange for us to hold the time honored Cordonian tradition of an Apple Shoot. Our good hosts have packed us a luncheon of fried chicken, potato salad and pecan pie?” He looked to Drake for confirmation.  Drake nodded as he spread a checkered table cloth on the folding table that had been set up in the middle of the camp and started pulling containers out of the giant picnic basket.  “After lunch I thought we might allow for an hour of practice if you wish and then the event.” Liam pulled one of the folding chairs up to the table and grinned at the repast that Drake was unloading. When they were all gathered around the table Liam stood and raised his beer. “I think a toast is in order. To friends and the lovely ladies who have provided us with this wonderful feast!”  They all clinked their bottles together with a “Se haray mas!”     It took a bit of persuasion to get Bertrand to accept that using one’s fingers to eat fried chicken at a picnic was completely acceptable. But when Liam grabbed a drumstick with his hand after sampling the potato salad with his fork Bertrand followed his king’s example. Maxwell declared that Pecan pie was the ultimate delicious dessert of America and proceeded to eat four pieces. The subsequent food coma lasted for about half an hour while they sat around chatting about the morning with the occasional pecan falling and tatting around them.

  Liam stood and went over to open the large box. “I had several weapons that have traditionally been used for the Apple Shoot sent so you might have your choice Bertrand. They’ve been modified for safety.”    Bertrand went over and looked in the box finally selecting what looked to be an ornate dueling pistol. For the next hour he practiced shooting with it. Then Liam asked him formally if he was ready for the test. Bertrand bowed to his king and told him it was his honor to accept the challenge.    “Gentlemen, my Lords as you know becoming a Knight’s-Marksman and honorary defender of the realm is one of the high honors reserved for the Crown to offer. It is an opportunity offered only to those who the Crown acknowledges as faithful friends of Cordonia. It is my pleasure to offer the opportunity to his grace Duke Ramsford, Bertrand Beaumont. Who shall sponsor with faith in his true aim?”    Drake and Maxwell both stepped forward and looked at each other.  “I will. I know you can do this Bertrand.” Maxwell grinned at his brother.    “I will.  Please don’t shoot me, Bertrand. Getting shot once was enough.” Drake looked at Liam and grinned.    Liam nodded at them. “Very good. Please take your positions twenty paces from us Lord Beaumont, Duke Valtoria.”   The men counted off the paces then stood together and faced Bertrand and Liam.    “Are you ready?” Liam looked at Bertrand who looked for a long moment at his brother and Drake then looked up mentally visualizing what was about to happen.     Finally Bertrand nodded. “I am, Your Majesty.”     Liam tossed the Cordonian Ruby Apple in a high arc toward and above Maxwell and Drake’s heads. Bertrand braced the pistol on his forearm sighting in on the arc of the apple and fired. The plastic ball cut a perfect hole through the center of the apple!  Maxwell and Drake whooped and ran to pat Bertrand on the back congratulating him. Liam grinned, “Well done! Well done!”     Bertrand had a huge grin and kept repeating, “I did it! I did it!”     Then Liam went back over to the box and retrieved a beautifully engraved wooden box. Inside was a circular gold pin depicting an apple pierced by an arrow engraved around the edge with ‘Knight’s Marksman of Cordonia’ He presented it to Bertrand. “Look at the back Bertrand. It’s engraved with the date and your name. Congratulations Bertrand!” Liam hugged him kissing him on each cheek.    Bertrand’s eyes were bright with emotion as he looked at his king. “It’s engraved? But how?”      Liam smiled patting his back. “Because you are Bertrand Beaumont. There was never any doubt in my mind that you would succeed.”  Liam grinned, “I think this calls for a drink. I heard some rumor that someone brought enough champagne for a swimming pool?”     Maxwell was already running for his tent and the ice chest full of champagne. He brought the chest out and proudly presented a frosty bottle to Liam. “As requested!” His eyes got big. “Oh no! I forgot glasses!”    Drake chuckled, “Well we’ll have to suffer with the plastic cups in the picnic basket then.”    Liam deftly uncorked the champagne managing not to lose half the bottle in a geyser while Drake got the plastic cups from the picnic basket. They were all smiling as Liam toasted to Bertrand the newest Knight’s Marksman of Cordonia.

   As soon as the bottle was empty Drake stood and stretched. “Okay gents it’s time for you to gather up some firewood for the evening while I clean the fish and do the prep work for dinner.”

   Bertrand lifted a brow and sputtered at Drake ordering them around. Liam chuckled shaking his head and putting a hand on Bertrand’s shoulder. “Bertrand, you are in Drake’s domain now. And you would do well to accommodate him in this. Unless you want to learn to gut fish? Trust him, Bertrand, we’re in good hands.”

   Drake headed to his tent to get his ice chest and cooking gear. But called over his shoulder before ducking in the tent, “If you see a brush pile you need to poke it with a stick first; if you gentlemen hear something that sounds like a baby rattle in a bush you step back slowly the way you came. Do NOT investigate. We have venomous snakes here. One of the most common ones is a rattlesnake. You do not want to meet one.”

   Bertrand and Liam and Maxwell all exchanged looks as Drake disappeared into his tent.

    “Perhaps we should wait for you to finish your preparations and you can join us gathering wood?” Bertrand called to Drake.

    Drake came out of his tent with his rolling ice chest. “If you wish.” Drake grinned, “You know it’s a really nice day. How long has it been since you went swimming in a river?”

    Liam got a big grin but resisted telling Drake the last time was with Stephanie and thought that he really needed to take Hyclea to Forgotten Falls sometime soon.

    Maxwell giggled and Bertrand glared at him. “We Beaumonts do NOT swim in public.”

    “Well I guess it’s a good thing that we aren’t in public then.” Drake drawled. “This is all part of Walker Ranch, Bertrand. Private property and our own little piece of the San Saba river just for our use. But first let’s get some wood and get the fire started so it can make us some nice coals to cook on.”

     An hour later Drake was satisfied with the fire and they all headed back to the river. It was short work if somewhat messy for Drake cleaning the fish and icing them down. He grinned at the others who were sitting in their folding chairs sipping beers and enjoying just watching the river and talking about the morning. He stood from rinsing his hands and started unbuttoning his shirt. “You know we have a saying here….” He shrugged out of his shirt dropping it in his chair then whipped off his t-shirt and started pulling off his boots. “Actually, we have several sayings but two come to mind.”

    Liam grinned and started taking off his boots. “Bertrand you probably should take off your boots.” He advised.

    Bertrand just blinked uncomprehendingly as Drake continued to strip. “Beg pardon?”

    Drake grinned. “Help your brother with his boots Maxwell.”

    Maxwell didn’t look too sure for a moment but then got a huge grin. “Of course!” He got up and went over and started pulling on Bertrand’s boots ignoring Bertrand’s look of shock.

   Drake pulled his belt and dropped his jeans and boxers laying them over his shirts on his chair then taking a swig of the beer and setting his hat on top of his pile of clothes.

   Liam had unbuttoned his shirt and was grinning like a naughty eight year old. “Bertrand, come to think of it you might want to take off your clothes. You too Maxwell.”

    “I… Your Majesty?... I” Bertrand sputtered wide eyed.

    Maxwell got Bertrand’s second boot off then sat down and started pulling off his own boots. “We’re going skinny dipping!!!! Yes!!”

   “And Maxwell,” Drake’s tone was deadly, “If you take any pictures I will drown you and feed your body to the catfish. Do you understand me?”

   Maxwell nodded then answered Drake. “Understood. I’m leaving my phone in my pants.” Then he grinned and shimmied out of his clothes.

    “I’m not sure this is appropriate.” Bertrand muttered even as he was unbuttoning his shirt.

    Maxwell was dancing and singing “We’re going skinny dipping, skinny dipping, skinny dipping.”

    Drake went to his pile of clothes and found his phone to put on some music before he ran and jumped in the river. The cool water was an exhilarating shock and he surfaced a moment later with a whoop and laughing swiping the water out of his face. “Oh yeah… that saying… Last one in is a rotten egg!”

    Liam dashed and jumped in moments before Maxwell jumped grabbing his knees to cannonball for maximum splash. As soon as Maxwell popped up Drake and Liam splashed him laughing.

    “Bertrand you best come save your brother.” Liam called out to him before sending another scoop of water toward Maxwell.

    Bertrand set his hat on the neat pile of clothes on his chair before wading into the river and joining the water fight.

   For the next hour they played and joked and laughed as though twenty years had been shed from them with their clothes. The river carried them downstream a bit and rather than streak through the woods to get back to their clothes they swam to the shallows and waded back upstream.

   As they got dressed Bertrand cleared his throat. He blushed as he addressed them. “I, I just want to thank you all. This has been quite wonderful. It means a lot to me, to us really. I know Savannah was quite thrilled that so many have come.”

    Drake patted Bertrand on the back. “I know we have had differences in the past, Bertrand. But you put the light in my sister’s eyes and I know you love her. I’m happy to call you brother.”

    He rubbed the back of his neck then grinned.  “The fire should be ready, and I’m starving!”

    They made their way back to camp where Drake dug the potatoes he had wrapped in foil earlier and buried in the fire out before he set a grill over the coals and cooked the fish he had prepared earlier.

    Liam set the table up again and Maxwell brought out more champagne.

   All of them moaned with ecstasy at the first bite of the delicious fish.

   “Drake, this is the best fish I’ve ever tasted!” Bertrand exclaimed even as he took another bite.

   “To our chef of the evening! Drake! You have out done yourself my friend!” Liam lifted his plastic cup of champagne and they all clacked their cups together and drank.

   Drake blushed, “Well it helps that we were all pretty hungry. But I want to toast Bertrand, My Brother, My Friend, And the man that caught this delicious fish!”

   “To skinny dipping!” Maxwell gushed enthusiastically.

    The others all looked at Maxwell a moment then burst into laughter and toasted with him.

   “It was quite liberating actually.” Bertrand grinned and drank.

   “Hey, Maxwell what have you got planned for our after-dinner entertainment? I saw that huge duffel bag this morning.” Drake was taking a bite of a buttery baked potato.

   “Well it was quite a challenge to find something we could do out here. But I finally found the perfect thing!” Maxwell took another bite of the fish and poured more champagne into everyone’s cups.

   “And what is that?” Liam inquired.

   “Cock a Deux kits.”

   Drake choked barely turning his head in time to avoid spraying the champagne he’d just sipped on Bertrand.

    Liam looked alarmed, “Drake are you okay?” Drake waved, eyes watering.

   Bertrand looked at Maxwell, “Pray tell what is this Cock a deux kits?”

   Maxwell looked a little uncertain, a bit worried about Drake and not quite as sure how perfect this idea was now. “Well bachelor parties are supposed to have lots of alcohol and sexy entertainment. So the champagne was easy. I know you love Champagne, Bertrand. But sexy entertainment out in the woods.. Well that was hard. But Cock a deux kits are these kits you can make molds of your penis…”

   Liam snorted his drink and started coughing.

   Bertrand grew about three inches taller in his chair, “No. Absolutely not.”

   “It’s the perfect intimate gift for the one you love, Bertrand. And you can make vibrators, or chocolate, or candles and I thought at first candles, but burning one of those might be, I don’t know weird… I know Savannah would love it.”

   Drake was laughing so hard he was snorting and slapping his knee. “Maxwell…. how, how many did you get? That duffel bag was huge.”

   Maxwell mumbled so low no one could make out what he said.

   “Drake, I think you knew what this was. How have I not heard that story?” Liam chucked as he recovered enough to inquire.

   Drake grinned and shook his head. “Frat hazing. We had to make casts then make a candle and take it in. They lit the candle and then you had to go on a treasure hunt and find a hidden object before your candle burned down.”

   “Dare I ask?” Liam lifted a brow.

   “I’m certain you will.” Drake laughed. “Nope.” He snorted. “It’s… harder than you might think.” And then they all were laughing.

   “Hey… I was trying to do it without help. It’s definitely a two person job.”

   “There is NO Possible scenario!” Bertrand protested.

   “No… “ Drake was laughing so hard he was having a hard time catching his breath. “Not like that. I mean timing…. And slipping yourself into cold alginate isn’t the most conducive to staying in great mold making form so to speak.” Drake was still chuckling as he picked up his cup and refilled everyone’s. “To Cock-a-Deux” He crowed and tapped his cup to the others.

   “We gotta do this.”

    Liam laughed and hid his smirk in his cup as he drank. Thinking it was going to take a LOT more champagne to get Bertrand to participate in this escapade.

   Maxwell was slightly stunned that Drake was supporting him. But he went to his tent and got the duffel bag and brought it back out to the table.

   “You know what we really need if we want to get good molds? Good Lord alive, how many of these did you get Maxwell?” Drake looked at the size of the duffel bag that Maxwell had sat on the table. Drake opened it up and burst out laughing again. “Oh my… “ He started pulling them out. “We have candle kits, and vibrator kits, and chocolate kits, and this one looks like it just makes a neon colored body safe silicon dildo…. “ He doubled over laughing. “Sixteen cock kits….”

   Maxwell blushed. “I thought we might need to practice or something. And I read online that if you were too big you might have a hard time…” Drake shrieked with laughter. “Well it said that you have to be careful not to touch the bottom or the sides or it won’t work properly. And they recommended extra alginate and large plastic water bottles rather than the kit tube.”

    “Did… did they recommend… cock rings or Viagra? Cause I promise that’s the only way you get a good mold.” Drake was holding his ribs struggling to get control.

   “They did. So I got some of those, cock rings that is. Leather ones with a snap so you can get them off. There were some really bad pictures of men stuck in metal ones.” Maxwell shuddered.

    “I have some Viagra” Bertrand mumbled.

   “You do?” Maxwell, Drake, and Liam all turned to him at the same time.

    “Well yes. I, mean I don’t need it. It was like, like insurance. I could not bear the thought of disappointing Savannah on our wedding night or honeymoon...” He shrugged. “If you prefer the blue pill I can certainly spare three. As I said it was merely insurance not something I require. And I have far more than I would use I’m certain. I will not be engaging in this activity.”

   “Are you sure?” Drake raised his brow. “I am certain Savannah would cherish such a personal, unique gift from you Bertrand. I know Stephanie will love it. Hell, I may make her a full set!”

    Bertrand looked torn. “Truly? You think Savannah would, would appreciate such a thing?”

    “I’m certain she would love it.” Drake somehow managed to keep a straight face.

    Liam refilled the champagne cups. “I must admit to the clever novelty of the idea Maxwell. I am not quite certain when the time may be right for me to bestow such a thing on my intended. But as intimate gifts go it does seem more entertaining than a bejeweled toenail clipping.” He was chuckling as he finished his dinner.

    “So since you researched it Maxwell how are we going to go about this?” Drake was looking over the various kits and the extras.

   “Well we need to heat some water. Then we have to decide if the tube that the kit comes in is going to work or if you’ll need to use one of the large water bottles. The warmer it is the faster the alginate will set. But obviously it can’t be too warm. And if it’s too cold well we might not be able to, um, make a good impression. But that’s where the cock rings can help or I guess we could try the Viagra. I thought the person who is going to make the mold can go in their tent and tell us when to start making the alginate and then we can pass them the alginate when it’s ready.” Maxwell shrugged.

   Drake put a pot of water on the fire. “Maxwell you may have been right about how much champagne we may need.” He chuckled.

   Bertrand was frowning. “Are you actually going to do this?” He looked around at the other men with a raised brow.

    Liam laughed and filled Bertrand’s cup up again. “I honestly don’t see any harm in it Bertrand. It’s not as though we are doing something risky or sharing some intimacy with a stranger. It says here this dildo kit can be modified into a night light. It rather amuses me to think of bedecking the thing with flowers and having it set on the night stand as a night light.”

    “It amuses me to think of Maxwell using his to open champagne bottles at a future Beaumont Bash.” Drake chuckled.

    “I’m more concerned about Bartie using it as a sword to play pirate with the nanny.” Bertrand mumbled but finished his drink.

    After a few more rounds of drinks all of the men were agreed they would do it. Maxwell was going to go first. He said he would need the larger water bottle and the extra alginate. He went into his tent with one of the leather snap on cock rings and a few minutes later they heard the strains of an Argentine Tango coming from his tent.

    Drake put another pot of water on the fire and mixed hot water into the cold until Maxwell said he was ready. Then he mixed the warm water into the alginate as quickly as he could and poured the warm gloop into the cut off water bottle and handed it to Maxwell.

    A moment later… “Um… I may need some help. Maybe a chair?”

    The other men all looked at one another. Finally Drake chuckled and grabbed one of the chairs. “I’m coming in Maxwell.”

    Drake’s eyes got big as he entered the tent. Obviously Maxwell was a ‘grower’ not a ‘shower’ and he was very large and bound with the leather strap his tip nearly at his navel.

    “Could you maybe hold the container while I bend over and hold myself down? I can’t manage myself and it and if I tilt it, it’ll spill. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

    Drake took the bottle with the alginate and held it in the seat of the chair.  Maxwell leaned over the arms of the chair holding himself down and pushing his erection into the tepid solidifying alginate.

    “Good job Maxwell! Now you just need to think sexy thoughts for the next five minutes or so. And don’t move.”

    Maxwell shut his eyes and Drake struggled not to giggle as he held the container steady.

    It was actually about three or four minutes later when Maxwell opened his eyes. “Do you think it's hard enough yet?”

    “Maxwell you are literally balls deep in it, I would think you have a better idea than I do.”

    “Well maybe try to squeeze the bottle some and see if it squeezes?”

    Drake squeezed the bottle but it felt firm. “It seems firm. You want to pull out and see?”

    Maxwell carefully withdrew himself and grinned. “It worked!!”

   “Yay. Now please put yourself away. And just to be clear. You get to do the holding honors for Bertrand. I suspect he wouldn’t accept anyone else. So what are you going to make with this?”

   Maxwell considered carefully for a few minutes. “I think I’ll make a dildo. Then if I want to make other things I can use that to make other casts.”

    Drake grinned. “That’s brilliant, Maxwell. And yours came out much better than mine did years ago. It really does take a team to do this well.”

    They joined the others as soon as Maxwell was dressed and shared the thought that they should all make the silicone dildos and then they could use those in the future if they wished to make other things. The problem they ran into was that they had to use two of the dildo kits to get enough silicone to fill Maxwell’s cast.

   Liam said he would use one of the vibrator kits and he thought that could also be used to cast other molds if needed.

    Things went pretty well. Liam held for Drake. Drake held for Liam. They got good casts and by the time they were done Bertrand had enough to drink he was willing to make a token of his love for his love.

   Though he rejected the idea of needing a holder until he spilled the first bottle of alginate. Then he agreed to allow Maxwell to hold the second container for him. But even with the cock ring after all the alcohol he wasn’t quite up to where he needed to be. So he took a Viagra and they waited until he practically sang “Oh yes! We are most ready now!”

   Maxwell went in with the third bottle of alginate and Bertrand sank himself proudly and deeply into it. Ten minutes later they weren’t coming out. Drake and Liam looked at each other and then at the tent. A couple of minutes later they heard Maxwell speaking quietly.

   “Bertrand you need to pull out now.”

   “This seems to be stuck.” Bertrand had the ‘we are not amused’ tone in his voice.

   “Well, maybe unsnap the cock ring?”

    “Ouch! My hair! Ouch! We are just going to have to wait a bit longer.”

    Ten minutes passed with increased grumbling from Bertrand.

   “Bertrand it would probably help if you take that cock ring off. Just unsnap it.” Drake called out to him.

     “This infernal substance has solidified around my short hairs.”

    “Maxwell, can you come here a moment?” Liam called to Maxwell.

    Maxwell came out looking worried. “He really is stuck. It’s all glued in his hair I didn’t even think about it before it was too late.”

    Drake looked at Liam, “Do you still use a straight razor?”

    Liam laughed. “Yes. But I’ve also had about a bottle and a half of champagne. Do you really want me to geld your brother in law before his wedding?”

   Drake frowned. Then grinned. “I know who else shaves with a straight razor… And hasn’t been drinking. Oh he’s gonna love this.” Drake stood up and headed down the trail calling for Bastien.

   A few minutes later Drake proudly came back with the senior guard. “I told him he was our only hope. The future of the Duke of Ramsford depends on him.”

    Liam looked up and nodded. “You didn’t tell him what happened?” Liam smiled sweetly and offered Bastien a drink.

    “We’ve been drinking.”

    Bastien lifted a brow. “Indeed. How may I assist you Sir?”

   Liam pointed at the tent.

    Maxwell’s most calming voice carried to the guard. “Drake went to get assistance”

   “I don’t need assistance.”

    “Then pull out.”

    “You know I can’t.”

    “Then you need assistance at this point Bertrand.”

   Bastien lifted a brow at his King and Drake, “What sort of assistance does Duke Ramsford require may I ask.”

    “He needs a shave. In very close, delicate quarters. With a straight razor.” Liam chuckled. “I’ve been drinking. So we thought it best you assist since you have skill.”

    There was a very slight lift of his brow as he bowed to his king. “Do you have a shaving kit?”

    Liam got up, slightly unsteady and giggled a bit. “I always forget how champagne hits you when you stand.” He went to his tent and came back a minute later with his shaving kit.

    Bastien took it from him and went to the tent where the voices of Maxwell and Bertrand were emanating. He entered and stopped at the vision of Bertrand Beaumont naked from the waist down bent over a bottle filled to the brim with a pale green alginate his genitals submerged in the substance.

   “Your Grace, I have been asked to assist you.”

    “Lord Beaumont perhaps you could get your brother something strong to drink. And perhaps a first aid kit?”

    “First aid kit?” Bertrand queried in alarm.

    “Yes your Grace. I believe some anesthetic cream may ease your discomfort. I am going to shave your hairs that are accessible. And we will put some numbing cream on as much area as we can and then remove this.”

    Maxwell returned with Drake’s hip flask and the first aid kit and Bastien looked through it until he found a small tube of anesthetic/antiseptic cream. He told Bertrand to drink some of the whiskey and then lie back and think of pleasant things while he and Maxwell took care of him. He had Maxwell hold the flashlight and the container Bertrand was stuck in. And carefully examined what he was dealing with.

   “How long has he been in that cock ring?”

   “Thirty minutes maybe?”

    “We need to get that off him now.”

    “It has snaps. It just needs to be pulled and it’ll pop off.” Maxwell told Bastien.

    “It hurts to pull it. It pulls my hair.”

    “Your Grace, I need you to relax please.”

     Bastien carefully felt around the base of the strap until he located the snap.

    “That pains me!”

     “Yes. I know. My apologies.” Bastien held one end to steady it and jerked the snap open.

    “OUCH!! Damnit man I’m going to need those.” Bertrand howled.

    “Indeed your Grace. I believe you which is why we had to get that off you.” Bastien was actually very gentle as he smoothed the anesthetic cream on as much of Bertrand as was accessible.

    Bertrand sighed, “You have cold hands.”

     “My apologies your Grace. Do you feel any relief from your erection?”

     Bertrand blushed. “Not yet.”

    “Maxwell can you get me some ice please?” Bastien took the container from Maxwell.

    “Bertrand I’m going to put some ice on you. It should numb you a bit. Then I’m going to very carefully shave you as much as possible. And then we are going to take this mold off you. Hopefully. Do you understand me?”

    Bertrand nodded. “Please, please promise me you will not speak of this.”

    Bastien nodded. “On my honor, your Grace. We will never speak of this again.”

     “Thank you. You are a good man Bastien.”

    Maxwell returned with a tee shirt filled with chipped ice from the cooler and a bottle of water.

    Bastien had him hold the container and carefully tucked the ice and the tee shirt around the base of Bertrand’s cock while Bertrand made a strangled moaning protest. “That’s soooo cold!!”

    A few minute later Bastien took the ice away and pulled out the razor. Bertrand’s eyes got wide.

    “Is this completely necessary?”

     “Well you have quite a bit of hair stuck in this and we need to get you out of there. I do believe that shaving as much as we can will be much less painful, your Grace.”

   Bertrand nodded and lay back. “I can’t look.”

    Ever so carefully Bastien shaved as much of the hair as he could. “Now hold very still. On three we are going to remove this.

    One,” He nodded to Maxwell and Maxwell pulled the mold up and off his brother.

   Bertrand sat up yelling, “You said Three! That was NOT Three Maxwell!!”

    “Indeed your Grace,” Bastien smiled as he stood up. “It wasn’t three. But you know timing is everything. And you are free. I believe you have a rather impressive mold. And the Ramsford equipment seems to be intact.”

    Bertrand looked a bit startled then smiled. “Well done. And many thanks Bastien. Would you like some champagne? I think we still have some. Maxwell, get Bastien a bottle of champagne would you?”

    Maxwell grinned. “Of course. And Bastien we have extra mold kits if you like I’ll give you one….”

#trh #trh drake #trh liam #drake #liam #trr bastien #trh bertrand #choices #fanfic #choices fanfiction #bertrands bachelor party

[thesummerfox]

1, 30 and 37?

Thank you for these!

1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

I like fics in which I can just flow with a character as stuff happens around them. I really love getting into their vibe and into their head, exploring their relationships and observations of people around them, being a part of their world with broadly-painted brush strokes of plot and other shenanigans dancing around the narrative but never taking full centre stage. My comfort zone is always angsty-but-warm-and-funny, tense one second and loose the next, hallmarked by fluff and touches and glances and language that borders on reverence. My tone in fic tends to be conversational more than anything – I want it to feel instantly familiar, I want it to be like this warm bath, I want people to sink into it and go “ahh where has this been all my life?”.. I basically just want my fics to become my readers’ friends, haha.

My comfort zone is so hard to describe, oh my god. Suffice to say that I think all my fics share certain qualities that my readers might be able to identify more than I can!

30. Do you accept prompts?

I do! I don’t get them very often, but I do welcome them when they come. I have one prompt waiting for me as we speak but I want to finish the Wishfic I’m working on before getting round to that one. Generally speaking, though, I will always do something with a prompt that lands in my inbox! You can see my other prompt-fills here.

37. Talk about your current wips.

BLESS YOU FOR ASKING THIS I will take any excuse to babble about my WIPs hahaha!Okay, so, first is something I know y’all are tired of hearing me babble about. The magnum opus, the Wish-fic, the oneshot-turned-multichapter, the biggest thing I’ve written in years. FBOGN is two/three chapters away from its finish line and that officially marks months of work on this fic that started off on a single premise: Ward Meachum and Trish Walker meet in a bar and form a drinking buddies bond over their lives. Since that first moment, the fic’s taken flight and now includes: a Trish/Karen/Marci friendship, copious amounts of food and movies, a fundraiser, Trish getting superpowers, the Defenders and The Hand and Midland Circle in a really AU-version of events because I started writing all of it way before The Defenders came out, a rollerskate-date-that-is-not-a-date, Power Couple™, a smutty scene that takes up a full near-9000-words chapter, and plenty more shenanigans!

Second is PYDR, which is a Kastle-fic that really just exists because Frank lodged himself into my brain and wouldn’t let go until I’d written one scene. I have no idea where I’m going with this one, but the tone of it is fairly dark and confrontational and it may be my most painful/hurtful Frank to date so we’ll see how that goes!

Third is TWATF, which is my Trish-and-Karen-go-on-adventures fic! This is basically my fangirly response to their iconic interaction in The Defenders (which was like watching every single one of my fic-dreams come to life on screen and if you think I’ve recovered from that you may take this moment to think again because TRISHKARENTRISHKAREN!!), and it’s basically Trish and Karen joining forces and becoming a kickass investigative duo who’ll draw some bad attention and get into loads of trouble.Fourth is an as-yet-unnamed Kastle-fic that centres around Karen being pushed to write another article about Frank now that he’s landing in the headlines again, which eventually results in her own dark past coming out of the woodwork and Frank acting as a mirror-foil of sorts but never as a crutch because Karen Page can walk just fine on her own thank you very much – I’ve yet to figure out where to take it, but it’s not dissimilar to PYDR.Fifth is my Defenders fix-it fic in which Ward is in the city and taken into protective custody along with the rest of them. Chaos sort-of ensues from there because he’s Trish’s ex and she can’t stand the sight of him, Karen is a pitbull with a bone, and Foggy is just so done with everything. Heavily AU from there on out, probably.Sixth is my Ward-with-a-baby fic that is already lengthy enough in my fic-notes alone to wind up as a multichapter. It’s very much a Trish-mom/Ward-dad fic in which they find themselves taking care of a baby Danny found (just roll with it yo) and I can’t tell you how psyched I am to write this someday haha! Seventh is AOC, which is my Kastle multichapter that’s a direct continuation of two of my early oneshots. It’s horribly AU already at this point – diverging from canon like whoa post-DDS2 – but y’all can pry my Frank&Karen roadtrip out of my cold dead hands okay. It’s epic on an EPIC scale with a Trish-friendship, copious amounts of Micro, Marci being awesome, and the end of the world as we know it!Eighth and last is CM. CM is my one-day fic. CM is what will happen when I finally find the writer’s voice I need for Banshee’s Kurt Bunker. CM is the thing that challenges me as a writer, given how controversial Bunker’s life is/has been and how touchy the subject of an ex-neonazi-turned-cop can be. CM is the thing I’m scared to write because it dives headlong into darkness and never comes back up for air. It’s possibly my writer’s tour-de-force one day, but that is not this day!

#okay this got long as heck #but get me talking about my stuff and I'm gonna babble your ears off #sorry about that haha #Anonymous

[mibasiamille]

paperboy: an au

Ian Murray was always on time. He had the same routine every single morning since he was ten:

4:45 AM: Hit snooze.

4:47 AM: Hit snooze again.

4:50 AM: Turn the alarm off, due to yells of frustration from his mother in the other room.

5:00 AM: Shower, quickly.

5:15 AM: Change, brush teeth, and hope to God that he didn’t put his shirt on inside out.

5:20 AM: Head down the stairs, helmet in hand. Grabs a banana from the basket of fruit on the table.

5:25 AM: Run into his Uncle Jamie in the study, of whom informs his nephew that his shirt is, indeed, inside out. Again.

5:26 AM: Turning his shirt the right way, he thanks his uncle and heads for his bike.

Everything after this is subject to change.

Between 5:30 AM and 5:45 AM: Ian Murray turns the corner from his home to the shop where the newspapers are printed. Geordie, the printer, hands him the bag of twine-tied papers.

“Don’t do nothin’ stupid, mind,” He tells the young lad, every single day. “These papers here be expensive.”

“Of course, Mr. Geordie, sir,” Came young Ian’s reply.

Between 6:00 AM and 6:45 AM: You can find him riding his bright orange bike around the neighborhoods and subdivisions of Boone, N.C., delivering papers to those on the street. He passes a few dog-walkers here-and-there, a couple of kids getting into their cars for school. Some old men watering their plants or wives kissing their husbands as they headed for work. On the rare occasion he’d find a smiling face, he would smile back. Sometimes he’d even be offered a to-go cup of coffee or a muffin or a bottle of water. He always loved those people--the ones who didn’t see him as invisible.

7:00 AM: He heads for the subdivision called Simon’s Landing--the nicer of most of the subdivisions he has the pleasure of riding through--and delivers his papers to all of the houses.

7:30 AM: Ian, sure all his papers had been delivered, heads back for home, a 45-minute ride from his current location.

It’s here that our story changes, on the dawn of the twentieth of December 1982. 

The temperature had dropped way below freezing earlier in the morning, and by the time Ian reached the last house of Simon’s Landing, his hands were so numb he could barely grab the last paper out of the bag. He had paused in front of the house: a homely, brick two-story with a white fence and a two-car garage. The front door was colored a pale yellow--almost white, but not quite. The owner of the house always kept some kind of decoration hanging near the top of it. Being the time of year that it was, an evergreen wreath with a bright red bow hung pristinely from its hook.

Ian had always thought it was a larger family living there, given the two-car garage and amount of rooms it had. But he would find out otherwise today.

He was rummaging through the bag on his back, muttering brief profanities at himself as he did so. Before he could do much else, however, a voice called to him from a distance, “Are you alright out there?”

The first thing he noticed that the inflection of the voice wasn’t that of a normal Boone resident, nor was it the Scottish burr that he was used to at home. It was English.

“Hello?” The voice called once more, causing Ian to turn his head towards the sunshine-yellow front door. A woman stood in the doorframe, the dark circles under her eyes just as prominent from Ian’s position as they’d be up close. “You must be freezing out there.”

The boy nodded, teeth chattering slightly. “Aye, mum. Very.”

The woman sighed outwardly, stepping aside as she pulled the door backward towards herself, opening the house for his view. “Come inside, then. I’ll make you some hot chocolate to warm you up.”

Not passing up an offer of a free beverage, Ian abandoned his bike and strode carefully into the woman’s house. The thought of being in a stranger’s home hadn’t even crossed his mind, especially when he sat down in the large, velvet loveseat and sipped at his steaming hot chocolate. His hands seemed to thaw considerably, from not only the hot cup in his hand but the warmth of internal heating, and he thanked God quietly for this woman’s hospitality.

“Ah, thank ye, mum, for yer hospitality,” He murmured quietly, peering over his mug at the woman’s figure sat across from him on her sofa.

She waved her hand in an act of dismissal. “It’s nothing, really. I’m sure you were freezing. This is the last house on your route, isn’t it?”

Ian nodded. “Aye, it is, mum.”

“Please, there’s no need for formalities. I’m Claire Beauchamp. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you…?”

“Oh, I’m--um. I’m Ian Murray, mum. I mean, Claire.”

Claire smiled, a set of bright white teeth flashing through her rosy pink lips. Despite the dark circles under her eyes and the permanent worry-lines creased into her forehead, she looked exceptionally welcoming and kind. Ian seemed to relax in his seat as he met her honey-hued eyes.

“Do you go to school, Ian?” She inquired, tilting her head a bit to the side. “I would assume you’d be there by now, if you were.”

“I’m homeschooled by my mother.”

She pursed her lips momentarily, but stretched them back out as she resumed her close-lipped smile. “How lovely.”

Ian nodded, but said nothing. They sat in silence, Ian more awkwardly so than Claire. He started glancing about the living room and noticed that there was nothing more than necessities housed there: a television on a stand, loads of medical textbooks and encyclopedias inside the shelves. A sofa, a loveseat and a coffee table where a radio and a vase of flowers sat. Customary things, but nothing personal--no photos of loved ones, no family heirlooms. Quite unlike the walls of his own home, lined with photographs and books and paintings galore. The room about him seemed plain to him. Almost.

The pair sat in the living room a while longer. After a short while, Claire was able to thaw Ian’s nervous outer-shell and got him to open up. He told her of what he wanted to do when he got older--help his father and uncle with the family business--and the places he’d like to travel someday. She revealed a few things about herself that Ian found rather interesting: she grew up with an archaeologist as an uncle, of whom had taken her all over the world on his expeditions. She ended up coming to school in North Carolina after he had settled here, studying biology at Duke University before attending medical school and eventually becoming a medical student. Upon finishing her schooling and starting her residency, Claire started studying for her PhD at ASU, and found more permanent housing in Simon’s Landing.

“Why study here, though? Instead of going back to England?” Ian inquired, his cup empty and sitting on the coffee table.

Claire shrugged. “My uncle always loved Boone--he had called it once the Scotland away from Scotland,” She chuckled softly and Ian did the same. Placing a piece of her hair behind her ear, she sighed, “I don’t know, I guess I just feel connected to him, here. He died a couple of years ago while I was in still school.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, mum,” he told her softly.

“Such as life,” She said, smiling sweetly. The boy smiled back, and before she could say much of anything else, there was a knock at the door.

Claire, excusing herself for a brief moment, opened the door to reveal a stranger on the other side.

Or, at least, he was a stranger to Claire.

“Sorry to bother ye, but I believe my nephew is in there.”

Ian, hearing his uncle’s voice, shot up instantly. His dark brown eyes met the other man’s ice-blue stare, and shifted awkwardly from one foot to another.

“Oh, of course. Come in,” She stepped to the side. “It’s cold out.”

The large man nodded, thanking her as he took a step inside. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was about to: the sky was covered in a thick blanket of grey clouds.

Ian took a step towards his uncle, holding his hands to explain, but Jamie just held up a hand.

“Dinna worry yerself, man. Yer parents just sent me to pick ye up. Assumed ye’d just gotten tired and stayed at the shop fer a bit until it got warmer out.”

Ian nodded, but said nothing.

Jamie turned to Claire, of whom was standing by the door with arms crossed one over the other, eyebrows raised in interest. He turned back to his nephew, raising his eyebrows expectantly and nodding towards the door.

Nodding once more, Ian trudged towards the door, head low. He looked to Claire, smiling smally, “Thank ye, again, Miss Claire.”

“You’re welcome, really. Anytime.” She smiled kindly, glancing from Ian to his uncle.

Jamie started to follow the boy out the door but paused, murmuring, “Put yer bike in the truck. I’ll be wi’ ye in a moment.”

Affirming he heard what his uncle said, Ian turned towards the street and walked in the direction of his bike. Jamie, on the other hand, turned to Claire and smiled.

“I ken that he’s thanked you already, but thank ye, again. From both me and his parents. We were a bit worrit when he didn’t show up at the house around the usual time.”

“It’s not a problem, really. It’s nice to have company every once in awhile,” She smiled widely.

Jamie nodded slowly before smiling at her. “I’m Jamie Fraser, by the way. Sorry I didna introduce myself earlier.” He extended his hand in her direction, of which she took.

“Claire. Claire Beauchamp.”

Flipping their locked hands so hers was on top, he smiled broadly and kissed the back of it in a very gallant manner, murmuring, “I’ll be seein’ ye, Miss Beauchamp.”

Observing this exchange from the car window, Ian smiled broadly to his reflection in the side mirror. Despite the fact that Ian Murray had not been on time that morning, everything came out perfect.

to be continued...

ok, before you get all up-in-arms, allow me to explain myself. i’ve been in a block for penny’s for almost two weeks now. i’m trying to power through it but it’s really difficult. this part of the story calls for a lot more historical accuracies and i’m trying really hard to make sure they’re accurate, as well as keep the story paced the way i had originally planned for it to be. i’m sorry for that, but it’s the truth and there’s not much i can do to help it.

what i can do is post something else, which is what this is. i started reading voyager again and read about young ian and fell in love with him, so i couldn’t help but throw him in this! i hope you guys liked it and let me know what you think. ❤️

#i love young ian sae much #what a cutie pie #paperboy #pb1 #outlander au #outlander fic #1980's au #jamie x claire au #young ian