📬 ❤︎ juhoon 𝔁 f!reader 𝔁 other secret character you’ll find out ab when you read the fic ─── ৻ꪆ beginnings can not be changed; endings are always sad; you’d settle for a happy middle instead.
❤︎ warnings+tags ─── ৻ꪆ Angst with a capital A, grief, I’D ADD THE ACTUAL WARNING TAG BUT THAT’D SPOIL THE WHOLE FIC SO I’M SKIPPING IT 😭 if you think it might be something triggering, please don’t read it!
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ technically co-authored by summer ( @cortismoon ) bc we cackled as we made the plot angstier and angstier 😁😁 i see where she gets her angst-loving qualities from (me) 😭💞 also @jjuhyeons bby i hope you enjoy this fic bc it’s deadass a surprise/gift for u for no reason 👩❤️💋👩🖤 mostly wrote this since you made me realise i barely write for jju ˙𐃷˙
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 3.9k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── the night we met—lord huron ❦ sparkle—radwimps ❦ through the night—iu ❦ glimpse of us—joji ❦ lemon—kenshi yonezu ❦ our summer—tomorrow x together ❦ fourth of july—sufjan stevens ❦ first love—hikaru utada ❦ congratulations—day6 ❦ mystery of love—sufjan stevens ❦ cry baby—official hige dandism ❦ untitled, 2014—g-dragon ❦ cardigan—taylor swift ❦ racing into the night—yoasobi ❦ comethru—jeremy zucker ❦ hug me—joonil jung ❦ summer depression—girl in red ❦ love wins all—iu ❦ nandemonaiya—radwimps ❦ fine—taeyeon ❦ prowl—wave to earth
‘beginnings can not be changed; endings are always sad; i’d settle for a happy middle instead.’
the sky over namhae always looked like a bruised peach right before the sun dipped into the ocean.
“you’re late,” a voice said. juhoon was leaning against the rusted ice cream freezer outside the convenience store, his uniform vest hanging loosely off his shoulders. he didn’t look up from his phone, but he slid a wrapped melon popsicle across the plastic table toward you anyway.
you dropped your canvas bag onto the plastic chair, the straps heavy with books your mother had packed for you—baggage for a summer exile she called ‘reconnecting with your roots,’ which was really just code for ‘please stay in south korea while i finalize my third divorce’.
you couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. an aaron? a grayson? it didn’t matter. you were seventeen, stranded in a sleepy seaside town where the air tasted like salt and fish scales.
“the bicycle chain fell off again,” you complained, tearing the plastic wrapper open with your teeth.
juhoon finally looked up, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a faint, amused tug at the corner of his lips. “you really don’t know how to do anything, do you, canada?”
“i know how to do things,” you shot back, sitting down and taking a huge bite of the popsicle. “i just don’t know how to navigate rural roads on a machine built in the eighties.”
“it’s a good bike,” he said, finally pocketing his phone and crossing his arms. “you just have no rhythm. you pedal like you’re trying to kill the ground.”
that was the first week of june.
june was a month of friction and slow thaws. the convenience store was small, cramped, and smelled faintly of cardboard and dried squid. you spent the first two weeks overlapping shifts, sitting on mismatched plastic stools behind the counter, separated by a foot of empty space and a profound, awkward silence. you were the girl from toronto who spoke korean with a slight hesitation, and he was the boy from seoul who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.
the ice broke over a broken slushee machine, of all things. it had started leaking a bright blue, sticky syrup all over the floor, and you had both panicked, trying to block the blue tide with cheap paper towels that dissolved on contact. juhoon had slipped, his sneakers losing traction, and he’d gone down with a dull thud, his white t-shirt stained an absurd, electric shade of blueberry. you had frozen, terrified he’d be angry, but then he had looked up at you, looked down at his shirt, and let out a laugh so loud and genuine it echoed off the metal shelves. you had laughed so hard your stomach ached, sitting right there in the blue puddle next to him.
“don’t just look at me,” he gasped out between laughs, pointing a blue-stained finger at you. “help me up, canada. my pants are ruined!”
“you look like an avatar,” you wheezed, extending a hand. he took it, but instead of pulling himself up, he yanked you down into the sticky mess right along with him. “juhoon! no!”
“if i’m going down, you’re coming with me,” he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. that was the first time you noticed how bright his eyes got when he genuinely smiled.
after that, june became a game of shared rule-breaking. you learned that the store owner rarely checked the inventory counts for the ice cream, so juhoon developed a system for stealing popsicles. he would wait until the afternoon rush of noisy beachgoers cleared out, look over his shoulder, and slide the freezer door open with a dramatic, exaggerated stealth.
“pick a flavor,” he’d whisper, as if he were heist-planning a bank robbery instead of taking a cheap ice lolly.
you’d always pick the melon ones, and you’d spend the next thirty minutes sitting on the concrete curb outside, the heat radiating off the asphalt, watching the occasional car pass by.
you learned things about him in snippets. he was in namhae because his parents were fighting and his grandparents’ quiet house was supposed to keep him out of the crossfire. he hated the sound of the cicadas in the trees because they were too loud to let him sleep, but he loved the way the ocean sounded at three in the morning.
by the time july arrived, the space between your tiny chairs behind the register had entirely vanished.
july was a fever dream of salt water, sticky skin, and a quiet, consuming desperation. you didn’t just work together anymore; you existed together. the summer break was in full swing, but you didn’t care about the tourists. you cared about the way juhoon’s shoulder brushed against yours whenever you both reached for the same barcode scanner. you cared about the way he always took the heavier boxes of ramyeon crates so you wouldn’t have to carry them.
“hey,” he said one rainy afternoon, leaning his chin on his palm as he watched you struggle to tie up a garbage bag. “why do you always do that?”
“do what?”
“sigh like the world is ending every time you look at a trash can.”
“because it’s gross,” you muttered.
he chuckled, standing up and snatching the plastic ties from your hands. “move over. go sit down and listen to your weird western music. i’ll do it.”
“it’s not weird, it’s just english,” you said, but you sat on the counter anyway, swinging your legs.
he tied the bag with a quick, practiced knot and then leaned against the counter right next to your knees. he looked up at you, his expression softening in a way that made your throat go dry. “teach me an english word.”
“beautiful,” you whispered.
“byu-ti-ful,” he repeated, his accent clumsy and endearing. he reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jawline. “what does it mean?”
“it means something that makes you happy just by looking at it.”
juhoon didn’t drop his hand. his gaze slid down to your lips and then back to your eyes. “then yeah. you’re byu-ti-ful.”
one night in mid-july, after closing the store at midnight, he didn’t head toward his grandparents’ house. instead, he untangled a pair of old, wired earphones from his pocket and held one out to you.
you walked side-by-side down the narrow, unlit road, the ocean a dark, breathing mass to your left. when your hands bumped together for the third time, he didn’t pull away. his fingers slid between yours, cautious at first, then tightening into a firm, warm hold. you spent that night sleeping on the sand, using your canvas bag as a shared pillow. you woke up at four in the morning to the sky turning a pale, ghostly blue, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath even against the back of your neck.
the kisses came naturally, like a language you both already knew but hadn’t spoken aloud yet. they tasted like the sea and the mint gum juhoon chewed constantly. you kissed behind the counter while a sudden summer thunderstorm rattled the glass windows; you kissed under the pier while fireworks from a local festival boomed overhead, painting his face in flashes of red and gold.
“i’ve gotten too used to you,” he murmured one afternoon in late july, his head resting in your lap as you sat on the floor of the stockroom. the air conditioner was broken, and you were both sweating. you were tracing the sharp line of his collarbone with your index finger. “if we stop talking after august, it’s going to be weird.”
“weird how?” you asked, your fingers moving up to tangle in his damp hair.
“i’ll just be lost,” he said simply, looking up at you with an intensity that made your chest ache. “i’ve spent every day of the last two months looking at you. if i cut contact, it’ll take forever to unlearn you. i don’t think i know how to be alone in seoul anymore.”
“then we won’t cut contact,” you said, leaning down to press your lips to his forehead.
“promise?” he asked, sitting up and holding out his pinky finger.
“promise,” you whispered, locking your smaller finger with his.
august was a countdown. you could feel the days slipping away like sand through your fingers. the playfulness of june and the intensity of july turned into a heavy, quiet clinginess in august. you held hands under the counter even when customers were standing right in front of you. you took photos on a cheap polaroid camera you bought at the stationary shop—blurred, overexposed images of him laughing with ice cream on his nose, of you squinting against the sun, of your shadows stretched out long on the sand.
“what are you going to do with those?” he asked one evening, pointing at the stack of polaroids slipping out of your pocket.
“keep them,” you said, sorting through them. “so when i’m back in toronto and freezing to death in the snow, i can look at them and remember that i spent a summer with a boy who ruins white t-shirts with blueberry syrup.”
juhoon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “don’t forget me, canada. seriously. if you forget me, i’ll find a way to cross the ocean just to annoy you.”
“i couldn’t forget you if i tried, jju,” you whispered into his shoulder, tears threatening to spill.
“i’ll call you the second i get back to seoul,” he promised on your last night on the beach, his forehead pressed against yours. “i’ll buy an international calling card. i’ll write down your address. we’re going to make this work.”
“i know,” you said, though a horrible, heavy weight was settling into your stomach. “i know we will.”
“say it in english,” he demanded softly, his grip on your hands tightening. “tell me you love me in english.”
“i love you, jju,” you said, your voice breaking.
“i love you, canada,” he replied, his pronunciation perfect this time, right before he kissed you for what would be the very last time ever, the taste of salt and cold august wind lingering on his lips.
then… september arrived. he went back to seoul on a morning bus. you boarded a flight back to toronto the next afternoon.
the transition wasn’t a clean break; it was a slow, agonising fade.
you texted him the moment you landed in canada.
i’m home. the flight was long.
i miss the beach already.
i miss you.
no reply.
you texted him a week later.
school started today. it’s raining here.
how is seoul? do you miss the slushee machine?
the messages stayed delivered, never read. after a month of silence, the texts became less frequent, until you stopped sending them altogether. you thought he had simply left the summer in namhae behind. he had gotten back to his real life, his real friends in seoul, and he had forgotten the girl from canada.
but you never did. he was your first love.
you got older; you went to university; you lived a life. but you remembered that single summer more vividly than the entire decade that followed it.
when you met martin in toronto years later, it was completely different. he was like a warm hearth on a freezing winter day. he was kind, incredibly patient, and he loved you with a fierce, quiet devotion.
you had a quiet life together—a comfortable apartment in the city, shared coffee in the mornings, grocery trips on sunday afternoons. but the ghost of namhae always hung over you like a thin mist. martin noticed it, of course. he noticed how your eyes unfocused when the winter wind rattled the apartment windows, or how you always picked the melon-flavored treats at the asian supermarket, staring at the packaging just a second too long.
“you’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” martin had asked softly one night, early into your marriage, as you both lay in bed. the city lights cast long shadows across the ceiling.
you had tensed, guilt twisting in your chest. “martin, i’m sorry. i’m here. i’m with you.”
martin had just smiled, a small, sad, incredibly gentle thing. he turned on his side and pulled you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. “i know you are. and i love the parts of you that you give me. i’m okay with sharing your thoughts with a memory, as long as i get to hold you in the real world.”
he knew there was a ghost. he knew he was the second choice, the safe harbor after the shipwreck. but martin loved you so entirely that he swallowed his own pride, choosing to believe that his warmth would eventually melt the ice around your heart. he didn’t feel bad for loving a girl who was only three-quarters there. he just loved you harder to make up for the missing piece.
until the afternoon he found the box.
you were at work, and martin was looking for a spare camera lens in the back of the closet. instead, he found a small, dusty tin. inside were a handful of faded polaroids from that summer—the ones of you and juhoon on the beach, your fingers locked together, his bright, crinkled eyes staring back at the lens.
when you came home, martin was sitting at the kitchen table, the polaroids laid out in a neat, clinical row. the apartment was freezing; he hadn’t turned on the heating. he wasn’t angry; he just looked incredibly, profoundly hollow.
you froze in the doorway, your keys slipping from your fingers and clattering onto the floorboards. “martin…”
“i always knew there was a guy,” martin said, his voice terrifyingly quiet as he kept his eyes glued to a photo of you, laughing, covered in sand, with juhoon’s arm thrown over your shoulder. “i told myself it was just a teenage fling. some guy from a village who made you feel special for a month.”
“martin, please, it was just an old box—”
“but you never told me it was him,” martin interrupted, finally lifting his eyes. they were swimming with a sudden, sharp, catastrophic grief. “this is juhoon. kim juhoon.”
your breath hitched, the room suddenly tilting. “how do you… how do you know his name?”
“he was my childhood best friend,” martin whispered, his voice cracking down the middle. he reached out, his thumb trembling violently as he touched the faded edge of the photo. “we grew up in the same neighborhood in seoul before my family immigrated here. we wore the same middle school uniform. we promised to meet up again when we were older. he was… we were like brothers. i lost touch with his family years ago, but… god, it was him? all this time, the shadow i’ve been competing with… it was my best friend?”
you couldn’t breathe. the coincidence was too violent, too cruel to be real. “mars, i didn’t know. i swear to god i didn’t know.”
“i know you didn’t,” he choked out, a single tear spilling over his lashes. he looked at the photo of juhoon, then up at you, his face twisted in a horrible, agonising realization. “that’s what hurts the most. you didn’t do this on purpose… but you love him. you still love him, don’t you? i’ve been holding you for years, sleeping in the same bed, building a life with you, and the person you’re wishing for is the boy i used to share my toys with.”
“i love you, martin,” you cried, stepping forward, trying to reach for him.
he pulled back slightly, his chest heaving. “not like that. not the way you love him. you look at his faded, ten-year-old picture with more life in your eyes than you’ve ever looked at me with. i thought… i thought i was competing with a ghost i could beat. but how am i supposed to beat juhoon? how am i supposed to hate him for taking your heart when he’s the person i miss the most from home?”
the truth didn’t fully unravel until the following june.
a corporate project required you to travel to seoul for two weeks. martin came with you, the heavy, suffocating silence of juhoon still hanging between you both like an iron wall. he wouldn’t hold your hand on the plane. he wouldn’t look at you when you spoke. the kindness in him hadn’t died, but it had turned into a fragile, bleeding thing.
through old family connections, martin managed to track down juhoon’s grandparents’ contact information. he needed to see him. he needed to look his old friend in the eye and figure out how to live with the reality of their shared history.
you sat on the edge of the hotel bed in seoul, watching martin stand by the window, the phone pressed to his ear.
the conversation was short. martin barely spoke. he just listened, his posture slowly collapsing, his face draining of color until he looked like marble. when he hung up, his arm dropped limply to his side. he didn’t look at you; he just stared at his own reflection in the dark window glass.
“mars?” you asked, a sudden, cold dread pooling in your stomach. “what is it? did they say where he lives? can we go see him?”
“he’s dead,” martin said. the words came out flat, entirely devoid of life. “juhoon… died.”
the world didn’t stop spinning—oh, what a cruel fucking world—but your heart did. “what? no. no, he just… he didn’t reply to my texts. he went back to seoul. he’s probably married, he’s—”
“he died in september,” martin shouted, turning around, his voice breaking into a harsh sob. the anger and the grief finally collided inside him. “the same september you left namhae! he’s been dead this whole fucking time!”
you fell back onto the bed, the breath punched entirely out of your lungs. martin dropped to his knees right there by the window, burying his face in his hands as he wept. it was a dual mourning—he was weeping for his childhood friend who had been wiped off the earth a decade ago, and he was weeping for his marriage, because he knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you loved a ghost before, you would never, ever belong to the living now.
“he’s gone,” martin whispered through his tears, rocking back and forth on the floor. “he’s been gone the whole time we’ve been together. you thought he abandoned you, and i thought he stole you from me, and he was just… he was just dead.”
you found out the rest the next day from his grandmother, a frail woman who wept into her tea when she saw you standing on her doorstep in seoul, recognising the girl from the stories her grandson had muttered about during his last days in the countryside. martin stood behind you in the cramped living room, his shoulder tense, absorbing the loss of his friend—a boy he still considered his brother—his eyes fixed on the small memorial photo of juhoon on the shelf.
the story was painfully, brutally simple: that september, the day after juhoon arrived back in seoul, his phone had fallen out of his pocket on the subway, the screen shattering into useless black glass. he hadn’t known your email, and he hadn’t known your address in canada. but he had memorised your number. he had spent the entire summer repeating it like a mantra so he would never forget it.
he had walked to a phone store near the main transit station to buy a replacement. he had inserted the new sim card, booted up the screen, and opened the messaging app.
he typed in your canadian country code. the digits blurred together as he punched them in from memory. he typed out a message.
i’m back in seoul.
i miss the ocean.
i miss you, my beautiful angel.
he was standing right outside the glass storefront, his thumb hovering over the send button, looking down at the screen, completely consumed by the thought of you.
he never got the opportunity to click send.
a delivery truck, its brakes entirely failed, veered off the massive, chaotic seoul intersection and crashed directly through the storefront, striking him instantly. he died before the ambulance could even pull away from the curb.
that night, you and martin stood on a bridge overlooking the han river. the neon lights of seoul bled into the dark, rushing water below. the wind was warm, carrying the heavy scent of a city summer.
martin stood a few feet away from you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked much older—the boyish patience he had carried for years in canada had been replaced by a heavy, exhausted maturity.
“he was trying to call you,” martin said, his voice barely audible over the distant traffic. “he memorised your number. juhoon hated memorising things. we used to cheat on our history tests together because he couldn’t remember dates to save his life. but he memorised you.”
you couldn’t speak. the tears were silent, hot, and endless, tracking down your cheeks and dripping onto the concrete railing.
“i keep thinking,” martin continued, his voice trembling as he looked out over the river, “if his phone hadn’t broken… or if he had just clicked send a second faster… he would have found you. you guys would have figured it out. and i never would have met you at that coffee shop in toronto. you never would have looked at me.”
he turned his head to look at you, his eyes completely broken, filled with a quiet, devastating sadness. “i’m alive, and i’m right here, standing next to you. but i’ve never felt more invisible in my life. you’re looking at the city where he died, and you’re wishing it was him standing here instead of me. and the worst part is… i can’t even blame you. i miss him too.”
you reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched martin’s sleeve. “mars… i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”
martin let out a small, breathless sob, looking down at your hand on his arm. he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean into it either. “i know you are. but apologies don’t fix a broken heart, yn. and they definitely don’t bring back the dead.”
there was a dead boy in seoul who had died entirely in love with a girl, a husband whose heart had been collateral damage to a summer he wasn’t even a part of, and the girl who had spent her whole life grieving a ghost, believing she was forgotten.
you closed your eyes, the heavy summer air of june pressing against your skin, identical to the heat of namhae all those years ago.
beginnings cannot be changed, you thought, as the neon lights of seoul blurred into a smear of red and gold. endings are always sad.
you would have settled for a happy middle. but the middle had ended a long time ago, on a beach you could never go back to, frozen in a summer that had cost everyone everything.
➪ summary : you disappear hours after a concert, your family reports you missing but the company states that you left voluntarily. cctv shows differently. nothing makes sense, especially with everyone moving on so fast.
➪ other notes : very heavily based on kpop lost footage and analog horror <3 this is my first time posting something like very horror related so im a little nervous but im actually happy with this. creds to @/norvixa6 and @/rnbrednblue on tiktok for making awesome analog horror.
“breaking news : y/n l/n from hit kpop group cortis has officially been reported missing by her family this morning. authorities have confirmed that the idol was last seen was on CCTV footage at 2 : 39 in the morning, just hours after cortis concluded their concert last night. in the footage, y/n was wearing the same stage outfit she had performed in earlier that evening. the grainy footage shows the teenager sprinting in a parking garage, barefoot and physically agitated.
she looks over her shoulder multiple times, and with this repeating motion, investigators confirmed her identity with facial recognition. the footage contains no audio nor where there any witnesses near by that could have intervened or watched the scene. no search party has been organized and officials have not yet confirmed if a ground search will be conducted, stating that the investigation is still in its early stages.
at this time, hybe and bighit music have not made a statement regarding y/n’s disappearance. if you have any information of y/n’s whereabouts, please reach out to authorities immediately. we hope she returns safely home…and with that, later tonight in the world cup, south korea plays against-“
I see you're back for more. And it seems our Golden Boy has been hiding a little more than even I anticipated.
The question is: what will Golden Girl think when she discovers the truth? After all, secrets have a funny way of finding their way to the surface in Manhattan.
Don't worry, darlings. This story isn't over just yet.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
˗ˋ 4.0k wc ˊ˗ (part 2/2) PART ONE
He looks calm during the first song.
He strums the guitar with what looks like clean precision—only confirmed by the guy whispering next to you. He's playing all original pieces. You wonder if you stumbled upon some of those works in progress at his dorm. You know for certain that he has a beautiful voice.
He looks comfortable during the second song.
Everything seems to be flowing smoother, as well as the band that accompanied him. The rhythms are more in tune, lyrics sharper. The crow is entranced. It's only in that trance that you notice that he's wearing those earrings you got him. The diamond studs catch the stage lights.
He looks at you during the third song.
It didn't seem like he was searching for you, his eyes were closed or on his guitar for most of the set. He blinked a couple times and then he stared for a moment. Then he looked back down. The light reflected off his eyes nicely.
Then it's over, the crowd cheers for him even louder than during his introduction. If you all weren't standing he would've gotten a standing ovation. He really is incredible.
This is way better than any Manhattan party.
As the crowd dissipates, you stand off to the side, trying to find your place. You didn't tell your chauffeur to come for another thirty minutes—that was under the assumption that you'd get to chat with him. But, there's so many people already trying to talk to him. Maybe backstage is a better option?
But how do you get backstage? There's an entrance on the outside of the building but it's guarded. You could try charming your way in.
..
"I promise I'm with the band—I just went out for a smoke break but I need to be let back in now." It's technically true-ish. And indie artists like to smoke, right?
"Sorry miss, I haven't seen you before. If you're a fan—"
"I'm not a fan—Martin knows me."
"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," The guard says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Okay I admit that that last part sounded stalker-ish but—"
"Miss."
"Hey, hey. What's going on here?" You feel a hand wrap around your shoulder.
You groan, "Nothing—I was just leaving." You brush his arm off. "Goodnight."
"Woah, what's with the rush? Martin was wanting to talk to you."
Really? No he's lying, it's a classic Sean trick. But, Martin did look at you during the show.
Just a coincidence.
"He knows this girl Sean?"
"Yeah, they're…close," he smirks. "And I'll be going in with her—all's good."
"Okay." The guard opens the door with a keycard. "You can come in."
"After you," Sean gestures.
You only say something when you're sure the door's closed behind you. "I didn't need your help"
"Not the thanks I expected for saving your ass."
"Didn't you hear me? I didn't need your help."
"Pro-tip you need a little more confidence to pull a stunt like that off." He pauses, shaking his head.
"Excuse me?"
"You've really gone soft." The smirk on his face grows.
"Oh fuck you." You feel a tap on your shoulder.
Tall, cheeks flushed, hair slightly damp from sweat—as gorgeous as ever.
"Oh hey, Martin." You take a step back. Where do you stand with him? "You were so, so incredible out there."
"Well I'll get out of here," Sean pats Martin on the shoulder before exiting out the same back doors he came in. "Good work."
"Thanks," he says to Sean. "And thank you. I'm really glad you showed up."
"Yeah me too—I should've gotten you flowers or something. You were—I mean are so good."
"As good as Jeff Buckley at Sin-é?" He smiles.
"He had a longer set list didn't he?" You shrug. "Maybe next time."
He laughs, "I'll take that."
The crew that was formerly backstage is now packing up their things, cleaning up the stage or talking to different people. Lots of movement.
He looks around. "Uh.. are you going right away?"
"I mean I'm sort of in a rush but I could spare a couple minutes," you lie.
"Oh okay, uhm did you want to go to my dressing room with me for a second."
"Sure."
You follow him down a narrow hall, he opens a door to the left. Every room he occupies looks the same, the lyrics, the records, the guitars.
"So, do you spend a lot of time here?" You take a seat on top of a ledge that has a couple of bottles of water on it.
"Whenever, I get the chance—I prefer the dorms more honestly," he says.
"Yeah, that's fair." It comes out softer than intended. "Hey, Martin."
"Yeah?"
"I don't really know how to say this but…"
If you want to keep this boy you're going to have to swallow your pride.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for pushing you into something that I didn't understand. I see why that mattered to you now."
He walks over to the ledge you're sitting on and stands beside you. His tongue pokes around his cheek. It takes him a few seconds before he says anything.
"You figured it out…"
"Yeah. That's what you were hiding, right?"
"Yes," he exhales. "But, I knew that if I invited you here you'd figure it out—smart girl," he chuckles nervously.
"Yeah…'
"Honestly, I was wrong too. I hadn't told you anything about myself and then got upset at you. I get that you were trying to help. But, I don't know, I just got so caught up with trying to detach my music career from my Dad's and I, I just wasn't fair to you."
"It's okay, I get it."
"Really? Because—"
You hold his hand, they're rough with callouses but it's comforting. "I know what it's like to protect a secret, to protect yourself. I get what you did."
He nods, not saying anything, barely able to look at you.
"And I'm not going to be the one to take this away from you."
He looks, grateful, and moves in closer. He holds you face in his hands and moves in close. Not too close, like he's testing the waters.
Then your lips connect.
It's short, shy, sweet, he almost pulls away.
But you deepen it.
And he doesn't pull away.
It sounds naive to say but he made you feel special with that kiss.
Upper East side boys really are sleazes.
Your phone rings. You let it ring one, two, three times before you answer.
"I'm sorry." You pull away from him. "Let me just check this out quickly."
"Yeah, it's no problem." His cheeks are flushed.
"It's just Wonhee," you hang up the phone. "It's probably about the Sweetheart Ball, the pairings have been released."
"Are you going to check?"
"I think I'd be really upset if I didn't get you, kind of don't want to know," you shrug.
"You could still go with me anyway though, right?"
"That's not how it works."
"Here," He pulls out his own phone. "I'll check for you—oh wow."
"What, what happened? Martin, you're making me nervous."
"This number looks familiar. I'm going to text it."
You don't think he's talked to many girls on the Upper East side, well besides you and B.
B.
You find yourself holding your breath. She has to be paired up with Sean. The beating of your heart slows when you hear your phone go off.
"Huh?"
He smiles. "You should check that."
"Really?"
He smiles.
"Looks like we're going together."
Wednesday, 5:12 PM
"So, do you have any plans on what to wear?"
You're calling him a couple nights before the dance. Your room is a mess, dresses, bags, and shoes everywhere. It's basically your first public appearance where Martin is your actual date. It has to be perfect.
"Don't you usually have everything planned out? I'll just follow your lead."
"I mean yeah but not now, and I have to know what you're wearing so I know what I'm wearing!"
"I haven't planned anything out yet, but you could dress me up if you'd like."
"Really? You totally have a model's body, it would be perfect! I'll pick out some pieces and get them sent over to you, like now."
"Can't wait," he laughs.
"Your dad has a place in New York right—should I send it there or to the dorm?"
"Just the dorm is fine."
"Okay, I've got to go, but send me lots of pictures."
"Yes ma'am."
"And let me know your favourites."
"Will do."
"…"
"Okay bye, unless…"
"I'll talk to you later, kisses bye."
Kisses bye, seriously? You hang up the phone, and a second later, your phone buzzes.
Martin ???: Did you just say kisses bye?
A smile spreads across your face. You should also probably change his contact name.
You: maybe :)
Friday, 9:25 PM
He's the one picking you this time.
"No way you have your license," You say when he stops outside of your building. He's standing in front of the car door, wearing that navy suit you suggested for him. It goes exceptionally well with the deep blue diamonds of your necklace.
He opens the door for you "I used to live in LA remember. And wow, you look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you kind sir," you say, taking a seat in the car. "You look great as well."
"So is New York better than LA?"
"That's the million dollar question," he says.
"I won't smash your guitar if you say LA."
"Promise?"
"No, actually."
He laughs. "Well the city is kind of crazy, but you're here so I'm starting to like it a little more."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah I'd like to take you to LA sometime—actually the next time I go."
"Woah, take me out to dinner first," you laugh.
That'd be nice actually.
…
He parked in the underground garage that Constance apparently has.
The school's main gym, where the dance is being held, is bustling with students. Even though the doors only opened fifteen minutes ago.
"Guess we missed the rush," he says.
"Guess so," you smile.
"You both look great," Wonhee says at the front desk. "Please scan your digital QR codes for admission."
"Of course miss box office." Right, the code you got when you completed the questionnaire.
"Okay, perfect you two can head right on in and any extra donations will be greatly appreciated," Moka says.
"Thanks guys," Martin says.
Wonhee winks at you.
The decorations are really nice. Hearts themed things everywhere. The balloons, the desserts, the photo booth. It's cute but you don't think you'll stay long, well just long enough to see whatever Gossip Girl has prepared for the night.
It can't be anything good.
B is all over Sean. Which was expected, but you can't help but feel a little relief that she didn't get paired with Martin. You turn away but you can tell they're trying to approach you. Jeez, they should at least give you a little time to settle in.
"Sean, Becka." You say.
"Hi."
"Cute dress."
It's awkwardly silent. You'd much rather be at the dessert table or even the bathroom at this point. Martin breaks the silence—
"Well we're probably going to check out the drink but I hope you guys have a great evening."
"Yeah you too," Sean says. His expression is uncomfortable, like he needs to get away.
Whatever. He's always been weird.
B gets closer to you and whispers in your ear. "You better watch that boy of yours. He's going to have way more admirers than you could ever imagine by the end of the night."
"Enjoy your evening, Becka."
"I will, thank you—and don't forget to vote for me for Constance's Sweetheart" she says, turning away.
Ahn Keonho wins that every year.
You don't get to see whatever snarky expression she just made. It all goes black. The lights are cut off, the music stops. Everyone's gasping, and footsteps get more frequent and rapid.
"Everybody stay calm." A voice says, which you recognize to be Iroha's. "Just use the lights from your phones, ugh."
You go to hold his hand, squeezing it tighter than you mean to.
"It's going to be okay," he says. "I'm sure someone's just messing with the breaker room—"
Then the alert comes, everyone's phone goes off.
"See, everyone's phones are still working."
"Yeah, you're right—I just hate the unexpected."
He rubs your shoulder. "We can go soon if you'd like."
You notice everyone's absorbed in their phones, the glowing light reflecting on their focused faces. No way, already?
"Yeah, just a sec." You open up your phone, knowing exactly where to look. "I just want to check this out quickly."
You don't like how you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.
Hey Upper East Siders,
You always gather around on this night waiting for my latest leak and who am I to deny a room full of tuxedos, sequins, and suspiciously non-alcoholic champagne flutes?
We all know it isn't sparkling cider, darling.
Tonight was supposed to be about finding your soulmate and deciding whether true love exists somewhere between the dance floor and dessert table.
And for once, I'm not here to ruin your evening.
Unless your name starts with an M.
That's right Upper East Siders, our very own Golden Boy's little secret has finally stepped into the spotlight.
Ladies, you may find yourselves even more in love.
And judging by last night's crowd in Ridgewood, some of you have already been introduced.
Funny thing about hiding in New York, eventually somebody recognizes the face.
The curious stares, the whispered conversations, the impossible expectations—those are simply part of life when your father happens to be a seven-time Grammy-winning producer.
Did you really expect Constance to keep your secrets forever, M?
The East Coast plays by very different rules than the West.
And the resemblance to Jeremy Edwards? Uncanny.
Though after last night's performance, perhaps talent runs in the family after all.
The question is: was our Golden Boy trying to escape the spotlight...
or simply waiting for his own?
But don't leave the party just yet, Golden Boy.
After all, Golden Girl might not be the only one interested in Manhattan's newest mystery.
Be here now, remember?
You know you love me.
XOXO, Gossip Girl
Fuck.
You try to squeeze his hand tighter.
But it's gone.
"Martin? Where are you going? I can't see anything."
You try to shine your phone light into the crowd, but it's a blur of dark suits and sparkling dresses. Everyone's eyes are in your direction, like you're an exclusive exhibit at the MET. The whispers start shortly after.
"No way? That's Jeremey Edwards' son?"
"I told you I recognized his face from somewhere!"
"Why wouldn't he tell anyone? He could've gotten so popular so quickly."
You don't bother paying attention to them, you can't. You need to find Martin, but he's slipped away so quickly.
He never wanted any of this.
"Please wait for me," you mouth like somehow he'll be able to hear you in the swarm of gossiping teenagers around you.
You need to get to the parking garage.
…
He's in his car, grabbing his keys from his pocket.
"Martin!" you say, it echoes in the parking garage. "Martin!"
You rush up to him, reaching up to place your hands on his tense jaw.
"I don't even know what to say."
"So don't say anything." He looks to the side, avoiding your eye contact completely.
"I'm so sorry."
He takes a step back, your hands feel cooler without the warmth of his face.
"This is the only thing I've been protecting, the one thing I didn't want people to know about. I'll get treated different, in the way—
"Hey, hey babe. Please—"
"I tried so hard. I really did, but then I had to get caught off guard."
"Martin, what are you saying?"
"I just—I don't know if I can even trust you anymore."
"What?" Your voice breaks.
"You know this world."
"Martin, I care about you, I would never, ever send anything about you to that trashy gossip blog."
"I don't know what to believe anymore."
He clicks the key fob, the car beeps. He opens the door.
"Martin, wait–should you be driving right now?"
"I didn't drink anything."
He gets in and closes the door.
"You know that's not what I meant—I could call a taxi or an Uber." You knock on the glass. "Martin, please."
He starts the car.
"Martin!"
Then he reverses out.
Monday, 1:47 PM
He got home safe that night.
You only know thanks to Sean.
You tried to get more information about him, but he's all Martin needs space. When has he ever cared that much?
No one's seen him since that night, but his presence still lingers. There's more buzz about him as the son of the guy who made all their favourite party songs than there was when he was the blond mystery boy.
His seat in class stayed empty, and your text messages left on delivered.
You're camped out in one of the school bathrooms—the one attached to the locker room that no one uses. Everyone's trying to get a peep out of you "What's he really like?" or "Did you know this entire time?"
So now you're sitting on the bench, Wonhee and Iroha sit on either side of you.
"So you still haven't talked to him?"
"No, and he doesn't want to talk to me."
"You said that last time and he was thinking about you the entire time."
"But it's different now. All of this attention and drama, it's because of me.
"You never blame yourself for things like this."
"Love's changed her."
"It's not that—don't be silly."
"Then what is it cause I think he needs you right now."
"No, guys…"
"And you got matched together at the Sweetheart Ball—it's meant to be."
"Didn't you rig that Wonhee?" you ask.
"You told me not to," she shrugs.
"Really?"
Of all the people in Manhattan, the algorithm somehow picked the one person who now wouldn't look at you. The one person who challenged your views. The one person who invited you into a private part of his life. The one person who gave you a little hope in the dating world.
"Yeah nobody touched anything—you guys like a pair of Manolo's!"
"I don't know…How would I even talk to him?"
"He's still got that window, right?"
BREAK
Tuesday, 6:19 PM
You're knocking again, the mud is on your hands, and it's cold outside.
Please open the window.
You're about to climb back down when you hear footsteps at the window.
He peeps his head through the curtain before twisting the handle and pushing out the window.
"Hi."
"Hey," you start. He looks tired, baggy sweats and a white tank on.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, of course. It's pretty chilly outside—I'll get you a hoodie."
"Thanks."
His room is cleaner than it was before, emptier. The various half filled suitcases are telling. Especially the one he's currently packing things in.
The walls are barren of the eccentric posters that once decorated them. The music sheets have been arranged in one of the three binders he has left out. That Usher blanket is gone.
"You're packing up your things?"
He reaches in his practically empty closet and grabs two things: a hoodie and T-shirt. He tosses the hoodie to you and places the T-shirt in his suitcase "I'm going back to LA."
You stare blankly at the floor in front of you, there's so many things you haven't noticed before. Like how the inner rims of his suitcase wheels are silver, and how his rug is shaped like Nirvana's logo. It's kind of cold in the room too.
"I get that." You put the hoodie on, his scent lingers on it. "Martin, can I ask you something kind of pathetic?"
"Yeah."
"Can I come with you?"
He purses his lips and exhales. "I'm sorry, but you can't. It's for the better." He looks around the room. "You belong here I clearly don't."
"Don't say things like that."
"It's true though."
"Will we still be together?"
"Long distance is kind of hard."
"Yeah, it is."
Your vision begins to get blurry.
He stands. "I don't blame you for anything."
"I promise you I have no idea what happened." The tears fall.
"I know," He pulls you in close, bringing you into his warm embrace. "I really shouldn't have been so dumb to play at shows like that."
"It wasn't your fault, Martin."
Maybe you could've done something differently.
Maybe he'll be better off far from the Upper East Side.
"I really do hope LA treats you better."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Me too."
He moves back from the embrace momentarily, still keeping you at arm's length. "Can I play you something, for you? I've been working on it."
"Yeah," you sniffle. "For how long?"
"Since the day that I met you."
"I'd love to hear it." Why did he have to pack up the tissue box?
He unpacks an acoustic guitar from its case. It's made of Mahogany, it has a deep reddish-brown finish, beautifully really. There are a couple of sharpie drawings on it, you want to giggle. It's unmistakably his.
He takes a seat on his bed which is bare besides the faculty provided grey sheets that cover the mattress. You sit down beside him.
"It's incomplete, all I have is the melody right now. I really wanted to make it perfect but I want you to hear it even more before I leave," he says, fidgeting with the tuning pegs.
He rolls out his wrist for a second. Maybe it was to help with the shakiness in his hands. He exhales like he did on the night he kissed you.
He starts playing. It starts off uncertain but he regains that sense of sureness as he progresses through the chords. It's slow, then it's fast. Like the melody is trying to desperately say one last thing. But as quickly as the crescendo comes.
It fades out into nothing.
"Martin..." You shake your head, trying to find the words. "I, I don't know what to say."
"Please don't cry," he puts his guitar down. He reaches out to you.
"I'm sorry but I can't. I have to go." you wipe the stream of tears away with the back of your hand. Standing up quickly and walking towards that familiar window.
You turn back around, looking at him, looking into his brown eyes that are glassed over.
"Thank you."
You hear that melody as you climb back down the ladder you came up for the last time. You can't even care about the mud and how it'll stain your new dress. That melody, that precious melody that was crafted with such care.
The sound fades as you climb down, disappearing completely once your feet hit the ground.
You want to climb back up there and listen to him play until morning.
But maybe some songs are only meant to be heard once.
And maybe some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.
Hey Upper East Siders,
Gold is pretty lonely on its own.
It seems Manhattan's favourite Golden Girl and her Mystery Boy couldn't make the fairytale last.
Maybe "be here now" was always easier said than done.
Seems like some stories are better left in song lyrics, late-night phone calls, and borrowed hoodies.
Or maybe some people simply belong to different coasts.
Oh well.
There's plenty of fish left swimming around Manhattan.
And if the Upper East Side has taught us anything, it's that indie boys in garage bands never last.
You know you love me.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
hello to my dearest tumblr readers, daisy here.
ITS FINALLY HERE. My goodness are my fingers and eyes fatigued.
i hope you enjoyed golden girl and boys story. I fear this is the end for them but i had a lot of fun fabricating a rich girls persona and especially emulating gossip girls voice!
it means the worlds to me that you decided to read all 18k words of this nonsense ive been working on for uh…lets not count! and im so sorry i had to split this up into two parts (im still pissed abt the block limit)
summary … you’re an underground R&B artist with a tiny but loyal audience, making late‑night songs no one expects to blow up. Then one morning you wake up to chaos. Apparently, CORTIS’ Martin mentioned your track during a live. One clip turns your notifications into wildfire, your streams skyrocket, and suddenly the internet is calling you “the girl Martin listens to at 3am”. What you don’t know yet is that he’s been a fan long before the world noticed, and now your lives are about to collide.
pairing ... idol Martin x underground artist Yn
feat. ... CORTIS, Danielle Marsh, Hyein Lee
genre ... social media au with written parts, romance, crack, slow burn
warnings ... swearing, media hate, kys/kms
playlist … FaSHioN - CORTIS, 90210 - Travis Scott, Flight’s Booked - Drake, back of the club - kwn, don’t matter - pryme!, Days Are Over - cortex, Superstar - Lauryn Hill
WATCH OUT FOR THE RAGEBAITER COUPLE ! nishimura riki
what makes a relationship strong? for you and your bf, niki, the answer is to troll others instead of arguing with each other. AKA texts with ur fellow ragebaiter who's also ur bf, riki !
starring ragebaiter bf!niki x ragebaiter!reader ୨ৎ genre fluff, romcom/crack one-shot smau, established relationship ੭﹕﹒ warnings profanity, insults, downbadbf!niki
( ℰve🪽 ) —— best type of rela ngl. also, i pulled a niki pc so i wanted to write abt him >< and i hope u guys get the references... + likes, reblogs, & comments r always appreciated, mwah ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡
THIS JUST IN: Move over, prep school princes. There’s a new golden boy on the Upper East Side. He may be new to Manhattan, but Manhattan has never been particularly gentle with newcomers. Will his romance with Golden Girl survive Manhattan’s spotlight, or end in smeared mascara and shattered guitars? Who knows. But then again, I’ve never been wrong about these things.
THIS WEEKS DISASTERS INCLUDE: Gossip Girl A/U, martin x reader golden boy x golden girl, all the shenanigans of the upper elite which include and aren't limited to: swearing, mean girl behaviours, kissing, scheming. And me, of course, Gossip Girl. Think you can handle it? ˗ˋ 14.6k wc ˊ˗ (part 1/2)
GG's notes: hey upper east siders, did you miss me? thought so. dont worry, ive been watching and manhattans most elite are messier than ever. enjoy the chaos. XOXO
GG's party list: you didn't think we could start a scandal without a soundtrack, did you?
Glamourous - Fergie Beautiful Liar - Beyoncé SOS - Rihanna Me & U - Cassie Maneater - Nelly Furtado
Spotted: a tall, blond mystery making his grand entrance through our sacred courtyard this morning. Relax, ladies, your lip gloss isn’t smudged just yet.
Sources say he transferred in from somewhere scandalously elite, though no one seems to know exactly why. And when has a gorgeous stranger ever arrived on the Upper East Side without a little baggage?
But not everyone is celebrating the arrival of fresh blood.
Seems Queen B and our darling Golden Girl haven’t exactly been sharing Pandora charms lately. And as for a certain ex-boyfriend wandering between best friends? Well, even trust funds can’t buy loyalty. Can they, S?
So who is this golden boy suddenly turning heads from the Met steps to Madison Avenue? A new prince for our darling It Girl? Or just another pretty problem waiting to happen?
Don’t worry Upper East Siders. I’ll uncover all his secrets soon enough.
You know you love me.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
"Have you seen the new Gossip Girl post?"
She's always the first one to run up to you in the morning, coffee in hand and purse in the fold of her arm. The rapid click of her fur-lined boots against the pavement is unmistakably Wonhee.
She's always keeping up with the latest school buzz. Sometimes you think she could run the gossip girl blog with all the information she knows.
"You know I don't pay attention to that stuff." You check the time on your phone, splitting your attention. "It's juvenile."
"Oh don't be such a priss, you're just as curious as the next person."
"Fine," you grumble. Even though, yes, it's true you are getting more curious about what she's talking about. But only because she's so eager and there's no harm in keeping up with the school population. "What's going on?"
"Tall. Blond. Gorgeous," she pauses for effect, enunciating each word like she's giving a mandatory dinner speech.
"Like a drop earring? Truffle fries from FREVO? Shimmery lip gloss?"
"High society has really made you brain dead."
"Oh, shut up!" you say, nudging her playfully. "Okay so who's the new kid?"
Her face drops immediately in shock, her silver bangles clash together. She almost drops her Chanel purse, which happens frequently. "What! No way, how'd you know?"
"I don't have caviar for brain cells, you know." You laugh, she practically has a catalogue on everyone at school.
"Okay well, everyone's going crazy over him, seriously. Girls haven't gone this crazy since the first pair of Louboutins. Rumour has it that he's a Korean prince or secret high fashion model or a diplomat's son. He's totally your type too! He was even spotted listening to that band you like…what's their name? Computer? Rainbow? Pablo?—"
"Radiohead?" you laugh.
"Yes them, and get this." She pauses for dramatic effect, you can see the way her eyes widen through her studded sunglasses. "He's six three."
“So Manhattan’s losing its mind already?”
"Oh my goodness," she squeals. "I should totally set the two of you up for the Sweetheart Ball."
"Woah, slow down," you smile nervously around the school entrance, looking around to see if any of your nosy peers have noticed. "I haven't even seen the boy, plus I'm done with boys at our school. You know, with Sean and all."
"Well it's not your fault he decided to hit on you while he had a girlfriend!"
"Yeah, but he's a social climber just like the rest—wish B could see that too you know? I'm expecting no different from mystery boy."
"Is that in your professional opinion?" Wonhee puts on a professional tone, like she's Oprah Winfrey and you're being put on the spot in front of a live audience.
"Of course," you giggle even though you're certain. If all the years among Manhattan's elite have taught you something, it's to always be cautious.
"Let's head to class."
Your back seat table near the floor to ceiling windows is empty. Usually Iroha, your close friend since Montessori would be waiting for you. Most people come to class a few minutes late or don't come at all. The teachers don't mind, as long as the grade average is high and tuition is being paid.
The window spot isn't bad though. The lighting makes for good selfies and you can spot the teacher's movements easily. Plus, some coffee table magazines said it's best to get sunlight in the morning, to prevent moodiness or something.
Everyone busies themselves with talks of upcoming weekend parties and the latest gossip before class begins. It would take a lot of effort not to eavesdrop. Apparently B’s having a party tonight. You assume your invite went up in flames with one of her Chanel candles.
Just as the bell rings a kid walks through the door, new and shiny. Even if you hadn't talked to Wonhee in the morning, you'd know he was new. There's a certain energy about him that doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the student body.
She was right: tall, blond, handsome. But that's the bare minimum. You can't help but wonder if he was what it takes to survive in your world. It's not often Constance gets a transfer in the middle of the school year and it's not often that they last.
Whatever.
You go and pull out your notebook and sleek pens from your bag, ready for the boring lecture ahead. When you glance up towards the front of the class, he's talking to the teacher. He speaks quietly, maybe because he’s shy. Or maybe because everyone’s staring. All you're able to read from his lips are 'Martin'.
Okay Martin, what could you possibly be about.
As he wraps up his conversation with the teacher, his eyes dart rapidly throughout the class. You mentally critique every place he considers sitting. No, not near the jocks, unless you're like that, ew. And please not that group of girls up there, they all want to kiss you, well unless that's what you want, gross.
Then his eyes meet yours in your almost discreet hiding spot in the back of the class. You decide to wave at him kindly, why not? Iroha's still a no show.
"Is it alright if I sit here?" he asks, approaching the table.
"Might as well, everyone else may feast on you for brunch."
That earns a laugh from him. "You think so?"
And to that you just smile.
He pulls the chair out and lays his black denim tote bag on the floor. Looks vintage. He rummages through his bag before he takes out his sticker-coated MacBook to take notes. How modern.
"What's your height?"
"What?"
"You know you have to be ready for these questions," you say, searching for some hand cream in your bag. "What happens if IMG wants to street cast you?" you laugh.
"Oh, I just tell them I'm already signed." He opens his computer halfway, distracted.
"Good call." Not completely new to city life, either that or he's a comedian.
The cashmere-coloured lotion comes out of the silver tube in a perfect dollop. Without rubbing it in you're already hit with its familiar smell.
"Could I get some of that please? This weather makes my skin so dry."
"Sure," you hand the tube over to him. "It's heavy though, you don't need that much."
"Oh, oka—"
"I know it can be exciting to make new friends but the two of you can talk between classes, not during them."
"Sorry Sir." You both say. The small pause afterwards only increases your desire to laugh.
You promptly open your notebook to a blank page. You scribble something quickly then push the book over to him.
isn't it strange to transfer in the middle of the week?
its not too bad
Really?
nice :)
You flip the page of your notebook, back to your actual notes. You don't glance back at him but you couldn't help but notice the way he hesitated before answering your question.
He sure has earned his title of mystery boy.
The rest of your day unfolds exactly as expected: morning classes, student council meetings, a purchased lunch on the Met steps with some friends.
Even though you haven't seen Martin since the first period, his presence is still evident. Every passing conversation has something to do with the 'new boy'. The way people talk about him is synonymous with that of a deity, and the day isn't over yet.
Besides his sudden existence, everything's been normal.
Getting pulled out of class early was a blessing undisguised. The alumni needed some help finalizing the guest list for their annual banquet. All those years of painful networking and fraternizing with your parents' acquaintances paid off.
"I believe that's everyone—let me know if you need something else," you say to the alumni. You change your tone in hopes of being assigned to other tasks. Going back to class now sounds like a bore.
"You're such a doll, thank you so much."
"Well she is miss golden girl after all, she can do it all."
"You guys are too kind." You give the polished smile that's been perfected through the years.
"Oh also, before you go the office called for you. It sounded pretty urgent."
What happened this time?
"Okay, thanks so much I'll stop by right now."
The rushed clicks of your heels against the school's polished marble are enough to turn heads. You can't help but wonder what sorts of things people will come up with. Everyone seems to be one of Gossip Girl's drama obsessed minions.
…
The office is busy. Parents sit in plush lounge chairs awaiting meetings for their next grand donations and students stand in line for one of several receptionists.
And there she is, standing in front of that indoor fountain that you always thought was redundant. B, in all her glory. Her uniform skirt rolled up at least twice and wearing her favourite pearl headband.
She's accompanied with none other than the school's current fixation.
You can't help but stare at the way she slips a fuchsia envelope into the breast pocket of his blazer. His name written in someone else's cursive font, pink lip prints seal it—those are hers. Everything is so rehearsed, and so convincing.
She gives him a sweet smile as she runs a manicured hand down his arm. She swiftly turned towards the exit. You don't even get the chance to read his expression.
Her eyes glare into yours immediately. You keep your face neutral, but you can feel your eyebrows furrow when she bumps into you on her way out.
Shouldn't she be this upset at Sean?
"Hey," he walks up to you, unopened envelope in hand.
"Hi." You turn swiftly, fixing your expression.
"So where are we going first?"
"Pardon?"
"You're my tour guide, right?" He fidgets with the seal of the envelope. "Unless…"
Right, the student representative has the duty of helping new students. You understood that when you applied for the position, yes. But, when has Constance ever had random transfers?
"Oh, right" You pause—what were you supposed to say again? "Welcome to Constance, Martin. We love getting new students." You put on that same smile from earlier. Warm, polished, practiced.
"Is it because they're considered fresh meat?"
"Do you want my corporate or colloquial answer?"
"Uhm," he shrugs. "Whatever you talked about this morning?"
You begin walking out of the main office, towards the foyer. Naturally, he follows along in anticipation. For the tour or for what else you have to say?
"Well, you've noticed the stares, haven't you?"
"Is it always like this?" he asks in a hushed voice. "Feels like I'm in 1984."
"Just until they find enough dirt on you. Here's the main foyer—you've probably seen it already."
His expression drops quickly, like he'd just seen the ghost of the school's founder. Does he really not know the world he's stepped into? And more interestingly—what do you have to hide, Martin?
"Jokes! We don't get transfers often is all."
"Oh, okay—yeah I've seen the foyer already."
"Good, let's make our way towards the sports gyms. Are you a sporty guy Martin? The Spurs could use a little help this season," you hum.
As you make your way through the carefully carved arches of the hall, some students take sneaky glances, quickly looking away when you turn in their direction.
"Not really, I play ball sometimes though."
"Cool, what type of ball?"
"Basket," he responds. "You?"
"Room."
"What?"
"Well, I used to do ballroom dancing when I was younger."
"Oh," he nods. "That's fitting."
"Thank you." As you make it to the end of the hall you remember you're supposed to be hosting a tour. "Right over here we have our indoor gyms: basketball, volleyball, tennis, football, the works, whatever. And across the campus is the pool and baseball pitch."
"Oh nice—I think one of my dorm mates is on the swim team."
"Really? Do you know his name?" You open the door to the stairwell, albeit cautiously. "Here, we can take these stairs up to the second floor."
"Cool, didn't realize it was here—his name is Keonho I believe."
"Ahn Keonho's your roommate?" Your exclamation echoes in the stairwell.
Ahn Keonho, voted Constance's Sweetheart since grade school. You don't see him often anymore. Apparently he stopped partying every weekend to focus on his swim career. His parents didn't even force him to make that decision. Good for him.
"…Is that bad?" his eyebrows furrow with worry.
"Could be but he stays at his Dad's penthouse these days, you'll be fine. Oh! Also I wouldn't suggest using these stairs often, people love to…"
…
The two of you make your ascent to the second floor. It's mainly academic classes, the halls are empty and quiet besides the common areas where students study. Otherwise it's just the music classes on that floor. You take note of the way Martin pauses in front of the 'Theory and Composition' classroom.
"Are you joining music?"
"No, no." he shakes his head, turning his body towards the hall. "I don't think it'd be a good fit for me."
Good fit or do your parents not approve. It's such a classic private school kid experience, you could spot it from a mile away.
"Well if you ever change your mind you could talk to the teacher."
"Nah, I'm good." He says it too quickly. Too dismissively.
Oh mystery boy, what'll we ever do with you?
"So uhm, are you going to that party this weekend? I got this pink invite but I don't know anyone there."
"B's Bubbles and Balloons party? God, she'd kill me if I was there."
"You aren't friends?"
"It's complicated."
"Yeah, I see that— I mean she did kind of bump into you hard in the office."
You roll your eyes, trying to make it look as playful as possible. She's done this more times than you can count but it always ends in Miss Dior scented hugs and runny mascara.
"I mean I don't know what happened but, if you want to see your friends and have a fun night out you should."
"You just don't want to go to the party alone," you laugh.
"Maybe a little, but you seem like such a social butterfly—could be a fitting environment."
"I mean, I don't mind being alone. But, I did buy this new dress from Windsor's." you look around for a second, as if someone will stop you from the decision you're about to make. "Goodness, Martin! What type of reverse psychology did you just use on me?"
He laughs, smiling from ear to ear. "It was nothing, I swear!" He throws his arms up in surrender. "I think you were already leaning towards that answer."
When did you become so easy to read? Many say the most magnetizing thing about you is that you keep them guessing.
Who is this boy?
"You're in the dorms right? I'll be here with my driver at 8—dress nice."
The car ride is relatively silent. The sounds of Manhattan's traffic and nightlife seep through the tinted windows.
Sitting opposite you in the backseat of your chauffeur's car is Martin. His long legs are crossed while looking out the window, rapt in the distorted views of the city. His earthy cologne lingers in the air.
He came out of the dorm building shortly after you texted him. Phone in hand, hair dishevelled but in a way that looked purposeful, sleek blazer on. One thing's for sure—he's going to turn heads at the party.
He didn't say much when he entered. He thanked you for the ride and complimented your dress. It's unusually hard to keep your composure when you feel his occasional gaze at you. Not your purse, not your jewelry. You.
You remind yourself to stay cautious about this boy, nobody seems to know anything about him, yet. It's hard to make it out of a 'rich and elite' party without some sort of rumours surrounding you. You might contribute to that.
"Okay, Martin, wait." The car stops at the address on his invite—even if you didn't have it, you know B loves to have spring parties at her dad's banquet hall. It's on one of the upper floors of the newly renovated highrise building. Decorated with plenty of windows and guards near the entrance.
He stops his hand that was reaching towards the door handle, your driver would've opened it for him. Odd. He turns to look at you. "What's up?"
"Martin, are you sure you want to do this?"
"Why?" He chuckles, nervously. "Should I be worried?"
"It's just the people here could really fuck you over. Once you're in that world you either get consumed or they'll consume you."
He swallows, his eyes bounce around the car, legs uncrossing. He gives a tight lipped smile. "I'll be fine."
"Okay." You unbuckle your seatbelt, slipping the chained handle of your purse along your shoulder. "Let's go."
"Also. If we go in there together, rumours will spread."
"Well, we're already here." he smiles.
…
Dim lighting, champagne towers, Rihanna blasting, sharp dress code, so many mini appetizers. It's B's party for sure.
Everyone seems to be engaging in conversation. Everywhere you look, the dance floor, the buffet table, the halls.
You greet a few of your friends and acquaintances, they play a facade but you can tell they're intrigued with the guy who is still standing next to you. Wonhee not-so quietly whispered to you that you have to text her later.
You told him that he wouldn't get lost if he wandered around for a bit but he wants to follow your lead instead. So much for a tail.
Oddly enough, you haven't seen B yet. Despite what went down with her ex, she would never bail on a night like this.
"Hey Martin, I'm going to take a quick bathroom break."
"'Kay, I'll be around the mini tarts if you need to find me," he laughs.
…
The outside of the banquet hall is refreshing, less people, less noise. There were bathrooms inside the hall but you knew better than to stand in a line while you wait for the couple inside the stalls to stop making out.
The bathrooms you're looking for are just down the curve of the pathway outside. The door is almost in your grasp until you hear an uncomfortably familiar voice.
"Look who it is—I'm surprised Becka invited you here, she really hates you right now."
You will not turn around. He's doing everything he can to make you, first it'll be the taunting, then the flirting, then…
If you take even the smallest glance, you'll be reminded of your guilt.
"Oh? So she didn't invite you? Did you come here to see me?"
"Get over yourself."
"Well," he inhales, fabricated and dragged out. "It's been really hard to get over our kiss from last week."
Of course he had to bring that up—one of the stupidest mistakes you'd made in a while. Him and B got in a fight, you were alone with him, he flirted, you forgot yourself. But it was one kiss, and no matter how hard you try to apologize to B, she won't hear you out. She wants revenge.
"Try harder."
"Maybe you should try harder at keeping your eye on that Golden Boy of yours."
You haven't thought about Martin in a second, you did just leave the banquet hall after all. Since he's not following you around like a dog, you wonder what he could possibly be up to. Is he cozying up with some heirs or sitting quietly on a leather chair?
"Don't tell me you read that Gossip Girl shit too."
"Everyone in the upper elite reads Gossip Girl," he scoffs, as if that makes it any better. "Anyway, Becka sure does have her eye on him."
"Whatever, I don't care."
"Good, so it can be Becka and him, then you and me."
"Sean, fuck off. You got lucky one time."
"Things tend to go my way."
You can hear that stupid smirk on his face as you open the door to the bathroom, slamming it behind you.
…
You stay in the bathroom longer than you expected. Stupid Sean and his stupid words got to you, again. You pace along the bathroom hall, the clicks of heels getting quicker and quicker. You didn't bother to check if anyone else was in the stalls. Who cares, you'll be going home now. Did Martin need a ride back?
When you reenter the banquet hall you scope out the main areas quickly. He's not by the buffet like he said but you've been out longer than expected. Tall, blond, white shirt. He shouldn't be this hard to spot—
Oh.
There he is. By the DJ. Bangle decorated arms around his neck, sparkly pink finger nails in his hair. The 'B' ring on her middle finger that she's been wearing since middle school. Lips interlocked.
So that's the type of guy he is.
It must be the universe's way of punishing you for kissing her ex—not like you were into Martin or anything. Maybe you were when you thought he was different from all the city guys. Guess they're all the same.
Your driver should arrive any minute now—you made sure to text while you were pacing in the bathroom. Precisely to avoid any more confrontations. You're almost at the exit, almost out, you can breathe—
"Sorry, I don't really know what just happened there, she just kind of—
His cheeks are flushed and he's short of breath—from the kissing or the jogging? You're unsure.
"It's fine you don't have to explain anything to me."
"I don't? But—"
"We haven't even known each other for a full day—what you do personally is none of my business."
"It's not like that though she—"
"Did you need a ride home?"
"Oh uh," He thinks for a moment like there's more answers to your question besides yes or no. "Becka's offered me one."
"Seems like you're good then—see you Monday."
The car pulls up, maybe you're not entirely out of luck. If he says something else, you don't hear it. Your heels come off almost as quickly as you entered the car. You check the time on your phone. throw your bag to the spot he once sat in, and sigh.
Spotted: Manhattan's newest obsession learning his first lesson at Constance. Turns out curiosity isn't just for cats.
Our mysterious Golden Boy made quite the impression at B's spring soirée tonight. And while some guests spent the evening sipping champagne and exchanging pleasantries, others were busy exchanging something a little sweeter.
But the real surprise?
Golden Girl didn't stay long enough for dessert.
Sources tell me she made a rather dramatic exit shortly after catching a glimpse of our newest social sensation getting very acquainted with a certain former best friend. Jealousy, GG? That's not usually your colour. Or maybe old wounds hurt more than we'd like to admit.
And M? We'd all love to give you a warm welcome to Constance. But around here, fresh faces don't stay fresh for long. The question isn't who you are anymore.
It's how long until this place gets its claws into you.
You know you love me.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
Your Monday mornings go as they always do. Wake up with the sunrise, a quick at home pilates lesson, an extensive everything shower, and a smoothie as you head out the door.
This time you don't bother scrolling through your phone in the backseat of the car. It's hard to ignore those little red circles violently screaming at you in the corner of your app icons.
You're earlier than usual, there are less people walking around the courtyard of the school, plus Wonhee, who is an even earlier riser than you isn't there yet. It's fine, now you can go ahead and get that bangle you left in your locker.
The halls are empty yet some classrooms are full. Some students come early to get some extra studying—not everyone at Constance is a trust fund. Besides the high-achievers, also present at school early are athletes, artists, and musicians. None of which you encounter on a regular basis.
You turn the dial of your locker lock back and forth, focused on the three digit combination. Just as the lock is about to open, you notice her out of the corner of your eye.
Becka.
B who loves to be 'fashionably' late is early for once, you can't come up with an explanation other than her scheming to explain her presence.
Whatever.
You fumble with the lock a couple more times, suddenly messing up the code as if you haven't done it hundreds of times before.
"Need some help with that? I still know the code." There's a bite to her words. Sweet on the surface but so malicious.
"I'm great, thanks." You don't bother looking up, at least not until the last possible second.
"Me too actually—Sean and I got back together."
"Good. He really likes you." This time when you pull on the lock, it finally opens.
"Yeah." She pauses, watching you rummage through your locker in search of the golden bangle that she gifted you. Instead, you pretend to look for something else. Maybe a lip gloss?
"You know, I'm not mad at you anymore."
You freeze, only momentarily but she noticed. Of course she did. You know better than to trust her, she can lie sure, but her actions can't.
"Gee thanks. It didn't take you too long this time, did it?"
"Well making your little boy toy fall for me makes us pretty even, doesn't it?
You slam your locker shut. You didn't mean to—it just happened. It doesn't matter though, Martin made his choice, a foolish one at that.
"I'm happy for you and Sean, really—hopefully he doesn't creep around again."
"He won't be hanging around sluts anymore so that shouldn't be an issue," she smiles.
You just roll your eyes at her, you'll have to get your stupid bangle another time.
…
"Where have you been?"
Wonhee comes in chipper as always, the clicks of heeled boots have been exchanged for quieter ballet flats. She's got a jacquard Dior saddle bag on her shoulder today.
"Sorry—I just needed to get something from my locker."
"No but where have you been? You've gone completely AWOL this weekend!"
If not posting every four hours on your socials defines going AWOL, so be it. But it's true, you have been inactive since Friday. You posted a random picture you found in your camera roll from B's party—everyone knows you're still alive, right?
"Also Martin's such a sleaze for doing that to you. I mean going after you ex best friend is ridiculous—he's just like Sean but blonder and taller and—"
"Relax Wonhee," you laugh. "I don't care about what Martin does—he's just another guy."
"But you were into him right?"
"Not really, no."
"Oh come on," she sighs. "You didn't find him the least bit attractive?"
"He's okay."
"We both know so well that you're lying." She gives a smile, like she knows something you don't. "Anyway, have you seen the new season of Love Island yet? Zach is so fine."
Thank goodness for Wonhee's quick moving mind.
By the time she's (lovingly) talked your ear off over her favourite and least favourite Islanders, the bell has rung for first period. Even while doing your laps around the courtyard you haven't seen him yet.
What are you thinking? He's at the dorms, he probably just sleeps in.
…
Iroha's here this time, she holds a compact mirror in one hand and a mascara wand in the other.
"Hey babes," You put your bag on the ground, taking a seat at the empty chair beside her. "Where were you Friday?"
"I don't even know—some sort of family appearance thingy. It was almost as boring as this class." She screws the lid back onto the mascara tube.
"Boo—I was so bored without you," you whine. It's a partial lie, but how would she know?
"Hey." She turns to you abruptly, eyes wide in realization. "You didn't tell me about the new guys in our class."
He hasn't come to class yet. Your eyebrows furrow, "So who did?"
"Just rumours—but now it's confirmed! I saw some pics of him at Becka's party and oh my goodness is he ever gorgeous. If she didn't already put her claws on him I would've been on that."
Good to know at least someone respects girl code.
"Well maybe you'll be matched together at the Sweetheart Ball—don't lose hope!" you say sarcastically.
You've always found the Sweetheart Ball sort of…stupid? It sounds great in theory and appeals to the many hopeless romantics that walk Constance's halls but it never really works out. Everyone applies anyway—its the biggest school party of the year.
And Upper East Siders love to party.
It's the same every year. Fill out a questionnaire and get matched with your one true love to go to the dance with. It's so simple for something so complicated it makes you laugh.
Worst thing is that Gossip Girl drops her biggest leak on that night. Usually something heinous and unnecessarily cruel. The idea of going makes you just as sick as the idea of not going.
"Oh my god, it's him."
"Jeez, you're acting like he's some sort of celebrity."
"Well right now at Constance, he is. How are you not like—starstruck? Oh…"
"Don't even Iroha, it's too early for—"
"Sooo you've talked to him before."
"Oh shut up, class is starting."
He takes the seat in the row in front of you. It looks like he glanced up at you but your head turned before he got the chance. You're also having to try your best at ignoring Iroha's frequent giggles while you stare at the back of his head, catching glimpses of his side profile. Solely because it's in your eye line. He stares at the blank page in front of him like it's the most interesting thing in the world, his pencil twirls in his fingers. Very distracting.
Could this class go by any slower?
The next day he asked to borrow a pencil. You expect Iroha to get him one—her pencil case is on the table. She nudges you instead, so much for 'I would've been on that.' You let out a sigh, not particularly directed at him but you don't mind if he hears.
"Here." You hand over the first pencil you find, a purple mechanical one.
"Thanks." His hand brushes against yours more than you think is necessary.
His nails are painted black—they weren't like that yesterday. Yet, they looked chipped and picked at. Is it some sort of deranged trend or does he fidget with his hands?
The pencil is in his grasp one second and the next it isn't. It bobbles a few times before hitting the floor. How did he even drop that?
"You good?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
…
"You good? Is that seriously the best thing you could come up with."
"I wasn't trying to seduce him Iroha, he dropped a pencil."
"That's so cute," Wonhee says, a lemonade in her hand.
The MET steps aren't as busy today, but there's still a lot of people. Mainly people hanging out with their friends, eating lunch as you are now. There are some people going into the actual museum and some tourists taking pictures outside. It's so comically New York.
"You'd think he were cute if he rolled around in a pile of dirt," you say while scrolling on your phone."
"No—like the fact that he was nervous around you."
"What!"
"Oh my goodness now you're getting Wonhee all worked up." You turn towards her. "He was not."
"You wouldn't be able to tell since you weren't looking at him—but I saw his expression."
"I believe Iroha," Wonhee says.
"Hey, I'm just as credible as she is."
"Are you really? Guess what she said today Iroha? She doesn't even find Martin attractive!"
"I said he's okay."
"You basically called him ugly."
"That's not what that means!"
"He's genuinely the most gorgeous thing to exist since the Birkin bag."
"He's not a thing," you state.
"You know what I mean," Iroha giggles. "Look at you so protective over him—you should ask him out for lunch or something."
"I agree!" Wonhee adds "He doesn't really seem to be into Becka anyway—I heard he ignored her in the halls today."
Wasn't he kissing her at the party? Why would he ignore her now? People love to create the most nonsensical rumours, unless…
"Has anyone ever seen him out for lunch?" you ask.
Their eyebrows furrow for a moment, glossed lips turn into pouts. They both end up shrugging.
"It's weird isn't it? Constance students are basically known for eating lunch on the steps or the dining hall."
"I haven't heard anything—and trust me, I'd know." Wonhee chimes.
"What's he hiding?" you say under your breath, neither of the girls seem to notice.
If he was with B, you'd see him in public during lunch, no doubt. B would rather use her Hermès scarf to clean up her dog's shit than be 'invisible' during lunch. You're in a similar boat as much as you hate to admit.
As an Upper East Sider, your main job is to socialize. You have to fortify your current relationships and nurture new ones. You can't do any of that if you're not in public, aren't seen in public. So why does he…?
"Ugh," you say out loud.
"Sorry girl, I know how much that date would mean to you." Iroha teases.
"Shut up."
"Oh also," she giggles. "I won't be at school until after lunch tomorrow."
"What?"
So does he have to sit next to you now? If he gets there earlier enough he'll be able to find a seat. You guess he could sit with you, only if he wanted to. He probably doesn't, too busy being secretive.
He's definitely hiding something.
"Have fun with your golden boy, golden girl."
Like a repeat of last week, he looks confused on where to sit. Looking around the classroom, tightening the grip on the handle of his tote bag. You gesture him over without much thought, save him from spinning in circles, again.
"Is your friend not here today?" He asks.
"She isn't."
"Could I sit here?"
You nod. "Go ahead."
He takes a seat, the legs of the chair scrap along the floor. He places his bag on the ground beside him. His legs stretch out beyond the table as expected.
"I like your necklace."
"Thank you."
His gaze stays longer than it needs too—was the necklace really that nice? It's a David Yurhman piece so probably. The small movements of his mouth tell you that he wants to say something. You think about edging him on, but really, when have you ever done that. People always approach you first.
"So…about the party?"
"You're still going on about that?" You say it with more passion than warranted, of course he was going to bring that up. "I seriously don't care about who you kiss or fuck or whatever. I'm not your mother."
"Oh," He pauses, you can see his eyebrows furrow from the corner of your eye. "Okay well nothing like that happened—are people making rumours?" His eyebrows now relax with concern.
"No, I was exaggerating to show you that I don't care."
"Okay well I do," he sighs. "You looked pretty upset when you left."
You look over at him, inadvertently giving a side eye. Why does it matter? Everyone at Constance has done morally grey things before, no one ever owns up to it. You shrug. "I wasn't. Go ahead."
He sighs, lowering his voice while he looks around the class. You never know who's eavesdropping.
"What you saw on Friday…like Becka and I, I don't really know what happened she just kind of pulled me and…"
Mediocre play, B. You're not even crushing on Martin, why would she think you cared if she messed with him?
"So she was just getting back at me," you mutter, eyes rolling on their own.
"What? For what?"
Mutters are supposed to be quieter, right. "It doesn't matter, don't worry about it."
"I'm really confused on what happened—"
"Seriously Martin, I'm trying to help you out here. I don't know where you're from but the people here feed off of controversy, leverage, and revenge. You either play that game with them or you evade it."
He's taken aback, struggling to find his next words. He simply says, "I know."
You nod, going back to jotting down your schedule in your pink leather planner. As you scribble down some brunches and banquets, the conversation you just had with Martin plays back in your head. On second thought, maybe he's trying to evade it. He doesn't talk about himself, he hasn't joined any clubs, he doesn't eat lunch publicly. Speaking of—
"Hey Martin."
"Yeah?"
"Where do you eat lunch?"
"Is this like a trick question," he chuckles, nervously.
Maybe, but anything to dig up some information about this boy. Just a clue about his personal life or background. He doesn't even have any socials you can find. You know he's got to have something, probably uses some user that does not relate to his name whatsoever.
"No, just curious."
"I go to the dorms."
Seriously?
"What? Why?" Too much passion, again. "Excuse me."
He laughs. "It's nice, I get to work on things by myself."
"You can't work on things at the school's library?"
"I need quiet and space," he smiles, it doesn't quite reach his eyes though. He wants to change the topic.
"It's a library."
"Well the MET steps can't be that good anyway."
"Hey. Don't knock it until you try it. Do you even know what it's like to people watch on the steps?"
"Can't be that good."
"Fine, don't believe me, then."
He smiles, scooting his chair closer to you. "Is that where you usually have lunch?"
"I really loved your work in Sherlock Holmes, detective."
He laughs. "Are you going there today?"
"There are a lot more people here than I expected," he says, looking around.
"Yeah," You take a seat, not bothering to take a glance. "Seems like a lot of tourists."
You told him to meet you at the back entrance of the school. Less people watching, less time to get to the MET steps. Besides simple small talk, neither of you said much on the walk over. Martin said his last class was okay, you said the same.
"Really? You can tell?"
"Are you even from New York?" You joke.
"Go Knicks!" He laughs, it sounds fine, but you notice the shakiness in his voice.
"Why didn't you bring lunch?"
"Because I expected to go back to the dorm today," he chuckles.
You dig into your lunch bag, bountiful as a spring harvest. "You're lucky our chef over packs. Is quinoa salad okay?" You hold up the dinnerware in front of him.
"Oh, you don't have to."
"If you don't want it, I'll give it to the pigeons."
"I'll take it then." He nods, taking the glass bowl from you.
This is way more awkward than you expected, not that you had high hopes. Your classmates are in the distance, which bothers you more than it should. The two of you probably look so unnatural. Gossip Girl will surely have something great to say.
"How are you liking Constance so far?"
"Hm? Oh yeah," he puts the fork down in the container. "It's good, I like it."
"Good. Have you chosen any electives yet?" Based on your student representative duties you already know the answer, but anything to not make it look like you hate each other.
"No, not yet."
"What about one of those music classes?"
"No—didn't I say I wasn't interested earlier?"
You shouldn't push further, but you're learning something, something contradicting.
"Your fingertips are calloused, makes me think you play some sort of instrument. Guitar maybe?"
He looks over at you, facial expression almost unreadable, almost. "Just casually."
"Those aren't casual callouses."
He sighs. "Yeah I play."
"Sorry, just curious."
The silence is back, louder than before. Not even the sounds of chatter around you mask it. "Are you any good?"
"I'm decent"
"Nice, my ex was obsessed with Jerry Cantrell—he bought his exact guitar and everything. But honestly he was too posh to pull it off. His dad got him a spot at his production company though, I wonder how he's doing now."
He doesn't say much, glancing off into the quinoa abyss of the bowl in front of him. Did you say too much? Was it the ex thing?
"Martin?
"…"
"Martin!?"
"Oh sorry, wow." He runs a finger through his hair. "Didn't know you were into Alice in Chains."
"I'm not," you start "But I like Nutshell."
"That's a really good pick actually—one of my favs."
"Cool." You close the lid on the remaining fruit in your Tupperware, putting it back in your bag. He's a music nerd, huh?
"Most people say Man in the box."
"Most people are lame."
He laughs. "Yeah that's cool though, you didn't seem like the type."
"I've been to my fair share of release parties," you admit.
"Oh really?" He seems unusually surprised—why wouldn't you attend release parties? "So you got to all sorts of events?"
"Yes, from fashion shows to cocktail parties. I attend them all."
"Doesn't that get tiring? Seems like a lot of socializing."
"I'm a socialite."
He nods, "Right," he says under his breath.
"But like," you start. Should you really be offering up this information? The whole school, the whole of Manhattan probably knows. You've never told them directly though, well besides B.
"It's a part of my networking plan."
"Networking plan?
"Yeah, I'll get into an Ivy, graduate at the top of my class and go to law school. I'll get an apprenticeship at a big firm in the mean time—which is where the connections come into play."
"Oh? That's pretty precise."
"Hey I was born with this privilege, might as well use it."
"Guess so," he mutters, pushing another forkful of quinoa around the bowl. His expression tightens.
"What? Is there something wrong with saying that?"
"It's not that—I'm here for a reason too you know," he starts. "Just don't think you should prioritize your connections like that, everyone seems to do that around here."
"Oh? like you being able to transfer to our elite academy in the middle of the school year was a coincidence?"
"Not what I mean," he sighs, nerves were hit, ouch. "Anyway I think we should head back to school now—thanks for the lunch.
"Sure." You start packing up your things, which wasn't much since you put things away gradually.
You're just about standing when he asks you a question.
"Also, what would you do if it didn't work out?"
"If what doesn't work out," you blink.
"Law school. Networking. The plan."
You laugh. "It will."
"You sure your chef didn't put anything weird in that quinoa—seems like a strong reaction," Iroha says, as she's going through Wonhee's walk-in closet. "Hey Wonhee, could I borrow this skirt?"
"Go ahead," she's laying face up on her bed, decorated with plush throw blankets and designer stuffed animals. "Maybe he hates rich people."
"He is a rich person," you say. "He's not here on a scholarship and his family is clearly powerful enough to get him to transfer."
"True, we never get transfers," Iroha leaves the closet, with the sequin skirt draped along her arm.
Iroha and you are supposed to be helping Wonhee make her questionnaire for the Sweetheart Ball—why couldn't she use the same one from last year? The tickets for the questionnaire go on sale in a couple of days. Everyone at school is buzzing about it already though.
Naturally gossip began to start, nothing remarkable besides the fact B and Sean are all over each other again. Oh and of course your lunch "date" with Martin. You left out the part about the guitar stuff, not that it's a secret. Any half observant person would be able to tell he plays.
"Well, any theories?" Iroha asks.
"I still think he's a foreign prince, just look at him," Wonhee says, tossing one of her plush Moschino bears in the air.
"Something credible?" Iroha asks, again.
"Hey—"
"Whatever he is, he's hiding something," you say.
"Oh really detective? How so?"
"The classic contradiction, overt defensiveness, avoiding the public eye."
"Maybe he's secretly famous or hiding from his deranged family or something," Wonhee says.
"Well you've always been the observant type—maybe he's secretly a celebrity or something," Iroha says.
Everyone laughs.
"Poor thing though," Wonhee starts. "Gossip Girl has been on his ass about this secret nonstop."
"He'll be fine." There's a certain lack of conviction in your words, whatever, it's not your job to worry about him. "Anyway, Wonhee, I fixed up the grammar on these questions. They should be good to go."
"Thanks! Are you planning on going?"
"Of course she's planning on going."
"Actually…"
"No way!"
"You know you wouldn't miss a dance."
"The Sweetheart Ball is basically a scheduled public humiliation every year."
"Yeah, but it's fun!"
"Hey, if you're worried about your match I could rig the results and get you put with Martin. There's no other girl suited for him—well besides me and Iroha."
"Please don't do that," you laugh.
"I honestly don't hate Mr. Cromwell's lectures that much anymore. His anecdotes are funny."
"I agree—everyone was telling me his classes were awful but I kind of enjoy them, is that crazy?" he laughs.
He approached you wanting to sit at the steps again during lunch, something about a nice change of scenery. You didn't mind having him tag along again, Wonhee's stuck on Sweetheart Ball duties and Iroha's absent again. Plus, you're starting to see the cracks in him.
He had his own lunch today but you were prepared to share. Just in case.
"Oh also," he pauses, pursuing his lips. "I was in a rush to leave yesterday."
"You are painfully self aware."
He chuckles nervously, "Was that weird or?"
"You question yourself too much."
"Is that a bad thing?"
You think, "Depends, it's refreshing though. Everyone's all or nothing here."
"Oh, okay then does—"
"Hey bestie! Hey Martin!"
She probably has the most recognizable voice on the planet. Why is she here now? B's been going out for lunch at Michelin restaurants with Sean lately. Sitting on the MET steps was something you usually did together.
"Oh, hi Becka," Martin says.
"Hey," you nod. You are not going to play her games.
She turns towards him, smiling as sweet as honey. "Is it okay if I sit here?"
He looks at you first—did he have to make it so obvious? You look away, that'll push him to make his own decision.
"Sure," he says, moving his tote bag closer to him, which wasn't necessary. She sits in the gap between the two of you and sets down her comically large Chanel 25 on top of your bag. Nice one, B.
"So, Martin—oh my, your tie is crooked, let me fix that for you." Not wasting a second, her hands are already fidgeting with the knot of his tie, which was perfectly fine before. "Anyway, Sean's been giving me a tough time lately—you're getting close with him right? What should I do about it?"
Martin? Close with Sean? She's just saying shit to get on your nerves, you've never heard either of them talking to each other.
"Oh uh...I guess I could talk to him, if that'd help?"
What?
"Really? You're such an angel Martin, no wonder you're the school's Golden Boy!"
Martin shifts awkwardly, "Just trying to help."
Now that she's done messing with his tie she's busy patting down his blazer as if he stepped into the school's archives. "Hey are you going to the Sweetheart Ball? Applications start soon."
"I've seen that…uhm I'm not sure, I'm kind of a homebody," he laughs nervously. "I mean unless you're going."
He turned to you when he said that.
But what's yours is B's.
"Of course I'll be going silly! Everyone is practically praying to be matched up with you! It would be a big disappointment if you didn't show," she pouts as if there's nothing more sad in the world.
"Oh, okay." He nods, glancing at you. "I'll, uh, think about it."
"Martin, also," she smiles, "Come closer! I have something to tell you."
He's already close enough, don't you think? Regardless, while hesitant, he leans in closer. Her lips went to his ears, she left a pink mark on his earlobe.
It is so irritating to not hear what she's saying.
His reaction isn't telling you anything good. His eyebrows furrow—that usually happens when he's confused or nervous.
Or maybe you've found a new emotion to associate that expression with.
Her phone goes off.
"Oh no guys my chauffeur is here already! I wish I could stay longer but I had a nice chat with you guys."
"Bye bestie." She hugs you, something she never does.
"Bye Martin." She gives him a kiss on the cheek—you've seen that one before.
The second the sound of her heels clicking fades down the stairs, ironically, it starts to drizzle. Still, he moves closer to you and lowers her voice.
"Would it count as questioning myself if I said that's weird?"
"Yes."
"But, it was pretty weird."
"What's weird about it? B's my friend who wanted to talk to you, that's it." Nice cover.
"Yeah but, like you didn't…nevermind."
"Are you ready to go back to class? I forgot my umbrella," you say, slinging your slightly crushed bag on your shoulder. Was she carrying bricks in there?
Spotted: our very own Golden Boy caught between Manhattan's favorite former best friends.
Lunch on the Met steps. Lingering looks. Unexpected confidences.
Funny how quickly Manhattan can decide who belongs to whom.
Of course, ownership has never been Queen B's favorite thing to give up.
And Golden Girl? Well, she's spent years pretending she doesn't want what everyone else does.
Funny thing about tug-of-war, M.
Eventually someone lets go.
The question is who.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
It’s the only time of year that everyone decides to show up early, besides for Christmas grams.
The line goes out the front yard, everyone talking to each other in anticipation.
You need to buy a ticket to get a code to access the online questionnaire. The ticket comes with a long ticket for the student body who’s eager to go. It’s open all week though, you wonder why everyone has to go on the first day.
Everyone you know is either in the line or at the desk managing it.
No use in standing in a long line, you’ll just head to class.
…
“Hey, Martin." He’s already at the desk scrolling on his phone.
“Hi,” he smiles. “I’ll move when class starts but the window seat is nice, good sunlight.”
“It’s fine, I’m sure Iroha won’t mind,” you say, pulling out the chair beside him. “You’re here early.”
“Yeah, I meant to study but the foyer is so loud and busy—any idea on what’s going on?”
“Sweetheart Ball, remember?”
“Oh oh right.” He pauses. “….Were you going to that?”
“Do I have a choice?” You laugh.
“Yeah, you do.”
Not the response you expected.
"Easy for you to say," you laugh.
"Why?"
"Because if I didn't show up, half of Manhattan would think I died."
He sighs,“Then why aren’t you in line?”
"Tickets are on sale for the rest of next week, I have time. Plus I have friends on the committee who could give me a code whenever."
"Make good usage of those connections."
"You know it", you say even if you don’t fully know if he’s being sarcastic or not. "I could help you get some tickets too."
"Oh, uh you don't have to."
"Don't be silly—you're going right?"
"Yeah, I'll just get them myself though."
"Okay," you start. "So are we still eating lunch at the MET steps today?"
B's antics would be enough to throw any guy at Constance off guard. Martin on the other hand seems to be different. You're still not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing.
"I actually need to grab my notebook from the dorm so I'll probably just have my lunch there."
"I'll come with you," you say. The expression on his face is unreadable, maybe you shouldn't have said that. "Or…'
"No, you can come along, it's fine."
"Okay I'll meet you at the back entrance when the lunch bell rings—you still have my number right?"
"Yeah," he laughs, the same nervous one from the steps.
…
"Hey."
"Oh hi—I thought we were meeting at the back entrance."
"I was on the way here." You're in the hall of his last class which was absolutely not on the way and your heels were way too high to walk that distance. But, a tiny part of you thought he might've stood you up—no other guy would dare think of that, besides Sean.
Who knows Martin might be like that too.
He nods, reaching in his bag grabbing his YSL sunglasses. He hasn't even looked at you for longer than a couple seconds, let alone make eye contact. It's not up to you to rescind the invite though, if he doesn't want you there he'll have to tell you.
"How's class?" he asks, leading the way towards the back doors.
"Good it was my Fashion elective—we sewed these cute halter tops but I'm going to rhinestone mine tomorrow."
"Oh you can sew?" He pushes the door open, holding it for you. "That's really cool, one of the buttons on my—"
"Why is that the first thing everyone says?" you laugh "So cliché, but yeah I can just grab whatever you need from the dorm and I'll fix it for you before the weekend."
"I can't be too predictable, can I?" he laughs. "Thank you, it's just a pair of jeans."
"No problem." You look around the dorm complex. So many identical buildings. "Which way?"
"Oh it's just around the corner here—all these buildings look the same."
Even though the outside looks just as old as Constance does, the inside has been renovated. There are a couple people walking around the lobby—other weirdos who don't eat lunch publicly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad living in a commune like this, maybe.
"I'm just going to go up to my room to get my computer."
"I thought you said you needed your notebook?"
"…No? I'm pretty sure I said computer," he chuckles nervously. "Maybe you misheard."
"Maybe," you shrug. If he answered a millisecond later it would've been all the more suspicious, but you know what you heard.
"Can I come up with you? I've always wanted to see one of these rooms," you lie.
"It's a mess…really—"
"I'll just stand at the entrance, please."
"Yeah." his voice fades. "Yeah okay."
…
The elevator is coincidentally broken, of course it has to be on the day you wear your So Kates. There aren't many floors though, not many people choose dorms at Constance—too private.
"Just a sec." He rummages in his bag for something, presumably his key. The number on the door reads 182 in golden numbers.
"Lucky room number," you say.
"Huh? Oh yeah, like Blink182, pretty cool." He jiggles the key into the lock until it clicks. He's just about to turn the door open when he looks back at you, sunglasses hiding whatever telling looks in his eyes. "It's really a mess though, I should go in first."
"Okay, just let me know when you're ready." He gives you a closed lip smile as he enters the door, closing it behind him.
You wait ten seconds.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Curiosity wins.
It's dark even with the curtains open—a typical Manhattan day. As your eyes adjust you make out some things in front of you.
Wow it is a mess.
But a creative mess.
There's paper everywhere. Some have scratchy handwriting on them—a lot of them do actually. There are others with chords on them, some doodles. There are pages with titles, others without. There's two guitars: one acoustic, one electric alongside the different records scattered around: Jeff Buckley, The Beatles, Nirvana, Alice in chains.
So much for not being interested in music.
There's a bright pamphlet that stands out among the white paper. A neon eye decorates the front page it reads:
TV Eye music venue, Ridgewood, NY.
That's not too far from here.
There was no way he collected this many records casually, no way he filled an entire room with half-written lyrics casually, and no way he practiced enough to develop those callouses casually.
You reach down, picking up one of the papers in front of you:
pour the sweetness of my love
down the drain of your heart
release me and let me fall apart
Not bad, Martin… What even is his last name?
"Is that our very own Golden Girl?"
You turn around quickly, fully expecting Martin to see you snooping around.
"Sean?"
"What're you doing snooping around here? Miss me?"
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be kissing up to B?"
"I live here part-time along with Keonho—don't tell me your little boyfriend didn't mention he had roommates."
Yes but not you! God does he love to get on your nerves.
"He's not my boyfriend."
Sean raises his brows at you. What is his deal?
"Hey, is everything alright here?" Martin enters the room from whatever hallway he disappeared into. Now that his sunglasses are off you can tell he looks worried. "I thought you were waiting outside…"
"I was but your roommate let me in," you give Sean a look, right.
"Oh, so you've met Sean—"
"Yeah seems like a great guy. Actually I'm going to get going—I was probably bothering you anyway. I'll see you tomorrow."
"It's the weekend tomorrow," Sean chuckles.
"Shut up Sean!" The door slams louder than you expected.
"So, what was that about?"
"Not sure—she was snooping around your papers though."
"What?"
"Relax there's nothing incriminating on the floor."
"Did she read anything?"
"Probably, couldn't tell you what though."
"Sean."
"Nah, she probably just thinks you're a music nerd."
"I am a music nerd."
"Yeah, but that's not exactly what you're worried about, is it?"
"…"
"And I'm not going to tell her or anyone."
"You better not—I only told you because we live together."
"Secret's safe roomie."
Finally, a sunny day in Manhattan—it makes running your errands a little less painful.
Your parents had you attend a Saturday morning brunch so they could finish planning out their charity gala. The son of the foundation's owner was so blatantly hitting on you while you were so uninterested. Thank god that's over.
Since you're in the SoHo area a chunk of your schedule is dedicated to checking out the shops. Pairings for the Sweetheart Ball aren't released until Friday, but when is it ever too early to plan out your outfit.
You'll check out the dresses at Miss Circle, the new collection of Jimmy Choo's—oh and of course pick up your custom Tiffany and Co. necklace.
"Wait—could you stop the car for a second please?" You ask your driver.
He's traded the familiar school uniform for a graphic white tee, some skinny jeans and those sunglasses from before. He could really accessorize more—maybe a studded belt or some high top shoes?
You roll down the window. "Martin?"
He looks around, trying to figure out where the sound came from, you can't help the smile that pulls on your glossed lips. "Over here!"
"Oh, hi." He moves closer to the sleek black car "What's up?"
"Get in—I need a shopping partner."
"What?" His eyebrows raises.
"Please," you drag. "It'll be fun and we're holding up traffic."
It is true, it's always nice to have someone give you feedback on the pieces you find, as well as someone to hold your shopping bags. But really, how did he get so close to Sean? Does he know something you don't?
He purses his lips together. "Okay but I can only do a couple of hours."
"That's fine—we'll even drop you back off at the dorms when you're ready."
"Thanks," He closes the door behind him and puts on his seatbelt. He turns to look at you in your big sunglasses and polka dot mini dress.
"Cute outfit."
"Thanks, you too."
"Really? Isn't this like…too edgy for you?" he chuckles.
"I can appreciate alternative kinds of fashion."
"That's cool of you," he says, looking out the window now.
"What were you doing at Live Nation?"
If he was making any movement at all it's completely halted. It could be nothing but, considering all these music connections with him, you never know.
"I mean it's right around the corner we picked you up at, and you have one of those star stamps they give you at the entrance on your hand."
He looks down at his left hand, putting it back to his side. "I was just visiting a friend."
"Are you a ghost writer or something?"
"Pfft, no. I have friends in industries too, you know."
"Fair." You could push back pretty easily here but he looks increasingly more uneased.
"Miss, the Tiffany and Co. store is right around here—would you like to go there first?"
"Yes, I would thank you."
…
"So all the employees here know your name?"
"Yeah—my family has been clients for decades—we probably have more pieces than their flagship store," you joke.
"I guess that's why you're getting a custom piece."
"You're so smart—I should call you Smartin."
He laughs "Is it for any special occasion?"
"Not in particular but it'll make its debut at the Sweetheart Ball—have you signed up yet?"
"No, but I will on Monday."
"Sounds good." One of the store advisors is approaching you from the distance. "I'll have to go to the conference room to try the necklace on, but you can browse or shop here in the meantime"
"Yeah, no problem," he says. "I'll just take a seat here."
You turn back to face him, "See ya."
And then you notice it.
His sleeve has bunched up a bit, leaving most of his arm exposed. You can't make out exactly what it says, but the cursive letters and black ink around his bicep are telling.
He's got a tattoo.
…
"How'd your appointment go—you seem happy," he smiles.
The big smile on your face is telling. It's the necklace mainly yes, blue diamonds and 24 carat gold, but you also have a surprise.
"It's one of the prettiest pieces I've ever had! I can't wait for you to see it at the Ball."
"What?" He stands from the velvet chair he was sitting on, you almost forgot he was tall. "I can't even get a sneak peak?"
"Nope! It's got to stay a secret."
He should know a thing or two about those.
"Oh and did you want anything?" you say. "I saw these diamond studs that would match your outfit—they're part of Pharell Williams collab. You know him right?"
"Of course I know him," He shakes his head. "It's fine though, I don't really feel like buying much today."
"Did you want anything?' implies I'm buying it for you—and I already did. Here!" You reach into your teal shopping bag, grabbing an equally teal box. You reach it out towards him.
You noticed his pierced ears a while back, although you've never seen an earring in them. Well besides at B's party but you barely saw him that night. He really needs to accessorise more.
"I can't, really it's okay." He doesn't reach out his hand towards the box.
"Martin, just take it—I can't just give it to anyone else. I was thinking of you.
"Oh, wow." He pauses. "You really didn't have to do that," he says looking at the box, then back at you. "Thank you."
"Well I am making you tag along for my errands, it's only fair. You should put them on—but in the car. I have a reservation at this café—it's supposed to be good. The chef is from Le Cordon Bleu in France." You say walking out towards the front doors, he follows you.
You turn around and wave to the staff before you leave, "Thank you ladies!"
…
Even at an odd hour, the café is busy. Culinary chefs seem to be pacing back and forth with trays upon trays of baked goods. Everything looks just as amazing as it smells, warm toffee, fresh fruits, chocolate drizzle.
You're sitting in a nice spot, it's near a window that isn't facing the main road. Both of you are distracted by the movements of the kitchen nearby.
"It's nice in here," you say, taking off your sunglasses.
"Yeah, it really is." He mirrors you, taking off his sunglasses too.
"Do you go to café's much?"
"No, I'm an Uber Eats guy to be honest."
"…"
"It was a joke! You genuinely looked so horrified there for a second, but yeah I enjoy a coffee and croissant as much as the next person."
"Really? Cause I'm more of a latte and pain au chocolate person."
"Same difference."
"It is not!" you laugh, he does too.
His company isn't so bad, it's not bad at all actually. Usually a shopping day couldn't be complete without some gossip with your girls—small talk completely optional.
"What's your tattoo say?"
"You seem to notice every little thing about me."
"You're not exactly coy."
"Guess not," he laughs. "See for yourself."
He rolls up his sleeve but you still have to lean in over the table to get a better look. You mentally apologize to your etiquette teachers. It's pretty small, but big enough to read from where you are. The font is nicer closer up, it's like a sharp calligraphy—you wonder if it would look good on a party invite.
Be here now.
It's honestly cute of him.
"What's the meaning?"
"You're a smart girl, I'm sure you could infer—I think that's our food."
Lucky him, he's right and did he just steal your line?
As you poke around at your crêpes, your mind drifts off into the ink on his arm. When did he get that? Why did he get that? You know plenty of guys your age with tattoos, but usually it's something edgy like a skull or their girlfriends name who they eventually break up with.
Way to confuse a girl Martin…what is his last name???
His phone goes off once, then twice, then three times before he checks it.
He simply rolls his eyes and turns off his phone, taking a sip from his Iced Americano.
"You good? You don't seem like the eye roll type—that's my job."
"Yeah, it's no—"
His phone rings again.
"Sorry I have to get this," He scoots his chair back and stands. "I'll be back in a moment"
"M'kay, take your time."
The caller ID said dad. It's not the first and definitely not the last time you've seen an Upper East Sider hesitant to talk with their parents. Usually you've heard of them in the news or from family connections.
But Martin's dad? No one's even mentioned anything. Not even him.
Interesting.
He comes back a couple minutes later, he looks upset. "Sorry about that," he sighs. "I have to go now but I got the tab, please enjoy."
He's rushing.
"Oh, are you sure? It's barely been an hour."
"Yeah there's been a change of plans—sorry."
"No, don't apologize. I'll see you at school Monday?"
"Yeah, see you then."
Spotted: our Golden Girl handing out diamonds while Golden Boy hands out absolutely nothing except cryptic smiles and rolled-up sleeves.
Some boys wear their hearts on their sleeves.
Others just wear tattoos.
XOXO,
Gossip Girl
You get a text on your way to school:
Martin ???: hey, im feeling sick tdy. could u grab a ticket for me?
Martin ???: to the sweetheart ball
You chuckle—what else would the ticket be for?
You: Yeah np
Martin ???: could u drop it off at the dorm later
You: Will I get sick?
Martin ???: u can leave it in my locker if that works better
You: Its fine, im tired of committee work anyway
Martin ???: lol guess i wont have to keep my distance
You: guess not
You: see ya then :)
…
"Hey girls—I'd like to get two ticket please."
The booth is way less busy than it was when ticket sales opened, the members of the committee are scrolling on their phones, especially Wonhee. Maybe it's because you're going between classes and not at lunch like everyone else does. It's better this way, waiting in lines is awful.
"Two?" Wonhee says, her face brightening. "Did you convince him to go?"
"Who's him?" Moka asks.
"Obviously Martin—the Golden Boy," Minju replies.
"Oh!" Moka says. "So are you dating him?"
"No—girls, it's nothing like that I'm just doing a favour for a friend," you insist.
"So now your friends? Well friends to lovers always had a better ring to it than strangers to lovers."
"Wonhee, just get me the tickets!"
"Okay okay—that'll be $200."
"Jees, who's performing—Rihanna?"
Minju laughs. "It's a fundraiser! Plus $100 is pretty cheap for finding the love of your life."
"But who knows?" Wonhee says. "Maybe we'll discover the next big thing."
"You girls are my favourite con artists," you say, opening up your pink embossed Dior wallet.
"Here are your tickets," Moka says, handing them over to you.
"Thanks."
"Hey, let me know if you want to take me up on my offer!" Wonhee says.
You scoff, "Yeah, I'll let you know."
…
You: Hey martin im going to be a little late
Martin ???: thats fine
Martin ???: how late
You: Very late actually i had step in for one of the cheerleaders, everyone seems to be sick lol
Martin ???: visiting hours end at 5 tho, u can js leave it in my locker
You: Will you still be up at 9?
Martin ???: yeah but the housemaster wont let you in
You: you have a window right?
…
Thank god you have running shoes on this time.
There's a ladder on the edge of the back side of the building, it leads up to one of the balconies. It's rusted and old which is probably why it hasn't been removed, that and the fact that barely anyone uses the dorms. Martin has a corner room, you're hoping this ladder is on the right corner. It should be, but you never know.
It's more stable than you thought, but way dirtier. You don't even bother looking down at your hands when you land on the balcony, the feeling of mud is too gross. Here goes nothing—
You knock on the window a couple of times.
No answer.
Is it the wrong room? It can't be! You can hear some casual guitar strumming in the distance, but that's not an exclusive hobby to Martin is it? Reaching into your purse to grab your phone is out of question.
You keep knocking.
"Coming, coming," You hear a familiar voice getting closer.
Finally and thankfully.
He approaches the window, he's wearing a white tank, small tattoo on full display. His nose is as equally red as his eyes. "Wow, didn't think you'd actually do it—guess your nanny is also trained in rock climbing."
"Open the window!"
"Okay, okay," he smiles, twisting the handle open and pushing the window out.
"Where's your bathroom? I need to wash my hands," you say. The mud is starting to dry and every time you move your hands, it cracks.
"Yeah, just leave your shoes at the door—wow never seen you wear shoes before," he chuckles.
"Lots of firsts today—where's the bathroom?"
"Just down the hall and to the right."
"Thanks."
…
"Here are the tickets," you say, walking back into the room you entered in—his bedroom. It's kind of like how you imagined: posters of bands from the 90s, clothes scattered around, another guitar, more song lyric pages.
"The tickets? I only needed one."
"Yeah I got one for myself too while I was at it." You move some music sheets as you take a seat on his bed. "Thought you were sick? Shouldn't you be in bed and not playing guitar in the living room."
"I am sick," he starts. "i was just working on some things."
"Cool." You look at the throw blanket on the bed, it looks familiar. "Hey where'd you get this blanket from?"
"Oh, that I've had that since I was like two—no idea."
"Two?"
"Yeah, I thought it looked nice." He freezes, like he just said something wrong and you've released it.
It looks like one of those blankets from Usher's notoriously exclusive release parties in the 2010s. Did he know someone personally or did they sell those blankets for 20k on eBay.
"Yeah, guess I should get going soon."
"Lights out isn't for another hour."
"Okay, so what are we going to do for an hour?"
"Talk," He shrugs. "Or we could crochet each other matching sweaters," he jokes.
"Oh, so that's where the callouses came from! Crochet not guitar, silly me," you laugh
You gesture for him to sit on the bed beside you, he grabs a couple tissues before sitting down—should you be this close to him?
"Do you want to play a game?"
"…Yeah," he hesitates.
"What? It's not like some sort of hazing ritual—unless that's what you think two truths and a lie is."
"I can handle that," he chuckles.
"Okay."
"Okay."
"…"
"Well ladies first."
"Alright," you start. "I hate caviar, I own a custom Basquiat piece, and Anne Hathaway is my Godmother."
He laughs. "Hm, you're rich so you have to love caviar. If the Basquiat thing is true I'd be so jealous but I think it's the Anne Hathaway one."
You smile. "Is that your final answer?"
He nods.
"Wrong!"
"Really? Wait, was it the caviar."
"It's disgusting!"
"Wow I would've never expected that from you."
"That's the point of the game! Your turn."
"Okay, uh I moved here from LA, I have a younger sister and there's something I want to ask you."
"You made it so easy," you laugh, nudging his shoulder. "But I'll give you mercy since you got mine wrong."
"Hey, it's not that easy."
"You moved here from LA."
"Wrong! I have an older sister."
"See that's sneaky."
"Okay so are we playing another rou—"
"What did you want to ask me?"
He opens his mouth then closes it, probably half regretting what he just said.
"It's nothing."
"Martin."
"It's stupid."
"You're making it sound way more dramatic than it probably is."
"Maybe," he sighs. "Well you probably know I kind of like music."
You raise a brow. "Kind of might be an understatement."
"Yeah," he chuckles, nervously. "But uh I was wondering…" he looks down at his hand, his black nail polish is even more chipped at this point.
"Would you want to come see me play?"
You don't answer right away, not because there's much to think about, but because you don't know why he's asking you. Isn't that something deeply personal?
"Uh, just forget I said anything, sorry that was—"
"Martin.' You look at him. "You didn't even let me answer."
"Yeah," he murmurs.
"Would you like to hear my answer?"
"Yes, but no, but I should."
You giggle. "Yes I'll come watch you perform."
"Really?"
"Yeah but be wary. My expectations are high. I'm expecting Jeff Buckley at Sin-é level quality."
"Oh please lower those expectations."
"I'm good," you smile. "I should get going though—my chauffeur might freak. Text me the details?"
"Yeah of course," he starts. "Oh and you can probably go out the front door. Pretty sure the house master is on nap duty right now," he smiles.
"Thank you Martin, good night."
"Good night."
There's a dumb smile plastered on your face that hasn't gone away since the night prior.
"So somebody's in a good mood—did he kiss you last night?" Wonhee asks eagerly. "Here I got you a latté."
"Thanks and no, nothing happened."
"Something definitely happened. The question is what…" she smiles.
"The answer to that question is nothing."
She shrugs her shoulders. "…Okay. So what are you wearing to the Sweetheart Ball?"
"Oh my goodness! I got the cutest custom necklace from Tiffany's. I can't wait to show you at the dance."
"Really? You don't have a picture or anything?"
"Of course not."
"Well you've always loved to keep your outfits a secret until the last minute."
"You know me so well."
From the corner of your eye, you see him, unusually early. Regardless, it's a pleasant surprise.
"Hey Wonhee, can we talk later?"
"Go to your boy toy or friend or whatever you call him"
"He's not any of that! " You turn to walk away. "Oh and thanks again for the coffee."
…
"Hey, you look nice today."
"Really? I'm just getting over the cold I had."
"You're recovering well."
"Thanks—you look great as always."
"As always," you chuckle. "Did you want to maybe walk to the gardens with me—I have to hand in this report thingy."
"Yeah sure, no problem. It's like a three minute walk right?"
"According to the school's website it is."
"Oh and Martin." You lower your voice, everyone seems to be minding their own business but it's still a secret to him, mostly anyway. "About your gig."
"Yeah? What about it?" His smile drops a little.
"It's nothing bad I promise—I'll still be attending everything." you start. "But how many people usually come?"
"Enough people."
"Do you want more people to come?"
"Not really."
"What if I invited a few people?"
"No," he shakes his head. "Definitely don't do that."
"I mean like industry people—producers, executives, songwriters—"
"Please don't."
"Why? It'd be good for you. You're serious about this, right?"
"Yeah, I am," he pauses. "But not everyone wants to use their connections in the industry."
"But that's what the industry is…"
"Okay and I get that but I'm not trying to do that—I want to be recognized for my talent not because of who I know."
"Yes, Martin." You stand off to the side, not wanting to block the path you're no longer walking on. "You can do that but sometimes it takes a little more than talent— I'm trying to help you out."
"Why do you keep insisting?"
"Why are you acting like using connections is a crime?"
"Because sometimes it feels like nobody around here knows how to exist without them."
"And sometimes it feels like you're judging people for surviving the world they were born into."
"You know that's not what I'm saying."
He sighs, turning around towards the direction you just came from "I'll see you in class."
You want to call out to him, but that is something you've never done and you won't be starting now. And embarrassingly so, you expected him to come back to you. His sentence would start off with wait and then an apology would follow—you didn't do anything wrong.
He'll come to you, eventually.
Wednesday: no convo, no text, but he looked at you once during class.
Thursday: no convo, no text, no glance.
Friday: no show, no text
It feels a little juvenile to mentally tally where you stand with Martin. He still hasn't approached you but there's still the rest of Friday. Someone better start talking, the show is tonight.
He sits far from you in class and avoids you like the plague in the halls. He's probably back to camping out in his dorm room perfecting chords or lyrics or whatever it is that he does.
"Are you excited for those Sweetheart Ball pairings tonight?" Iroha says. When you don't answer she resorts to waving a hand in front of your face. "Hello, welcome to earth. I know you miss Martin but—"
"I don't miss him."
"Convincing," she starts. "Anyway, whatever argument you've gotten into will blow over."
"Its been three days—usually they come crawling back by then."
"Weren't you interested in him because he's like…not like the other guys."
"So?"
"So, you can't treat him like every other sleaze on the Upper East side."
"That doesn't help me," you sigh.
"Babe I love you, you know that but can I be honest for a second?"
"Yeah?"
"If you want to keep this boy you're going to have to swallow your pride."
"What?"
She puts her hands up in defense, "You said I could be honest."
It's one of those unspoken things that nobody ever says, nobody here at least. But at this point, you're willing to try anything. Maybe you should swallow your pride—partially.
"How do I even do that?"
"Do the thing you said you were going to do."
"Huh?"
"He invited you somewhere—which you still won't tell me."
TV Eye, 8pm, indoor hall.
You shrug. "He probably doesn't want me there anymore."
"He wouldn't have invited you somewhere so private to him if he didn't want you there. He probably still wants you to show up."
"He'll be mad at me."
"So many excuses girl," She looks at you more intensely. "He seems like a reasonable guy, plus if there's a crowd all you have to do is blend in!"
"So I can't wear my Fendi sequin mini dress?"
She laughs. "I'm afraid not."
What do you even wear to an indie bar/music venue/patio/dance club/gallery/eatery?
It can't be too bright, too sparkly, too hot, or too cold. Mission impossible.
A MiuMiu dress with a Burberry clutch? People will think you're elitist. A mini skirt and sweater? Pervs love those. A halter top and skinny jeans? Martin wears skinny jeans, it could work.
…
The venue is in an unfamiliar area of town. You feel even more out of place with everyone walking along the street in similar grungy clothes and big groups. Maybe you should have gone to that penthouse party tonight.
No, you told you'd be there, be here.
Be here now.
Everyone seems to be socializing indoors and outdoors. Who knew the night life outside of Manhattan was so busy. It's obvious to everyone else too, they don't say anything but their looks are telling. Maybe the knee high studded boots were too much. Maybe the attention isn't so bad.
There's about ten minutes before the show starts, might as well get a drink like everyone else already has. You take an open seat at the bar, which is running at full manpower. Thank god your jeans are full length, the seat feels a little sticky. Gross.
"What could I get for you ma'am?" The bartender asks, drying a cocktail shaker.
"Just a virgin Piña Colada please."
"Virgin? You've gone soft."
You turn to your right side, that voice seems to haunt you everywhere you go. You roll your eyes.
"Sean, what are you doing here?"
"I'm supporting my friend—what're you doing here? Didn't you guys get in a fight?" His tone is taunting, insincere, all the negative adjectives. Also how the hell did he know about the argument? He really is like a snake.
"It's none of your fucking busi—"
"Here's your drink ma'am." The bartender holds out a glass in front of you, topped with a red mini umbrella.
"Oh wow that was quick—thank you."
"I'm loving your duality," Sean says.
"Sean, just don't play any stupid games and stay away from me for the rest of the night." You hop off the bar stool, taking your drink with you.
"You know that's not possible—and hey don't forget to return that glass."
…
It's busier than you expected down at the main venue hall. Everyone from the patio, bar, and gallery have gathered here. It's packed. You find a space off to the side. It's a decent enough view and away from the thick of the crowd. There really isn't enough space for an extra music producer or two.
What you're assuming is the announcer adjusts the microphone stand on stage, taping it a couple times as a test.
"Okay TV Eye New York, are we having a great night or what?" The crowd follows their cue, it's loud, almost as loud as a night club. Which you suppose this place could be considered.
"You've seen him a few times before, and we're glad you're here for more. TV Eye, please give a warm welcome to Martin Edwards!"
Edwards, huh? That's his last name?
Martin Edwards.
Edwards? That last name is familiar, too familiar.
Where have you heard that before?
Headlines.
Record labels.
It's so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts.
Edwards. You've heard it before, but where?
You've heard it whispered at charity galas and after parties.
You've seen it printed on album credits.
Edwards.
Oh.
Oh no.
No way.
He's Jeremy Edwards' son.
The crowd erupts.
He comes out on stage, sleeveless black tank, tattoo exposed, guitar strung along his shoulder.
And for the first time since you've met him.
Martin Edwards doesn't look nervous, at all.
hello to my dearest tumblr readers, daisy here.
I am beyond irratated rn UGH!
the story is finished but i hit tumblrs stupid fucking block (paragraph) limit so i had to unfortunately seperate the story. ill be posting the second part tmrw but ive release the full story on my AO3 if youd like to finish it now.
synopsis: martin does nothing but pass notes in class to cure his boredom, soon one day he believes he has found his longtime pen pal. or the one where martin is down bad…
genre: fake texts, one shot au, non!idols, student au, fluff
sypnosis you and Juhoon broke up when you went to study abroad. No one knew you and him were a thing, not even when he became Cortis. It was a past you wanted to forget but to your dismay, your friend is a coer, and a very lucky one.. infact
notes imgoinginsanebutitsokayihavecortis
WRITTEN PARTS BELOW
contents | next page | previous page
── divider by @/cursed-carmine
You were gasping for air by the time you reached the airport.
All because pookie2 want to go the Cortis pop up last minute.
What was done was done, and in the end, you three rush towards your gate, heavy suitcases rolling across shiny floors, , the flight announcements echoing overhead.
"Look...we made it! That's what matters right?" pookie2 said
"WE ALMOST. KEYWORD. ALMOST DIDN'T MADE IT." pookie1 joins in, totally not impressed by pookie2 actions
You shook your head, smiling as you finally reached the boarding gate. Outside the huge glass windows, planes waited beneath the sky. You finally let out a sigh of relieve, before sitting down to relax with your pookies.
"brb, toilet" pookie1 suddenly said, getting up to go to the restroom
"same" pookie2 butts in, before following pookie1
Sigh, atleast you made it. You relaxed at your seat, scrolling through reels until suddenly, notifications flooded your phone. You opened the messages, confused on what's going on.
martin x bsf!reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖Martin has been watching you get treat like shit by your boyfriend for months, just waiting for a chance to treat you better. But, what happens when he finally gets the chance?. ݁‧₊˚⋆ִֶָ
➪ summary : you don't understand why you can't allow yourself to be loved and frankly, martin is tired of it.
➪ other notes : this is for all of my avoidants out there ( my brother just another me ). i know i've written a lot of martin lately but so many prompts fit him so well. i also have a very sad ot5 smau coming back just before may ends.
cw - cursing, martin almost fumbles, martin mentions death like 3 times, martin gets threatened, martin gets turned on???, only a tad suggestive in his tho, seonghyeon execution joke, crack
part one
—-
a/n - it’s here! this is the by far the highest demand 😭 hope it lives up to its anticipation !!
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
baratheonpilled
stormborns
izzy806
prguitarman
gummygunk
ellievsbear
