Boy With Hope: Lavendar - Chapter One
Summary: As you closed your eyes for the last time, the smell of lavender wafted through your nose and a boy with purple wings appeared from above you.
Genre: Angst, Romance, Fantasy
Pairings: Angel Hoseok x Reader
Warnings: Language, Suicide Attempt, Depression, Alcoholism
A/N: This is going to be part of a series called “Boy’s With Series.” Hoseok’s story is going to be the first part out of seven. I don’t know what order I’ll do the other boys in, but I already have their themes and such chosen out. So enjoy the prologue!
You buried your face into your pillow, the roaring headache that crashed through your skull roused your sleepy conscious. A faint gust of air blew through your room, tickling your skin and making you shift to find warmth deeper under the covers. From outside you could hear the rush and beeps of cars as they raced by on the city streets and the voices of pedestrians signaled that the world was coming back to life.
You groaned, rolling over on your side. The throbbing in your head was like a symphony of anguish that blared in your brain as you cracked a sleep-caked lid open.
Neon green numbers flashed through bleary eyes: 7:00am.
A little disoriented, it took you a moment to come to.
You were drinking last night. Something had definitely triggered you… you came home… dropped your keys… tripped over some shit… drank some more… and then….
Then, all at once, like a movie reel in your head, you recalled the events in which lead up to now.
You could practically see the angry face of your boss as he fired you, and you couldn’t help the churning ache of embarrassment that welled in your gut.
“Unacceptable, Y/N!” He had vociferated. “You’re tardy everyday, you look like a mess and you reek of booze! Collect your things immediately, I don’t want to see you in here ever again!”
It was something you should be used to by now, getting fired and all–but alas you didn’t do well with shame. You didn’t do well with any sort of negative emotion, so you had fixed it with the only solution you knew how.
Booze, booze and more booze.
You could smell the murk of the musty bar you had holed into, the horrified expressions of other bar-goers watching you as you downed your fifth drink of the night. You could remember how you stumbled home like a hot mess of sweat and the way your room reeked of garbage and alcohol.
It doesn’t smell so bad now.
Adjusting your position, you gave a grunt of discomfort. There was something poking at your side, so you reached under the covers and searched until your hands clasped around something smooth and cylindrical. You retracted your arm and pulled out the plastic orange pill container, staring at it blankly.
What was that doing there?
You rotated it in your hands, the morning sun casting an apricot shadow across your face. Klonopin. When did you….? Weird. You didn’t remember picking up your prescription from the drug store. The drug store…
It was all coming back now. The pills, the wine, the way your heart slowed and your body went limp. The glowing purple lights. What the fuck were those? And a boy, there was a boy floating through the ceiling. You pinched the bridge of your nose.
So you finally tried to do it, and it looks like you failed. An unfamiliar sensation crawled beneath your skin, causing you to shudder. So much guilt… and so much shame. You didn’t know whether you wanted to cry or scream as you gazed nonchalantly at the little pill bottle, swiping your fingers over the plastic.
You really fail at everything.
It was a little sobering, in fact. And you used the word sobering, because you hadn’t expected to wake up the next day. Hadn’t expected to deal with the aftermath or the complicated emotions attached to it. You hadn’t been prepared for it.
Sighing deeply, you ran your fingers through your hair, feeling a bit of chunks and stickiness towards the ends. You eyed the area near your pillow, but it was clean. Again, weird. There was no vomit on your sheets. You sat up, eyes grazed over the white cotton fabric but finding no sign of regurgitated food.
Then you noticed your room. It was completely clean.
All the garbage, clothes and bottles were gone, and there was a certain sparkliness to your apartment that you hadn’t seen in a long time. If it weren’t for the little cat statue on your nightstand that your mom had given you for your birthday, you would have sworn you woke up in someone else’s house.
You gave a snort. Yeah, right, a burglar that breaks into apartments and cleans them.
Then, maybe you had cleaned up during your high. You’d done weirder things under the influence–many that didn’t involve clothes–so you couldn’t completely write that off as a possibility, right?
A jolt to your muscles had you groan again. A kind of nauseating pain coursed through your body and the raging headache echoed in your ears. Nope. No way. There was no way your body could have even moved in the state that it was in.
So cross that off the list.
Ok so, a burglar broke into your apartment, stole all your garbage and stinking clothes, then cleaned up the place and left? That sounded even more ridiculous. You didn’t have many valuables, and you couldn’t imagine that anyone would touch your clothing by how bad they smelled. An ordinary robber would have taken one look at your place and slammed the door.
You rubbed your temples, your mind too foggy to think anymore coherent thoughts. Ugh. Whatever. I feel like shit, I can’t think like this.
The sudden need to be clean overtook you, so you swung your legs over the side of your bed and stood, deciding on a shower and maybe some food to help wash out the toxins that were swirling around in your stomach. If you even had any edible food left in your kitchen. Your stomach gurgled in anticipation.
Yeah, some food and a shower. After that, you could figure this shit out.
Shoulders slumped, you padded over to your bathroom and flicked on the lights, wincing at the immediate image of yourself reflected in the mirror above your sink.
You were unnaturally pale, almost green, and your long, tangled hair was sticking up in all directions. There were splotches of red stained into your baggy white t-shirt, which made it look like you had murdered someone with a knife. But what was most prominent were the swollen black bags sunken deeply beneath your eyelids.
Wow, suicide does wonders for the complexion. You joked darkly to yourself, pinching your cheeks a little too hard before opening your bathroom cabinet to find a towel.
When you couldn’t find one, you cursed quietly and slammed the lean, rectangular door shut. Your stomach growled again and the sickness followed. Fuck the shower, let’s go eat something. You were almost out of shampoo anyway.
Exiting the bathroom, you mused to yourself about the options of what you could eat. What you were really craving was something spicy, maybe some instant noodles with sriracha–though, you knew for today that would be nothing more than a culinary fantasy.
Spending most of your money on booze and take-out, you didn’t go to the grocery store often. Hell, you barely scraped enough dough to pay the bills, and now you didn’t have a job to support either expenses. You’d be lucky if there was even a piece of rotting fruit left in your fridge.
By now, your stomach was screaming at you for some type of sustenance, so with low expectations, you dragged your feet towards your kitchen. Rotten fruit it is.
As you approached, you noticed the light was on in the kitchen. A yellow glow illuminated from beneath the doorframe, mixing with the sunshine that poured in from outside. Huh. That’s strange. You definitely remembered the pitch black of your room when you stumbled in last night.
The faint scent of bacon wafted through your nose and your tummy gave an approving growl. The nausea, on the other hand, poked at your gut and graciously reminded you of the severe pain you were in. The contrasted feelings almost made you forget that there shouldn’t be any smells coming from your kitchen seeing as you had been in bed, not in your kitchen, and most certainly not cooking.
The smell was followed by a clattering of pans, and a hushed “dammit!” could be heard from inside.
And they were cooking in your kitchen.
Slowly, as to not make a sound, you inched towards your bedside table and picked up your desk lamp. How that could possibly defend you from an intruder, who knows, but it was all you had ready and available. Honestly, you had no idea in hell what you were doing–no one’s ever broken into your apartment before–but you were hoping for the best. So you raised the lamp like a baseball bat and tip-toed towards the door of your kitchen. It was open a smidge, and the sound of cheerful humming seeped out through the crack.
A burglar that cleans rooms, makes breakfast and has a love for Mariah Carey. Huh.
You peaked around the door, gripping your desk lamp until your knuckles whitened and took a deep breath, preparing yourself to confront a burly, black-clad thug. Maybe with some tattoos and a ski-mask. Or, worst case scenario, a gun. The thought heightened your pulse.
Hesitantly, you took a small step inside.
There was only so much that could have prepared you for what you actually saw in your kitchen.
A strikingly gorgeous, tall looking man with bright orange hair was dancing around the room, flipping some fried eggs in one of your blue, non-stick frying pans. Around his waist, your frilly pink apron was tied in a neat little bow, which contrasted humorously with his toned muscles and manly build. He looked lost in his own little world, lashes cast downward as his lips made music and, for a moment, you were completely enchanted.
He’s a friggen intruder! Bash his head in while you have the chance! You internally screamed, though you couldn’t find it in yourself to move.
Without looking at you, the orange-haired, completely white-clad burglar cracked a smile. “Good, you’re awake!”
Startled, you stepped back and raised the lamp in defense, your pulse rising to an infinite level.
He put down the pan and turned off the stove gas, rummaging through your cupboard for a plate. He was acting as if he lived here, knowing where all your things were, and for a second you wondered if he was a family friend, maybe someone your parents sent to make sure you weren’t dead. Though, no-one in your family had a key to your apartment and you would most certainly remember knowing someone with such a beautiful and distinct face.
The mysterious, humming man plated the eggs and forked some bacon on top, already cooked and perfectly greasy. He turned towards you, grinning a smile that made you blink. He’s got the sunniest smile you had ever seen. The combination of his smile, his sparkling eyes and the elegant lines of his face disoriented you.
And moving right towards you.
Backing up, you swiped your eyes over his entirety. You wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against this guy. He may not be burly or tattooed, but he was about two times your weight, and had at least a foot on you in height. Oh yeah and he wasn’t hung-over as fuck. All he would have to do was shove you with one hand and you would finally meet your maker.
Alarmed, you raised the lamp as high as you could and pointed it at him threateningly. You did your best to look big and scary, but you knew you probably looked like nothing more than a scared little animal cowering from its prey.
“Hey, it’s ok.” He cooed at you. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?” You hissed. Your arms were shaking and your voice squeaked a few octaves too high. This was going great.
He looked at you, then at the lamp clasped in your hands, then back at you. Then he smiled again, eyes squinting sweetly.
“My name’s Hoseok. You must be hungry!” He wiggled the plate of food. “Here, I made breakfast.” His voice was so cheerful that it took you aback. Obviously, he was not at all threatened by you or your weapon of choice. You lowered the lamp slightly and sniffed. It smelled fucking great.
You eyed the plate of food, your stomach betraying you by letting out a monsterous growl. Then the nausea followed and you groaned.
His face fell. “Hmm, I thought I took away most of the pain, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”
The mysterious intruder turned to place the plate of food on your kitchen table, then whirled back around and began a slow walk towards you, hands outstretched.
“Stay back!” You warned, raising the lamp again and shaking it in his face.
The orange-haired man lowered his hands in defense. “Just let me fix it.” He said, continuing his approach.
You looked at the lamp and then back at him, giving him a once over and weighing your options. You could try and land a hit, hoping to create enough time to make a break for it, but also risking angering him, or you could cut your losses now and run.
Squealing in fear, you dashed back into your bedroom, ready to burst out the front door of your apartment and run like a mad-woman until you found some help. But another shot of nausea mixed with fatigue had you hurdling belly first onto the floor. Your knee slammed hard against the wooden surface and sent the lamp skidding out of your hands.
“Fuck!” You cried, curling in on yourself. Your kneecap burned with a searing, fiery pain.
“Are you ok?” His voice came from above you, and when you looked up, you were met by his chocolate brown eyes staring down at you with worry. His beautifully sculpted legs were like skyscrapers, ascending from the ground right in front of your face, and you wondered how fast he could run if you tried to escape now.
“Fuck no! Fuck you! Fuck!” You yelped, forcing yourself up and scrambling gracelessly into the safety of your bed covers. Your knee screamed at you, throbbing angrily at the unwelcomed movement, and suddenly you found yourself undoubtedly screwed. Even if you tried now, you definitely couldn’t outrun this attractive, long-limbed man.
"Don’t come any closer!” You cried, the rush of adrenaline making you dizzy. Call the police! Gotta call the police! Or someone, someone that might care that I’m in trouble.
You found it a little funny. Just hours ago, all you had wanted to do was die, swallowed a whole flipping pill bottle to do it. But now that the perfect execution of death had appeared right before you, all you had been trying to do since was find some way to live through it. Irony is a bitch.
He inched towards you carefully with his hands raised. “Look, I know this must seem…” He paused, fishing for the right word, “…peculiar. But I promise I mean you no harm.”
“Tell that to the police!” You screeched, combing your bed for your phone but came up empty.
Your eyes widened. Shit. It was in your pants pocket, which you had flung somewhere across your room last night. Looking around frantically, you remembered your clothes had mysteriously disappeared. “Where are my clothes? What did you do with them?”
He lowered his hands, biceps flexing deliciously. “Ah! No, don’t worry, they’re right over there!” He pointed to the corner of your room where your pink, plastic laundry basket was filled to the brim with neatly folded clothes. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask first, but seeing as you were sleeping for the past two days, I took the liberty of washing them. They were quite smelly. You really should–”
“Shut up!” You exclaimed, cutting him off completely. I’m sorry, what did he say?? The clothing aside, your eyes almost popped out of your head. "Two days!? Wait. You’ve been in my room for two days?” You felt sick. Your head began to spin and your stomach clenched as ripples of pain ripped through your muscles. You fell into yourself, clutching your scalp so hard it could have bled, and let out a long, guttural “fuuuuucckkkkkk.”
"Hey, let me help you! I can take the pain away!” He stepped forward, his hands stretched out again towards you, his fingers almost close enough to brush against the skin of your wrist.
You recoiled away from him. “And how could you possibly do that?”
He sighed, looking exhausted. “Just trust me.”
Biting back a laugh, you snapped at him. “Trust you? A strange man who broke into my apartment, touched my stuff without permission and claims he can just magically take away my pain? No way, you’re a total psycho!”
Another wave of nausea swept through you and you grabbed your stomach, trying to keep your insides from exploding out onto the mattress. Then, faster than your mind could comprehend, he was suddenly right beside you, knelt with one knee at your bedside, his eyes pleading.
“I can tell it really hurts. Please, let me help you.” From this distance you can see how deep chocolate his eyes are, like perfectly round cocoa beans swimming with genuine concern. Time seemed to slow, and you found yourself enchanted by him again.
It should be a crime for anyone to look this good.
Are you kidding me!? It’s a crime for him to be here in the first place!
All the signs were pointing to 'crazy guy,’ but on top of your immense trepidation, your body was rejecting you and your will to fight back began to flutter away. You curled yourself up so tight that not even a crowbar could ply you apart.
Fine, he could kill you. You were ready for it.
You shut your eyes tight as he reached for your fetal form. This was it, this was how you were going to die; by the hands of a majestic intruder who makes eggs and bacon and says he has magic powers. What a way to go, eh? You tried to imagine your family’s faces. Would they even miss that you were gone? Would they cry for you? Would anyone care that you were dead? You waited. And waited.
You peaked an eye open, but he was just sitting there, a single hand in front of your face, so close that you could see the lines that ran across the skin of his palm. He looked at you with that oddly cheerful expression, the ends of his orange bangs kissing the tips of his long, voluminous lashes. “I’m going to touch you now."
He didn’t give you a chance to respond as he abruptly placed his hand around your forehead. An extraordinary tingling sensation raced through you, a kind of warm feeling like those first few minutes of soaking in a scalding hot bath. You felt the pain lift from your aching bones, like his hand was soaking up the anguish and leaving you with nothing but bliss and relaxation.
Then he removed his soft grip, a satisfied smile gracing his pretty pink lips.
"How’s that?” He asked, sitting back.
You blinked, trying to register what just happened. The pain was gone, and all you could feel was a sense of clarity and a warmth that pooled comfortably in your once flippant stomach.
As it all began to sink in, you freaked. Like totally, completely, flipping freaked out. “What the fuck? Oh my god, what was that? WHAT WAS THAT?” You screeched, slapping his hand away and scooching back into the corner of your bed.
He looked a little hurt. “It’s a gift I have.” He explained matter-of-factly. “I’m an angel.”
Hello crazytown. Toot toot, the psycho train just arrived at the station, number of passengers: one incredibly hot, orange-haired mad-man.
You laughed besides yourself. “An angel? You gotta be shitting me! You expect me to believe that? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Hoseok, I told you.” He answered.
You brought your knees closer, looking him square in the eyes. “Ok, Hoseok the angel. What psychward did you escape from?” Oh let me guess. “Heaven?”
Hoseok chuckled at that. “Not exactly.”
The deep-cut white V-neck he was wearing dipped dangerously low around his neck, exposing a well defined collar-bone and a hint at a sculpted chest. His body was littered with silver jewelry that jingled with every slight movement he made; a detailed silver cross that dangled from around his neck, and another, simpler, one from his left ear. Man this guy is full of it.
“What are you doing here?” You repeat.
Hoseok gave a faint sigh. “Isn’t it obvious already?” He touched the cross around his neck and thumbed it with belletic fingers. “I’m here to help you.”
“Yeah, you said that already. Help me with what?” You snapped.
All you had wanted to do was die peacefully.
And now you’re stuck with this shit.
Where the fuck is this guys social worker?
You were suddenly feeling pretty grumpy, but somehow no longer threatened.
Leaning forward, Hoseok touched your hand softly, the little chained bracelets around his wrist glinting against the light. “You’ve lost all hope in your life, and I’m here to help you find that hope again.” Well that the hell do you say to that?
What felt like hours passed as you kept your eyes locked to his, searching for any sign of insanity or deception, but found none. The smoothness of his ivory skin and his complacent expression revealed no ill intentions and for the first time you felt yourself give in to him a little. He was so earnest, you actually trusted he wasn’t here to hurt you, and the warmth of his skin on yours elated a sort of calm you hadn’t felt in a… well god knows when.
Even so, you retracted your hand from his hold.
“I don’t need help.” You mutter, almost to yourself. “I’m doing just fine, thank you.”
Hoseok frowned. His elegant features looked wrong with such an expression. “It certainly didn’t look like it Y/N.”
You gasped, your stranger-danger reflexes kicking into high gear. It was like you had completely forgot you were talking to a total nut-case. “How do you know my name?"
"Are we going to do this all day?” He mumbled, a slight pout replacing his previous grimace. “I told you, I’m an angel. Your angel to be exact.”
“And what? Does being an angel give you super psychic powers?” You spat back.
He considered this for a moment, but shook his head, unfazed by your tone of voice. “No. I was instructed to find and aid a Y/N L/N. That’s you.”
What the hell does that even mean? 'Instructed to find you?’ And what? Break into your home, spew some crazy nonsense and scare the living daylights out of you? You sneered, pivoting in your seat to create some distance. “And who instructed you to do that? God?”
Hoseok looked thoughtful, wrinkling his nose and gazing up at the ceiling. “No… not exactly."
Seriously, who the fuck is this guy?
You took a moment, clenching your eyes shut and rubbing your head which had begun to ache again. "Ok, so, let’s say—for a second–that I believe you, which I don’t, but for your sake let’s say I do. Why in the hell would anyone send an angel to help me?”
Hoseok launched forward, his face inches from your own and his good looks nearly blinding you. The silver cross around his neck beat against his chest as he exhaled, examining your face closely. His features were scrunched in a look of curiosity and rejection. “So you don’t believe me?”
You pulled away from him, using your tiny hands to shove his face a safe distance from your own. “No! Of course not! Do you understand how crazy you sound?”
With a thrust of his wrist, he shot himself into a standing position, towering over you like a giant. “Ok. Hold on.”
“Hold on for what?” You asked, eyebrow raised.
You didn’t know what to expect, maybe some arm flapping, or some more weird dancing–you might not have complained if he took off his shirt. What you didn’t expect were for two huge, lavender wings to sprout from his back, unfolding to occupy nearly half of your tiny apartment bedroom. They glimmered iridescently, almost see-through. Little orbs of shining light poured from his chest as he turned in a circle so you could get a good look at him.
“Holy shit.” Were the only words you could manage as you stared, transfixed.
The strange dream you had suddenly crashed into your brain as you remembered the glowing purple lights that poured into your room, and the floating boy that had descended from your ceiling.
‘Don’t give up yet!’ He had called out to you.
There’s a cool sensation against your skin as you recall the vast, open body of water that you had stood in. The one where lavender grew from beneath and the smell had overwhelmed your senses.
That was a dream, wasn’t it?
‘There’s so much to live for.’
That voice did sound like Hoseok.
Then, the wings vanished, folding back into his body with an enormous flap. Little pearls of glitter dispersed throughout the air and a couple translucent, purple feathers came to rest on the floor below. Hoseok beamed at you as if he just won a game of monopoly.
“Oh my god.” You blinked.
“I get it now.” Your voice was quiet, but Hoseok heard you.
His eyes sparkled in excitement, grinning ear to ear. “You do?”
Throwing his hands up in elation, Hoseok’s eyes grew so squinty with happiness that they were merely little slivers of black eyelashes. “That’s great! So now you’ll let me help you?”
You ignored his question. “I did it. I really did it.”
He frowned, lips dipping in confusion. “Wait. Did what?”
You sighed, raking a hand through your vomity, unwashed hair. “I’m dead. I’m actually dead.”
Completely unedited. I’m sorry! I’ll go back through the chapters as I go and edit them. I know it needs… more. But I hope you enjoyed it!
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