writers in the dark | part 2
summary: you are secretly one-half of a famous author duo. he's an international superstar. when he wants to produce the music for the television adaptation of your book, you jump at the chance to work with him. will you be able to keep yourself compartmentalised, or will your facade crack the moment it's under scrutiny?
pairing: hoseok x reader (nicknamed)
genre: fluff, angst, smut (later chapters)
rating: M [+18]
word count: 4.6k
warnings: list is for this chapter. [ overthinking | low self-esteem | angst ]
notes: hi yes hello i see that it's been two months since i last posted chapter one, so here's chapter two that i just breezed through and finished. sorry about that!
links: [ part 1 ]
2 | I KNOW A PLACE
Calm, brewing like a storm on the horizon. Dark clouds in pink skies at sunset. These are the things you’ve always been. You’ve always tried to tame the chaos, but the chaos always finds a way to consume you. Chewing you up and spitting you out like gum, relentless in its nature.
Your mother always told you that you bloomed out of her, like a flower. The second in line, punctual as ever. The correct day, shortly before lunch. Everything appeared to be in order — ten fingers, ten toes, no tail. The bare minimum. Any parent would be thrilled, and yours were.
Your first memory involves your sister. She’s higher in the pecking order, but only ahead of you by two years. You’re at the bottom of the food chain, and she reminds you of this whenever she can. Always on the honour roll, always blaming you for her misdoings, always right — always, always, always.
When she left for university, it was as if you could finally take your first breath, sixteen years too late. Had you been without oxygen for so long? The damage had already been done. You were already the problem child, the black sheep, the unambitious, the lazy one.
You always dreamed you were a galaxy — bottling up your emotions before exploding and reaching out into the ever-expanding universe. Coated in stardust, voice hoarse from begging to be appreciated. You always ascend, then descend, then fall into restless sleep. From one side of the earth to the other, you now struggle to find balance; harmony. Life became a constant sine wave — an unrelenting up-and-down, ebb and flow. When uncontrolled, you’re the force of a midwestern storm over the plains: bubbling up from nothing and flattening entire municipalities. When you’re down — towards the bottom — it’s hard to find your ground, to pick up the tiny fragments and put them back into place.
Sometimes, it lets you breathe. You kick to the surface, coming up for air; gasping, choking, gagging on every horrible thing anyone has ever said and done to you. Everything around you seems to descend further into chaos. Your room is the best display of this — the floor is strewn with laundry (clean and dirty), trash, a suitcase from a trip you went on months ago; the bed is half covered with journals and cat hair; every surface holds the clutter you can’t seem to expel from your mind.
Even your love is chaos. It whispers doubts and faults from the dark corner in your room – a scared monster, and when you turn on the light it's you, staring in the mirror, whispering to yourself. There's nothing, and then one night you keep the light on in the darkness, and the monster can't sleep, and she cries, and you cry. You wake up in the morning, exhausted. Sometimes she takes a vacation. Some days, you can wake up well-rested and face the day with a tight-lipped smile.
Between the chaos and order you create, there is that sweet spot. That seat in the auditorium that can feel the energy of every note, where everything melts together and the person sitting in that chair becomes the music. It's the liminal space between worlds. where even humans can feel the buzz of magic, because art is magic to them.
You drift in this veil, often. The ups are great, and the downs are low, and sometimes you wish the two extremes that rock you would let you sleep. Sometimes, though, when the sun sits on the horizon just right, you can find it in yourself to clear your mind. The chaos, the order, the nothing.
In the between, you can curl up in the sun on the window-seat in your apartment, you can take your shoes off halfway up the stairs, and leave your dish in the sink until you're ready to do dishes. Things in the between are bright, but blurry. Fleeting moments, until you decide to go up or come down. But the between is your favourite state, because the between makes you feel like you can do anything.
Perhaps that’s why you got on so well with your ex-husband, Joel. He loved your highs, your lows, your in-betweens. He provoked them and enabled them, whipping you into a whirlwind frenzy. It was no surprise that you fell head-over-heels for the man who brought out your best and most toxic qualities. He loved showing them off at parties, pressing all of your buttons until you overloaded and unloaded on him in front of your friends and family. He drove them further and further away from you, until you had no one left on your side.
The years you spent with Joel made you feel crazy, and when he left you after you lost your daughter, it wasn’t a surprise. You had failed him in every way. Why wouldn’t he leave you? What else did you bring to the table? He took everything on his way out – the cat, the house, the car, the money. You and your suitcase were the only things left on the curb. He didn’t even want those things, he just didn’t want you to have them. His face still haunts you, his almost-menacing laugh at your misfortune still repeats like a fever dream. You still haven’t found your in-between again.
Reuniting with Lala, after the divorce and moving back in with your parents (who still blamed you for all of your own misgivings), had saved your life. She had steadfastly stood by your side through it all, and though you had drifted apart briefly, she was always making sure you received the love you deserved. Running into her at the gas station, on the night you had planned to end this miserable life you had carved out for yourself, gave you a reason to keep waking up in the morning.
She also kidnapped you and made you spend the night at her apartment, so she clearly knew something was up. To-may-to, to-mah-to.
Yesterday had been a burst of confidence, but now the reality was settling in. It gripped your heart and squeezed it, forcing the blood to rush erratically through every vein and artery. The mean-spirited bitch who lived in your head rent-free and criticised everything you did had woken up from her hibernation, and she was chittering in your ear like she was paid to do it:
He’s going to see your fat arms and run for the hills. Why would he agree to go to this with you? Did he think this was a charity gala in your name? He’s just being nice. He doesn’t actually like you.
It was enough to paralyse you. Sitting on the couch with half of an iced latte precariously held in your slack hand, staring at your reflection in the dark TV screen, you barely registered your partner-in-true-crime trying to get your attention.
“Earth to Lulu. Come in, Lulu,” comes the dulcet trill from Lala. Her hand waves slowly in front of your face, and when that doesn’t work to get your attention, she gently places her hands on your cheeks and tilts your head to face hers.
“You’re panicking, aren’t you?” she asks, following your gaze until she initiates eye-contact. All you can manage is a slow nod.
“Get up,” she says — it’s firm, but with a smile. “We’re going to go for a walk outside and then we’re going to get ready to tackle the day.” She sets your coffee on the side table and pulls you up to a standing position.
“It won’t help,” you protest, but she pushes you towards your room.
“Put some pants on, brush your hair, and grab some comfy shoes,” Lala instructs and knowing your protestations are futile, you comply with her gentle commands.
Once dressed and outside, you have to admit that you do feel better. You won’t tell Lala that, though. She’s always right, and you like to keep her humble. The pair of you take a leisurely pace through the streets, window shopping and chatting easily about silly memories and making your reflections in the storefronts ‘wear’ the clothes on display.
“We should have hired a stylist,” you say, looking at the perfectly styled plastic mannequins.
“Probably,” Lala responds, taking a few pictures of herself and the two of you together. “But, we didn’t, and it’s too late now.”
“I was fine with what I was going to wear like two days ago, and now I’m going to look like I’m wearing the finest generic garbage bag, and he’s just going to be so effortlessly good-looking,” you whine the last bit, leaning against the brick exterior of a storefront.
“Don’t be silly,” Lala says. “It would at least be a name brand garbage bag,” she laughs.
“And Miss Lulu, who are you wearing tonight?” she asks, mimicking a red carpet reporter.
“Well, Maria Menounos, I’m wearing GLAD’s spring line in ‘lavender fields’, and the matching signature seasonal scent,” you reply in kind before the two of you cackle, spooking a passing mother and child who quicken their pace.
The two of you finish off your walk with a stop by the coffee shop before heading back to get ready for the long day ahead of you.
You’re hangry by the time lunch rolls around, the constant incessant chirping of Alexa confirming and changing and re-confirming the day's schedule was starting to grow less exciting and more unbearable by the minute. Having only coffee and anxiety in your system wasn’t a great way to take care of yourself, but food always impeded the caffeine adsorption and you needed all the energy you could get today.
“And then after the remarks, then you will do the reading,” Alexa says, scrolling through the updated event itinerary on her tablet, hardly sparing you a glance as she juggles the day in analog and digital form.
“Hey Alexa,” you say, and both your personal assistant and the artificial-intelligence device respond, and you can’t help but smile. “This ‘going over the draft itinerary every five minutes with changes’ is going to rot my brain. Can you play some spa music?”
Alexa (the human) huffs, as Alexa (the AI) plays a soft spa melody in the background.
“Why do I have to do the reading?” you ask, glancing between Lala and Alexa in the mirror as you try to wrangle your hair into something resembling an up-do.
“Racism,” Lala says, not looking up from her phone. “And I did the majority of the audio book.”
“But I have a lisp,” you whine.
“No, you don’t,” Lala responds.
“And I’m bad at reading aloud.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t want to do it?”
“We already printed the posters,” Alexa says. “Think of it this way — doing the reading will really impress those boys,” she says, taunting you with the thought of being interesting to Hoseok and Yoongi. Did Alexa understand the hype around BTS? No. She was a woman raised on classical opera and chamber music and never deviated from it. Did she understand the appeal? Well. She had eyes, so she must have.
“Fine,” you relent.
“Now, will you let me bring in the hair and clothing stylists so you don’t look like someone who stands in a field all day and scares the crows away from the crops?” she asks, already sending off the message to have them come up.
“Only if they bring something edible with them. I’m starving,” you pout, sitting back in the chair in front of the mirror.
“It builds character,” Alexa says and crosses the room to let them in. “I will leave you two to get ready, and I’ll send up some food later. Remember — the car will be here at four to pick you up. If either of you are late to this, so help me God …” she says.
“We won’t be late,” you affirm to her, before heading over to the hotel coffee maker to get some fuel for the day. “As long as you send up food,” you add just when Alexa feels safe and satisfied with your previous answer. She makes an animalistic sound of annoyance before leaving the room, and leaving you and Lala in the capable hands of Trudy and Charlie for hair and make-up.
The hours between when Alexa leaves you and the food arrives has left you ravenous. Trudy specifically waited until you and Lala had eaten before moving past the base layer of foundation, leaving the two of you sitting around like corpses in formal wear. You eat with your hands — sandwiches, please, you’re not a complete animal — and you can feel a bond between yourself and your very early primal ancestors.
Though you weren’t a stranger to food scarcity, the nervous energy you carried in your stomach exacerbated the hunger you felt. Those earlier thoughts were starting to creep back into your head to bounce around with every bite, chew, and swallow. Refusing to spiral, you brushed them aside to deal with later. It was getting close to three, and that meant you only had about half an hour before Hoseok and Yoongi showed up to attend the launch party with you.
Teeth brushed, very fancy clothes back in order, you let Trudy finish your make-up while Charlie puts the finishing touches on your hair.
“You ladies look lovely,” he says, fixing a curl by your ear.
“Only because of all the work you did,” you say.
“Well, they do call me the Magician of London,” Charlie says. Trudy rolls her eyes.
“Literally no one calls you that,” she says.
“My mother does,” he cuts back.
There’s a knock at the door that causes you to jump. A chill runs through all of your extremities, and you feel yourself break out into an imaginary sweat. This is it — the moment that will make or break your night. Will Hoseok see you and full-body laugh with how ridiculous you look? Yes. Definitely. You can hear your heart thundering in your ears, and you glance at Lala in a panic. She gives you a reassuring smile, rolls her eyes, and crosses to open the door. Your protests go ignored, and she doesn’t give you enough time to hide.
Perhaps having that sandwich wasn’t a good idea. Maybe Alexa was right — starving to death in a hotel would build character. All you can feel is nausea as your stomach clenches. It’s just nerves. In your books, in your screenplay, this would be the moment that the main character’s love interest sees her all dolled up for the first time. The two lock eyes, there’s a tasteful music track playing, and all the audience would focus on would be the two of them in awe of each other. Then, the plot would move along. They would dance at the ball, or go to dinner, and live their little lives.
You did not feel like the main character. Well, you do, a little. But in the kind of story where the main character is bullied at every turn and then dies at the end of her own book in the most deeply unsatisfying way. Caught in the garage of a serial killer and as you run through all of your mistakes he starts to cut off your —
“You look great,” Hoseok’s voice cuts through the bullshit rambling in your mind. He has a genuine smile on his face. He must have been able to see the gears in your head moving, and the smile is the result of knowing that he stopped them. You think you’re about to pass out. Breathe, bitch.
“Th-thanks, you too,” you manage to stutter out. Real smooth. The smile on his face never falters.
“Lulu, you have to move, sweetie,” Lala reminds you. Oh, right. You’re going somewhere. You nod and finally stand up, Hoseok’s arm is offered, and you make sure you have all of your things before taking it — thankful it’s there, otherwise you’d be flat on the floor.
“I hear you’re doing the reading,” Hoseok says.
“Yeah,” you say, as if trying to catch your breath.
“You’ll do great,” he says with a smile, before covering your hand on his arm with his other hand. You can only manage a nod as the four of you wait for the elevator.
“What does a book launch party entail?” Yoongi asks, once the elevator door closes, trapping you all inside.
“Well, a bunch of people have bought tickets to attend,” Lala starts. “Some of the tickets include a signed copy of the book, some of them include an un-signed copy of the book, and some of them only include a reservation for the book to be purchased separately at the party,” she continues.
“But it’s mostly fans coming to support the author, hear a reading of the first chapter, and then mingling with some food and drink until midnight when they can get the book and then leave so they can read it in one night,” you add, with a laugh. “I used to do the same, before the rise of the internet.”
“And there might be some music, but it’s not really as stuffy as it sounds,” Lala assures them.
“Only about half as stuffy as it sounds,” you say. The nerves in your stomach have finally settled, and you’re only now aware that you have a death-grip on Hoseok’s arm. He’s either too polite to say anything, or you aren’t as strong as you thought. Slowly you, loosen your grip and he turns his smile back to you. Wow, his teeth are so nice.
“You both said Namjoon is a big fan?” you ask.
“A huge fan,” Yoongi says. “He’s been calling every night with questions about book two.”
“I’ll see if Ducky can send along another signed copy for him,” you say.
“Oh, he’ll lose his mind,” Hoseok says. “He loves all of the little philosophical things and the magic she throws in —“
“They,” you gently correct again. “Ducky is non-binary.”
“They throw in,” Hoseok quickly corrects himself. “His favourite character is Endymion.”
You’re about to respond that Endymion is also your favourite character, when the elevator opens on the ground floor. Alexa sits waiting in the lobby, fingers flying over the keyboard on her phone as she cements a few last-minute details. Her face lights up at the sight of all four of you as you approach.
“Don’t you all look lovely?” she muses with a once over of both you and Lala. “The limo is outside, and remember –”
“Don’t say anything to a reporter that you wouldn’t say to your mother,” you cut her off with a cheeky grin.
“Yes, that too. But, if you’d let me speak, you gremlin, remember to have fun,” she says through gritted teeth.
Alexa was desperately in need of a raise, and when the money for the adaptation rolled in, you’d give her a hefty one. Without her, you and Lala wouldn’t be where you are today. This is how rich people made time for leisure – personal assistants. Alexa was a pro: she anticipated needs before they became critical, was always three steps ahead and looking back to make sure you kept up. She was yet another lifeline in this miserable life.
“Will do,” you respond.
Arriving at possibly-the-fanciest-bookstore you’ve ever seen, you find yourself a bit underwhelmed by the turnout. Despite the fact that the four of you had arrived on time, the crowd seemed a bit lacklustre – sparse. You, Lala, Yoongi, and Hoseok pose briefly for a few photos outside the front door before heading inside where things don’t seem much better.
“It’s a weekday, and people are just getting off work,” Lala’s voice drifts to meet your ears. “More will show up. The posters did say the party goes until one,” she’s always reassuring you.
You’re not convinced nor reassured this time. Alexa’s command over you turning up on time, the dress, the hair, the heels you couldn’t walk in, the skin exposed, the reading – none of it seemed to amount to anything. A handful of people, most of whom couldn’t have been bothered to dress up after leaving the office, mill around like this party is their watercooler and they’re gossiping about who microwaved fish in the communal microwaves.
The air seems to dissipate, leaving you to suffocate in the glass case you had built for yourself: performance art. Everyone could look in and watch you struggle to breathe until at last you laid down and –
“Hey,” comes Hoseok’s voice, tearing through the internal chaos. “It’s okay,” he says. He pats your hand and you realise you have his arm in a death-vice again. You slowly relax your hand and release him. “The fans will show up. I promise,” he says with a smile. He would know that better than anyone, but the thing was: his fans were absolutely nutty. (You can say that, you’re one of them.) They were ride-or-die loyal. Comparing the two fan-bases was like comparing apples and pick-up trucks: they had absolutely nothing in common.
“Let’s get a drink,” he offers. You nod silently, eyes scanning the room for Lala, landing on her and Yoongi laughing. She, with an open book in her hand and the confidence of a lioness; He, with two flutes of wine with berries and all the fondness of a childhood friend. They looked like they had known each other for a decade (in a way, that was kind of true), while you felt like you were being held hostage at an office Christmas party where they fired everyone at the end of the night.
Hoseok pulls you across the room to the drinks, every bit the master of parties, ceremonies, and hosting. He places a flute of white wine in your hand, and the two of you find a quiet space to sit. You can tell he’s trying to make sure you don’t spiral, or maybe he’s regretting the decision to come to this party. Maybe he’s just regretting coming to this party with you and your fat arms.
“Who’s your favourite character?” he asks, once you’ve both settled into two plush armchairs near the poetry section. It takes you a moment to register what he’s talking about, but once it processes you feel your smile grow across your face.
“Definitely Endymion,” you say. “In the first book, you only ever see him through someone else's eyes, and it creates this multifaceted portrait of someone you’ve never met or spoken to. Sometimes he’s regarded as a hero, or a traitor, or a pillar. Both a prince and a pauper,” you feel yourself rambling and slowly trail off. “What about you?”
“So far, I think I have to go with Seven,” he says, the smile fading from his face. “It almost feels like he’s who I would have become. Lonely, wanting his friends and family close but unable to be with them, passing away alone and angry …” he trails off, pensieve, and you try to remain still, afraid of interrupting his thoughts. He suddenly turns to you and flashes his bright smile again, downing half of his wine in one go. “I think more people are arriving,” he says, gesturing at the door.
You turn and look, and sure enough, there is a line of people waiting for their pictures to be taken so they can enter the venue. The sound level has risen from “Christmas Lay-off Office Party” to “Movie Theatre Lobby After a Summer Blockbuster”. Light music starts to lilt through the air, unassuming and inoffensive to the guests of the party. While you know you should go and mingle, be seen, and be a good host … all you want to do is sit here in a plush armchair and talk to Hoseok for a little longer.
“I should go play host,” you say, watching the door but not making any move to get up and do just that.
“They’ll be fine. The party goes until one, remember?” he says, a glint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.
As if he’s given you explicit permission to skip your own party, you turn back to your glass of wine – and, in turn, him – and down the flute in one gulp.
“What time is your reading?” he asks, and you grimace at the thought.
“I think it’s at eight,” you reply.
“We have a few hours, want to get some air with me?”
Nothing would make you happier.
Time feels different on the rooftop plaza. The sun grazes the skyline of the city, glowing red and casting a soft-light on the concrete and brick buildings. The windows all reflect this light in different directions, making each building below appear to be made of jewels and gold. Higher up in the summer sky, a moon in waning gibbous hangs in the periwinkle sea, while clematis- and quinacridone rose-colored clouds float towards the horizon.
You and Hoseok are the only two out here. The rooftop was blocked off to party-goers, but considering one of you is an international superstar, you were able to bribe security to let you through. There’s a soft breeze, and for the first time that day, you feel like you can breathe easily. From below, you can still hear the party getting started. The chatter of friends, fans, and family alike muffled by the distance. The music cuts through it all, and you find yourself wanting to dance – even though you have two left feet and couldn’t find a beat if you had a map to one.
You both stand at the railing and look out at the city. Something nags at the back of your mind, and the harder you try to repress it, the stronger the urge becomes.
“Look Simba: Everything the light touches is our kingdom,” you recite the urge dramatically, and Hoseok’s body twists as he full-body laughs. You’re thankful the reference transcends language, you’re devastated that you couldn’t repress the urge at all. Always saying the first and only thing on your mind, never sparing a critical thought before it spills out of your mouth.
As the sun continues to dip low nearer the horizon, you and Hoseok enjoy the silence between you. Your mind zips through pleasant, unintrusive thoughts like a hummingbird, pausing at one every so often to drink its nectar. Your nails tap on the metal railing absently, sending a clicking-metallic echo into the silent twilight.
“Thanks,” you say. The word almost startles you (even though you said it), but Hoseok only turns to look at you, confusion rising like flood water on his pleasant placid face.
“For what?” he asks.
“Calming me down, getting me out of my head, bribing the security guard into letting us come out here, et cetera,” you say.
“I know a spiral when I see one,” he says and leans in with a smile, nudging your shoulder with his. You feel yourself leaning in closer, and he closes the gap with his soft lips pressing against your forehead. “I think you have a reading to do,” he says.
You grimace, but nod in agreement. The two of you join arms and head back downstairs, and for the first time that night, the butterflies in your stomach and the honey bees in your heart take a well deserved rest.
