18+ | Filipino | self taught digital artist | writer (well, 15% of the time ig) too many hyperfixations, you have no idea. I don't own any cover art or pfp art, I usually just find them on Pinterest. so credits to the artist 💙 (current pfp is my own work) Link is my current work in progress and story idea https://www.tumblr.com/plvt0-booked/776020884962066432/story-idea?source=share
synopsis: seungmin traded old dreams for new ones, walking away from baseball and the girl he loved, even when it broke him to let go. when your paths cross again, he finds all the pieces of himself he thought he had left behind.
pairing: idol!seungmin x fem!reader, series, exes to lovers
warnings: minors dni please, angst, fluff, slowburn, second chance, flashback breakup in chapter one, hurt/comfort, explicit smut scene that is strictly 18+, alcohol consumption, specific warnings are under each individual chapter (around 5-10k words each)
status: completed!
hi everyone!! ♡ i ended up taking a break for over a month, but i’m finally back. thank you so much for being patient with me and for sticking around. to ease back into writing, i’ll be releasing this short series! i really wanted to return with something i love most which areee...sports-themed fics! even though this one isn’t technically baseball player!seungmin, it still has that sports-centered vibe i’ve missed writing so much. i’m so excited to share this with you guys and hope you enjoy!!
synopsis: you love seungmin, but with a world tour looming and ten months of distance ahead, you're unsure if you'll get the dream you've always wnated.
pairing: idol!seungmin x fem!reader, series, exes to lovers
warnings: 8k words, angst, fluff, nsfw nsfw nsfw, if you're a minor please dni, blowjob, gagging, breath control, dirty talk, mentions of sexting, profanity
a/n: i’m actually sitting here kind of stunned that this series is done. it felt so alive while i was working on it. i loved connecting little threads and developing the characters. i loved writing every second of it. genuinely!!! it made me happy in a way that reminds me why i love writing in the first place. thank you for reading! <33
series masterlist, previous
the first real summer air slipped through your open balcony door, carrying the sound of cicadas. you were leaning against the kitchen counter, eating berries straight from the bowl and letting the sunlight hit your shoulders. your phone was propped against a jar of honey on speaker, jiyeon’s voice loud enough to fill the apartment.
your phone was on speaker, propped against a jar of honey. jiyeon’s voice poured out loud enough to fill the apartment.
“do you realize,” she said, “that this is the first summer in three years that doesn’t start with a rain delay?”
you laughed, plucking a raspberry from the bowl and popping it into your mouth.
“i’ve decided this is going to be our golden season. sun, iced coffee in the dugouts, can you imagine?” she said with a happy sigh.
you grinned, setting the bowl down beside your laptop. “you sound like an ad.”
“good! because i’m feeling inspired. the guys are actually behaving for once, and the forecast says nothing but blue skies.” she paused for dramatic effect. “also, did you see the stadium flowers near the dome are blooming again?”
you hummed softly, half listening, half watching how the sunlight touched the glass vase on your counter. you’d filled it yesterday with cheap peonies from the grocery store that were at least bright enough to make your apartment look alive.
“they’re pink this year,” jiyeon went on, “and not that weird fluorescent pink either. like a classy pink. whoever’s in charge of landscaping needs to get their ass ate. please pass it on.”
you smiled, nudging a stray petal that had fallen onto the counter. “i will,” you said, even though you probably wouldn’t. you liked that she thought you had that kind of power.
you leaned your hip against the counter, eyes drifting toward the open balcony door. the air was bright and lazy, carrying the smell of cut grass and something faintly sweet.
“anyway,” jiyeon said, her tone softening, “how’s your day off going? i’m picturing you doing laundry again. you get one day off and decide to act like a mom of three.”
you rolled your eyes, biting into a strawberry. “excuse you, i’m eating fruit.”
“wow,” she deadpanned.
you laughed, tipping your head back against the cabinet. “you’re just jealous of my balanced lifestyle.”
“balanced?” jiyeon said. “you need to go outside, maybe flirt with a barista, get a little sunlight, maybe—oh, i don’t know—get a boyfriend?”
you scoffed, reaching for another berry. “you’re one to talk. you’ve hated every man i’ve tried to set you up with.”
“it’s quality control,” jiyeon said. “you, on the other hand, are practically married and still waiting for him to make it official. honestly, y/n, seungmin’s a villain.”
“a villain?”
“yes! how has he not asked you yet?”
you sighed, pushing the bowl away. “because he’s busy, jiyeon. he just released that new song, remember? lose my breath or something…anyways he’s been at the company every night for the next album—”
“okay, okay,” she cut in, her voice rising an octave. “blah blah artistic genius, creative process, you’ve told me all of it before. but i’m sorry, if he can find time to sing with charlie puth, he can find time to take you somewhere and ask a question.”
you sighed, dragging your thumb along the rim of the berry bowl. “we can’t go out, jiyeon.”
“oh right,” she said flatly. “because he’s famous. god forbid the world sees him with an actual woman instead of pretending he’s dating his fans.”
“jiyeon,” you warned.
“what?” she snapped. “you know i’m right. it’s ridiculous. he’s just too busy making sure twelve year olds keep calling him ‘husband.’”
“jiyeon,” you said again, this time scoffing.
she groaned. “don’t tell me you’re okay with this, y/n. i swear to god, if i were you, i’d have ripped that man’s perfect eyebrows off by now.”
“i’m not okay with it. i just—what am i supposed to do? of course i wish he wasn’t the seungmin sometimes. but he’s doing great balancing me and his career. and if i love him, i’m not making him choose.”
the words slipped out before you could stop them.
you blinked. “did i just say that out loud?”
“oh my god,” jiyeon breathed.
“i love him.” you whispered, your hand covering your mouth.
there was a beat of silence before jiyeon exhaled sharply. “yeah, we can tell.”
the line went still again. outside, the cicadas droned on, steady and endless. you looked toward the balcony, the sunlight already fading to that early-evening gold. for a second, it felt like the whole summer was balanced on that thin, glowing line between wanting and waiting.
jiyeon’s voice, when it came back, was softer. “you don’t have to pretend this is fine.”
“i know.” you stared at the sunlight bleeding across your counter, the bowl of half-eaten berries.
“so push it a little,” jiyeon said. “you don’t have to demand a ring or some grand gesture, but the least he can do is give you reassurance that you two are at least something.”
you let out a small breath. “you’re right.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
there was a pause before jiyeon spoke again, softer than before. “you deserve to be sure of him.”
you swallowed, pushing the bowl away and leaning on the counter.
“maybe i’ll bring it up when he comes over,” you said quietly.
“good,” jiyeon said. “and if he tries to dodge the conversation, tell him to grow a pair.”
you laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. you were about to answer when the doorbell rang. the sound was sudden, bright, and a little too perfectly timed.
jiyeon gasped dramatically. “look at that. speak of the devil.”
you rolled your eyes. “bye, jiyeon.”
“bye,” she echoed, and you could hear the smile in her voice before the line went dead.
you walked toward the door, the floor creaked once under your feet. you twisted the knob and pulled the door open.
a tall figure stood on the other side, head bent slightly under the brim of a black cap. a mask covered most of his face.
“ma’am, i’m gonna have to ask you to hand over all your valuables.”
you took a step closer, raising an eyebrow. “you’re a terrible robber, seungmin. you’re supposed to have a weapon, you know, or at least a menacing posture.”
he tilted his head slightly, mask crinkling as he grinned underneath. “you think you could do better?”
“obviously,” you said, stepping aside to let in.
seungmin shut the door behind him, still keeping his serious tone. “i’m new to the business. thought i’d start with something easy.”
“i’m easy?” you echoed, raising a brow.
“you can’t fight back, can’t even remember to lock your door.”
you blinked, pretending to look offended. “how do you know i didn’t lock it?”
“you didn’t even touch the lock when you opened the door. i would’ve heard it.” he said, stepping closer, eyes glinting under the brim of his cap.
you rolled your eyes. “wow sherlock.”
“here—” he reached past you, fingers brushing the door. “you twist it like this, see?”
“yeah, i know how to lock a door,” you said.
he gave a quiet laugh and tugged the cap off, shaking his hair loose. his hair fell messily over his forehead, dark strands catching the sunlight from the hallway.
“sure you do,” he said, tone lazy and amused. you could feel his breath when he spoke again, lower now. “and you really shouldn’t let just anyone in.”
you swallowed hard. “you’re not just anyone.”
his smile turned faintly smug, but there was something gentler underneath it too.
“good answer,” he said.
before you could say something back, he closed the space between you. his hand found your back, pulling you gently toward him. he leaned down, lips meeting yours in a kiss. you breathed in sharply, your hands finding his chest, steadying yourself against him. his breath caught, a low sound in his throat, and when he pulled back, it was only far enough to murmur against your lips.
“why do you taste so good?”
you giggled against his mouth, and he was already kissing you again. that bright sound made him grin through the kiss, and then he was chasing it, pressing little pecks.
“maybe because i was just eating berries,” you whispered, laughing again when he kissed you mid-sentence.
“mm, makes sense,” he said, pretending to think about it, though his lips were already back on yours. “sweet, addictive.”
you smacked his arm lightly, still smiling. “it’s not right to describe me like a snack.”
he grinned, eyes half-lidded, breath brushing your cheek. “can’t help it.”
you broke the kiss just long enough to turn and pull him with you toward the living room. he followed without protest, still kissing the side of your face every few steps like he couldn’t stop himself.
when you reached the couch, you gave him a gentle push, and he sank into the cushions, his hands finding your hips as you straddled him. his cap was long forgotten somewhere near the door, and his hair had fallen into his eyes. you reached up to brush it back, but he caught your wrist gently and kissed the inside of it first.
“i’m sorry, baby,” he said quietly, almost as an afterthought, “i didn’t check my phone all day. i went out the door right after my schedule ended. i didn’t read any of your texts.”
your stomach dropped.
you stilled a little in his lap, your breath catching for reasons that had nothing to do with his hands or mouth this time.
“oh,” you said, trying not to look too alarmed, “well maybe don’t check it now.”
“…what?” he asked, already fishing into his back pocket.
you shook your head quickly. “nothing. it’s—it’s nothing. it doesn’t matter now that you’re here.”
that only made his eyes narrow. “really? because you’re making a face.”
“i’m not doing any face.”
“you’re absolutely making a face.”
“seungmin,” you said, voice pitching up a little as you watched him unlock his phone, "please just don’t,” you muttered, hiding your face in your hands.
he ignored you.
the silence stretched a moment as he scrolled, then tapped.
then you heard his breath catch.
“oh,” he said softly, the syllable drawn out.
your heart was in your throat. you peeked through your fingers.
his eyes were fixed on the screen, and the corner of his mouth was twitching up, slow and deliberate. he read your text again, and you could tell exactly where he was just by his face.
“‘please come quick. i’ll suck the soul out of you, minnie,’” he quoted, voice quiet, amused. his gaze slid up to meet yours again. he just let the words hang between you.
you let out a long, pained groan and buried your face into his shoulder.
he laughed, breath warm against your hair. “someone was feeling bold.”
“i didn’t think you’d read it out loud.”
“they’re your words, not mine.” his hand came up, fingers sifting gently through your hair as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes still gleaming with that wicked little tilt. “you sounded pretty desperate.”
you straightened a little, trying to salvage whatever dignity you had left. “i wasn’t desperate, i was just exaggerating to get your hopes up.”
he raised an eyebrow. “my hopes up?”
“yes,” you said firmly. “obviously.”
he laughed once, soft and disbelieving. “you’re so full of it.”
“i’m not full of it!” you snapped, cheeks burning even hotter now.
“you are,” he said, leaning back against the couch like he was settling into a throne. “you’re lying straight to my face.”
“i’m not lying.”
“you’re lying.”
“i’m not!”
his hands slid a little lower on your hips, his fingers tightening just enough to make your breath catch. “you know what gives you away?”
“nothing gives me away,” you snapped back.
he smiled slow, a little cruel and way too amused. “you can’t even look at me.”
you froze, eyes flicking everywhere but his. the floor. the couch cushion. his shoulder. anywhere that wasn’t your beautiful man smiling beneath you.
“i can look at you,” you said, but your voice sounded thin.
“then do it,” he said, reaching up to tip your chin toward him with one finger.
you tried. you really did.
but your gaze skittered off his again like your body refused to cooperate.
his laugh was soft and unfairly pleased. “see? full of it.”
your face was still pressed into his shoulder, heat crawling up your neck. “oh my god, fine,” you muttered, voice muffled. “i was horny. i was losing my mind. i was just—i don’t know. i wanted you to come over faster.”
“oh, you wanted me fast?” he said, eyes narrowing just a little. “was it that urgent?”
you groaned and buried your face in his shoulder again. “oh my goodness, you’re the worst.”
a laugh came out of him bright and sharp.
“i try to be sexy for once and you laugh at me. do you know how humiliating that is?” you said, voice muffled against his shirt.
“i’m sorry,” he said, which would’ve been more convincing if it hadn’t come out with him trying to bite back a smile. “i really am—baby, you’re perfect, i just—”
you huffed, pushing against his chest, wiggling like you were going to climb off his lap. “i’m gonna go sit on the other couch.”
before your foot could even touch the floor, his hands gripped your arm and he hauled you right back onto him like you weighed nothing. you landed with a soft gasp, hands bracing on his chest.
“no,” he said immediately.
you blinked at him, scoffing. “what do you mean no?”
“you’re not going anywhere.”
“why?” you challenged, even though your body didn’t actually resist him. “so you can laugh in my face again?”
he didn’t even flinch at your tone, if anything, his grip tightened.
“so you can follow through with your words,” he said simply.
your breath stalled.
“baby, you don’t send texts like that and then run to the other couch. you think i’m letting you go anywhere until you tell me whether you plan to actually do what you said?”
your stomach flipped hard. you swallowed, trying to find your voice.
“do you plan to?” he asked, leaning in a little.
your heart was pounding in your throat, words piling up behind your teeth, most of them wildly inappropriate.
“of course,” you whispered. “why wouldn’t i?”
his eyes darkened.
“you sure?” he asked softly.
you nodded once. “i wouldn’t have said it if i didn’t mean it.”
a slow smile touched the corner of his mouth. his thumb traced once along your jaw, deliberate enough that your breath stuttered.
“that’s good to know,” he murmured with a smirk, “for the next time you try to lie your way out of things.”
your eyes narrowed a little.
his hand slid up, fingers threading gently but firmly through your hair, guiding your face toward his as his lips crashed into yours without another word.
you made a soft, startled sound, all your protest melting into heat the second his mouth moved over yours. he kissed you like he’d run out of patience. his tongue brushed against yours, breath mingling as he swallowed every tiny noise you made.
one of his hands stayed at the back of your head, keeping you close, fingers curling slightly like he didn’t trust you not to pull away again. the other hand slid down your side, grounding you, keeping you flush against him like he needed every part of you touching him right now.
your fingers twisted into his shirt, pulling him even closer, tilting your head to chase the kiss deeper. you felt him groan and he kissed you harder for it, tongue slipping past your lips again, lazy and warm and deep. you whimpered against his mouth, your hips squirming just enough in his lap to make both of you feel it.
he looked down at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, and then he leaned his head back slightly with a hiss through his teeth.
you glanced down instinctively. he was hard. obviously hard. pressing firm and unmistakable against the front of his sweats, the outline straining under you as your hips shifted. the moment your body grazed over it again, even the slightest friction, he let out this low sound that shot straight through you. his fingers flexed on your hip when you shifted again, and he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, strained and teasing at the same time.
“yeah,” he said quietly, “you feel that, don’t you?”
your face warmed instantly. “hard not to when you’re basically poking me with it.”
“poking you?” he repeated, eyes hooded and amused. “that's what we’re calling it now?”
you rolled your eyes, breath shaky. “well, what do you want me to call it?”
his hand slid from your hip to your waist, fingers dragging in a way that made your stomach clench. “i can think of a few things,” he said. “none of them are very polite.”
you scoffed softly. “since when do you care about polite?”
he leaned back against the couch, eyes never leaving yours, hands still on your waist. “stop talking and get to work, y/n.”
your mouth stayed open for a second, breath stalled. your thoughts snapped into a frantic, mess. your fingers curled around his shoulders without meaning to. you kissed him one more time, soft and quick, then slid off his lap and down between his legs, your knees hitting the rug in front of the couch without a second thought.
the second you looked up at him, his whole body went still.
he was gone.
totally wrecked, already, and you hadn’t even touched him yet. it was just your gaze. the way you looked at him from there.
“fuck,” he breathed, like the sight alone knocked the air out of his lungs. his fingers twitched on his thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from grabbing you right then and there.
you smiled softly, tilting your head just enough that your hair fell to one side.
his eyes dragged over you slowly. your lips were plush and damp from his kisses, and he could already see the heat rising behind your sweet expression.
he ran a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back for a moment before looking down at you again.
“i hate you so much.”
you giggled, soft and wicked and so delighted by it, like it was the best compliment you’d ever gotten.
“no you don’t,” you said, your hands resting on his thighs like you hadn’t just shattered every molecule of self-control he had left.
he stared down at you, jaw working like he was trying not to smile—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him anyway, twitching up. “i really do,” he muttered. “you’re such a pain in the ass.”
you tilted your head at him like you didn’t understand what he meant, like you had absolutely no idea how much power you were holding in your hands.
“i’m not a pain,” you whispered, leaning in, lips brushing soft against his upper thigh.
“you’re worse,” he muttered, but his hand gripped the cushion beside him now, like he needed something to anchor him.
you smiled, lips curving against his leg, and kissed higher. your hands slid up along the tops of his thighs, fingertips barely skimming the fabric of his sweats, and when your lips finally reached the shape of him beneath it, you pressed the lightest kiss there too.
his head fell back with a groan he didn’t even try to hold in. his hand came up, threading into your hair again.
“you’re the only one who gets me like this,” he muttered, voice rough, almost quiet like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
your smile deepened. “i know.”
you kissed him again through the fabric, this time slower, more deliberately, and then finally your hands slid to the waistband of his sweats.
he twitched beneath your touch.
you looked up at him through your lashes, silently asking.
he nodded once, already breathless. “go on.”
your fingers curled into the elastic, and you tugged it down just enough, slow and careful and unbearably gentle. his cock sprang free, flushed and hard. you wrapped your fingers around him with a touch so light it made his hips jerk. he looked down at you, stunned, like you were both a blessing and a curse in the same breath.
“you’re really gonna keep looking at me like that,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, “and still not put that pretty mouth to work?”
you blinked up at him innocently, lips barely brushing the tip of him where your fingers still held him light and teasing. “i’m savoring.”
“you’re torturing me.”
you giggled, sweet and soft, still barely moving, still just letting your breath ghost across the head of him. the way he swelled in your hand told you everything you needed to know.
“do it already.” his thumb brushed your cheek, but his voice was rough now. “or i will lose my fucking mind.”
his thumb pressed just under your jaw, a subtle tilt until your lips parted further, your breath already warm and sweet against the tip of his cock. his fingers curled tighter in your hair.
you let your lips brush down the side of him, soft and slow, your tongue just barely grazing as you kissed lower, dragging along the vein underneath with a deliberate wet stripe. his thighs tensed under your hands. he exhaled sharply through his nose.
you smiled faintly, dragging the flat of your tongue all the way up this time, swirling around the head with practiced care, your lips plush and glossy, teasing the slit just enough to hear him hiss through clenched teeth.
“stop playing,” he warned, but his grip flexed, pulling you just a little closer. “i’m not in the mood to be teased—”
you cut him off by taking him into your mouth, letting him slide past your lips until your mouth was over him and your eyes fluttered shut. the taste of him spread thick across your tongue, familiar and perfect. you held him there, lips snug around him, your throat already working.
he groaned. “shit. that’s it, baby. just like that.”
your fingers curled into his thighs, your nails pressing lightly through the fabric as you swallowed around him, your throat contracting against the tip. that sound made him curse under his breath and tug your hair back just slightly so he could see your face.
your eyes were watering, drool already beginning to gloss your lower lip, mouth stuffed full and throat taking him so deep he swore his vision blurred.
“don’t stop.” he muttered, dragging his thumb along your cheekbone, then gripping tight at the back of your head.
you didn’t.
you eased off just enough to suck harder on the head, your cheeks hollowing as you worked your tongue along the underside, then sank back down, letting him hit the back of your throat. his hips bucked just a little. your saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and wetting your hand where it gripped him. you took him again and again, your throat contracting like you were swallowing him whole.
his fingers tangled tighter in your hair, nails grazing your scalp as he forced your head down, holding you still with a low grunt. "that’s it. you're gonna let me use your throat, yeah? that’s what it’s for."
you moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder, and bobbed your head deeper, faster. his cock hit the back of your throat with each thrust, your gag reflex twitching and burning, but you didn’t slow down. he watched you like he wanted to burn a hole through you, one hand tight in your hair, the other coming up, curling beneath your jaw—then pinching your nose shut.
you jolted, a whimper gagged around him as air was cut off instantly. he cooed, seeing you get lightheaded. you blinked up at him, tearing up fast now, your throat tightening, lungs starting to ache as you tried to hold out. he looked so entertained by the way your face twisted, jaw trembling around his length, throat contracting around him. his hips jerked once.
you sucked in a harsh, broken breath through it. you pulled back, coughing, panting
“fuck you,” you rasped, voice shredded.
“i’m sorry,” seungmin chuckled.
you groaned, eyes rolling as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “you’re so full of shit,” you grumbled, but you were already leaning in again. he hissed through his teeth when your lips brushed over the head, tongue flicking at the slit.
you looked up again, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks shiny, eyes glossy. and then you pulled back again with a soft pop.
“you’re not gonna last, seungmin,” you murmured, voice wrecked and sticky with spit. “you’re already twitching.”
he dragged you back down with a grunt, both hands gripping your hair now. “then shut up and finish the job.”
you dropped your jaw and let him guide you, pace firm and fast now, head moving with every pass of your lips over him. he panted above you, mouth parted, hair falling into his eyes as he stared down at you like you were dragging his soul out with every stroke of your tongue.
he yanked you back by the hair and the motion made let out a moan. your chest heaved, breath shaky, mouth glistening, a slick thread of spit still connecting you to the base of him. his grip stayed tight, keeping your head tilted back so your eyes met his.
“tongue out,” he rasped.
you obeyed instantly, lips parting, tongue sliding out over your lower lip, trembling slightly as your breath hitched.
“stay there,” he muttered, and with that, he repeatedly slapped the head of his cock against it. “yeah, just like that, don’t move.”
you kept your tongue out, eyes locked on him as he pumped himself with his hand. then he exhaled through his teeth, and came with thick, hot ropes spilling across your tongue and into you throat.
he didn’t look away once, watching you take every drop. his other hand slid around your jaw, thumb smearing what dripped down, his breath still ragged.
when he finally loosened his grip on your hair, you swallowed once, then looked up at him through heavy lashes, tongue sliding out for him to see.
“look at you,” he murmured, voice a low rasp that sounded more like awe than command.
you blinked up at him, the faintest smile ghosting over your swollen lips. he brushed his thumb across the corner of your mouth, catching a bit of what had spilled there, and pressed it back against your lower lip.
“open,” he whispered. you did, and he slid his thumb in, letting you suck the taste from it. “good girl.”
seungmin's breath stuttered, his hand moving from your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing under your eye where the tears had dried and left a faint tacky sheen. his other hand released the tangle of your hair, smoothing over your scalp as if to soothe the same spot he’d gripped so hard just moments before.
“you okay?” he murmured, softer now. his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, brushing away a bit of stray moisture.
“mhm.” your voice was barely there, and it made him huff out a breath, more smile than laugh. his fingers threaded through the back of your hair again.
he sank back against the couch, chest still rising in slow, heavy breaths. you climbed up, as he tugged the waistband of his sweats and boxers back into place. you settled beside him, legs folded up on the couch, shoulder pressing against his arm. his hand came up, sliding along your thigh, rough fingertips tracing soft skin.
“let me take care of you, yeah?” he murmured. i’ll make you feel good, baby.”
you blinked up at him, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed with warmth. you shook your head a little, breath catching in a tiny, nervous laugh. “no, it’s okay. later,” you whispered, voice small, soft.
he stilled, thumb stroking your skin. “you sure?” his gaze softened.
“yea, i just… i like this, right now. just you.”
later that night, the lotte giants game played quietly on the tv in your bedroom. seungmin shifted just enough to slide down the headboard, settling into a comfortable angle. you were lying on him under the duvet, your back pressed to his chest. the game murmured in the corner of the room, bright commentary softened to a low hum.
you’d showered earlier. your hair was damp and clean, and seungmin kept kissing the top of your head without thinking, lips brushing the crown of it again and again. every time he pressed one, he lingered a moment.
his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach, thumb stroking idle shapes through your shirt. you shifted, just a little, settling deeper into him, and he let out a quiet breath.
work had been brutal lately. every time he slipped into the building these days, he felt like he was balancing on a wire. but you were the only thing that didn’t ask anything from him.
his lips brushed your hair again.
you made a soft sound at the touch, one of those half-asleep hums, and he tightened his arm around you without thinking, pulling you closer until your spine pressed fully against his chest.
he glanced around your bedroom lazily, letting his eyes drift wherever they landed. the shelf near the window had a framed photo of you with the team staff, all of you smiling in a way that came after a twenty-inning win. there were two mini bats propped in a cup—one from a charity game, one from last season’s home opener. a signed ball sat in a clear cube on your dresser, the ink slightly faded.
then his eyes slid a little higher. three jerseys hung neatly on the wall hooks—two from the team, one from an away series you’d traveled for and brought home like a trophy. the cap rack beside them held a lineup of hats.
he didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until something specific caught his eye.
one cap wasn’t like the others.
black, beaten up at the brim, the embroidery worn, the shape unmistakable even from across the room. his old cap. then he blinked once, slow.
“hey… is that my old one?” he murmured.
you opened your eyes halfway. “hm?”
he tilted his chin toward the nightstand. “that hat. the black one. that’s mine, isn’t it? it’s the team i played for in high school.”
you followed his gaze, then nodded sleepily. “yeah. it’s yours. do you want it back?”
he paused. “no. no, i must’ve given it to you.”
“you did,” you said softly. you hesitated, fingers curling around the duvet near your stomach. “at our… um. last game together.”
his entire body tensed as he suddenly remembered. you and him leaving that awful set of seats while keeping your head down. and him slipping that cap over your head because he didn’t want to be seen with you.
you pushed yourself upright slowly, his arm slipping from around you as you sat up. the duvet fell from your waist, and the sudden sweep of cold air hit your bare legs. you shivered once, brushing your hair from your face before sliding out of bed.
seungmin watched you move, his eyes following you across the room as you padded toward the cap rack. you reached up and pulled out the black one.
you turned back to the bed and walked toward him.
he shifted up against the headboard, gaze fixed on you. you climbed onto the mattress carefully, the springs dipping under your weight, and knelt beside him.
then you lifted the cap and placed it on your own head.
a small smile tugged at your mouth.
he let out a soft chuckle, one of those warm ones that lived somewhere in his chest. “looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
you shook your head and pulled the cap off gently, then shifted closer. you settled in front of him and set the hat on his head, lowering it over his messy hair. he reached up to fix the brim, tugging it into place with a motion you’d seen a hundred times when you were younger.
then he looked at you.
something hit you hard in the chest. the cap sat on him exactly the way it used to. same angle, same shadows across his face, same soft curl of hair at his temples. he looked like the boy who used to nudge you in the ribs and pretend he wasn’t looking at you between innings.
“how does it look?” he asked.
you heard cheering from the tv behind you, some play happening on-screen, but you didn’t turn. you were too startled by the way your stomach dropped and fluttered at the same time. your mouth moved before your brain caught up.
“you look like… my boyfriend.”
the words slipped out quiet, dazed, almost whispered. and the moment you heard them, your breath stalled. you hadn’t meant to say it.
“i mean—” you said quickly, shaking your head, “the guy who used to be my boyfriend. you. not—i didn’t mean like… currently.”
seungmin huffed out a laugh, entertained by how fast you were scrambling. you sat there on your knees beside him, the fluffy duvet pooled behind you, the game murmuring in the background, and suddenly neither of you knew what to do with your hands. or your breathing. or your faces.
“sorry,” you said quietly. “that was weird.”
“it wasn’t weird,” he said, tone gentler than you expected. he shifted a little, sitting straighter, his knee bumping yours. “you’re just thinking really loud,”
he tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes again. when you still didn’t look up, he reached up slowly and slid the hat off his head. he turned it in his hands once, thumb brushing the worn brim, then set it gently on the nightstand beside him.
your voice came out smaller than you intended. “seungmin?”
he hummed in response. you breathed once, nervously, then looked at him fully.
“…are you my boyfriend?”
he went still.
completely still.
his eyes lifted to yours, steady and too readable in the dim room. he didn’t speak at first. he just looked at you like the question had landed somewhere deep, somewhere he wasn’t expecting to feel it.
a quiet beat passed.
then another.
then he shifted forward slightly, legs brushing yours under the duvet. his voice dropped when he spoke again, low and without any of the teasing he’d used a moment ago.
“come here.”
your breath caught.
not because it sounded like a command. but because it didn’t. it sounded like he needed you close to answer you. you hesitated only long enough to swallow, then moved. you lifted the duvet, slipping beneath it and climbing into the space he made for you. the warmth of his body hit you instantly. you settled against him, your cheek pressed to his chest, your arm slipping around his waist like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t anchor him.
he exhaled slowly, almost relieved, and wrapped his arm around you. his hand found your hair, fingers brushing through it gently, slow enough that it made your eyes flutter. his chest rose and fell under your cheek.
you waited.
whatever was coming wasn’t the thing you wanted. you knew it. you felt it in how carefully he was holding you. like he was about to put something heavy between you and couldn’t figure out where to set it.
his fingers brushed along the back of your head again, gentler this time.
“y/n,” he murmured.
your throat closed a little. “yeah?”
his chest expanded under your cheek as he took a longer breath.
“i’m leaving in september.”
you raised your head slowly, your cheek sliding off his chest. you pushed yourself up enough to see his face in the dim light, your hair falling around your shoulders, the duvet still pooled around both of your waists.
“…what?” you whispered.
he didn’t look away. his eyes stayed on yours, steady but weighed down.
“we haven’t announced anything yet. not to anyone. but this year, this summer is… going to be insane for me. i’ve been trying to keep all of that from bleeding into us, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening.”
your chest tightened.
“i should’ve told you sooner,” he added, reaching out instinctively, his hand brushing your thigh under the duvet. “i’m sorry”
you didn’t speak. you just listened, sitting there on your knees beside him, duvet bunched in your hands, the quiet of the bedroom pressing close around you.
he exhaled, gaze dropping to the space between your knees. “our world tour starts here in august. but i’m leaving the country in september. we’re going everywhere—brazil, la, toronto, london.”
your fingers tightened in the duvet. “for how long?”
his hesitation was answer enough. but you waited. “ten months,” he said quietly. “maybe a little more.”
your breath stalled. ten months. nearly a year.
“we’ll be back in seoul once or twice, but… only for a week each time.”
he rubbed the back of his neck, jaw flexing, like he’d been rehearsing this in his head for weeks but still couldn’t find a version that didn’t sound awful.
“that’s why,” he said quietly. “that’s why i never said anything about us having a label.”
you looked at him, confused and hurt all at once.
he sighed, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “because it wouldn’t have been fair to you,” he said. “to make you wait around while i disappear for ten months. to call you my girlfriend and then leave you here, watching me through a screen, pretending that’s enough.”
“i know what that life is like,” he went on, voice low but steady now. “i wake up in one city, sleep in another. i can’t even guarantee when i’ll be able to call, because when it’s morning for me, it’s the middle of the night for you. and when i finally get a minute, i’ll be tired or distracted or surrounded by people. it’s not the kind of thing you deserve to be waiting on.”
you looked at him and suddenly the future felt like a long hallway you hadn’t realized you were standing in. not until now. not until he pointed to the door at the end of it.
he searched your face, his thumb brushing once against your skin.
“say something,” he whispered.
your mouth wouldn’t work, your brain had basically unplugged itself, and the only coherent thought you managed was that the universe always chooses the best time to take the man you loved away from you. part of you wanted to joke about buying a cardboard cutout of him to sleep next to, and part of you wanted to lie face-down on the mattress and let the sadness take you like a victorian widow.
but under all that noise, something simple pushed its way up.
you loved him. and if he thought ten months on tour was going to scare you off, or untangle the feelings you’d been carrying around for a decade, or somehow erase the fact that every version of him was the person you wanted then fuck him.
you lifted your head, eyes still damp, breath still unsteady, but your voice came out quiet and certain in a way that surprised both of you.
“i’ll wait.”
his whole body went still.
you swallowed, “if that’s what it takes. if you’re leaving… i’ll wait.”
his jaw tensed. his brows drew in, like the words physically hit him.
“y/n,” he whispered, not like he was warning you—more like he was scared to believe you.
but you did believe yourself. for the first time while having these types of conversations with him, you felt something settle in your chest instead of cracking.
“i don’t need you to always pretend your life isn’t insane.” you said. “i get it,” you went on. “your job is insane. your schedule is insane. you’re barely a person with how much they work you.” a tiny laugh escaped you.
he opened his mouth, but you kept talking, not letting the fear swallow the words this time.
“but i don’t want to be strangers again.”
his expression softened and you felt his hand slide up your back.
“i can handle the distance,” you said quietly. “i can handle all of that if it’s… us.” you took a breath. “what i can’t handle is going back to pretending we’re nothing just because it’s easier.”
he let out a breath. his hand stayed on your back, warm and certain, fingers curling just a little like he needed the contact to speak.
“then i don’t want easy anymore either. i want you.” he said quietly. he kept going, voice growing more sure the longer he spoke. “if we’re doing this, i’m not half-assing it. i’m not disappearing and acting like you don’t matter. i’ll call when i can. i’ll fly home when i can. and when i can’t…” his thumb brushed the side of your waist, gentle. “i still won’t be going anywhere.”
you stared at him, stunned for a beat, because nothing about the way he said it felt uncertain. there was no fear in his voice now. no hesitation. just a choice he’d already made.
and your lips curved before you even realized you were smiling.
you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, burying yourself in the warm space between his shoulder and neck. he held you instantly.
“fuck,” he whispered into your hair. “i love you.”
your breath caught, your eyes stinging again—but the good kind this time.
it was the first time he’d said it since you were both sixteen.
you pulled back just enough to look at him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, a small disbelieving smile breaking over your face.
“i love you too,” you said, soft and certain.
he didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
the moment the words left your mouth, his hand slid to your cheek and he kissed you. it wasn’t rushed or hungry or desperate like before..he smiled into it, just barely, the curve of his mouth brushing yours, and you felt the warmth of it spread through your chest like sunlight.
when he finally pulled back, only enough to breathe, he wrapped his arms fully around you and hugged you so tightly you let out a tiny squeak. he laughed under his breath, then buried his face in your neck, nuzzling into your skin like he couldn’t get close enough.
you giggled, the sound escaping before you could stop it, your fingers curling into his hair.
he stayed there for a moment, breathing you in, holding you like he’d been afraid to touch you for years. then he pulled back just slightly—enough for his nose to brush yours, enough for you to see the softness in his eyes, enough for your heartbeat to trip over itself.
“can i be your boyfriend again, y/n?” he asked quietly, his voice warm and hopeful and a little breathless, like the question had been sitting on his tongue forever.
your answer came out before your brain even caught up.
you nodded. hard. maybe too hard. “yeah,” you whispered, your voice cracking with how giddy you suddenly felt. “yes.”
a tiny smile tugged at your lips and seungmin’s face softened completely. his eyes crinkled, his mouth curved. he leaned forward and kissed you once then pulled you back into his chest again. you tucked yourself into him, warm under the duvet, your legs tangled with his
he pressed one last kiss to the top of your head.
“my girl,” he said softly, almost in awe.
and you felt your whole chest glow.
“ok but if we’re dating now, there has to be rules.” you pushed yourself upright, gathering the duvet around your shoulders like it was a boardroom blazer.
“rules?”
you cleared your throat, tightening the duvet around your shoulders like you were preparing for a ted talk. “yes. rules. because you, unfortunately, are famous, seungmin.”
he blinked once. “i am?”
“don’t play dumb,” you said, pointing at him. “rule number one,” you said, “you are not allowed to post anything on social media that could even remotely be interpreted as me.”
seungmin raised a brow, already smiling. “define remotely.”
“rule of thumb,” you said, “everything you post has to be in ones, not twos.”
“ones?” he repeated.
“yes. one drink. one fork. one chair. if there are two of anything, people will assume you’ve acquired a girlfriend and build a twitter thread about it by noon.” he tilted his head, still grinning. “so if i post a pair of socks on the floor, i’m doomed?”
“yes,” you said with a chuckle. “one sock is fine. two socks and suddenly you have someone over.”
“okay, but what about chopsticks?” he said, pretending to sound serious. “they come in pairs too. it’s cultural.”
you stared at him.
“seungmin, if you post chopsticks, people will decide someone’s sitting across from you eating ramen.”
he pretended to think about it, “what if i post three chopsticks? just to confuse them.”
“rule number two,” you continued, ignoring the smile tugging at your lips. “no showing up unannounced at my workplace. ever. i don’t care if you wanna watch baseball, you're not.”
he put a hand over his heart. “you're evil."
“rule number three. you can’t tell anyone just yet. not the members, not the bang chan guy you talk about.”
he huffed a laugh. “bang chan already suspects everything.”
you pointed a finger at his chest. “then let him suspect. he doesn’t know.”
seungmin’s eyes warmed as he watched you, your hair messy, the duvet slipping off your shoulder, your voice stern. “you sound like a pr manager.” he said affectionately.
“i am a pr manager,” you said. “just not yours.”
“thank goodness,” he murmured.
six months later
your laptop sat open on the kitchen island, sunlight spilling over spreadsheets you were very pointedly ignoring. off-season meant working from home—media briefs, pr notes, organizing preseason footage—and normally you didn’t mind the quiet. but today, the quiet was unbearable.
mostly because your boyfriend was on facetime from a hotel room in thailand, hair damp from a shower, t-shirt wrinkled like he’d slept in it, and he’d been pestering you for the last ten minutes.
“seungmin, i’m not going to listen to it now,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose.
he sprawled back on the hotel bed, phone propped against his chest, dim yellow lamp behind him. “yes, you are.”
“no, i’m not.”
“just do it for me, baby.”
you glared. “i don’t listen to your songs before release and you know that.”
and it was true. you had drawn a line about that early on—not because you didn’t want to hear his music, but because it was his job, his art, his work. especially after learning how much went into it—how many drafts, how many nights in the studio, how much pressure sat on every second of a track. ever since seungmin pulled you into his world, you started to really admire his work. you started listening to music differently. more intentionally. more carefully. not just as background noise, and not just as a break from watching a bunch of grown ass men run around throwing and hitting small balls for a living.
and you never wanted to cross the boundary where you got early access to something the other members poured their time into just because your boyfriend felt like spoiling you. that never sat right with you.
except seungmin did not give a single shit.
“you’re literally my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “who the fuck cares?”
“because,” you argued, “i wanna put respect on you and your members and the whole process—”
he rolled his eyes dramatically. “i don’t want respect. i want you to hear the damn song.”
you tried—genuinely tried—not to smile at how blunt he looked, sprawled across hotel pillows with that half-annoyed, half-soft expression.
his new album hop was releasing in a few hours. each member had a solo track and he was desperately trying to have you at least listen to his own. he shifted, sitting up a little straighter. something gentler slid into his voice.
“i want you to hear it before everyone because it’s yours.”
you froze.
he swallowed, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes again, softer now. “i wrote it in the spring. when all i could think about was you.”
your pulse tripped. “what?”
“it’s not just a song,” he said quietly. “it’s everything i couldn’t say back then. everything i was scared to say. i’ve been waiting months for you to hear it.”
you stared at him, eyes wide. “you… wrote a song for me?”
seungmin blinked at you like you’d just asked if water was wet. “why are you shocked?”
“i—because—seungmin—”
he shook his head, an incredulous little smile tugging at his mouth. “i write about you all the time. half the demos on my phone are either about missing you, wanting you, or being annoyed i miss you.” he paused, eyes softening. “but this one is different.”
your chest tightened.
“this one’s… extra special,” he murmured. “because i wasn’t writing around how i felt. i wasn’t dodging it.” his voice dipped. “i just wrote exactly what my feelings were.”
your breath caught. the room felt too warm. or maybe that was just him—even from a hotel room on the other side of the world.
you sighed, grabbing your phone. “fine.”
his face lit up instantly. you pretended not to notice.
you opened your messages—there it was. a little audio file sitting above a string of daily texts he’d sent from different airports.
a recording.
your thumb hovered. “what’s it called?”
he hesitated for half a second, like he’d been waiting for you to ask, like he’d been thinking about this exact moment since the day he finished writing it.
“As We Are.”
epilogue: fall of 2025
there are moments in life when you suddenly realize you’re living the exact dream your teenage self used to die for and didn’t even notice it happening until you’re smack in the middle of it. like one of those stupid movie montages where everything finally lines up and the universe throws glitter on your head.
that’s exactly how you felt sitting behind fucking home plate at dodger stadium. you. in los angeles. at one of the most eventful postseason games of the year.
you took a slow breath, letting the whole scene wash over you. when you looked around, the stands were an endless sea of blue. dodgers blue, blue jays blue, thousands of shirts and hats and jerseys blending together until the whole crowd looked like one giant wave. it should have been inconvenient, confusing even, trying to tell the two teams apart. instead it was beautiful. the matching colors made the stadium feel unified in a way you weren’t expecting, like everyone had agreed to paint themselves into the same picture.
the lights were bright, the rally towels were spinning, the upper deck buzzed with noise. every direction you looked, the energy rolled over you—people shouting, clapping, jumping, passing snacks, holding their breath between pitches. it felt alive in that cinematic way, the kind of atmosphere that makes your chest tighten and your skin prickle.
for a minute, you forgot to breathe. you just stared, taking it all in, because this was the kind of moment you used to only imagine. the field was glowing, the sky was settling into late-evening gold, and you were close enough to hear the sharp smack of the catcher’s mitt.
you tore your eyes away from the field when you felt a presence coming towards you, a familiar shift of air, the faint scent of his cologne.
there he was—your glorious, annoying, attractive boyfriend—coming down the short aisle. he’s wearing a backwards cap, sleeves rolled just enough to show a hint of forearm, with two drinks in his hands like he’d just trekked across a desert. except the trek was laughably minimal now. no hundreds of flights of stairs. no nosebleed seats. just ten steps from the concourse and right back to you.
“you took so long,” you said as he slid into the seat, sounding only a little dramatic. “i almost thought you were get scouted.”
seungmin scoffed, shaking his head as he handed you your drink. “they can’t afford me.”
you grinned, nudging his shoulder with yours. he finally sat, settling comfortably as if he always belonged next to you in a stadium this massive. his arm lifted casually and draped behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder.
this was your first time going public. and what a way to do it—sitting behind home plate at a postseason game in the states, surrounded by fifty thousand people, cameras everywhere, your names floating somewhere in the same oxygen as celebrities and players and broadcasters.
you were almost certain people were taking pictures—phones angled your way, the occasional double-take, a couple of not-so-subtle whispers behind you—but it honestly wasn’t as nerve-wracking as you’d imagined. maybe it was the energy of the stadium. maybe it was the fact that seungmin looked perfectly relaxed beside you, sipping his drink like he wasn’t a globally recognizable idol.
the third out snapped your attention back to the field, and you cheered automatically, clapping loud with everyone else. seungmin did too, nudging his knee against yours as you both got swept up in the excitement. the two of you were wearing matching plain unbranded blue because the last thing you needed was to get flamed online for rooting for the “wrong” team.
“see?” you said, still smiling. “i told you neutral was smart.”
he shrugged. “i look good in blue.”
“you look good in anything.”
he blinked, then smirked. “say it louder.”
“no.”
you laughed, settling back as the stadium shifted into the next inning. as the teams jogged off the field and the inning turned over, you started rambling about how american teams had the most ridiculous pr budgets you’d ever seen. the marketing. the sponsorship deals. the sheer theatricality of it all.
“and look at that,” you said, pointing to the scoreboard before continuing your ramble of words. “back in korea, we could never get away with half of this.”
seungmin turned his head, watching you with that quiet, amused expression he always got when you started talking shop. he didn’t interrupt. he just listened, eyes fixed on you like you were the only part of the stadium worth paying attention to.
he’d told you before that he liked hearing about the behind-the-scenes stuff—how teams handled media, how players got prepped, how you coordinated crises and schedules and press. and you loved when he shared the same from his world—practice schedules, comeback planning, dance rehearsals, how idols were shuffled through a hundred tasks that no one would ever see.
it was almost like a perfect exchange program. a terrible name for it, honestly. but it felt exactly right.
you got to see his world. he got to see yours. and somehow the two fit together easier than you’d ever imagined.
you were mid-sentence—something about outfield camera angles and fan engagement—when the stadium suddenly dimmed.
the jumbotron flickered.
a soft glow spread across the screen.
and then, in huge bubbly pink letters:
kiss cam
your mouth parted in disbelief.
it wasn't just anyone on the screen. it was you. leaned subtly into seungmin’s side, and him looking unfairly good with his cap pushed back just enough to show his forehead. the crowd started reacting louder now, laughter and cheers blurring together into one giant noise.
it felt like you were watching someone else. like those two people up there were some couple you’ve never met.
you don’t move.
you were too busy watching your reflection on the jumbotron, wide-eyed and unblinking, like it might change if you just wait long enough. the cheers grow louder. and on the screen, you caught it—seungmin’s hand shifting.
slowly, casually, it moved from the back of your seat… to your shoulder… then gently to your cheek. his thumb brushed just beneath your jaw.
you turned.
the screen disappeared from your mind.
just seungmin, inches away, looking at you with a calm you definitely didn't feel. his eyes flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes like a silent question.
and you leaned in.
your lips met his. it only lasted a second or two. but it was enough.
enough to make your heart stutter. enough to hear the crowd explode in the background.
and when you pull back, his hand is still on your face, and he’s still looking at you like that. like it’s just you and him and everything else is background noise.
“you okay?” he asked, voice low.
you nodded, stunned. “yeah. i—yeah.”
he searched your face like he was trying to catch even the faintest hint of doubt. the crowd was still buzzing, people laughing, clapping, nudging each other because they just watched you and seungmin kiss on the biggest screen to ever exist.
“you sure?” he asked again, quieter this time. not teasing. because he knows how big this moment is. for both of you.
you let out a tiny breath, the kind that warms your whole chest, and your lips pull into a smile you can’t fight even if you tried.
“i’m sure,” you said, and you hear the steadiness in your own voice.
then you leaned into him, arms wrapping around his middle as you press your face briefly into his shoulder. he hugs you back instantly. you feel him smile against your hair.
and in that loud, chaotic stadium, wrapped up in him and blue lights and the echo of the crowd, you realize you’re not just living your teenage dream.
What’s worse than getting arrested for speeding on a backroad? Getting jailed overnight for it.
Lucky for you, your overnight cellmate is a walking angel on earth.
wc: 3.6k
a/n: this idea came to me in class and trust I opened google docs so fast…
¨Police cars really should have nicer seats. Don't you guys have an insane budget? You're pretty much the law, aren't you?¨
Through the bars, the officer in the driver's seat does not seem amused. You brush your thumb over the rip in the blue leather.
Tough crowd.
You´ve never really been arrested before. A mild parking ticket here and there, sure, but nothing like this. The closest run-in you´ve ever had with the law was when you were 14 and your best friend stole a seasonal lotion from Bath and BodyWorks, and even then you cried your way out of it. The look on your mothers face invoked more terror in you than any horror movie you´d ever been forced to watch.
Imagine what she would look like if she saw you right now…
In your defense, undercover cops weren't really known to frequent that backroad. Especially not during the day. Especially not in Kia Souls. You didn´t even know it was possible to get pulled over for going 10 over the speed limit. Apparently you can.
Apparently you can also get an added offense for ¨resisting arrest¨. (You wouldn´t say you were resisting, per say. God forbid you try to explain your situation. What if you were in labor? What if you had a family member who was in their last few moments of life? Neither or these were happening really, but it's the principle).
In summary, these officers are definitely overreacting.
The station itself is slightly nicer, you suppose. At least the chair cushions are intact. It's nearly silent aside from the repetitive click clack from the keyboard of the receptionist entering your personal information. Her nails are neatly manicured with a baby pink gloss. They're pretty. If only she had the personality to match.
¨Mkay. They're gonna take your picture over there,¨ said finger points to the hallway on her left.
¨And then I can leave?¨ You try to mask your hopefulness.
She deadpans you. ¨Mugshot.¨
With a defeated sigh, you drag your feet over to the room. If you had known there was going to be a photo taken of you on your permanent record, you would´ve put in a little more effort into your appearance this morning.
They hand you a sign and tell you where to position your feet. You hold it up with the little spark of dignity you have left and flash a sweet, closed lip smile. The officer rolls his eyes at that. Good.
He takes the sign (somewhat aggressively) and walks you down the hall further.
¨You get one phone call. Estimated bail is around a grand. Your temp cell is right there.¨ He gestures to the small space.
The last part of his speech goes in one ear and out the other. Your head starts to feel fuzzy.
¨One Thousand Dollars?? For speeding??¨
Don't they know you're a broke college student? Can´t they show a little bit of grace?
¨Do the crime, Do the time, Pay the fine.¨
So he´s only got a sense of humor when it's at your demise. You´re really starting to hate this guy.
The cell is…small. And incredibly cramped. Two beds, one toilet and one sink like the ugly grey walls. The design on the bottom of your shoes leaves an imprint in the built up dirt on the ground when you enter.
Not that you notice any of this though. The only focus you have is on one of the ratty twin beds, because sitting there with hands clenching the sheets, is a real life angel.
His head is down, long honey blonde hair falling over big brown doe eyes. They lift up to look at you, startled by your entrance, and you get a full view of the light freckles that dot the full expanse of his nose and cheeks. His cupids bow is pronounced, accentuating his full, soft lips. You don't even care that you're staring right now. This man is beautiful. You don't even register the officer slamming the barred iron door shut behind you until the angel opens his mouth.
¨Uh…hi…cellmate…¨
His voice is deep. Weirdly, it compliments his soft, dolly face, even though it seems like it shouldn't. You break eye contact, scanning your surroundings. You almost forgot you were in a jail cell. This beautiful man in front of you knows you're a no-good, law breaking delinquent.
You give him a small smile and wave, confidence completely depleted. He straightens up, trying again.
¨What are you in for?¨” he teases awkwardly.
¨Aggravtated assault.¨ you joke back. At least you think you did. The widen of his eyes and slight recoil of his figure makes you realize that your joke didn't land well. He scoots back in his seat a little, tensing even more.
¨Oh…cool…¨
¨I´m joking. Obviously.¨
He slowly (and awkwardly) brightens, a small smile growing as if he's trying to test the waters. It's cute. What´s a guy like this doing in a jail cell?
You mirror his position on the other bed, arms coming back to hold your weight. It's about as comfortable as the backseat of the cop car. He's quiet again, searching for something to say. You beat him to it.
¨Well? Secret for secret? Why are you here?¨ He rubs his neck.
¨Uhm…the usual..¨ The usual…?
¨Usual as in you come here a lot?¨ Now you´re the one recoiling.
¨No! No, uh. You know. Like, petty crime and all that.¨ You squint your eyes at him. He pivots.
¨I´m Felix! What's your name?¨ The bright smile he offers almost makes you forget how suspiciously he´s avoiding your question.
He offers his hand out to you and you shake it lightly, coming in a bit closer. His nails are painted a soft yellow and hes got a string bracelet on his wrist that´s definitely seen some wear. You try to ignore the slight satisfaction you feel from the lack of rings on his fingers.
¨(name)¨ He repeats it softly under his breath. It might just be your new favorite sound.
Realizing your hands are still connected, you gently release your hold on the mystery man. Is he a mystery man? You technically know his name now, so you´re not strangers. He is weird about his charges though. What if he hurt someone? Or is running a nation-wide underground drug trafficking ring? Is he even old enough to do that?
¨Hey Felix?¨
¨Yeah?¨ He's popping his knuckles now. Must be anxious. Maybe he is running a drug ring.
¨Do you want to play a game?¨
Do you want to play a game? Who are you? Saw?
¨Like, a game as in…rock paper scissors?¨ He suggests with a head tilt.
¨I was thinking of 20 questions or something. Something fun.¨ you backtrack ¨Not that rock paper scissors doesn't sound fun! We can combine them!¨ He looks up at the dim light in thought.
¨I guess we will be here for a bit. WInner gets to ask the question?¨” You nod excitedly, lowering yourself to the ground so that your back is resting against the uncomfortable (yes, you will specify that everytime) bed. He does the same, a bit more cautious of the dirt on the ground.
¨Ready?¨ You´re so close, the toes of your shoes are touching.
¨Hit me.¨ The friendly smile morphs into a slightly more competitive one.
You read somewhere that guys always picked scissors on their first play. Some online testosterone-telepathy myth probably, but it's worth a shot.
¨Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!¨
He pulls scissors. You reach out, tapping your first to his two fingers and he playfully groans. It's probably smart to start out with a light question. Even though you want to know everything about this boy, you don't want to scare him off before the games even started. (Not that he could really go anywhere. You´re kind of stuck in a cell together.)
¨How old are you?¨
¨Easy. 23.¨ He answers like it's a test, reaching his fist out again.
¨Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!¨
He pulls scissors again.
¨I can make this one a little harder for you then.¨ You tease.
¨Try me. I´m an open book.¨ He´s not, but you´ll let him be cocky.
¨What do you do for work?¨ A criminal would never reveal where he works, and a lie will come with some noticeable hesitation. It´s a pretty clever question if you do say so yourself.
¨Even easier. Goldies. It´s a bakery.¨
¨By the EU campus?¨
¨ That's the one.¨ He’s 23… works a part time…no..
¨Do you go there?¨
He reaches forward and forms your hand back into a fist.
¨I thought you had to win a round to ask a question?¨ A little light giggle escapes his pink lips. Looks like we've got ourselves a little comedian.
¨Well I didn´t take you as a stickler for the rules. Especially considering where we are.¨
¨I´m a complex character, what can I say?¨
He doesn't throw scissors this time. Figures. His soft palm closes over your clenched fist, squeezing ever so gently.
¨Why do you always play rock?¨
because you always throw scissors?
¨Is that your question?¨
He presses his lips together, frantically shaking his head. ¨Let me think.¨ He doesn't move his hand.
¨What´s your biggest guilty pleasure?¨ His eyes are wide, flicking to your face.
You’re not sure why you expected something baseline from him. Going silent, you look down at your conjoined hands in contemplation. For a moment you just sit there still, savoring the moment.
“To-do lists.”
“To-do lists?”
“Yeah.” You think for a moment. “I make to do lists all the time, but I never actually put important things on there. I just write down stuff I’ve already done on there so I can check it off and make myself feel like I’ve been productive.”
You swivel your head to look at him. There’s a quiet hope that he’ll understand you. It’s a big expectation to put on a stranger, but it's in the back of your mind nonetheless. He gives a small hum of understanding.
“I’ve never done that before. I guess it would just feel like cheating to my mind.” You chuckle.
“It’s called a guilty pleasure for a reason.”
“Right! Sorry.” His smile is brighteningly infectious, and you find yourself pulling your hand away to draw your fists once again. He steals your victory a second time, this question coming quicker.
“What do you do for work?” He asks, pulling himself around to sit side by side with you. Your eyes meet his.
“Practicing dental assistant. Next!” He gasps.
“A doctor? With a record? What has come of our world? Oh sorrow! Oh shame!” You punch his arm with your “rock” lightly enough to not cause pain, but enough to get your point across. Felix throws his head back and clutches his forearm in “pain”. The playful glint in his eye doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Please. Most doctors get arrested for way worse than speeding.”
“Speeding?” He straightens, more attentive. “Aren’t you just supposed to get a ticket for that or something?”
Exactly.
“That’s what I thought, but apparently they really want to keep the streets clean. Did you know that cops are hiding in Kia Souls now?.”
“I mean yeah, that's kind of common knowledge.” The annoyed eyeroll comes before you can stop it.
“Whatever. I’ll make sure to keep a lookout for the ugliest car known to man next time.”
“What if I drove a Kia Soul?”
“Then I’d say ‘ew gross’ and wouldn’t talk to you until you got a new one.” you pause, “You don’t actually drive a Kia Soul, do you?” He lets out a soft giggle, corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement as he shakes his head. You’re reminded of how effortlessly ethereal he is.
“Just testing your loyalty.”
With another round comes another loss. He taps his finger thoughtfully to his chin, eyes squinting in thought before perking up and acquisitioning you.
“Do you have any hidden talents?”
Not really.
“Maybe.” You casually tilt your head to the side, away from him. “Does palm reading count?”
“Wow. You’re just full of surprises I guess.” Brown eyes sparkle with genuine interest. He offers you his upturned palm. “Do me.”
Taking his hand into yours, you examine it closely, pulling it to eye level. You felt the softness of it in your rock paper scissors game, but now you can really feel the smoothness of his skin. This guy's lotion budget must be insane. His joints are slightly bony and protruding, meaning he probably pops them a lot.
“Hmm. The palm is telling me,” you pull his hand to your ear for show, nodding silently with closed eyes. “Oh yes, it says you are very anxious. Much fidgeting.” An unimpressed look is shot your way.
“You knew that without the palm reading. Come on, impress me.” His tone is challenging. He dramatically flexes his fingers, splaying them out. Fine.
Estimated guess it is. You’ve always been somewhat okay at reading people.
“Your heart line curves down. It’s this one,” the tip of your finger follows the crease in his palm that starts between the pointer and middle finger, trailing down to below his pinky. “It means you love deeply. Maybe a little recklessly. You forgive too much and put others before yourself more often than you should.”
You pulled the conclusion out of thin air (and a bit of character analysis), but from his agape mouth and the awestruck flush on his freckled cheeks, you think you’ll keep that little fact to yourself. His fingers slowly curl over yours ever so softly.
“Does it really say that?” You slowly nod in reassurance.
“Mhm.”
He lowers his gaze to his palm again, as if trying to read it himself. His eyes meet yours, brewing with slight uncertainty and shame.
“Public indecency.” What. You respond with a blank stare, trying to put the limited pieces together in your brain. He decides to help you out.
“That’s why I'm here. I got arrested for public indecency.” oh. Uncomfortable humor takes ahold of your words before you can think.
“You didn’t like…whip it out somewhere, did you?”
“NO!” Soft hands fly up to grip your forearms for a moment, before registering his movements and quickly retreating them to his sides. “I just made some bad decisions. Got a little too drunk with my friends and ran off. Apparently they found me stripping down by a fountain. I said I wanted to go ‘skinny dipping’.”
That’s…really funny actually. You’d already ruled out the drug trafficker theory after he name dropped your favorite bakery. That's what he was so afraid of saying? That’s way cooler than speeding on a backroad. You’re actually quite jealous of all the bypassers that got to see him strip down in public.
“What?”
“...what.”
“Did you just say you were jealous?”
Oh. My. God. You’re one more mumbled thought away from finding a rickety metal spoon and digging yourself a mile-long tunnel to escape far, far away from here. Your cheeks are positively burning and you quickly resort to the age old technique passed down to you from your mother. Gaslighting.
¨No.¨
There is a beat of silence before you tug his palm back to your face again, pointing to the crease that slants around his thumb. ¨This line is your ´Bad Decisions after Midnight ' line. Looks like it's pretty active.¨ You turn his palm, pushing the base up against the bridge of his nose. ¨See.¨
He pulls his head back, rapidly blinking and eyes refocusing, before he visibly registers your words. His blush gets ever worse, finding a new interest in the cracked grey paint of the (ugly!) gray walls.
¨That´s not…” Felix clears his throat, adams apple bobbing, ¨I´m not an alcoholic.¨
You lean around him, trying to meet his eyes. He doesn´t budge.
¨I never said you were. Just some bad decisions is all.¨ Your hand comes up to his sharp jaw, lightly coaxing him to face you. His hand lifts and covers yours.
¨I don´t want you to think I´m like, some party animal or something. I don't even actually like alcohol anyways. It was just a drinking game with friends.¨ He backtracks, worsening his incessant rambles. ¨Not that I´m easily susceptible to peer pressure either. I´m really good at saying no! And I don't strip on the regular. Or at all actually. I´m not promiscuous! I´m really super loyal-¨
¨So the palm has told me.¨ you add.
¨Yeah.¨ A long breath escapes his lips. ¨And for your information,¨ he says to his palm ¨It wasn't a bad decision after midnight. It was 1 in the afternoon.¨
¨Day Drinking? Oh Felix that is so much worse.¨ you tease.
¨Stooooopppp¨ he whines, head tilting back again. Your hand drops from his jaw to meet your other, cupping his hand.
It´s weird, this comfort. As interested as you are in Felix´s life, sitting here and just being with him offers you more peace than you've felt in a while. You're no stranger to connecting with, well, strangers. But this doesn´t feel like the playful exchange you have with the doorman at your apartment, or sweet conversations you have with the occasional elderly on a park bench. With him, it´s comfortable.
Like you, he doesn't try to hide who he is. It´s an admirable trait that you have yet to truly find in another person. (Of course, it could just be the added vulnerability of the jail cell. Can't forget about that part.) You're half convinced that this is a fever dream. One of a dent in your record, a beautiful angel in your jail cell, a playful game of 20 questions and reading soft palms.
He breaks the silence with a soft question.
¨Do you uh,¨ he thinks ¨Who do you live with?¨
¨Why? Trying to break in? Exchange my nice car with your Kia Soul?¨
Dimples form on his round cheeks as he leans in. He smells like sweet bread (and a bit of vodka lime, but you know. Bad decisions and all.)
¨Maybe. I thought you wanted the Kia gone.¨ You give the hand in your lap a quick squeeze.
¨Got me there. Just me and my cat.¨ you hunch lower, adopting a husky tone. ¨What about you? Do you live alone?¨ you purse your lips to hide your growing smile, trying to stay in character.
Another giggle. ¨I live with three of my friends. One of them is actually the one bailing me out today.¨ He blinks, a slight embarrassed glint in his eye. ¨That feels weird to say.¨
¨Do you do the cooking?¨ You inquire. You're genuinely interested. Can he only bake? Or is he a man of many talents? (You´re sure it´s the latter).
¨Me and Chan. He´s the most responsible.¨ There's a soft look that takes over his face when he talks about his friends.
¨Chan´s the one bailing you out then?¨
¨Yeah¨ he nods. ¨He could've paid on the spot, but he said I needed to ´learn my lesson´. Which is fair I guess.¨ He admits with a defeated shrug.
You take the opportunity to tease him again. ¨So he has you in timeout?¨ This time he´s the one to lightly punch you, dusty fingers leaving a subtle imprint on your sleeve.
¨Well when you put it like that-¨
¨Lee Felix?¨
Both of you perk up at the interruption. Officer Douchebag is standing above you both, keys in hand and cell door unlocked. Next to him is a man slightly taller than Felix, wearing a skin tight black tee with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression seems friendly, but he's zoning in on your and Felix's interlinked hands. He flashes you a smile similar to your cellmates, dimple on full display.
¨Bail´s been paid Lix. You´re a free man.¨
This must be Chan.
You drop his hand like it's burnt you. He glances over at you, half embarrassed and half confused? Maybe hurt?
¨You have some paperwork to fill out at the front. You´ll also collect your belongings there.¨ If Officer D (as you´ve coined him) was this kind to anyone else, you might've been a little offended. Unfortunately, you can't blame him. Who could be dismissive of Felix?
He stands, giving you another full view of his height. Hate to see him leave, love to watch him go.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the dull pain in your chest as you realize he's leaving. Fever dream over.
When he reaches Chan. he turns back around to you for the last time. Offering the same shy smile that he introduced himself with, he gestures to the dirty floor.
¨I work closing tomorrow.¨
And with that, he disappears down the hallway with Officer D and Chan, leaving you alone on the cool floor, picking at a loose string on your jeans. Your eyes find the spot of dirt he gestured to.
Xxx-xxx-xxxx
His number. Etched into the dirt on the cell floor.
In that moment you realize two things.
The first is that you would visit Goldies everyday and buy a million overpriced croissants if it meant you got to talk to Lee Felix again.
And the second?
¨Hey! You never gave me my phone call!”
a/n: can you guys tell that I’ve never been in a jail cell? And I really hate Kia Souls?
first one shot! pls send in your thoughts! Requests are OPEN!
Disclaimer: The images of the characters used in this post do not belong to writerclaire, they are official images and/or screenshots from the game itself.
synopsis ; you finally get your big break but sylus doesn't show up for opening night.
word count ; 12k words
author's note ; this idea has been in my drafts for so long...anyways this is my food for y'all since i won't be here this weekend! enjoy! also a big ty to @cheezeandkrackers for helping me with this <33
content warning ; angst w/ comfort! mentions of depression, death. lmk if i missed anything!
The weight on your back is indescribable. It physically forces your shoulders down, your back hunched as you keep your forehead pressed against the painted wood of the vanity. The bright lights of the dressing room pierced your eyes. A dull ache formed in the front of your head and you aren’t sure how well you are going to perform tonight. A quiet groan falls from your lips, a subtle marker of your exhaustion and depletion over the past month of performing.
Not to mention that your mind has been rather preoccupied with the empty void that haunts you in the audience. Your thoughts always move back to him, wondering if he’s okay and has been keeping with his schedule. It pains you to still care for him when you damn well that he has most likely not even thought about you at all.
You miss him but he hasn’t even bothered to show up to any of your shows. He’s probably busy with work, anyways. He’s always busy with work. Maybe it was a good thing you left his home — a place you used to consider your own home — while his job kept him…occupied. At least the resentment that built up in your heart had the chance to dissipate, even if it was a minuscule amount.
It didn’t help either that Sylus hasn’t even bothered to call or text. Not even a whisper of his voice in your ear before you step out onto the stage. He was your biggest supporter, or so you thought. But in the days that followed your argument — the same one that left you a crying mess in your old apartment, knees hugged to your chest, wondering why your boyfriend couldn’t attend a single show — you felt indifference take control of your body, causing you to go numb.
Your back straightens as soon as there is a knock on the door. Tremors overtake your hands. The familiar shake of anxiety and pre-show jitters. You have performed the show with flawless execution for its month long run. Eight shows a week with one day off — Monday, to be exact — and you are finally starting to feel the ache in your bones and head from the constant exposure of the stage lights and same demanding screeches of powerful dialogue that shakes the audience to their core.
Your character’s anguish masks your own. What was that saying again? That life imitates art? You tried to ignore that feeling, that the words on the page didn’t reflect the same torment that you feel towards your relationship with Sylus. That the married couple in the play are not indicative of your relationship with Sylus and that the two of you can somehow find a way out of the fog.
The door creaks open. Your gaze flits to the stage manger’s reflection, their black clothing and headset catching your attention. They don’t even have to say a word. You simply nod and watch as the door closes behind them, leaving you behind in the deafening silence. Your ears ring. The dull ache behind your eyes grows in size but you ignore the feeling, pushing through as you bring yourself back up to your feet.
A slow exhale leaves your mouth. You close your eyes, trying to settle your nerves.
Breathe in. Hold. Open your eyes. Exhale.
Dark bags hang under your eyes. The sunken in look from your lack of sleep and constant worry over a man who simply hasn’t bothered to support you. Sylus has claimed that Onychinus and his work has kept him away from seeing you on stage. Well, that’s what he told you when you first came home after opening night. After that, it’s been complete silence on his end. It’s not like you made an effort to reach out either, but you truly do not believe that it should be you to be the one to mend the bullet hole that ripped your heart in half.
You know that you are bound to face him sometime soon. At least it won’t have an effect on your ability to act like a tired and worn out wife who wishes to have a better life for herself. It’s not like he’ll be sitting in the seat you have reserved for him every showing. The empty seat pushes you towards desperation, towards a place of agony that only a woman in pain could feel.
You breathe in one last time. Your lungs burn as you hold in the breath. You exhale. Slow and timid. Your nails dig into the palms of your hand, rough enough to draw blood. A quick turn on your heel, feet carrying you towards the door. You push through with tears brimming your eyes and a new found determination lit up in your heart to make this the best performance of the play’s run — even if it is the last show.
Excitement bubbles throughout your body. A smile has been etched into your face ever since you woke up that morning. Despite the bed being empty beside you, you are determined to make today a great day because, you guessed it: it’s your opening night!
The play that you have dedicated so many endless nights and weekends to is finally here. The play has been a blessing to you. While Sylus worked and dealt with business deals for Onychinus, you were ready to take that shot in the dark and audition for the show. Turns out, they loved the devastation that you brought to the character. The raw authenticity of heartbreak and resignation showed through the tremor in your voice, the way your hands shook on stage as if you were truly the one contemplating divorcing your husband.
You would never do that, though. You love Sylus with your entire being. There is no way in hell that you are letting him go.
Your phone vibrates on the side table. You reach for it without looking, fingers curling around the device as you bring it to your face. Sylus’s name graces the screen. There is a flutter in your heart at the sight. You quickly openly up the messages and toss your hair out of your eyes, the smile on your face faltering once you read his words.
Work has me busy today. I’ll see you later tonight.
That’s okay. You know that he’ll be at the Orpheum Theater when the doors open. If anything, your boyfriend will be the first one through the doors with an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms, subtly bragging to all of those with ears that his lovely partner is in the play — and as the lead no less!
I hope work goes well! I can’t wait to see you tonight! I saved you the best seat in the house! I love you!
Your fingers dance across the screen at lightning speeds, a small chuckle bubbling on the inside of your chest. The phone is tossed to the side and you spread yourself across the king sized bed, arms and legs spread out as far as you can reach. An excited squeal leaves your body. You kick and punch the air as your laughter fills the room. A surge of anticipation — the kind that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling from excitement and joy and happiness.
Sylus is finally going to be able to see you perform. He is finally going to watch you in something that isn’t humiliating, like that smoothie commercial you booked where you were dressed up like a pomegranate, and you can feel the anticipation blossom inside of your body.
The thought itself excites you! For Sylus to see you on stage. It has you smiling throughout dress rehearsal, all throughout an interview the theater scheduled with you and your co-star, and you even found yourself smiling right as the theater doors opened.
The familiar buzz of excitement fills the theater. The audience slowly pours into the theater. A low hum is heard in the air. Quiet and indistinct conversations heard as the nicely dressed people make their way towards their assigned seats, the red material of the chairs calling their names, beckoning for them to move forward and closer to the stage.
The ensemble cast giggles and talk amongst themselves as you and your co-lead take your place on stage behind the deep red curtain. The two of you sit on a couch, one that looks like it has seen better days. Your knee bounces up and down. The remnants of your anxiety showcased in the erratic movement trapped in your legs.
“Nervous?” The man beside you asks.
You stiffly nod, forcing a smile across your face while you play with the hem of your costume’s skirt. The rest of the ensemble cast remain tucked away in the wings, watching as the curtain trembles, ready to be lifted for the first show of the play’s runs — and your career. Just to the side, you notice as the house lights breathe. One moment it’s bright, the next it’s dark, signaling the beginning of the show.
You close your eyes one last time, slowly inhaling as much air as you possibly can. The slight tension in your muscles slowly vanishes. The quiet creak of the curtain being raised forces you to open your eyes, back straightening as you and your scene partner ready yourselves for the beginning of the play.
The director wants you to stare straight ahead, to peer into the spotlight that illuminates your bodies. You force your gaze away, though, and allow yourself to look in the direction of Sylus’ reserved seat.
The director was so excited when you came to her with the news of your boyfriend requesting the best seat in the house. You had talked him out of sitting in a box seat for your first performance, claiming that box seats are for the rich who do not truly care for art. If Sylus wants to be a true connoisseur, then he needs to sit in the center of the theater, to sit among other people and to allow himself to be fully immersed in the story’s plot.
You frequently spoke of Sylus to the rest of the crew of ensemble. Let’s be real: you told anyone who was willing to listen about your relationship with Sylus. Every single person who works on the play built an image of him inside of their minds, ready to meet the man who has their leading lady so deep in love that she can barely focus whenever he sends a message. Sylus had become someone that the cast and crew were looking forward to meet and invite into the life of the theater — even the owner of the theater wished to meet him to try and secure new funds for their next play.
The curtains raise and the sly smile is wiped off of your face. The character’s persona is draped across your body, your mind making that switch into taking on the character’s life. Your eyes remain fixed on the seat. The one place in the theater where the sound and view is the best.
Your body goes cold. The air in your lungs is yanked free from your body. It is as if you have just been body slammed into a cement wall. A quiet ring forms in your ears. The terrifying sound of disappointment and whiplash deafens you even as your co-star speaks out his opening lines.
The chair is empty.
Tears brim your eyes and your force your gaze away from the sight, blinking away the tears as you take your cue to stand and address the crowd. You’re stuck, though. The words remain trapped on your tongue, the bitter taste of being letdown and frustration spreading across your mouth. An iron ball forms in your throat. You’re unable to force it away, to swallow the weight that forms in your neck.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice shakes as if you are the character herself, bearing your soul to the audience to see under the lights of the stage. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times.”
The rest of the show goes as smooth as the last few dress rehearsals. You push through the stabbing pain in your heart, ignoring the way your body feels like it is being ripped open from the inside out. The ache in your throat grows but you force it away whenever you have to speak, forcing the words out of your mouth. It is only when you exit off into the wings of the stage that you allow yourself to crumble, your face breaking as you try to hide your tears. The makeup artists desperately try to save your makeup, helping talk you through the warfare that has formed inside of your heart.
It was only a matter of minutes before you were pushed back onto the stage again, forcing a smile onto your face as you pretend to be happy in a loveless marriage. You ignored the empty space in the audience. The seat you had reserved for him. With every turn and flick of the head, you are always so tempted to stare at the space. You force your mind to stay on task, to proclaim the lines that have been bestowed upon you but all you want to do is go home — not to his — and cry into your pillow until your body gives out.
Where the hell is he? What excuse can Sylus give to you that can make up for the fact that he isn’t here in the audience. What could he possibly say that can dispel the tremor in your heart, the burning ache that has tightened around your throat. Is he truly preoccupied with work?
Or has he found a comfort in the hunter he met when Onychinus’ path crossed the Hunter Associations?
The play continues and you numb the feeling of sadness that formed in your heart. While your voice remains bright and vibrant, showcasing the character’s emotionality and the devastation that she feels, you remain calm and collected under the mask. You trick the audience into think that you, the actress, take your job so seriously. That you are a professional who isn’t on the verge of having a breakdown onto the stage.
You sit on stage right. Your eyes try not to stare at the empty seat but the temptation of pain and angst is just unbearable. Slowly but surely, your eyes move inch by inch — moving mere millimeters — towards the space. An older couple sits on the left side of the chair while on the right is a burly man who looks as if he is about to pop out of his tailored suit. You suck in a breath while your scene partner recites his lines with ease, walking across the stage while you remain isolated on the couch.
“All I wanted was for the party to go well,” you say in response, picking at the fabric of your skirt.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” he exhales loudly. You glance at the actor, replacing his face with Sylus’. You watch as he moves around the fake kitchen, slamming the cabinets shut and tossing the silverware across the countertop. He turns around and you swear you see the red shade of your partner’s eyes in him. A sharp inhale has you clutching your chest, turning away from the man. “Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please,” you choke back the tears.
“When will it be enough for you?” The actor’s eyes meet your glossy ones. His fingers curl around the edge of the fake countertop, knuckles white.
Your bottom lip trembles. You slowly push yourself up to your feet, a sudden lightness overtaking your body as the lights begin to dim on the other sections of the stage. You face the audience. A single tear runs down your cheek, the ticking time bomb of your own cache of despair ready to explode.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
The words make your ears ring. Although they fell from your lips, it feels so surreal to even speak them aloud. To even say the damned phrase when your heart is in shambles. The feeling of falling out love is overwhelming. While you still hold onto the hope that your worst fears won’t come true, they still scratch at the back of your mind. Slowly countering the defenses that you have established to protect yourself.
That’s when the tears begin to fall. You allow yourself to breakdown and sob for all to see. You try to fight when away, furiously wiping your eyes and capturing the tears on your fingers. The once perfect and thick makeup begins to streak. The black mascara runs down your face, your fingers now black.
It was supposed to be an emotionless speech. One about your character finding peace and solace in her husband’s disinterest. That she has finally broken free from the spell that the man had placed on her. His final words being the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The accumulation of your stress and frustration have into fruition, taking the form of salty tears that land at your feet.
You can feel the character’s pain. When you first read the script, you were curious as to how horrible a man could be to the woman he claims to love. You wondered why he would step out on his wife, to find comfort in a younger and prettier woman. Why he would berate the woman who has remained so loyal and faithful then turn around and convince her that it was her fault for not keeping him interested.
You’ve seen her before. Just in passing, a fleeting moment in Sylus’ garage where their loud laughter suddenly faded as soon as you entered the room, tired from that day of rehearsals. Sylus introduced you. His ruby eyes remained on her, though, his lips curling up into a ghost of a smile. It made your body go cold. You remembered her smile, how it was so infectious it made you want to grin despite her closeness with your partner.
She’s younger too. Of course, she is. Just a couple years but still…her youthful spirit has yet to be crushed like yours. She wore pretty clothes and her perfume was intoxicating; spiced vanilla with an underlying scent of everything that you are not.
Is that the case with Sylus? Is he not interested in you anymore? Has that hunter from the Association finally turn his head away from you?
You collapse to the ground, legs unstable and feeling like jelly. Sobs take over your body. The familiar sharpness returns to your heart. It turns rotten.
You listen to the audience’s cries from the stage as you remained hunched over, your tears soaking into the floor beneath you. The crowd remains quiet as you cry and choked out the words. You covered your face and muttered quiet apologies to yourself, continuing with the speech. You sniffle and wipe the snot away from your nose while you speak on the devastating nature about loving a man who simply doesn’t care.
Silence falls over the auditorium. No one dares to move while you slowly recover, your arms and hands shielding your face from the blinding lights. The silence causes you to shiver. Slowly, you look up from your hands, staring into the darkness of the auditorium. In the front row, you can see the glossy sheen to the audience’s eyes.
The stage lights go black. You feel your tears stop. The lights no longer warm your skin. The audience’s applause fade and you are left alone as the stage crew and ensemble gather around you. They lift you to your feet and praise your performance. Even the director is astonished with your work, commenting that the tears added a hefty gravity to the scene that they never could have imagined.
You smile at them but quickly excuse yourself to your dressing room. The door closes with a quiet click of the turning lock. The lights remain off, the light from the outside world spread across the floor. Your back remains pressed against the door. Deep and heavy breaths cause your head to go dizzy. You push away from the door and rip the costume off of your body, tossing the fabric to the side as you gather your belongings and post-show clothes. Quickly putting them on, you sneak out of the dressing room and slip free from the back stage door, just barely missing the crowd that rushes to see you.
His face is not among those in the crowd. Another knife to the heart. Another notch in the grievances that you are about to file against your partner.
You tear your gaze away, tears streaking down your cheeks as the shrieks and cheers from the audience pierce your ears. You don’t look back, though, and instead push forward as fast as you can, finding your nearby car.
The drive to the N109 Zone is silent. You focus on the road, barely paying attention to the turning street lights and stop signs. You recklessly brake at the last second and swerve in and out of the lanes, just barely missing cars that you are about to collide with.
Danger and fury runs through your veins. Instead of the familiar heat of frustration, your anger is ice cold. Indifferent. Intolerant of how Sylus has fallen away from your grip these last few months.
Maybe you should have seen this coming. All of the signs are there, right?
While you were off parading as a different person, your boyfriend became acquainted with his new connection at the Hunter’s Association. She was the one who took your place by his side when rehearsals ran late. She was the one who took your spot on the back of his motorcycle. She was the one who took his attention away from you.
You shove away your emotions, forcing your feet to carry you inside of Sylus’ skyscraper. The elevator quietly dings with every passing floor, the nausea inside of your stomach becoming overwhelming. The doors slide open and you step out, looking around.
The lights are turned off. The click of your shoes is faintly heard as you move deeper into the main living space. The sound of a woman’s laughter causes you to stumble. You hold onto the wall for support, placing your bag onto the floor.
A chill overtakes your body. Goosebumps form on your skin. The hair on your arms and back of your neck stand up. You sulk closer towards the sound, listening to Sylus as he chuckles at a joke she said.
You peer at the two of them from the corner, remaining as hidden as you can. They sit beside each other on the living room couch, a feast of takeout food laid out before them. The smell causes you to drool. The lights are off, the only light source coming from lit candles — which are yours, by the way — that are scattered throughout the room. They sit close to one another, their arms brushing against each other as they laugh and share food, leaning in to whisper something into their ear as if they aren’t the only ones inside of the Onychinus skyscraper. Sylus faces you while she faces away. You stare at her back, the long and black hair that cascades down her back. She wears stealth clothes, ones that you recognize from the Hunter’s Association’s ads that play all over Linkon City. You go still, unable to move as you sneakily watch.
“Are you sure that it’s okay that I’m here?” she asks. Her voice is as sweet as honey.
“Of course,” his voice is as husky as you remembered it to be, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
A tender smile is spread across Sylus’ face. You want to slap it off and scream in his face. You want to yell and scream, to hit him and make him feel the same exact emotional torment that he has put you through.
You slowly draw in a breath. The heat from the anger you once felt is gone. Ice takes over your body, freezing your heart. You can’t even feel the beats. The air is drawn out from your lungs. They burn, the only hint you have to let you know that you are still alive.
Is this how your character felt? Is this what complete and utter betrayal look like? Is this how it feels to watch as the love of your life slips free from your fingers, dropping into the palm of a woman who probably doesn’t even know who the true Sylus is. Would it be ignorant of you to think that nobody will know him like you did? Would it be ignorant to think that this new reality you find yourself in is one that you do not wish to be a part of anymore?
This is how your relationship dies. With the smell of spiced vanilla and two bodies close together under the dim candlelight.
Tears run down your cheeks. You don’t have the energy to stop them from falling. Turning on your heel, you walk away, heading in the direction of your shared bedroom with Sylus. Your footsteps are no longer quiet or sneaky. You walk with the confidence of a determined woman. The determination to leave this place — and the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with — behind.
You shove the door open with more force than you intended. The wood slams into the wall, the sound echoing across the floor. You swear you can hear Sylus and her’s laughter die as soon as you step foot into the bedroom. You don’t really care, though, and head towards the closet. Your fingers curl around the handle of a suitcase. You toss it onto the bed, the case splitting open, empty and ready to be used.
Whatever you come across, you toss it into the suitcase. You don’t even bother to fold the clothes, allowing them to knot together as the pile grows higher and higher. White noise fills your head. There’s ringing in your ear. You don’t even hear Sylus when he walks into the bedroom, too tunnel visioned to notice him. You turn around, a pair of slippers in your hands. You collide with Sylus’ hard chest, the man resting his hands on his hips as you barely look up at him.
“I asked you what you’re doing.” There’s annoyance in his voice. Irritation, even.
You don’t even look up at him, stepping around his frame as you toss the slippers into the suitcase. There’s movement in the doorway. The figure is gone before you can catch it. Eh. Whatever. You’re leaving anyways. It simply is not your problem anymore.
“I’m talking to you,” Sylus says. He groans and watches as you brush past him again. He snatches your wrist in his hand, his fingers hot against your skin. You try not to wince or flinch. The single look he gets of your face makes him pause. The streaked and ruined makeup. The way your fingers are covered in the remnants of red lip stick and black mascara from your efforts to wipe your face clean. It makes his heart ache at the sight, the man wanting to reach for you and bring you into his embrace just like he has always done when you needed him to be there. Oh, the irony. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” you breathe the words out, “I don’t belong here anymore.”
“Leaving?” He’s baffled, a light scoff leaving his mouth. He waits for you to show him a sign — any sign — that this is some kind of overreaction. That you are waiting for him to stop you before you can step foot out of the base’s doors.
You keep moving, though. Your movements are robotic at best. There is no emotion on your face as you continue to shove your belongings into the suitcase. He watches, as still as the period after a brutal and deadly battle. You continue to move, packing away the life that you had built together, purposefully leaving behind the items and clothes that he happily bought for you.
“What’s going on?” Sylus asks, bewildered. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” you shake your head, venom prominent in your voice. “You wanted to be here, remember? There’s no other place you would rather be.”
The way you throw his words — words that were never meant for you, by the way — right back into his face make Sylus pause. His red eyes scan your face, trying to silently peel back the layers of your mind to see what it is that he has done wrong. His lips pucker, eyes narrowing. So you know that his Hunter friend is here. Did you misinterpret the situation? Did you think that there were traces of romance and affection in his actions?
“Talk to me,” Sylus says, his eyes fixating on you. “Tell me what happened.”
“You didn’t show up,” you say.
You casually shrug as if this is common information, as if Sylus abandoning you is now a common occurrence. Wasn’t it you who decided to act? To give yourself away for months for an audience of people who don’t even know who you are? He follows you as you walk to the bathroom. The cabinets are opened up and you pluck your hair care products and skincare regimen into your hands, walking back out just to dump them into your bag.
“What didn’t I show up for?” He asks, truly confused as to why you are suddenly holding this grudge against him.
“My play, Sylus,” the words are as bitter as your voice, “you missed my play. Not like you would care anyways since you’d rather be here with her instead of supporting your fucking girlfriend—”
“So you’re jealous,” Sylus comments, “that’s what this is about?”
“Jealous?” you turn around and stare at him as if you were just struck by a bolt of lightning. Your body feels as if it was. A tingling sensation spreads across your skin and you are sure that if you were to touch him, he would explode from the electricity of your fury. “You think I’m leaving over jealousy?”
“Isn’t that what this is about?” he shakes his head, already ready to dismiss this whole argument.
“You missed opening night, Sylus.”
“No,” the white haired man shakes his head, taking a step closer to you, “I didn’t. That’s next week.”
“It was tonight.”
His body goes cold. He opens his mouth to say something, red eyes piercing into yours. You swear you can see the vibrancy and color fade when he finally realizes. You wait a couple more seconds for him to speak but he says nothing. You scoff.
“I got a standing ovation, by the way,” you comment as you step towards the bag. You zip it up, using as much effort as you can to close the stuffed bag. “The director called me a visionary. Said my performance of a wife scorned felt real.”
“Babe…”
“Who knew that my boyfriend ditching me for some woman he met a few months ago would be the perfect motivation to have a breakdown on stage? Not me,” you laugh. Actually laugh. It’s both bitter and angry, the sound ready to snap like your emotions. The bag is zipped shut and you push it onto the ground, lifting the handle.
“I didn’t ditch you,” Sylus tries to reason. It only makes you laugh.
“Didn’t you?” you are quick to counter, an expert on keeping him accountable. “I thought you were dead at some point. Your empty seat made me think that one of your business deals went wrong. So I rushed home as fast as I could to come see you but you,” you let out a bitter laugh. One that is filled with anger and resentment. “You just had to be with her. So yes, Sylus. You fucking ditched me.”
You turn and stare at him, your gaze sharp enough to kill. Sylus easily meets your gaze, allowing the blade of your fury to rest along his neck. His expression softens, the weight of his guilt finally resting upon his shoulders. He only wishes that you would gift him the weight of your anger so that he may hold it for you, even if it means giving you just one minute of peace where the sins of his actions don’t poison your blood.
“I…” you begin but fall quiet. Your fists ball at your sides, nails digging into your palm. The pain grounds you, the stinting feeling of torn flesh rooting you into the earth. “I needed you tonight, Sylus, and you weren’t there. Ever since I was cast, you drifted away. You found comfort in another—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” His red eyes burn into yours, his own anger and passion coming into play. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I have not found comfort in another woman.”
“Do you really believe that?” you whisper. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you paid more attention to her than me?”
“Yes! Because it’s the truth!” Sylus raises his voice, his emotions getting the best of him.
The man has fought so hard to remain in control. Control of his life, the world around him, his emotions. Sylus has always managed his own expectations — and disappointments — by controlling those around him. He used people and tossed them to the side when he no longer needed them. He would never do such a thing to you. He can’t even fathom how you can believe that when he has done everything in his power to keep you happy.
It’s his fault, though. Sylus’ wishful thinking of you being happy, of living your life on the stage, was not in vain. He wanted to try and clean up Onychinus’ problems before your show’s time came. Sure, he got distracted by an interesting woman, but he never would have dreamed of tossing you to the side in favor of her. At least, that’s what he thinks. The poor man doesn’t even realize that the woman he has replaced you with has already gotten a hold of his heart. The one thing he swore that nobody else — other than you — would touch.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.
“I’m not the one who made up an elaborate plot in her head about something that isn’t true!” Sylus says, waving his hands around.
“Isn’t it?” you ask, trying to keep your voice and body as steady as possible. “You were here. With her. I was there where you weren’t. You claim that you feel nothing for her but when I came home…you looked at her like you once looked at me.”
Your words are like a knife in his heart. It causes him to exhale, the air being knocked free from his chest. His eyes gloss over, your accusations growing more and more true as you build your case against him.
“When I first got the role, you were excited for me. You even said that you couldn’t wait to see me on stage,” you laugh again but this time it’s softer. Sadder. The acceptance of your crucified relationship finally settling in your stomach. “I believed you when you said that I was going to be great. That I was going to fulfill my dreams and that you were happy to watch. I want to believe you now but all I can see is a man I used to love. All I see is an honest man who has turned into a liar right in front of my eyes.”
Silence hangs between you. Your breathing is slow, controlled. Sylus’ is erratic. He takes a step forward but you draw back, placing more distance between the two of you. You look him up and down once, taking in his appearance.
He wears a nice button down dress shirt. It’s white, a color that he rarely ever wears but you noticed that he puts on a whole lot more when she’s around. His pants are the fancy tailored ones and his shoes are shined so well that you swear you can see your reflection in. Your gaze flickers to his hands. He isn’t wearing the ring you got him, the one you bought to match the one he slid on your finger. A promise that the two of you will be together forever…it has vanished from his fingers. It makes you want to cry all over again. How could he have not seen the signs?
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask.
“What?” Sylus breathes out.
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask him again, doubling down.
“I didn’t think that it was today,” he begins but he quickly shuts up when you shake your head.
“No,” your eyes darken. “What was the reason for not being here tonight like you said?”
“Did I say that?”
“Sylus!” you yell his name, the word echoing across the top floor of his skyscraper. “Stop! Why weren’t you there?!”
“She needed me.” The answer leaves him before he can stop it. He whispers the short sentence. Oh, how he regrets even saying it in the first place. “She needed someone.”
“I needed someone too,” your voice cracks under the pressure. The tears begin to fall from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in hot and salty streams. “I needed my boyfriend to share this night with me. To celebrate my accomplishment.”
“It’s not like that,” Sylus dares to step forward, swallowing the lump in his throat, “she needed help with a job—”
“Does nobody else work at that damn fucking Association?! Why does she need my boyfriend to help her?!” you yell, silencing him. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to try and steady your nerves. “I’m done, Sylus. I’m leaving, okay? Don’t even bother trying to talk to me again.”
You grab the handle of your suitcase, tearing your gaze off of him. The more you look at him, the angrier you get, and that is the last thing you need. You take a step towards the door. His voice stops you.
“Don’t go,” Sylus says, resting his hand on your shoulder, “please don’t leave me.”
“You already left me, Sylus,” you say with a resigned sigh. “And take your damn hand off of me. You don’t get to touch me anymore.”
“Let’s talk it through,” he says, “please?”
Sylus reaches out for you again. He grabs your wrist, drawing you back towards him. What he didn’t anticipate, though, is the way you swing your hand towards him, your palm connecting with his cheek. A stinging sensation spreads across his face. A red imprint begins to form on his face, the lines of your fingers etched into his skin. You don’t even feel guilty about it.
“You haven’t even said sorry,” your voice cracks, the palm of your hand stinging. Tears flow from your eyes. The drops fall to the ground after they roll off your cheeks. You don’t bother to catch them or to wipe them away. You let them fall. “No apology for missing my opening night. No apology for choosing her over me…it’s cruel, Sylus. You’re cruel. We’re done. Don’t come near me.”
The couch is uncomfortable. It has been since last week when your co-star broke it during rehearsal. He thought that jumping on it would be a good idea — as if it ever is — and now here you are, sitting on a spring that pokes directly into the place where the sun doesn’t shine.
You crack your neck and knuckles, exhaling all of the air that’s in your lungs. You don’t even pay attention to your fellow actor. There’s too much on the line, especially since it’s the last show of the play’s run in Linkon. After this…you have no idea what you’re going to do. What you do know, though, is that you’re finally going to find the happiness that you deserve.
Especially since the stage is now forever stained from your one-sided breakup with Sylus.
The creak of the curtains forces you to look up. The blinding lights are familiar now. The stinging sensation makes itself at home behind your eyes while you blink, waiting for your cue. You slowly stand. Your eyes adjust to the bright lights, the people in the crowd now coming into view. Sylus’ empty seat — one that you asked to remain reserved for him, for what reason, you’ll never know — is just to the side. You stare at it whenever you need the emotional push, to throw yourself into your sorrows for the crowd to watch. Your soul laid bare on the stage while your tears burn down your cheeks, hands outstretched towards the crowd as if they can save you from drowning in your depression.
The seat isn’t empty though. You blink a couple of times, wondering if it was just the trick of the light or if someone actually dared to sit in the spot.
It’s Sylus.
His red eyes meet yours through the darkness and just for a moment — a second so brief you barely catch it — it feels as if it is just the two of you inside of the theater. It feels as if there is no crowd, no audience watching as you freeze on stage. It is just you and him. Nobody else.
You swallow the iron lump that has formed in your throat. The pressure is immeasurable, the mass dragging along your esophagus. It makes you want to throw up, to cry and throw yourself on the ground. To let the wooden stage swallow you whole so you can disappear from life without even having to say a word or lift a finger.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice is stronger this time. More resolute. There is no shake in it just the emotionless motivations of a she-devil, of a woman scorned…of an emotionally battered woman who is too tired to show how she is truly feeling. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times. This is the story of how Dean and I fell in and out of love.”
You force your gaze away from Sylus, turning around as the play continues as if this isn’t happening. You settle yourself as you cross the stage, linking your arm with your co-star’s, forcing a smile onto your face.
Admittedly, you are distracted. Sylus’ white hair and red eyes always catch your attention. Hell, it’s how you noticed him in the first place when you showed up to some random auction. You were bored out of your mind and was just ditched — ironic, right? — by your date who left you to pay the bill at the restaurant. You wandered around the N109 Zone, finding your way into a fancy art exhibit where a silent auction was taking place. The auction was dimly lit but Sylus still managed to stand out like the devil in the night, his appearance subconsciously luring you closer and closer until you stood beside him in front of a painting that depicted a war torn field. Dragon bones were laid out in the middle of the painting and hanging in the sky is a bright star, one that burns as brightly as he once said you did.
You shake your head, forcing the memory out of your head as soon as it even formed. The world of the story moves all around you while you remain stagnant on the stage unable to move as the character of Dean makes a move on another woman right in front of you. The actors on stage stop mid-movement. A spotlight is turned on, the light directed at you. You stare directly at it, gaze slipping to your ex-partner.
“This was the first time Dean betrayed me. It was five years ago. He took me to some party on his campus. Told me that he needed to talk to his friends and that I should wait for him out front. Little did I know, he had his tongue shoved down another woman’s throat. His friend felt bad for me. He texted me a picture of it. It didn’t make the pain hurt any less. That was the alcohol’s job.”
The crowd laughs. Sylus doesn’t. His gaze remains on you and you alone. He follows your shadowy figure as you cross the stage, walking off as this so called Dean and his first affair have their time to shine. A look of detestment flashes across his face at the sight. Dean and his temporary lover, if you could even call it that, fall onto the couch, their movements exaggerated.
Is this what you thought he was doing with her? Could you really think of him as a man who would ever betray you like that?
Dean and the woman kiss. Sylus shudders. He closes his eyes, just for a brief moment, before he hears your voice again. His eyes open immediately after, watching as you stand in the middle of the stage while the set is changed behind you.
“I broke up with him. I was the fool, though, for thinking that he could change. I took him back not even a month later. The bed was cold without him…I missed his warmth and the way he held me in his arms.” Your eyes move back to Sylus. He sucks in a breath, hanging onto every word. “I missed the security he gave me. The sweet kisses as he vowed to me that he would never be swayed again. I was just a kid in love, could you blame me?”
His heart lurches inside of his chest. As the play continues to unfold in front of his eyes, the more and more Sylus sees himself in Dean, the villain of the story. He can’t even begin to imagine why your character would put herself through all of that pain and suffering, of watching the man you dedicated your life to slip free from your grasp. To sit and stare as he plays mind games right in front of you, claiming that what she said is ludacris and that he would never do such a thing.
And to think that he said the same to you.
Sylus sinks into his seat. Roses sit at his feet, a bouquet made special just for you. He labored over it for hours, wondering if you would even accept the roses — or any flower for that matter! Would you accept him? Let him apologize and say sorry for the things he didn’t even say. His heart feels like it is about to fly out of his chest, ready to crumble under the pressure of you and your judgment. Whatever you decide to give him, whatever you decide to yell or scream at him…he knows that he deserves it. He deserves it all.
The play goes on. Sylus is completely enamored by your acting, the way you are able to show a bright smile to the new “friends” Dean introduces to you all while looking like you are ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is infatuated with the way you lay your soul onto the stage for all to see. The way you treat him and everyone else with a casualness an old friend would have. It makes him feel welcome despite feeling an immense amount of dread overtake his body the more and more he sees how the men in your character’s life continue to let her down over and over again.
Sylus can’t believe that he allowed himself to treat you this way. He can’t believe how easy it was to lie about work, to offer his time to some measley Hunter that could barely remember what his favorite wine is or if he prefers a rifle to a pistol. He can’t believe that he allowed himself to create distance between the two of you, that he didn’t pick up on the silent cues you gave him when you tried to bring him back into bed for five more minutes of cuddles, the way you tried your best to stay up for him after a long day of rehearsal knowing that those ten minutes of conversation were enough to keep you invested in your relationship.
Sylus is mad at himslf for being the maker of his own destruction. That he is the only person responsible for pushing you away.
“Love is like a drop into the misty depths where either a bed of clouds or rocks wait for you at the bottom,” you begin, capturing his attention all over again. “It is a leap of faith. A shot in the dark that the person you have let into your life is the one who is supposed to make you happy.”
You take your time in walking across the stage. The play has reached it’s ending. Dean’s relationship with your character has evolved into a loveless marriage. Three years together. Three years of time wasted. You can’t help but relate to it, the feeling of your own time being robbed from you. It angers you more than it should.
“I wish there was a warning sign,” you look down at your feet, the tears already forming in your eyes, “because when I hit the bottom, it felt worse than what I imagined death to feel like.”
You raise your head. Your eyes meet Sylus’ in the crowd. His lips are parted ever so slightly, the man sitting on the edge of his seat. You just wished he looked like this a month ago and not now. It counts as something, you suppose.
“I used to think that Dean loved me. I used to think that there was a piece inside of me who always saw the good in him…that he wasn’t a man who used people at his disposal just because he felt like it. You know, I have stayed up so many nights wondering why he would do this to me. So many nights lost when I could have been asleep and on the nights I did sleep, the dreams were filled of a life without him. I berated myself for dreaming of such things…that only a horrible person could ever dream of a life away from the one who made them the happiest. Does that make me horrible?”
Sylus wants to answer. He wants to be the one to reach out and bring you into his arms, to keep you in his life for as long as he can. He wants to be the one to dry your tears, to be the man you deserve to have in your life. He can’t help but wonder if you, too, had dreams about leaving him while you laid in bed beside him…in his arms.
“Honey!” your co-star cries out. You remain stagnant in the middle of the stage, unable to look away from Sylus. “Clean this up! If I have to do damage control over your outburst at the party, then I refuse to be the one to clean.”
“I just wanted the party to go well.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, the lines forever burned on your tongue.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” the actor slams the cabient.
The wood rattles. You close your eyes, the audience feeling the same fear as your character. The actor quickly rushes to your side, grabbing your jaw with his hand. He yanks it towards him, his face dangerously close to yours. Sylus quietly gasps with other audience members.
“Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please!” you recite the lines with desperation in your voice.
“When will it be enough for you?”
“I don’t love you anymore!”
The words echo throughout the theater. The actor who plays Dean slowly exits the stage. The lights begin to dim, a single spotlight focused on you. The characters from the show line up behind you, their bodies barely visible as cries begin to overtake your body. Your hands clutch the area over your heart, the sounds of your sobs and cries filling the theater. The people in the audience begin to cry with you, gently patting away the tears with a pocketed handkerchief.
“I just wanted to be loved!” you cry out, your voice both pained and desperate. “I just wanted to be someone worthy of love! To be someone worthy of being treated like a first choice, not the second. I let him consume me. I let his desire and lust control my life and scrutinized myself for being the reason he didn’t love me anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore!”
Your cries grow louder and louder. Sylus tears up himself, unable to bring himself to look away as you crumble to your knees.
“Why me?! Why did you have to choose me?” You yell, looking up to the audience. Sylus sits in the wake of your gaze, trapped. “Why did you have to be the one who ripped my heart to shreds? I don’t understand! Please! Why am I not worthy of your love? Why am I the one who has to suffer for your mistakes? It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Your voice cracks, the scream of your anguish chilling Sylus to his core. He sits back into his seat, all of the air drained from his body, breathless as you slowly rise to your feet, the tears never ending. Your eyes find his again, the tremor in your body easing.
“I hate myself because of you.” The sentence slices through Sylus’ chest. “I hate myself for loving you…for making up excuses time and time again on why you are so cruel to me. I hate myself for allowing you to hurt me. I hate myself for not leaving earlier. I wish…I wish that I could bring myself to hate you, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.” You pause. You take a shuddered breath and close your eyes, allowing the warmth of the spotlight to envelop you like a hug. “Maybe we are right for each other. We are the only people I know who are miserable…who love to live in misery and wallow in our sorrows. Is it bad to say that I want more? That I need more?”
You laugh. It’s bitter. A reflection of how you feel on the inside. Unfortunate, but true.
“Maybe I’m not one of those people. Maybe I’m not built to live a happy life. Is it ironic that I now realize that I don’t want to be the third person in our marriage? That I want to be treated better than you have ever treated me. Is it bad to admit that I wish the old you would come back to me? The same one that held me when my dog died. The same one that was there for me when I graduated from college…” you go quiet, staring into the distance. “My aunt used to tell me that hindsight is a privlege to have. She used to tell me that in the real world, not many people are able to get a second chance like I have. She held my hands the night your affair was exposed.”
You hold your hands out in front of you, staring at the palms. Makeup and tears stain your skin. A reminder of the true storm that destroys your mind. A frown overtakes your face.
“She held me close,” your voice lowers but the microphone picks it up, loudening your whispers, “and told me that the next time I have the chance to run, I should take it. That I will regret not rushing towards happiness that I deserve and that the road will only get tougher and tougher the longer I put it off…Hey Dean? Do you remember that joke you always said? The one that used to make me laugh till I was breathless? You said it recently and…I found myself unwilling to play along anymore. I don’t love you anymore, Dean…I don’t know if I will ever again.”
Sylus has never known what it felt like to be nervous. Ever since he was born, he has never felt what people describe to be “erratic butterflies” that flutter in your stomach. He has heard many accounts from people — especially those who was succumbed to bullets from his guns — about fear and anxiety. The emotions are so foreign to him. Even when the two of you began to date, Sylus knew that you were the one for him. That it was going to be you and him against the world. He never felt those fluttering butterflies in his stomach until now.
He waits outside of the backstage door. People from the audience stand outside alongside fans. He keeps his distance, wanting you to have your moment before he eventually destroys it. The man glances down at the roses. Nausea begins to overtake his senses. He tries to steel his nerves, to make the sensation go away and leave him alone. It doesn’t, though. He deserves it.
The metal doors swing open and people cheer and yell out your name. You exit with a bright smile on your face, waving to them as flashes of lights pop off. He sighs, shaking his head as he turns on his heel, ready to walk away. Sylus isn’t even sure if he is ready to face you yet. How could he? You poked a hole into his lies, exposing him. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing to you…the way his words and indifference slowly killed you while you were making something for yourself.
“Sylus.”
A shock of life flashes in his stomach. The butterflies are dead, the man turning around to look down at you. You stand in front of him with crossed arms and a scowl, annoyance written all over your face. You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the flowers.
“These are for you,” Sylus extends the flowers in your direction, hoping to whatever god is out there that you’ll take them. You don’t. You just stare at the red petals, the white baby’s breath scattered into the mix. “You…you were phenomenal tonight. Truly…you made me cry. I didn’t think it was possible for me to.”
“Why are you here?” you ask, cutting straight to the point. It takes Sylus aback. The butterflies come back.
“I wanted to…” his voice trails off. He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness that remains in his body. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” you counter.
“Yes,” Sylus’ lips press into a thin line, amused. “There are things I have to say to you.”
“What if I don’t want to hear it?”
“Then I’ll leave,” he says. He means it, too. “I will leave you alone for the rest of your life if you want me to. I know that I have been an asshole and you have every right to be angry with me…at least let me drive you home. It’s snowing. You shouldn’t be walking out on your own.”
“Fine.”
Sylus’ eyes widen ever so slightly, his surprise on full display for you to see. Your roll your eyes at the sight, taking the flowers from him. Your gaze drops down to his ring finger. The black ring you got him sits there, the spot no longer vacant like it was before. And yet…you feel nothing.
You follow Sylus as he walks you towards his car. He stands close to you, shielding you from the harsh wind as snow flakes fall onto your flowers. You barely have a grip on them. The flowers are ready to fly away with the wind at any given moment, to be lost in the city of Linkon. Sylus wouldn’t blame you for letting them go. He knows that the flowers are a shot in the dark, a poor attempt to see that smile on your face because, well, you always smiled whenever he brought you flowers after a long day of work. Seeing your grin was like a shot of espresso that revitalized him after business deals gone wrong.
Oh, how he misses that smile.
He opens up the passenger side door. You let out an exasperated huff. He assumes that you rolled your eyes at him, too. You smack the flowers into his chest, slowly lowering yourself into the seat. Once your foot is inside, Sylus places the roses — which you immediately toss into the basckseat — and closes the door behind you, jogging to the other side of the car and gets inside. The car comes to life and heat from the vents help melt some of the icy tension in your body.
“Feel okay?” Sylus asks. You hum in response.
The man drives the car away from the theater, putting as much distance between the two of you and the damned place as possible. The drive is quiet, a song about heartbreak plays over the radio. You don’t pay attention. Instead, you stare outside of the car window, watching as Sylus drives through the empty streets. Snowflakes hit the foggy window. You tap your finger against them, letting the heat from your body melt the icy designs.
Sylus watches you from the corner of his eye. The butterflies have returned to his stomach. He ignores the feeling and clears his throat, the car coming to a slow stop at the red light.
“Can I take you somewhere?” Sylus asks. It’s another shot in the dark. One that he hopes you’ll take.
“Fine,” you mutter under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed out of the window.
Sylus nods once and turns left, heading away from the city and towards the river. You barely pay attention, opting to stare out at the snowy landscape. The lights of the city slowly disappear, the car taking you up the side of the city where there’s a lookout of the city. Minutes pass and the car finds itself in a parking spot, the tall man slipping free from the car. He moves to your side and opens up the door, offering you his hand. You ignore it and shove your hands into your jacket pockets, stepping away from him and towards a bench that overlooks Linkon City.
You sit down and Sylus takes his spot beside you. The silence from the car is replaced with the quiet sound of the wind, snowflakes flying past your face. You hug your arms close to your body, slightly shivering. Sylus is quick to wrap a scarf around your neck, the warmth from his hands lingering in the fabric. You contain an eye roll, quietly thanking him before the silence takes over once again.
“Sylus,” you exhale his name, steam from your breath evaportating in front of your eyes, “now is the time to talk.”
“I miss you.” He stares straight ahead, just barely seeing the look of shock — or is it disgust — on your face. “I also want to say…I’m sorry.”
“Is that all?” you ask.
“No,” he shakes his head, finally turning to look at you. “I want you to know that I heard you loud and clear. I heard you a month ago when you left and…I heard you during the play. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I…I don’t know what else to say or how to make things better between us but I miss you. I missed you the moment I let you step through that door. I never should have.”
The silence is less ugly now. At least you can breathe again, the cold air keeping you wide awake and alert. It even helped alleviate the strain behind your eyes. Dark gray clouds hang low in the sky. If you were to ask Sylus, he would bring one down to earth for you.
“I told her to never contact me again. I gave her information to someone else in Onychinus that she can turn to when she needs help,” he continues, answering the questions that pop into your mind. “I want you. Not her. I should have made that very clear and prioritized you.”
“No shit,” you mutter, looking down at your bare hands.
“Do you hate me?” he asks. You hesitate to respond.
A piece of skin pokes up beside your nail. You glare at it, a scowl overtaking your face. With the tips of your nails, you slowly peel it back. Your finger stings but the ice cold air numbs the pain almost instantly. Sylus sighs and places a hand on top of yours, stopping you from doing it any further. You turn to look up at him, to yell at him to let go and to not touch you, but as soon as your eyes meet his red ones: you’re a goner.
“You hurt me,” you whisper, voice cracking.
“I know,” he nods. He swallows the lump that formed in his throat. “And I know that there is nothing I can do or say to erase that pain. You have every right to be mad at me. Hell, I’m angry at myself for not seeing it any sooner.”
“Okay.” You nod, unsure of what else to say.
“I want you back in my life,” he quietly pleads. Sylus’ voice feels small. You have never seen him like this before. It’s…confusing. “I…I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since you left. Is it selfish of me to ask you to come back?”
“Yes,” you immediately respond.
Sylus bites back a frown, tearing his gaze away from you and towards the snowy Linkon skyline. Your eyes move to the line of his nose. The way the corner of his lips tug downward into a frown no matter how hard he tries to keep it away. You finally notice the bags under his eyes, the way his posture is slouched instead of its perfect state. You divert your gaze, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
“I haven’t been sleeping well either,” you reply. Sylus’ head snaps to look back at you.
“Really?” he asks. You nod.
“It’s more of a…how can I sleep knowing that the man I was in love with chose everyone else over me kind of thing,” you say. You ignore the way Sylus’ expression breaks, the way his guily presents itself across his face. “I miss you, Sylus, but…”
“I know,” he finishes your sentence for you. He reaches out and gently moves your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You tilt your face to look at him. He lowers his voice, “I promise to be better. Just…give me another chance. Please.”
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, holding back the tears. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes,” he gushes.
“How will I know that you’re mine and not…theirs?” The question barely comes out as a whisper and yet it is all Sylus can hear. “I don’t know if I can go through that heartbreak again.”
“You won’t have to,” he takes your hands in his and pull them to his chest. Right where his heart sits, to be exact.
Your eyes meet his and you can see the gloss over them, the way he is holding back every urge to cry and show his vulnerability. You know that this is hard for him. To show his emotions in a way that is not anger or through death. You finally take off the final mask that Sylus wears. His soul is on a silver platter for you to take. For you to keep and protect until the end of time.
“I love you. There is nothing else that I know to be more true than the fact that I am in love with you and thet I have been so fucking blind to just how happy you make me,” Sylus says. You hang onto every word, subconsciously leaning towards him. “I regret every single choice I have made in the last months. If I could go back and do it all over it again: I would. It’s what you said in the play…hindsight is a privlege. It is a privlege that we have. That we can take for ourselves.”
“Sylus…”
“You can trust me,” he continues, “you know you can. It’ll be just the two of us. I promise.”
The wind whips around your bodies. One of Sylus’ hands leave yours, finding its way to your cheek. You lean into the warmth, closing your eyes as the memories flood back to you.
Everything went sour in a matter of months. Before that, the two of you were rock solid. You were happy. The two of you share memories that nobody else will have access to. You remember all of the countless nights you stayed up waiting for him, sleep ready to take you over just as he walked through the bedroom door. You remember all of the times he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek, claiming that you are the most beautiful woman in the world. You remember all of the times Sylus held you when you cried. He has been there for you through thick and thin…is that something you’re willing to give up?
“I’ll come back,” you open your eyes. A smile begins to form on his face. It fades when you begin to speak again, “but we need to take things slow, okay? One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” Sylus repeats. His eyes drop down to your lips, his eye glowing at the sight. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling his unsteady heartbeat before they slip up and around his neck. The man pulls you closer, his touch light and gentle. “May I kiss you? Please?”
He asks as if he’s been starving for years. You nod, fingers slipping into his white hair, his lips connecting with yours in a slow and tender kiss. You sigh into his lips, hungry for more. The man gives it to you but he gently takes your left hand away from his neck, bringing it down to your laps.
“Sy,” you whine, earning a smile from him.
A cold sensation slips up your ring finger. You gasp, surprised by its presence. You look down and see a dark silver band wrapped around your finger with a black rock sitting in the middle. It looks similar to the ring you bought Sylus. The same one that he’s wearing right now.
“What…”
“This is my vow to you,” Sylus gently places his finger under your chin, tilting it back up so that you look at him. “My vow that my heart belongs to you and you alone. I know things will take time between us but…I need you to know that this,” he taps the top of the ring, sending chills down your spine, “is what my future looks like with you.”
“Do you mean it?” you ask, mouth suddenly dry. He nods.
“I meant every single word. I’m yours. Completely and utterly yours.”
as always ; likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! be sure to support your favorite writers! <3
Ah, what an honor to encounter you here. Pray tell, you are not out for another stroll, are you?
...Ah, not this time, I see. Very well. Should there be tasks that compel one to wander endlessly under the night's embrace, I should be most glad to ease your burden.
Did you hear that rustling in the shadows just now? One must be wary: linger too long in the dark, or fail to heed the subtle whispers, and one might find themselves in a spot of difficulty.
But, should you wish to traverse this nocturnal path in my company, there is naught to fear. What do you say?
My reaction after finding out Chatgpt trains their ai with our fics and actually pirates our work.
guys, stop writing with Ai! It actually pirates work. from sources like tumblr. I myself was surprised when I found this out. Actually create. Wether it's good or bad. Because even if your writing isn't good, you'll never stop being a writer. Improve.
