──── 「 ᝰ.ᐟ 」 💭 .ᐣ.ᐟ martin edwards x reader , fluff. not proofread. first time writing for cortis how do we feel
─ 𖹭 .ᐟ 🧁 laundry day with martin. you do the sorting, he does everything but help.
the laundry room is warmer than the rest of the apartment, late afternoon light slanting through the small window above the machines, catching dust in the air and making it glow. you came in here with a very clear plan: sort, wash, dry, fold but somehow martin has already derailed it without touching a single clothing yet.
you thought doing laundry together would be simple.
that was your first mistake.
"okay," he says, clapping his hands together once. "before we begin."
you pause mid motion, arms full of clothes. "begin what?"
he gestures vaguely between the washer and dryer. "the process."
"the process," you repeat flatly.
"yes. we need to establish a system." he steps closer to the machines, crouching slightly to peer at the control panel. "these settings are . . . excessive."
"martin," you say, already tired, "it's literally just colors and whites."
he straightens and turns to you with that earnest expression he gets when he thinks he's being helpful. "that's what they want you to think."
you drop the pile of clothes onto the counter. "who is 'they'?"
"the manufacturers," he replies immediately. "big laundry."
you stare at him.
he grins then reaches past you to grab the detergent bottle. instead of pouring it, he turns it over, reading every word on the back with intense concentration. his brow furrows, lips moving silently.
"you're not actually reading the instructions," you say.
"i am absolutely reading the instructions."
"they say ‘fill to line.’"
"yes, but which line?" he turns the cap toward you, pointing. "there are three. that implies choice. choice implies . . . or equals? responsibility."
you step closer, nudging him gently with your hip. "give me that."
he doesn't. instead, he sets the detergent down and moves on to opening the dryer, even though it's clearly empty and not yet relevant. he leans halfway inside, inspecting it like it might be hiding something.
"did you clean the lint trap last time?" he asks.
"yes."
"are you sure?"
"yes, martin."
he hums thoughtfully, still unconvinced, and pulls the lint trap out anyway. it's spotless. he looks almost disappointed.
"huh."
you start sorting the clothes yourself, laying them out in neat piles. behind you, he's wandered back to the counter, now distracted by a loose button you left there earlier. he picks it up, rolling it between his fingers.
"this came off one of your shirts," he says.
"i know."
"i could sew it back on."
"you don't know how to sew."
"i do."
"right now?"
he considers it seriously, then shrugs. "fair."
the washer door is still open. empty and untouched.
you load the clothes yourself while he talks about a tiktok video that's been in his mind, about how the hum of the machines is oddly soothing, about how the laundry room feels like a liminal space, neither productive nor restful. he leans against the wall now, arms crossed, watching you.
"you're very efficient," he remarks.
"that's because i'm actually doing the laundry."
he smiles at that, slow and easy. "i'm helping."
"you're in the way actually."
"am i?" he steps closer anyway, close enough that you can feel his warmth at your side, smell his cologne faintly mixing with detergent. he rests his chin briefly on your shoulder, peering into the washer as if impressed. "you're doing great."
when you finally close the washer door and press start, the machine whirs to life, water rushing in. you straighten, brushing your hands on your pants.
"there. done." the moment you turn back, he's crouched on the floor now not to help but to inspect the care label on one of your hoodies.
"did you know," he says slowly, "that this says do not tumble dry?"
"yes. that's why i don't tumble dry it."
"huh." he looks impressed.
"martin," you say again, firmer this time. "can you start separating socks? we still have a lot of clothes left."
he nods immediately. "on it."
you believe him. you really do. but thirty seconds pass. then a minute.
when you look back, he's no longer near the basket. instead, he's seated on the floor, legs stretched out, three socks draped over his arm.
" . . . what are you doing."
he looks up at you, completely serious. "matching the vibes."
"right. you mean pairs?"
"yeah but they matter, y'know? the vibes."
you stare at him. "they're socks."
"exactly," he says. "high-stakes."
you snatch the socks from his arm and dump them into the pile yourself. he watches you do it, chin propped on his hand.
"did you . . . check the pockets?"
"what pockets?"
you close your eyes for half a second. memories flash uninvited: soggy bills laid out to dry, the warped remains of his wallet, his sheepish grin as he said, huh. didn't think that was in there.
"your pockets," you repeat. "your jeans. your jacket. the places where you put your entire paycheck and then forget about it."
he scoffs softly, waving a hand. "i'm not that bad."
you open one eye and look at him. "martin."
he straightens, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "okay, maybe i didn't check all of them."
you walk past him, crouching by the basket, fingers automatically sorting through fabric. shirt, towel, and socks. then denim. his favorite jeans he insists are still perfectly wearable despite the fraying hems. your hand slides into a pocket and—
slowly, you pull out his wallet. it's familiar in your palm. worn leather with too many receipts shoved inside. you stand up and hold it out between two fingers.
"explain."
he winces, shoulders slumping like a child caught red-handed. "i waaas going to check."
"when?"
"after i . . . reorganized the spice rack."
"you reorganized the spice rack?"
"it was bothering me," he says defensively. "the cumin was too close to the cinnamon."
"you came in here to do laundry and somehow managed to do everything except laundry."
"soooo while that does it's thing . . . snacks?"
you sigh. a full bodied, soul deep one that screams i should smack you. he's lucky you love him, because otherwise he'd be in deep trouble.
jeonghan passes chan a small pink box wrapped with a white bow. even without him saying its from you, chan knows: he knows your handwriting anywhere.
"they've been bragging all day that you'll love their present the most," seungkwan rolls his eyes. "so go ahead and prove them wrong."
chan eyes you as you stand next to where vernon's sitting, hiding a smile behind a plastic cup. the ice crunches together as you watch him, a tender look in your eyes. he pulls one end of the bow, slowly unraveling it from around the box. the lid comes off easily enough, and he has to parse through tissue paper. the thing on top is a gift card to a store he loves.
"aw... honey," he looks at you. "that's nice."
seungkwan, on the other hand, has turned to you. "you said it'd be the best!"
you just shrug. chan keeps digging while seungkwan gloats about his present being the best for sure now... but chan finds something wrapped in tissue paper at the bottom of the small box. someone--mingyu, he thinks, but he's too preoccupied to care--tells seungkwan he should think again...
and rolled up securely in tissue paper is a key with a folded up piece of paper underneath it: move in with me? he looks up, and you're smiling hard enough that you definitely can't hide it with a long sip of your drink. he nods once and pockets it. the two of you will talk about it more later.
(and in the background, he hears seungcheol sigh heavily, all but throwing his own present at chan to open next. no one's going to top "losing your three roommates for one far cooler (and hotter) one," as you later put it.)
pairing: woozi x reader
word count: 3.4K
warnings: a couple of swears, kissing, alcohol, sad!reader, sad!jihoon
Author’s Note: this fic is part of the Thirteen Valentines event, but can be read as a standalone! also, i would suggest listening to the song listed below to get a feel for the vibe of the fic, but it’s not necessary.
flatline by 5 seconds of summer
someone just like you, no one else
i’m falling for the first time
heart is gonna flatline
now i can’t even look at you
you’re like staring at the sunshine
You stand outside the crowded bar, grateful for the respite of fresh air after your time in the hazy, grimy dance club. There are only a few other patrons smoking or loitering outside as you wait for your ride to arrive, because it’s only midnight and inside, the party is just beginning.
Your head is buzzing pleasantly as you squint at your phone to check the time, the bright light from the screen making you wince. 12:07. If you were more sober, you would probably laugh at yourself. You’d gone out for a friend's birthday, but as soon as you had said the satisfactory hellos and gotten sufficiently drunk — which, arguably, didn’t take long — you’d been ready to go home. At midnight.
Your younger self is cringing.
As you gracefully get into your Uber and the driver begins to wind through the streets from the bar to your apartment, you pull up the last text thread on your phone. A smile is already on your lips just at the sight of the contact name.
Y/N [12:08am]: On my way hoooome. Hope u waited up for me!!
Your roommate shoots back a reply almost instantly, and you giggle at his response, your hand lifting to cover your mouth.
Jihoon-Ah [12:09am]: Ok. I’m still working, so keep your drunk ass quiet.
If you had it your way, he’d have come out with you. He knows all of your friends and you know all of his, but the club scene isn’t really his vibe. Plus, he has a music final due tomorrow – today? – and if there’s one thing he’s dead serious about, it’s his music.
Jihoon-Ah [12:13am]: Door’s unlocked. Be safe.
You feel a flush spread across your cheeks as the second message comes through, and warmth floods all the way down to your toes.
Jihoon always manages to do that to you. Make you blush, make you feel warm and fuzzy, make you laugh. It’s funny, because to those who don’t know him, he seems quiet and private, and maybe even a little bit closed off. But with his friends, with those who get to know him, he’s brash and hilarious, and he cares a hell of a lot about those who care about him. He’s one of your best friends, your roommate, and quite possibly the love of your life.
He doesn’t know about that last part, though, and you don’t plan on telling him anytime soon.
“Jihoon-ah,” you singsong as you finally make it into your shared apartment. He doesn’t turn to look at you from his spot on the couch, but you know he’s heard you come in by his grunt of acknowledgement. He remains where you left him, on the couch and hunched over his laptop, black hair mussed from where he’s probably been running his fingers through it as he agonises over his piece. You hastily take off your shoes before you cross the room, flopping down next to him unceremoniously. He glances at you briefly before turning back to his screen.
“Did you have fun?” He asks without looking at you.
“Mhm,” you mumble back. It’s quiet for a few moments, the sound of his fingers clicking away lulling you into a daze until he speaks up once more.
“You should change,” he says, and you turn to stretch out your legs, pointing your toes. He glances at you again as you do so, eyebrows raised. “You took off the shoes, thank god, but you’re probably not comfortable in that dress anymore.”
You yawn, smiling at his thoughtful comment before replying, “It’s called fashion, Jihoon, look it up. Beauty is pain.”
“I already told you before you went out that you looked nice, don’t push it.”
You let out a laugh at that, and the quiet smile on his lips betrays any real irritation on his part. You watch him for a moment, your eyes lingering for far too long on the softness of his mouth as he focuses back on his work.
You really hadn’t stood a single chance against falling in love with him, had you?
“I’m too tired to change,” comes your weak mumble.
“Okay,” he responds easily, his attention back on his computer again. You take the opportunity to let your eyes trace over his profile one more time; his eyelashes, his nose, the curve of his lips. The quiet contentment remains on his face, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed knowing that you’re part of the reason for it.
Your eyes finally turn to wander across the laptop screen to see what he’s working on, your head falling onto his shoulder. You’d have done it sober too, but with a bit of alcohol in your system, you’re just slightly less nervous. You can feel him tense. Your eyes fall to where his hands have paused, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stressed him out with the physical contact, but then his shoulders relax. It takes only a few seconds before he begins clicking and typing again, and you can’t help but smile.
You’re looking at his computer and, subsequently, at his unfinished work. You can still recall when he’d been hesitant to let anyone see his music — let alone his drunk, touchy roommate. Yet somehow, you’ve managed to secure a coveted spot in the small group of people Jihoon trusts enough to share his work with. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still freak out every time he shares a piece he’s working on – he does, and you know that – but he insists that he wants to show you anyway. You often feel a strong sense of satisfaction in knowing what that means. It means that he trusts you — and that’s an incredible privilege.
You stay on the couch like that for a few more minutes as he continues to work, until a yawn overtakes you and on instinct, your nose turns to burrow into the crook of his neck. You let out a sigh, falling into a false sense of security for just a moment — into a world where Jihoon is yours to be with like this. Your eyes fall shut. You hardly register your own movement until it hits you that Jihoon’s entire body has gone rigid, and your eyes shoot open in a panic. You don’t think you’ve ever done that before – nuzzled into his neck like you belong there.
And now you’re terrified that you’ve finally crossed a line that you can’t come back from.
Another thing that Jihoon allows you to do more than anyone else is initiate physical contact. You’d taken advantage, and lately you’ve been toeing the line of too much. It just feels so easy to do, because you’re so drawn to him, to who he is, to the way he makes you feel — but you know it’s not fair of you. Not when he hasn’t ever expressed feeling the same way, not when he hasn’t ever protested as you go on dates, not when he hasn’t ever initiated anything himself. Jihoon always tells you it’s okay when you’re touchy, that he doesn’t mind it every once in a while, but you can’t help but feel like a complete fool.
He’s not yours, and he doesn’t want to be.
You abruptly feel yourself sober up as you scramble to move away, putting as much distance between the two of you as possible.
“You didn’t have to move,” comes his blunt reassurance, his eyes not leaving the screen of his laptop.
“I know you hate being touchy. I should have asked first. Sorry.”
“You’re always like this, especially when you’re drunk,” he retorts, “I don’t know why you’re only apologizing today.” You can’t help but shrink back against the couch, defeated.
“Sorry,” you say again, your voice small.
Jihoon looks at you then, eyebrows raised in surprise, like he really had no clue you were actually upset. “Hey, it’s okay. I always let you do it,” he adds after a moment.
“Yeah…” You trail off, and you hate the way you sound a bit like a child as you repeat, “but you hate it.”
Normally, Jihoon would ignore your tipsy pouting. He’s usually not the best at reading people – self-proclaimed – but this time, he seems to sense something’s wrong. He searches your face, and when you look away, he gently nudges your foot with his. “I don’t hate it when it’s you,” he says, quiet and serious, and you can feel his eyes still on you.
“Soonyoung and Y/N privilege,” you try to joke as you meet his eyes again, and Jihoon nods slowly. His eyebrows knit together, like he’s trying to figure something out. Whatever it is, you don’t think you want him to. “I’m going to bed,” you say, and he nods again. Neither of you says anything else, but you can feel his eyes following you as you disappear into your bedroom.
It’s not unusual for Jihoon to emerge from his room around midday. What is unusual, however, is for him to be up any earlier than 10:00am. So when you leave your room at 9:30 a few days later only to find him hunched over your kitchen island, to say you’re surprised is an understatement. He’s got a near-full cup of tea in front of him, and he’s staring into the void. He doesn’t turn, even when you clear your throat, and you’re beginning to panic now.
“Jihoon?” Your hand itches to reach for him as you approach, but you don’t. You feel distinctly as though you’re trying not to startle a deer.
“Hm?” The sound of his name seems to finally jolt him out of it, and he turns to meet your eyes. Your heart breaks a little. He looks exhausted — more than usual. There’s something about his face that suggests it’s more of a mental than physical kind of tired, and you want nothing more than to give him a hug.
You tread carefully. “Did you… Go to the gym already?”
Jihoon shakes his head. You didn’t think so, given that he’s still in the shorts and t-shirt he usually sleeps in, but it seemed like a safe enough topic. He says nothing more. Why else would he be up this early? Your brain is running a million miles a minute. Something is clearly wrong, but how can you help?
You’re silent as you go about your morning, making breakfast as usual — except that this time, you make twice as much. When you place two boiled eggs and some cereal in front of him, it takes him a second to react. You try not to flush when you feel his eyes on you as you sit across from him, scrolling through your phone and taking a bite of your own food instead of acknowledging it.
“Thank you.”
You look at him when he speaks. The corner of his mouth is tilted up just so, in that quiet, wonderful Jihoon way, and you can’t help but smile back. “Of course.”
It’s quiet between the two of you as you eat. You try not to think too much about it, but lately, sitting in silence around your friend has been almost unbearable. There’s just so much you want to say, especially after the other night.
“How do you always know?”
You look at him again, eyebrows knitting together as you process his question. “Know what?”
He gazes at you for a moment, and the intensity of it has your neck flushing. Then he looks down at his plate again, and you remind yourself to breathe.
For a second you think that there's something there, something hovering between you. You just don’t know what.
“You always know when something’s up with me.”
You shrug, trying desperately not to show just how flustered you are that he’s noticed. “I’m an empath,” you offer, and Jihoon lets out a soft breath of laughter. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t, and it almost feels like you’re both holding your breath now.
Neither of you had mentioned that night the week before. Though a part of you knows that it’s best to just let it be, another part of you almost wishes he’d brought it up. You’re so in love with him that it makes you nauseous, and you’re so aware of it. He’s all you think about, and you worry that if you don’t say it out loud soon, you’re going to explode during one of these quiet moments. You’ve tried so hard to ignore it, to push it down, but the feelings just won’t quit.
And you have no idea what to do about it.
Y/N [4:12pm]: what’s my favourite music man up to?
You sniffle from your spot on your couch, curled up in your favourite fuzzy blanket. You’re miserable, despite your sunny sounding text. That’s your job, though, isn’t it? To be the happy friend? To pretend everything’s fine when it’s not?
You’d just gotten home from a grueling day at work. You’d been hoping that your roommate was home – not because you’d actually have told him you were upset, but because seeing his face makes your day brighter. But he’s not, and you’re alone.
Jihoon-ah [4:34pm]: working. I’ll be late today
Y/N [4:35pm]: classic jihoon. guess I’ll just eat alone :(
Usually, Jihoon’s short texts don’t bother you, because you know him and you know he means nothing by it. It gets to you tonight, though, because all you want right now is for him to hold you.
You wouldn’t ever ask him for it.
You selfishly wish that he would just know that you need him, but he doesn’t. He’s busy, and he’s not very affectionate at the best of times. The worst part of it all, though, is that deep down, you know he would do anything for you if you asked. But you won’t.
It’s not his fault, you remind yourself. If you don’t tell people what you want, you can’t expect them to know.
You’re in your room a couple of hours later, curled up as you watch an episode of your newest binge. You’d let yourself cry, let yourself feel everything even though it hurt, and now it was on to phase two: distraction.
You’re so enthralled in your show that you don’t even hear the front door open and close. When a knock sounds at your bedroom door, you jump and sit up straight. The knock comes again, and you freeze.
“It’s me.”
Your eyes fall to your phone to check the time. You hadn’t expected him for another hour at least. You get up slowly, grimacing as you pass your reflection in the mirror, and move to open the door. He looks out of breath, almost as if he ran home, his eyes wide and his jacket still on.
“Jihoon?” You blink. “Why are you here? I thought you were working.”
“Can I come in?” He asks instead of answering. You step aside, trying to figure out why he’s home early — and why he’s knocking at your bedroom door. It’s quiet for a minute before you sit back on your bed, gesturing for Jihoon to join you. He does, hesitantly, and the room is so quiet that your heart starts to race a little.
“Is everything okay?”
He takes a deep breath. “Are you…” He winces as he trails off, a hand lifting to run through his hair. He tries again. “Are you having a bad day?”
You blink at him for a moment, surprised. “Huh?”
“Seungcheol told me that you were having a bad day.” He looks embarrassed as he says it, and you remember that you’d told your mutual friend about your shitty boss’s latest antics at lunch.
“Oh,” you manage, reminding yourself to scold Seungcheol later.
“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, almost as if he’s trying to ground himself, and then he’s pushing forward again. “So… Are you? Having a bad day?”
You debate lying so as not to worry him, but he’s looking at you so intently that you just know you can’t. You look down at your hands. “Kind of.” Your voice is quieter now, and you can feel his eyes on you.
“Okay.”
“Yeah.” It’s quiet, and you kind of wish to be swallowed whole.
“I wish you’d told me,” he admits.
“It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt your… stuff.”
He shakes his head, almost like he’s frustrated, and you wish — not for the first time — that he was a bit easier to read.
“Your stuff is important to me, too,” is what he finally says, and you can feel how warm your face is getting.
“I know, but it’s okay. It’s nothing big,” you try to reassure him. “I’ll get over it.”
Jihoon hums, and when you look over at him again, you find him with his hands clasped together in his lap as he leans forward. He still seems frustrated, but you’re not sure why. “I came home as soon as he told me,” he tells you, and your stomach flips.
“You didn’t have to—“
“I’m sorry I’m bad at reading between the lines.” His interruption surprises you, and you blink back at him.
“Huh?”
Jihoon sighs, turning his body towards yours. “Even when I don’t tell you, you always know if I’m upset about something. I wish I was better at that, but I just get so focused and I don’t notice things. You know how I am.”
“It’s okay, Jihoon,” you say again. “I can’t expect you to just know how I’m feeling.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. His gaze on you is intense, his eyes wandering across your face, and you suddenly feel self-conscious. “I guess I just wish that you, and everyone else, would be more straight up with me.”
You bite your lip. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. Don’t be sorry, just…” He takes in another breath. You’re holding yours. “Can you please tell me next time?”
“I will. I just… don’t want you to worry about me.”
“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” he says. “Not with me.”
Your heart is ready to beat out of your chest. All you can do is say, “Wow, Jihoon, it kind of sounds like you care about me.”
When he responds easily with, “I do,” your mouth falls open a little.
The soft tone of his voice is so tender, so serious. What surprises you even more is the way he’s avoiding your eyes now, hand scratching at the back of his neck. Is he… blushing?
“I want to be there for you,” he adds a moment later, and you think you must be dreaming. He straightens, meeting your eyes again, and your breath is caught in your throat. He searches your face for a moment before he says, “I’m bad at knowing when people need me. I know that. But I’m telling you that I want you to tell me when you need me, because I want to be there for you.”
“Jihoon…”
“Please tell me you understand what I’m saying.”
The room falls silent. Your mind is running a mile a minute as you process, but you know you have to take the risk — so you do.
Your fingers find his, a slow brush of skin against skin as you wait for him to make the next move. Your heart nearly beats out of your chest when he closes the gap, lacing his fingers through yours, and squeezes.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I understand exactly what you’re saying.”
“And?”
“I care about you too, Lee Jihoon. So much.”
“Yeah?” It comes out as a whisper, and you’re rewarded with a smile when you nod.
“Yeah.” You flush, opening your mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out. Jihoon tilts his head as you play with his fingers nervously.
“What?”
“Can you… Would you kiss me?”
Jihoon’s smile widens, even though you can see the tips of his ears turning red in the dim light of your room. “I can do that,” he murmurs, his free hand finding your face, and your nervous inhale is quieted by his mouth on yours.
It’s gentle and slow. It’s Jihoon, and he’s kissing you, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.
When you pull away, you’re blushing. You let your forehead fall forward against his shoulder, and you can feel him laugh as his hand lifts to your back.
“Do you want to talk?“ He asks gently. “About your day?”
You shake your head no, moving back to look up at him as you say, “Don’t worry. My day is much better now.”
A/N: thank you so much to everyone for all the love on pov and idk! Here’s the third of our Thirteen Valentines. Nana Tour!Woozi has ruined my life as much as he has ruined yours. xoxo
Please please please reblog if you can to spread the word, and check out the Thirteen Valentines masterlist! If you want to be added to the taglist, send me a message :) Your kind comments and reblogs don’t go unnoticed <3
Taglist: @waldau @wqnwoos @tae-bebe @gyuminusone @savventeen @eoieopda @minisugakoobies @wheeboo @lvlystars @darkypooo @christinewithluv @bella-l (Strikethrough means it wouldn’t let me tag you, sorry!)
summary : you and johnny’s relationship told in your birthday posts over the years
pairing : johnny suh x gn!reader
genre/s : one-shot smau, non-idol au, pure fluff
*note : pics are not chronologically accurate + likes are a lil all over the place but let me have this i thought it would be cute and i reordered the pics after writing hahaha
from reese, with love <3
feel free to guess at which bday post they started being together hehe anyways, happy johnny day!! johnny was my bias when i first got into nct and he’s still my bias to this day! he is so dear to me, he deserves the world and i hope he had the best day.
thank you for reading, i’d love to know what you think! hope you’re doing well and taking care :)
hii i would like to request a fake dating scoups x reader au where the reader falls first but coups falls harder <3 thank u!
here you go anon, hope you like this :)
reset — choi seungcheol | 2,008 words | fluff, hurt/comfort
cheol brainrot go brrrr
gender neutral reader. warnings: none.
technically speaking, the party’s going fine.
despite how much you want to hate it, it’s going the way parties do. there’s music, there’s alcohol, there’s your own corner if you want to tune out the sound of everything else, and there’s seungcheol’s friends. he’s spent at least half an hour introducing you to everyone — you’ve met a lot of them before, but there’s still some new ones. there’s always new ones.
and even though they’ve been nothing but polite to you, engaging you in conversation and making an effort to learn more about you, you can’t shake off the feeling that this isn’t really where you’re supposed to be.
you don’t know who you were kidding when you agreed to be his fake date for the party. he’s already had a ton of people hanging onto him throughout the course of the night. you’re not sure why he even bothered asking you. he could have asked his manager to find someone that would actually match with him, and maybe create a big splash if it made it to the news.
instead, he’d asked you out.
it won’t make a difference in the news, anyway, he’d said, like he wasn’t aware of the way he shattered your heart with those words. like it was common knowledge that nobody could even imagine the two of you together. like it wasn’t worth anyone’s time or imagination, most of all his.
suddenly, you find the sounds in the room too loud to bear. it’s not the first party you’ve been to, but it’s the first one where you’ve felt truly alone. you’re glad you haven’t touched your drink yet.
no one’s really paying attention to you exclusively, and you’re okay with nodding along and throwing in an occasional response here and there. but then it’s not okay, anymore. you shouldn’t have to be here in the first place, on this stupid fake date you agreed to because of your little crush on seungcheol.
okay, maybe it’s not just a little crush. but the point is that you shouldn’t have to be here hurting your feelings in order to spend a little time with him.
you excuse yourself under the pretense of having to take a call and head towards the balcony. joshua, one of seungcheol’s closest friends, comes up to ask you if everything’s okay. you’ve been friends with him for long enough that he can tell when you're fine and when you're not, but you give him a look that hopefully conveys you want him to let this slide.
“seungcheol mentioned this isn’t really your thing, so let him know if you want to go home. i know he’ll be okay with that.”
you nod wordlessly, words of gratitude stuck in your throat. what seungcheol tells you is true — joshua is just too damn perceptive.
you feel like you can finally take a better breath when the door shuts behind you, separating you from everyone else. the cold air makes you feel better, even if it’s beginning to seep into your skin because of the outfit you’ve worn.
it doesn’t matter, though. you need a bit of a reset.
somehow, it hardly takes four minutes before you feel someone behind you. and it’s not just anyone.
“do you have a death wish or something?”
you choose not to grace him with an answer.
“hey,” seungcheol prompts when you don’t reply. “what’s up?”
“shouldn’t i be asking you that?”
seungcheol steps to your side and looks at you. even though you’re gazing down at the empty road sparsely dotted with streetlights, you can feel his gaze pierce you.
“do you want to go home?” he asks softly.
it hurts. he shouldn’t be this considerate to you and then not like you back. it can't just be one without the other.
“i don’t know, do you?”
he sighs. “okay. i don’t know what i’ve done wrong, but i can tell you’re not comfortable right now. are you done for tonight?”
you shake your head. “i don’t want you to leave because of me. it seemed like you were having fun back there.”
“and you weren’t,” he replies, reading between the lines.
“it doesn’t matter, okay? it’s not your fault i’m not having fun.”
“that’s not how this works,” seungcheol stresses, stepping forward to grip your arms and recoiling a bit. “you’re cold.”
you shrug. another thing that’s not gone well today.
seungcheol takes off his jacket and hands it to you without any hesitation, but you don’t take it. you can’t keep living in your little daydream, living on moments where you think he might love you just a bit more than he would a friend. one of you needs to break the cycle, and if it’s going to be you, you’re prepared.
“seriously, what is wrong with you?” he asks, soft but sharp. you finally look him in the eyes. he has that gaze — the one where it looks like he knows exactly what you’re thinking about. it scares you sometimes, the way he’s so accurate. he must have picked up something from joshua over the years.
“nothing’s wrong with me, cheol,” you say, slightly bitter. “just because i don’t want your jacket doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.”
"you're right, i'm sorry," he says, taking a step closer to you. "i shouldn't have said it like that. but...it's not just about the jacket. at first i thought i caught you on an off day, but you seemed fine till we got here. i don’t know what happened after that. are you hungry? did someone say something to you? do you need me to punch anyone?”
you give him an exasperated look. “you’d punch someone if i asked?”
“in a heartbeat. i thought you knew that by now.”
“and if i was wrong?”
“you’re never wrong when it comes to things like these. and i’d forgive you even if you were.”
"you're too trusting, you know that?"
"well," seungcheol says, lowering the jacket. but it's still in front of you, still on offer. "you're my best friend. i think you have some privilege."
you hate the earnestness in his voice as much as you love it. “i know. sorry.”
“don’t apologize, sweetheart. tell me what’s wrong, and tell me how i can fix it. i’ll do anything.”
“it’s…nothing you can do,” you say, turning away from him. it's most definitely not in his control, but it’s not your fault for loving him, either.
“how will you know if you don’t try?”
“you just know some things, cheol. trust me on that.”
“yeah? like i know you’re hiding something from me right now? something that’s eating my best friend up, and i don’t even know what to do to help?”
again. those two words. they tear you up from the inside just as much as they hold you together. you can’t help the sharp feeling in your throat which indicates tears might be on the way. you're just frustrated at the unfairness of it all. if only life was a little kinder.
seungcheol, ever perceptive, notices immediately. “sweetheart? it’s something i did, isn’t it? something i said?”
you shake your head, not wanting tears to well up.
“don’t lie to me,” he says, draping the jacket over your shoulders and pulling you into his embrace. you push him away, even though you whole body wants nothing more than to be with him.
“please tell me?”
you take in a breath, the cold night air stinging your nose. “you said something.”
“what was it?”
“you said it wouldn’t make a…difference, if i was your date,” you say, focusing so much on not crying that your voice is barely audible to your own ears. “you said it like no one would care if we were together. like it wouldn’t affect you in any way. like i’m just…your best friend. and no one can see me as anything more.”
seungcheol sucks in a sharp breath. “can i hold you? please?”
you almost refuse, but decide otherwise. you’ve spilled out your mind to him, anyway. the least you deserve is a hug from him.
“i’m so fucking sorry,” he breathes into your hair, his arms looped around your waist and holding you close to him. “i didn’t— i’d never say something like that. that’s not what i meant when i said it.”
“then what did you,” mean, you mean to ask, but your breath gets swept away when he presses a kiss to your head.
“it’s just…everyone knows how close we are,” he says, hand gently running up and down your back. “i thought people wouldn’t bat an eye if they assumed we were dating, you know. i know people who already think we are. or…that we should.”
you look up at him at that. he looks serious about what he’s saying, but also shy, like he doesn’t want you looking at him when he’s speaking.
“people?”
“some of my close friends.”
that's news to you. “so you don’t mind…people thinking we’re a thing? or thinking we should be?”
“of course not,” he says, holding you with one hand and tracing your cheekbone with the other. you fall for him just a bit more, right there. “anyone would be lucky to have you. i’d be the luckiest guy to have you.”
he just says things like that, and it makes you wonder if he really means them. so you decide to push him this time, and see where it goes. and blame it on your nerves and the drink you never had if things don’t go well. “would you?”
“want to have you?”
you nod, breath trapped in your throat.
“yeah,” he breathes out, leaning forward and tucking his chin in your shoulder.
you swear your world stops for just a second. you’re hardly even aware that he’s leaning on you now.
"yeah as in?"
“i’d like you to take you out for a real date. if you’ll let me.”
you pull away to look at seungcheol. he’s blushing, but he’s not looking away.
"if i'll let him, he says."
"well?" seungcheol lifts a hand to fix your hair.
“this isn’t a joke?”
he steps back and rubs his face, probably in an attempt to brace himself for whatever he wants to say. it doesn’t work. you like him like this, you think. with his hair messy and his eyes shy.
“of course not. i’d never joke about something like this. especially when it’s you.”
you should be the one who's shy and blushing, and yet there's nowhere else you'd rather look. “what made you…”
seungcheol takes your hands. they're a warm contrast to your cold ones. “i’ve been wrestling with it for a while, and i never told you because i didn’t want things between us to be weird. but i couldn’t keep faking it after i saw you tonight. you look so good, it’s been killing me.”
you shake him off to loop your arms around his neck and pull him down to you, feeling a bit braver. “so if i told you i wanted to leave right now…”
he swallows loud enough for you to hear. “we’d be out of here right now.”
you stand on your tiptoes to bring yourself to his height and place a little kiss on his nose.
he pouts. “that’s it? that’s all i get after confessing to you?”
“i don’t want our first kiss to be in front of an audience, cheol.”
seungcheol smiles. “fair. but i don’t know how much longer i can wait now.”
“you’re going to have to ask me out for real, you know.”
“but you haven’t told me you like me back yet,” seungcheol says. you can hear the whine in his voice and it makes you laugh a bit.
“you need to hear me say it?”
“of course i do! i've spent weeks thinking about tonight.”
a/n: mingyu brain rot bc i dreamt of him last night and ive never felt so loved 😭😭😭😭 first fic of the year! not proofread bc im too lazy. Enjoy🤍 do tell me if u enjoy this??? Hello???
wc: 1.1k // just some musings about love // fluff // super very soft // i dont think theres any warning except that i want him NOW.
[ ♤♤♤ ]
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
It's not anything as dramatic as you not believing in it. You just really haven't found the right person, nor have you been trying to look for one. Which is why it's a wonder that you end up with someone as wonderful as Kim Mingyu.
Your meeting with him wasn't anything special either. It's nothing out of a fiction; it's not exciting and it's not magical. It's just you, being Chan's friend and introduced to the members when he invited you to their concert and you visited the backstage once it finished.
It wasn't an instant click either, you just ended up talking individually somehow and the relationship progressed as time passed by.
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
He holds your hand when you're afraid even if you don't say anything.
He holds your hand when you're afraid even if he's afraid.
You both hate horror movies with passion, but once in a blue moon you two would challenge yourself just to see if it has changed. Every single time Mingyu would brace it and watch through everything just so he can tell you when to close your eyes and when it's okay to open them again.
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
He would listen to everything you talk about. From your complain about your coworkers, to your random ramble about some stuff you see on Instagram reels.
He listens.
He always does.
Because one day you're talking about how it's been quite some time since you've eaten lasagna and the next dinner Mingyu bakes lasagna for you himself.
He listens.
Because when you mention once in passing to your friend, to which Mingyu only listens partly to because you're on the phone and doesn't realize he's already awoken from his nap, that you've always wanted to try snorkeling, Mingyu arranges for it immediately once he finds a suitable date for you both.
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
He finds time to contact you in midst of busy schedules, and always tells you beforehand if he's going to be too busy to reach out in any way. You've told him plenty of times that you understand and that he doesn't need to reassure you everytime, but you've also told him once long before you started dating that you're the type to welcome words of assurance more than anything.
So he continues to reassure you everytime he can.
“What do you think about this?” Mingyu asks, yet again in another set of outfits.
You don't know shit about fashion, and you think Mingyu looks good in everything because he knows how to dress himself well. This is something that he's aware of, but he also likes your validation so you always try your best to say anything other that “You look good” and “I like this better than the previous one”.
“I think… you know I like it best when you're in black so I'm not sure if your current outfit is actually better than the black one or not.” You say sheepishly, to which Mingyu laughs at.
Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his laughter, something that hasn't changed despite having dated him for almost a year now. He makes his way to you and engulf you in a hug, whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “you're so cute” though he doesn't admit it because you don't like being called cute.
“Hmm.. Maybe I should go for the black one.” He says as he looks at himself in the mirror once again.
“What? No! Wear what you think is best. You know I have zero sense of fashion.”
“You like it, though.”
“I like you. You know you can wear the ugliest shirt out there and I'll still like it.”
Mingyu freezes and you see the tips of his ears turning red. You don't always say your feelings out loud, and when you do, it always hits a soft spot within him. And for all the cheesy comments Mingyu always parades to his fans, he's actually bad at receiving them himself.
You would usually jump at this opportunity to tease him, but you're feeling especially soft today, so you walk up next to him and tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“I appreciate your sentiment, but don't trust me this time around, okay?” You chuckle and cup his warm face before dropping a peck on his lips.
“Alright…” He presses his lips together and goes for another kiss. “You'll really like everything…?”
And as much as Mingyu reassures you, you reassure him back.
“I like you. So you can wear anything, and I'll like it as long as it's not something weird like a dragon costume or something.”
Mingyu succumbs with a shy smile and hides his face in your neck.
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
He's brought you happiness that you didn't know existed. He always makes your bad days better and your good days even better.
You automatically look for him when something makes you laugh, a part of you always wishes to share your happiness with him no matter where he is. You also look for him when you're not feeling your best, because one look and Mingyu knows you need him beside you, his arms enveloping you to ground yourself to him, and his deep voice reminds you that things are going to be okay.
“Does it bother you?” Seungkwan asks one day. You, him, Mingyu, and Seungcheol are chilling in Mingyu's dorm.
“What?” You return his question, getting more comfortable on the sofa. You're leaning against Seungcheol's shoulder, as Mingyu is too busy playing something on his phone and you don't want to restrict his movement by leaning into him.
“The… you know. Whispers. What people say?”
“About me and Mingyu?” You make sure. Your relationship isn't public, but you know some people in his company doesn't exactly approve of his choice of a girlfriend even though their opinions don't matter.
“Yeah…”
You hum as you look at Mingyu, sitting comfortably on the floor near Seungkwan. He comments on how random the younger guy's question is, but doesn't seem too bothered by it.
Something pleasant settles in your chest as you continue looking at him, your smile growing when the answer to Seungkwan's question pops in your mind.
“Not really, no.” You turn to him with a smile, your voice firm with security. “I know Mingyu loves me and that's enough.”
You don't know love until Kim Mingyu.
Because he loves you with everything he has to offer and beyond, never once failing to let you know his feelings haven't wavered.
Because you want to do everything for him even if you're not able to, your heart always finding a way to be with him even when he's not next to you.
boinon! chwe! hansol! back on my marriage agenda because it's ME. song taken from vernon's playlist from weverse magazine. also i'm a firm believer that vernon is the kind of guy who looks at two of anything and just goes "us." please enjoy me simping for him.
gender neutral reader. warnings: none.
you notice vernon's not sleeping anymore.
he's looking up at you from where his head is resting on your chest. he always does this thing where his gaze is focused on you till you acknowledge it, whether it's by asking him what's up, or blushing at how intense it is.
this time, though, you don't do anything to shake the moment. so it's just you looking down into his eyes that are looking back at you, and it's not the first time you've paused to admire his eyes.
before vernon, you didn't really understand how you could be lost in someone's eyes. but his eyes? hazel brown, shining when they catch the light just right, a hundred thoughts running through them. streaks of light you wish you could decode.
there's a soft love song playing in your ears while your hands rest on his chest, tracing the shapes of the stars on his shirt. he manages to look good even when he's upside down, somehow.
soft. vernon would shake his head if you said that to him out loud, but he wouldn't deny it. not anymore. he likes when you call him nicknames. he likes when you call him, even. content to listen to your self-professed rambling about whatever's on your mind.
just like you're content to listen to him ask you ridiculous questions out of the blue. ridiculous to anyone who doesn't know him.
"do you believe we're made of the same stuff stars are made of?"
you'd blinked out of the show you'd been watching. "i...yeah? technically? hydrogen and all."
"does that mean we found each other all those years ago? and not just now?"
vernon has a way with words, really. he doesn't downplay it, but that's because you don't let him know how much it affects you in the first place. you could be talking about two seeds in a segment of tangerine and he'd say it was the both of you. two moths flying around a lamp? you.
and then there's times you think his humour couldn't get any worse.
"hey, you dropped something."
you'd looked around to find nothing out of place. "what?"
"my jaw."
suffice to say, vernon didn't get a single kiss from you for the next few hours.
(of course, you'd had to make it up to him with a ton of kisses and cuddles later on.)
right now, he's still looking at you, and the song has changed. you don't know the name of it, having picked it from the playlist vernon made for you, that he keeps adding to.
i hope you like this, he'd said shyly, when he'd sent you the link to it.
it's not surprising that you've liked almost every song you've heard so far. of course, there's a few that don't match your vibe, but when you close your eyes and think of vernon enjoying the song, lost in his own world, it makes you like them a little more.
back to the present. your fingers are tapping along to the rhythm of the song, something about love and self-doubt, upbeat yet heart-wrenching with a guitar riff that's so painfully vernon that you have to lean down and kiss his head.
vernon grabs your fingers where they're dancing on his chest and presses a kiss to your thumb. then your index finger. then the rest of your fingers. and then your palm.
you stop the song, amused at how affectionate he's being.
"what's up?" you ask, taking off your earphones.
he shakes his head. you push at his shoulder lightly.
"keep listening to your song."
you frown. "am i ignoring you?"
vernon sighs. "not at all. it's just...you'll stop doing it if i point it out."
"stop doing what?"
he takes your hand and places it on his chest, trapping it in place with his own. "you do this...thing. you tap out a song on me when we're not listening to it together. and then i try to guess what you're listening to. and i almost always get it wrong. it's...silly."
your heart feels too big for your chest. "vern? have i ever told you how much i love you?"
he shuts his eyes, a smile on his face. "yeah. 'course you have. love you, too."
squeezing his hand that's holding yours, you resume playing the song. he lets go of your hand so you can continue tapping out the beats.
"can you guess what it was?" you ask, once the song ends.
"hm. kinda fast paced, and there's only a few of those on there. breaking the law?"
"nope."
"rock with you?"
you shake your head. "did you really add one of your own songs on there?"
"hey, we make good music, too."
"never denied that."
vernon shrugs. "i don't know."
"marry me."
vernon freezes noticeably under your hand, before pushing it away and sitting up, staring at you.
it's just you and him and the silence in the room. his eyes have you trapped in place, unable to look elsewhere.
"by ellegarden!" you blurt out, suddenly realizing how your words could be misconstrued. "it's..." you scroll through the playlist. "the first song you ever put in there."
"oh," is all he says, but he's blushing. he's blushing. you made your famously stoic boyfriend blush.
"vernon? did you think i..."
"...maybe?"
you let out a small laugh at that. "do you really think...have you ever thought about getting...y'know?
"married?" he asks, smirking. "you shouldn't ask me about it if you're so shy."
"i didn't—!" it's a losing battle. of course you've thought about it, and of course you're shy about it. spending the rest of your life with the person who means the most to you sounds like a dream, and you're living in it right now. halfway there.
"if it's any consolation," vernon says, slotting his fingers with yours, "i've thought about it."
"and?"
"i like it."
it's nearing six in the evening. vernon has his head on your chest again, listening to a song with you this time. you're going to have to listen to it again, the way your brain is clouded by thoughts of him and you.
the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome.
or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it.
pairing ; vernon x gn!reader.
content ; all the tropes. 5 times fic. soulmate au. slight college au if you squint. f2l. fluff, some angst. pining. one (1) hint of suggestiveness if u squint. MINORS STILL DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT.
content notes ; mentions of reader having a(n unnamed) partner & thereafter, going through a breakup due to said partner cheating. reader is maybe implied to be shorter than him but hopefully not too obviously or frequently. alcohol is mentioned & is a key theme in scene #3. pov switch for the final part (necessary for logistical reasons.) PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything.
w/c ; 9.6k
note ; welcome to thee most self indulgent fic ever lmao. i hope u enjoy this slight break away from what i usually post here (as if my entire brand isn’t writing losers in love. ANYWAY) -- this was very fun and a little bit special for me! <3
“What was your first kiss like?”
Initially, Vernon swears he just didn’t hear you right. It’s dark up here, where you’re hiding away from a party on the roof of his university accommodation and he’s starting to get tired. There’s some sort of siren wailing away in the distance to his left, and on the street below, a gaggle of freshmen are cackling as they walk past the building. His ear closest to you is currently listening to your favourite song.
All the signs suggest that he simply got it wrong.
But he doesn’t know if he believes those signs, especially not seeing as when he looks over at you, you’re staring pointedly up at the stars overhead. He doesn’t doubt that you’re giving yourself an ache in your neck in the process, too.
“Hmm?” He asks, taking out the earphone that connects him to you. The other one is still nestled away in your ear and he reaches to gently pull it away. “What was that?”
You still don’t look at him, but you do repeat yourself. Quietly. “What… was your first kiss like?”
“Oh.”
He was right.
“You don’t have to tell me,” you hurry to say, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself to block out the cold air that blows across the rooftop. He shrugged it off and told you to take it the very moment your teeth started chattering — almost an hour ago now. His arms are bare, shoulders and biceps only covered by a t-shirt so thin it’s practically sheer, but he isn’t cold. He’s always run hotter than most. “Sorry.”
He nudges you with his knee, silently telling you that you don’t need to apologise. He doesn’t mind — you just caught him off guard; Vernon hasn’t given this any thought in a long time, and he has to really put his mind to coming up with an answer. It was forever ago — when he was eleven or twelve, maybe, with his first ever girlfriend. They dated for a whole two and a half weeks. He doesn’t know if it really counts: the kiss was a dare, after all.
“Kinda…” He starts, trying to follow the line of your sight, wondering if he can find the exact stars you’re looking at. “She’d just put this weird lipgloss on. It was real tingly. And like, neither of us knew what we were doing? So it… got everywhere. I think I ended up swallowing some, I don’t know. My mouth felt weird after. Thought I was having an allergic reaction.”
You laugh softly at him. “I think that would put me off for the rest of my life,” you say.
“It almost did,” he chuckles. You hum at him and lean back on your elbows, leaving Vernon more than a little bit confused. He readjusts his hold on his knees, bringing them closer to his chest as he tilts his head down at you in your new position.
“…why?” He asks, just as you close your eyes and take a deep inhale of the cool air.
You just shrug. “I guess I just… wondered.”
He nods, and it’s his turn to fall short of a response, but that’s okay. You’ve known each other for too long for these silences to feel uncomfortable. He grew up with you. In fact, he’s reasonably sure he’s told you this story before. He must have done.
Then he realises, maybe he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the story behind yours, and maybe that’s just a line the two of you never came to crossing. He knows he told his other friends, back then, because he was the last one in his circle to have a first kiss and he felt like it made him more grown-up, or something. Naturally, he left out the more embarrassing details. But maybe you just told your other friends who weren’t him, and went on with your life. Maybe yours was just… normal.
Either way, he’s interested now. And there’s no time to ask like the present.
“What was yours like?” He asks, fiddling with the strap on his wristwatch. You don’t answer straight away; he doesn’t think anything of it, because neither did he, but when he’s still waiting for you to speak a small eternity later, he prompts you again. “Hey, it can't have been worse than mine.”
You snort.
“You’ll laugh at me,” you say, shaking your head. Vernon furrows his brows and drops his legs flat, twisting to one side to look at you.
He doesn’t know where you’d get that idea from, but he’s… almost a bit offended by it?
“No I won’t,” he tells you softly. Maybe at first, he might’ve laughed with you, if your story happened to be as dumb as his own. But not at you. Never at. Not when he’s been the butt of the joke in too many friendship circles, for about as long as he can remember.
You take a shallow breath, pursing your lips. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not…” you start to say, before you clear your throat and try again, this time heading in a different direction. “I don’t know. It’s dumb, I guess.”
“Don’t make me come down there,” Vernon threatens playfully, poking you in your side. You squirm, giggling despite yourself, despite the serenity of the sanctuary you two have found, despite the fact that you, too, were on the edge of falling asleep before your question came out of nowhere.
He pokes you again, and again, and then starts to tickle your ribs instead. You squeal, swatting his hands away to no avail and you move to sit up, grabbing him by the forearms to physically make him stop. The grin on Vernon’s face is wide and heart-shaped. A warm feeling spreads through him: it has everything to do with the sweet sounds of your slowly dissolving laughter.
You sit cross-legged across from each other like this for a moment or two. Your knees are touching. Your hands move down his arms until you’re holding him firmly by the wrists. Your eyes lock together: his crease with the sheer force of his boyish smile, while yours are narrowed, daring him to try and wiggle free and attack you again.
He doesn’t, but for the first time ever, he’s struck with the urge to do something maybe more scary.
The urge to just… lean in to you.
It makes his heart do a backflip, in a way that it hasn’t done since he had his last crush. His head goes empty, and he forgets what he was even asking you before: the only thoughts he can muster are ones regarding what your lips taste like, whether they’re half as soft as they look, if you’d lightly touch his shoulder or his arm or his chest or his cheek—
Do you smile when you kiss?, he wonders. Do you sigh? Do you—
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you answer, looking away now and letting go of him. He’s gone so loose in the moments since you grabbed hold of him that when you’re not supporting their weight, his arms fall like two cinder blocks onto his knees.
True to his word, he doesn’t laugh. He’s surprised by your revelation, sure, but in no way humoured; actually, he feels a little saddened by it, for a reason he can’t put his finger to. He ends up not saying anything, just biting the inside of his cheek; he wants to ask why, but knows maybe that’s a bit of a dick move, and if it’s something you’re sensitive about he doesn’t want to risk hurting you.
But he’s watched people fawn over you for years, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever been short of attention from those who have thought you were attractive. So it can’t be that you’ve been lacking in chances? Surely?
“I thought… maybe I should save it,” you go on to explain. Your hands keep busy by playing with a thread at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, wrapping it around one finger until the skin beneath it pinches before you unravel it again.
“Save it?” He asks. You nod your head.
“For when I thought I’d found them.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Like I said, it’s s—.”
“No it’s not,” Vernon says abruptly, shaking his head. He holds onto you now, one hand slipping around your back until it rests on the shoulder furthest away from him. You scoff. He squeezes you into his side. “Hey. It’s not stupid.”
He doesn’t like how this admission has, somehow, made his desire to kiss you stronger. He hates that he feels even more drawn to you, a magnet finally finding its opposing pole. It freaks him out a little. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone this badly.
Red button theory, he tells himself to try and get back on the straight and narrow. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would be happening.
“It’s romantic,” he says finally, swiping his thumb in small motions over the top of your shoulder. You nod, mumbling a ‘thank you’ (for what, he isn’t sure), and shiver. Vernon doesn’t know if that’s because of his proximity to you or because you’re finally starting to feel the cold. Either way, he takes the initiative to stand up and holds a hand out for you to take so he can tug you to your feet too. You get up with a little hop.
It’s… devastatingly cute.
“Where are we going?” You ask, brushing off your jeans before shoving your hands into the jacket’s pockets. He’s already on the retreat, walking backwards towards the door that took you up here.
“To get food,” he tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That party was dead, anyway.”
It doesn’t cross his mind again until your twenty-first birthday.
He’s not your soulmate. He couldn’t be. The thought he had on the roof that autumnal night was little more than a passing fantasy; besides, he doesn’t have a thing for you. He doesn’t want to kiss you, or date you, or have you be his soulmate. The reason you work so well together is because you’re just friends; he thinks you’d drive each other crazy if things ever went romantic between you. You bicker with him for sport. He drowns away hours at a time with his headphones clamped over his ears and forgets to answer your texts. It would be a nightmare.
Not that he’s ever thought about all that. Not actively, or even passively. Not when he should be listening to college lectures instead, for example. Not awake, nor in his dreams. He hasn’t. Not once.
He swears.
“You can save it ‘til tomorrow, if you want.”
Vernon bounces his leg nervously, fidgeting with the edge of your comforter as you sit on the floor in front of him, styling your hair for your party. He arrived half an hour ago while you were still waltzing around in your bathrobe, holding a small, neatly wrapped box in both of his hands. It’s several degrees too warm in your bedroom. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as you grumble what seems to be a threat at a strand that won’t cooperate. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. (If you do, he’s grateful that you don’t say anything.)
“But it’s my birthday today,” you pouted, taking the box from him. “Let me finish getting ready, then I’ll open it. Come on.”
His wrist still aches with the pressure you held onto him with as you dragged him up the stairs. Your parents are away for the weekend and the house is all yours, so there’s a speaker blasting your favourite playlist full volume on your nightstand and there’s nobody to tell you to turn it down. He flits his attention between his phone and watching you, but he can’t fully concentrate on either; he’s too nervous that maybe you won’t like his gift, and he’s never been the type to splash out on birthday presents before but this… well, it burned a hole in his wallet, that’s for sure.
“Okay. Wait here,” you tell him as you push up off the floor, limping on the leg that had started to fall asleep thanks to the way you were sitting.
“All right,” he says back. As if he’d go anywhere, anyway.
You grab a hanger from inside your closet and scurry off down the hall to the bathroom. For the first time, Vernon feels like he can actually breathe. He drops his phone onto the comforter between his crossed legs and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself that he needs to get it together. You’ve never not liked anything he’s given you, and you’ve known him now for more birthdays than you haven’t.
Your friends said you’d love it. So did your mother, with a sparkle in her eye as she held it delicately in her fingers. He has nothing to worry about. It’s only you.
And yet—
“You’ll be honest if it looks bad?” You call from the other side of the door, interrupting how his lips move wordlessly in an endless mantra of self-reassurances.
Vernon snaps his head up and he clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Aren’t I always?” He answers.
You click your tongue, evidently disagreeing, but you pull the handle and take a step into the room anyway. When you see him, he looks exactly as he did when you left, no trace of his anxieties anywhere to be seen on his face or otherwise.
When he sees you, he feels like the world could end any moment and he’d be okay with that.
His mouth runs dry and his eyes seem to be stuck open, unblinking, fixated on you in your all black outfit as you stand still as a statue with your hands behind your back. You cough quietly, waiting for some kind of a response other than a dumb stare, but it doesn’t come.
Eight seconds later… still nothing.
“Do you hate it?” you fret, because Vernon is a very good hype-man and you’ve never known him struggle to find something positive to say. “All right, uh— okay—”
“No!” He rushes, almost shouting in his urgency to assure you that that’s not the case at all. He scrambles up to his feet, taking a breath, and pushes a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, and he kind of hates how his fingers catch on a tangle even though he brushed it meticulously before he left his apartment. You keep telling him it looks good, though, so he hasn’t been to get it cut. “God, no. I’m sorry. You look amazing.”
It doesn’t sound like much to the untrained ear, but the warmth of his compliments comes less in the words he says and more in the sincerity he says them with. Your face softens, and Vernon can see the way the thoughts of changing into something else fizzle out behind your eyes. He takes a backwards step to try and tempt you further into your own bedroom, and you move in tandem with him, closing that space and coming better into the light.
“Wow,” he says, swallowing hard and looking you up and down. “I-… wow.”
It’s your turn to clam up, now. You look down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with your toes. “Shut up,” you say. “I’m not...”
“Yes, you are,” he protests, leaving no room for argument as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress but… yeah, it’s gonna work.”
You walk past him with a scoff, barging against his shoulder on your way; he dramatically staggers to the side, rubbing at the impact site, laughing. When he faces you again, you’ve picked the gift up from the end of your bed and are moving to sit on the mattress yourself. Your eyes flicker between Vernon and the empty space in front of you. He takes the hint, settling back down with one foot tucked beneath him, the other still planted on your rug.
His heart shoots back up into his throat and he stares down at the box, licking over his lips and frowning at how dry they feel. He glances away, lifting a hand to his mouth, running his fingertips over his lips. What would they feel like pressed against yours? He thinks, and then he cringes again.
You misread his reaction and hesitate with your finger pressed underneath a strip of tape, tilting your head at him. “What’s going to jump out at me when I open this?”
“Nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. “What do you take me for?”
“The kind of guy who puts glitter in birthday cards because he thinks it’s funny,” you retort, earning a click of his tongue.
“That was one time!”
“One time too many.”
“I swear,” he laughs, tight shoulders easing, both hands falling to his lap. “No sparkles, no loud noises, nothing jumpy. Cross my heart.“
You eye him a little suspiciously but eventually tug your finger beneath the wrapping and make the first rip in the paper, allowing you to tear into the gift after keeping Vernon on edge for almost an hour and a half. You peel it away and it falls to the bedsheets, in your hands now a small, square box not too dissimilar a shade to your comforter. You look from it, to him, and he thinks you notice how his cheeks are a little darker than they were before.
He nods at you once and you slowly pull it open. On a plush, velvety bedding sits an elegant, dainty bracelet. A small gemstone is set in the metal of the bar in the middle of the chain. You skim a thumb over it, your breath held.
“Vernon,” you murmur, tearing your eyes away from the bracelet to look at him. Now, even the tips of his ears have grown flushed, but you’re kind enough not to comment on it to avoid spoiling the moment you’re in. “This is…”
“The lady in the store said it was your birthstone,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “I mean… I’m really just taking her word for it, ‘cause they all look the same to me, but—”
He’s interrupted as all of your weight topples against him, arms thrown around his neck in a hug. He hesitates a moment before he wraps his own around your waist, drops his head to your shoulder and he smiles wider than he thinks he ever has. “Happy Birthday,” he says, dragging his thumb up and down over your hip.
“Silly,” you scold him playfully, still pressing wholly against him and showing no signs of moving. Your voice sounds thick, a little like you’re tearing up, so Vernon squeezes you tighter.
“I know you are,” he chuckles. “But what am I?”
You swallow hard, finally now pulling away from the hug but sitting entirely too close for comfort, one knee pressing into the outside of his thigh.
Your surprise attack has left him dishevelled. With a quiet apology, your fingers innocently try to smooth everything back into place, but Vernon doesn’t hear you say you’re sorry. His pulse, thundering in his ears, drowns it out while also skipping a beat with each little touch. You’re not looking into his eyes as you shyly put him back to rights, too busy working to tame his — at the best of times — unruly hair.
He’s looking into yours though, and he can’t stop.
Your eyes, which dart all over to find strands out of place, so your hands can move them to where they ought to sit and lay them down flat. Your eyes, that drop down the length of his throat as you realign the neck of his t-shirt over his broad shoulders.
Your eyes: the ones crinkled at the corners as you pick the bracelet back up from your bed and admire it under your bedroom light. Your eyes, landing on his, finally, in a silent plea for help.
“The best?” you answer, now, extending your wrist to ask him to put it on you. He takes the chain from your fingers and unclasps it, slipping it beneath your hand and holding it in place.
“I know you are,” he says again, but it’s quieter now as he concentrates on trying to reconnect the two pieces. “But what am I?”
When he successfully fastens your gift onto your arm, he looks up to see your watery eyes still staring down at it. He decides this is the time to reveal part two of the surprise. Pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he reveals his own wrist to you, and you now see there’s a matching chain hanging off it. A little stone set in the metal. His stone, presumably. You choke out a laugh around your tears, shaking your head.
“You got us friendship bracelets,” you giggle, holding your hand next to his and admiring them together. Your skin touches and he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt around you since…
He nods, breathing a chuckle too. “Yeah,” he says. His heart is pounding. “I guess I did. Is… that okay?”
“I love them,” you insist, leaning forward to affectionately press your lips to his cheek. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Your doorbell sounds downstairs and Vernon’s words die in his throat. Maybe that’s for the best, though; he’s got so much nervous energy rising up inside him and he’s scared it might accidentally force up something he’ll regret saying. You spring off the bed again, fussing in the mirror, and he watches you rush out the bedroom warbling about how you’re not ready for anyone to be here yet. It’s too early. What’s going on? Who is it?
He shifts his legs so both his feet are planted on the floor, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in.
I love them. Thank you, you said.
It’s perfect.
He groans when he stands up, too, tugging his sleeve back down as he starts to follow after you.
“I know you are,” he mumbles under his breath, hearing your relieved laughter at it just being the FedEx man on your doorstep. It makes him feel warm. Everywhere. “But what am I?”
Five hours later, Vernon is seeing double.
He has Seungkwan’s hands massaging the tops of his shoulders and there are two Juns sitting across from him at your dining table. He remembers feeling fine around 9pm, distinctly: like nothing he drank was having any kind of effect on him. Like he could walk home on his hands — like he was invincible. Now, after spending exactly five minutes out in the fresh air, he’s blinking four times for every breath he takes and his friends’ voices keep phasing in and out of focus.
“But what if they’re not?” Vernon stresses for the eighth time, fingers clumsily peeling at the label on his bottle.
“And what if they are?” Jun tries. Again. Also, for the eighth time, because apparently when Vernon gets tipsy, his skull gets really really thick and nothing in the world can penetrate it. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”
Vernon shakes his head, sitting back so heavily that his chair tips and he sends Seungkwan stumbling into the wall behind them. His friend gives up trying to rub the stupid out of him and settles into the chair at Vernon’s side instead.
“I don’t know-…”
“If you’re about to say you don’t know what you’ll do if it isn’t them, I’m putting you in an Uber and sending you home.” Seungkwan claps his hand down onto Vernon’s knee for good measure. “It’s not even been a day.”
Vernon groans, threading his fingers into his hair and tipping his head back. “It hasn’t, though,” he whines. “What if it’s been like this since… and I just kept ignoring…”
Jun and Seungkwan exchange a look. An exhausted one. They both know Vernon turns into a complete baby when he’s had a drink and can just about manage a trip to the bathroom without somebody holding his hand, but neither of them have seen him like this before. Neither of them want to see him like this ever again.
Hell, neither of them want to be dealing with him like this right now.
“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Jun’s (remarkably) calm voice repeats as he pushes up from his seat and glances towards the doorway. His ears lock onto a voice just beyond it, and in an instant, the older man recognises his chance at an exit. He casts an apologetic glance at Seungkwan, who has resorted to rubbing Vernon’s earlobes to try and get him to stop stressing, and he dips out before either of them can argue.
On his way, though, he throws in a sly little remark. One that raises Vernon’s– and Seungkwan’s– blood pressure to a level that would get them prescribed a week of strict bed rest.
“Besides – everyone can see the two of you were practically made for each other.”
Vernon whips around to face Seungkwan with shock written into every line of his face. It paints perfect full-signal WiFi creases on his forehead; it makes his jaw hang loose.
“I– what?” Vernon splutters, shooting a hand to the back of his head. Seungkwan hasn’t taken his eyes off the doorway since Jun slipped through it. Vernon doesn’t notice the fact that his older friend’s full genetic line is currently being cursed out. “What does he mean?”
“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Seungkwan tries, now acutely aware of the fact that Jun has just given Vernon a nudge he should never have. There’s a fine line between bolstering a friend and straight-up causing chaos. This could get messy. Seungkwan doesn’t like messy.
But… It's too late.
Before Seungkwan can wrangle him back into his seat, Vernon has broken away from the table and is on the hunt for you. Seungkwan follows behind, doing his best to summon Vernon back, but he can’t. He’s on a mission now. And maybe that mission involves giving in to the thing that eats away at his brain when he should be waist-deep in music theory assignments. Maybe that mission is to finally, after two years, know what it feels like to kiss you. He’s going to find you, so help him God. He has to.
And yes. He does. He finds you, eventually. As soon as he reaches the top of the staircase, there you are.
Being pressed into the wood of your bedroom door, wrapped up in the arms of some pretentious looking art student in an oversized button-down and baggy, ripped jeans. Your mouth is covered by theirs, your fingers are threaded through those glossy fucking locks, both of you are laughing breathlessly as you drop one hand and it fumbles blindly to reach for the doorknob.
Vernon spins away, turning his back as he hears the door click. At this exact moment, Seungkwan comes stumbling up the stairs too and plants his forehead into Vernon’s sternum.
But his good friend’s skull is not the only thing Vernon is struck with, not the only thing knocking the wind out of him.
Simultaneously, he’s swept up with the sobering realisations that either this guy is your soulmate, or you’re not the same person you were when you were nineteen.
It’s eleven o’clock and two years later when he hears your secret knock on his apartment door.
Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s fate. He only took his noise cancelling headphones off a few minutes ago before he washed up and settled into bed; his head has hardly even had time to make a dent in the pillows. But whichever force is at play, the thing that matters is that he hears you and he knows it’s you, straight away. He doesn’t remember how it started, exactly. He thinks it might have been while he was in his exam-season hermit stage in his first year of university and refused to come to the door unless it was something important.
You’ve been knocking the same way for years now though, and he slides out of bed with creased brows at how desperate your fist sounds as it pounds against the wood. He pulls on an old t-shirt and perhaps the loosest fitting pair of shorts anyone’s ever owned, at least making himself decent before he answers. He’s still tying the drawstring when he gets to the door.
When he looks through the peep-hole to make sure he’s right, you’re drying your eyes on the back of your sweatshirt sleeve. You’re shivering quite violently, and you’ve got a bag on your shoulder that’s weighing you down on one side. Vernon’s heart sinks. He unbolts the door, pulling it open just as you lift your hand to knock again; your knuckles punch the air between you as your eyes land on him, and your bottom lip wobbles in despair.
You fall into his chest with a sob. Tears start to soak their way through his shirt until it clings to the skin underneath.
“Hey,” he soothes you, locking his arms so tight around you that there’s a strong chance they’re the only thing holding you upright.
“I didn’t— know where else to go—” you choke out, your arm trapped between your chest and his as he rests his head on top of yours and pats your back softly. “I’m s-”
“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, tilting his chin down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can always come to me.”
He holds you until your shakes start to subside, trying to talk you through whatever this is with soft reassurances and gentle shushing sounds. When you pull back from him, Vernon guides you into his apartment, flicking on the lamp in his living room so he can see to settle you down on his couch. He throws a blanket over your legs before he sits down himself, pulling your hand into his lap and holding it between both of his own, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles. You’re still crying, but when you shuffle against the seat to be a little more comfortable and finally turn to face him, he finds his voice long enough to ask you what happened.
“He kissed— kissed someone else,” you tell him, sniffling and shaking your head.
His blood reaches boiling point in what must be record time and he knows he accidentally starts to grip your hand tighter, but he can’t stop.
“He what?”
Vernon knows this guy wasn’t your soulmate. You told him, a few days after your birthday. You said everything was still black and white when you pulled back from the first of — what you spared no detail in explaining was — many, many, many kisses with him that evening. But you didn’t care. Not then, and not for the whole time you’ve been together.
He asked you about it once. About four months in (when he figured things were starting to get serious), late at night, if it bothered you. Whether you were going to keep seeing him. If you still thought about finding your soulmate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what your replying message said.
I mean, sure, I’m curious. But maybe I don’t need to see in colour. I think being in love is enough :)
So… you were in love.
With someone who wasn’t him.
He didn’t speak to anyone — not even you — for two whole days after that. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a peak-form George Foreman. He felt like he’d never be able to get rid of the pit that had developed in the depths of his gut. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, he couldn’t focus: it was the worst he’d ever felt. And, well… Vernon knew it was immature. He knew he was acting like a child. If he could’ve shaken it off, the way he’s always done with so many of the things in his life that have bothered him, he’d have loved to. But he couldn’t.
Besides. Only about four people noticed his silence, anyway. You weren’t one of them; your boyfriend was keeping you plenty busy.
“He went to a club and got completely wasted and he— he—” you say, squeezing his hand even tighter than he’s holding yours. “But-… he says he-…” Hiccup. “Everything. Straight away — his…”
You don’t need to say it out loud; if anything, he’s a little disgusted with himself that he didn’t figure this out sooner. “His soulmate,” Vernon ruefully finishes for you. He groans the words out, feeling rotten to his core. “I’m so sorry…”
Your shoulders start to shake and he wastes no time in pulling you sideways against him, both his arms locked around you again, just like before.
“It’s so stupid,” you cry, laughing emptily. His stomach turns; he hates this. Your anguish is an assault on his eardrums, especially when he’s got you so close, but he tries so hard not to flinch, not to move away. You need him, no matter how agonised it makes him feel. “I knew he wasn’t mine, but I thought-…”
Your voice fades away to nothing. You shake your head.
“You thought he was happy the same way you were,” he finishes again. You just nod, sobbing harder. “That's not—… stop saying the way you feel is stupid.”
Vernon doesn’t understand how that loser could ever not have been happy with you. How could he dream about going out in search of something more? Hell, Vernon doesn’t think there’s a soul alive better than you — how could anyone stand to just throw you away?
He wonders briefly if you can hear his heartbeat, thundering in his chest with the rage he feels all the way into his bones. You’ve always told him that you admire how chilled out, how collected he is, but Vernon has never felt less calm in his entire life. It’s only as he acknowledges that he has no right to feel like this, that he takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to bring his fever down. You mimic him, trying to do the same, and by the time his pulse starts to settle, you’re back to just sniffling against his shoulder.
“Stay the night here,” he tells you. It isn’t a suggestion, or really even a request. It’s an order. There’s no room for negotiation. “We’ll go get your things in the morning. I’ll be right there with you.”
You open your mouth to speak, but Vernon gets there before you do. Before you can protest the offers he’s made. Before you can ask him if he’s sure. He knows you, a little too well: he knows these are the words that are going to come out of your mouth next. “I’m with you, okay? Always.”
You sit back from him with a quiet chuckle, wiping your eyes again on your damp sleeve. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” you murmur. “You’re the best— the best thing that ever happened to me.”
He just rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head, standing up from the couch. (I know you are, he thinks. This isn’t the time for jokes, though.) He wishes you knew what you mean to him; how, in his eyes, you deserve the world, presented to you on a shining silver platter. Wishes you knew that he’d give it to you if thought he could carry it.
“Go wash up,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest at the way your watery lashes flutter when you look up at him. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”
He locates a spare toothbrush from a travelling kit he’s never used and sets a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the heated towel rail, leaving you alone in the bathroom to go about your business. You emerge some fifteen minutes later to find Vernon perched on the edge of his bed, scrolling through an app on his phone. He can’t help but swallow at the way his clothes fit you. How the steam from your shower clings to your skin, casts a heavenly haze around you. He hopes it isn’t obvious. This is about more than his dumb little crush.
“Were you asleep?” You ask him, nodding towards his comforter, still pushed back on one side. He turns to glance over his shoulder, following the line of your sight, before he looks back at you and shakes his head.
“Not even close,” he says. “I’d just got into bed when you got here.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. Vernon doesn't think you look totally convinced, but he can’t force you to believe him, even if it is the truth.
It’s unspoken but accepted that you'll sleep in the bed with him; he’s never let you stay on his couch when you spend the night, and you never agree to displacing him even though he always tries to insist he doesn’t mind. You’ve been friends for enough time now that it’ll never be weird to crawl beneath the sheets with him, anyway. At first, he didn’t really like sharing (he’s a bit… particular with how he sleeps, after all), but he got used to your weight on the mattress beside him quite quickly and makes a point to say he always sleeps better with you.
He hasn’t curled up next to you for the night in over two years. It’s awful, that that’s what he thinks about now as he turns off the lights and you settle down, shuffling under the comforter until he slides in next to you in the dark and you can lay your head on his chest. He knows it’s selfish. He thinks it probably makes him a bad person, too.
“Do you think—” you start to say, cut off by a long, vocal yawn. Your breath feels so warm through his t-shirt. “If you fall out of love with them… do the colours go away?”
With his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling he can’t even see, Vernon feels his heart shatter beneath the soft cushion of your cheek. He’s suddenly grateful he’s still fully clothed, as if the cotton barrier is the only thing stopping you from getting scratched by the splinters beneath his skin. He wonders if you hear it. It would be an easier explanation for why he doesn’t say anything than whatever his mouth could come up with, that’s for sure.
“I don’t know,” he says after a few seconds too long. The arm wrapped around your shoulders slips down to your waist and he squeezes you. Briefly, he wonders if it can force your broken pieces back together.
Vernon knows he would never do this to you. He’d never hurt you this way. Out of everyone he’s ever met, he thinks you’re the sweetest, the kindest, the most thoughtful of them all. The last person he’d ever wish a heartbreak upon. He even used to joke that he’d go to war with anyone who dared to try.
But now he’s seeing it happen? He feels as if he really could.
“I just hope you never have to find out,” he follows up, blinking back the thoughts that start to bubble away as your breaths slow down.
He wrapped a band-aid around your finger when you got a papercut once and you asked him, then, if he would kiss it better.
When you bumped your head in the playground, the same.
He’d kiss it all better now too, if he could. He’d show you how you deserve to be loved.
And he doesn’t just think it, anymore; Vernon knows that this makes him a terrible person.
“I hope you don’t, either,” you mumble back. “... and I hope we find them soon.”
He’s so proud of you.
Okay, it never took much. He’s been proud of you for every good grade you’ve ever achieved, every doctor's appointment you booked for yourself, every trip to the dentist you stressed over. He’s been proud of you for finishing projects you were struggling with. Proud of you for learning new recipes. For every milestone, personal or professional, it’s the first thing he makes sure to say.
[ hey, look at u go!!! proud of u :) ]
Now? He’s seen you crawl from rock bottom to the top of the world. It hasn’t been easy. There have been hurdles and barriers and sometimes, sixty foot high walls you’ve had to climb up and over, but you’ve done it. You’re thriving. Every time he looks at you, these days, if you’re not wearing a smile there are at least traces of one in your eyes, on your face, in your voice. Happiness suits you, and he’s so, so proud of you for getting here.
He knows you’re doing better, because between Christmas and New Year, you asked him if he wanted to come to a party with you. At first, he wasn’t sure; the holidays left his wallet feeling a little light and he’s been on a really good streak of not drinking anything lately, but when you promised that you’d stay sober too, he kind of couldn’t say no.
[ i just wanna see in the new year with my favourite person ever <3 ]
[ ha. flattery will get u everywhere ]
So here he finds himself, out in the backyard of somebody he’s never met, a can of Coke in one hand and your gloved fingers holding tightly onto the other. You dragged him outside at five minutes to midnight and — though he doesn’t know why — you decided you didn’t want to let go. Vernon certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make you. Your warmth down his left side is settling the slight unease he’s felt all evening while also making him feel tipsier than he’s ever been under the influence of any amount of soju; he thinks maybe this should scare him, but he’s just… so glad he came.
With sixty seconds until the clock strikes twelve, somebody stands up on top of the picnic table in the yard and starts to try and coordinate a countdown. With forty-five, Vernon squeezes your hand, butterflies where his stomach ought to be. With thirty, he takes a long drain of his drink, finishing it as if it’ll give him some courage, maybe, or… he doesn’t know. Zero sugar, zero caffeine — there’s no logic behind his process, just a lot of bubbles and artificially sweetened syrup. All the same, he crushes the can against his thigh and slips it into his pocket to throw away later. That alone relieves a bit of his adrenaline.
Not enough, but some.
With ten seconds remaining, the first shout drowns out the white noise in his ears, the chaos of his thoughts. 10. He joins them. So do you. 9. 8. Your voice is the loudest, the most excited sounding. You want this year to be over. You want the rest of your life to begin.
7. 6. 5.
The crackers are set. Flames dance at the end of the garden on fire lighters, ready to send rockets shooting into the sky.
Some people here are going to see them as they truly are. Brilliant and vibrant and colourful against the black canvas of the midnight sky. Vernon won’t. Neither will you. But what was it you said to him once?
4. 3.
Maybe I don’t need to see in colour.
2.
For the first time, he thinks he agrees. The feeling of loving you, even if he never knows green from red, blue from orange? He doesn’t care. He has you. He loves you. That’s enough.
1.
Happy New Year.
As if dawn has broken early, the world becomes impossibly bright, pyrotechnics bursting not only over your own heads but everywhere, as far as his eyes can see. After the first few, he permits himself a glance over at your face: there are tears running down it, and his heart stutters, but then he hears you laugh. Brightly, wetly, more resonant than any of the booms and crackles and cheers he can feel all the way down to his toes.
For whatever reason, Vernon starts laughing with you.
You pull him closer into a bone-crushing hug and blink your damp lashes against the side of his neck. “Thank you for being here with me,” you say to him, practically shouting to be heard. “I love you so much.”
“I’m always gonna be with you,” he says as you pull back a little. Your arms are still around him. The chain of the bracelet he bought you all those years ago is bitterly cold against the back of his neck. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, all he knows is that they’re resting on the curve of your spine. He thinks he can see something in the way you look at him, so softly and tenderly and yet, in the twitch of your brow…
Like you’re searching for something that might not be there.
He knows his gaze moves in a perfect triangle — from your left eye, to your slightly parted, wind-chapped lips, to your right. He knows he stops breathing. He swears you do, too. Something builds — a spark catches, an energy festers, egged on by the curious murmurs of the people around you.
You could do it, his brain tells him.
So what if he’s a few minutes late for it to be traditional? Does it really matter?
But he’s reminded, again, this time with a whizz and a boom and a crackle, that you aren’t his to have this way. His storybook moment fizzles out, the final firework bursting into sparkles overhead. He sees every one of your perfect features brighten in wonder as you tilt your head back to look up at it. Sees it beautifully reflected in your glassy eyes. He has about enough time to commit the image to memory before you clear your throat and finally step away from him, losing all touch for the first time since you came outside.
One of your friends comes and pulls you into an embrace, before passing you along to someone else, and then someone else again. He loses you in the crowd that rushes to get back in the warm, but he makes no effort to move with them. He just stays out in the dark for a while with his own thoughts for company, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans.
He’s happy, though. It’s like you said.
Being in love is enough.
“There’s just one more thing,” you say as the waitress returns with your bank card and a receipt. Vernon slides you a look as he stands, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair he’s been sitting in.
He shakes his head at you. “Whatever it is, it better not be edible,” he laughs. “I think this is the most full I’ve ever been.”
In other words, you’ve done enough already. Stop spending money on me. Please. Thankfully, your final surprise is in-keeping with his unspoken rule.
His birthday rolled around way too quickly. The start of the year has been so chaotically busy; you swear, you’ve hardly seen him since he dropped you off home after the party. You moved out of your parents’ house for the second time a few weeks ago and settling in, unpacking boxes, sorting through clothes and belongings and trinkets has taken you much longer than you care to admit. You’ve been busy at work, too. So has he. Your social calendars have barely lined up at all.
But you were determined to make plenty of time for him on his birthday.
To Vernon, this has always just been another day. He’s never cared too much about big celebrations: as long as he can spend some time with people he cares about, he’s happy, and this year he’s managed exactly that. He saw his family this morning, had some friends drop by his apartment later in the day, and now, he’s with you.
You’ve never been great at the laid-back approach, though. Not with him. How could you be, when he does so much for you, always without even batting an eye? When he deserves to be doted on, and adored, and thoroughly spoiled? It’s the same every year. You make a fuss, he playfully scolds you for it; you and he are creatures of habit. It’ll probably never change.
This year, you invited him to your new place to open the gifts you’d bought him: the new speaker he kept saying he couldn’t justify buying, a record he looked at in the store a few months ago but never bought, a sweatshirt to replace the one you stole off him on New Years Eve. Some candies he likes. Then, after he finally stopped pouting and sighing that you really didn’t need to go to all this effort, you took him out for dinner, making a reservation for two at his favourite restaurant.
The pouting continued.
Only up until your appetisers came out, though. The moment your food was placed down in front of you, his eyes doubled in size and his lips became a little too busy to stay pursed. Your own dinner almost went cold with how fondly you sat and watched him. This year, you even spared Vernon the embarrassment of having the restaurant staff sing at the side of your table.
All right, you have an ulterior motive, but… it’s the thought that counts, right?
He holds the door open for you now as you thank the waitress who served you one last time and without him lowering his arm, you step into place beneath it. Tucked up into Vernon’s side, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been. Nervous, too, but… you have a good feeling.
“Where to?” He asks as you fall into step together.
“This way.”
You emerge from the shelter of the canopy outside the restaurant’s front door and immediately feel the cool tickle of a snowflake landing on your cheek. They started to fall while you were eating and Vernon couldn’t stop watching through the window, small specks that grew over the hour into big clumps that tumbled towards the ground. He’s always loved the snow, and there’s no real destination for this gift, anyway. You guide him to the left and watch as peace takes its rightful home on his beautiful features.
“We’ve walked in a perfect square three times now,” Vernon says after a little while of meandering about in the dark, making comfortable small talk and laughing as the champagne bubbles in your stomachs continue to fizz away. “Where are we supposed to be going?”
You wondered how long it was going to take him to notice, or even if he was going to realise at all. Looking up and down the street you’re on, you stop in your tracks, standing beneath the same flickering street lamp that you’ve passed twice already. Your footprints trail both behind and in front of you, neither quite covered yet by the snowfall. You break into a laugh when you notice that the convenience store on your left has closed since the last time you came down this road.
“I can get a map open, if…” Vernon starts, reaching into his pocket. You stop him, stepping out from under his arm and wrapping your hand around his wrist instead.
“I might’ve told a little white lie,” you confess,
He halts with his phone only half pulled out, pushing it into his hip for fear of it falling if either of you let go. “What do you mean?” He asks.
You know he’s probably thinking back to your earlier conversations, trying to figure out which part exactly is the mistruth you’re now admitting to. But whether he gets there on his own or not, he waits for you to answer.
“I had it with me this whole time,” you explain, readjusting your hold on his covered forearm. His eyes dart downwards, looking at the site of contact, but he quickly lifts them back up to your face. “I was just… waiting for… ”
“What are you talking about?” Vernon asks.
“Close your eyes.”
You know.
Unfortunately for your best friend, as hush-hush as he’s managed to be all this time, the same can’t be said for the other person he entrusts all his secrets to. A few weeks ago, when you’d called Seungkwan to coordinate timings for Vernon’s birthday plans, he’d accidentally let something slip. It was your suggestion of taking Vernon to dinner that did the trick.
“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Seungkwan had gushed. You could hear the breadth of his smile down the phone and felt yourself growing hot at the compliment.
“You really think so?”
“Pfft. You could take him to the Eiffel Tower or to a drive-through KFC, and he’d still have hearts in his eyes – because it’s you.”
Of course, he attempted to do some damage control immediately after. Make out that he meant it in strictly platonic terms. But once the idea planted itself in your head, it sort of… made sense. You mulled it over for a couple of days but when you finally asked Seungkwan, deathly serious, if he really thought you stood a chance with Vernon?
He practically screamed ‘yes’ down the phone.
“The last time you asked me to do this, you killed me at laser-tag,” Vernon says, narrowing his eyes. He surely doesn’t think you’re hiding a plastic gun underneath the coat he literally just watched you don, but he doesn’t do as you ask and you suck your front teeth at him.
“Luckily for you, I left all my weapons at home,” you counter. “Come on, please. Just… trust me.”
“Said that last time, too,” he snickers. But, to his merit, he finally does it. He takes in a breath and follows your instruction. “I swear to God…”
Selfishly, you take a moment to bask in how handsome he really is. His eyes twitch underneath his lids and snowflakes cling to his lashes, moving with them. It’s in his hair, too. On his shoulders. Melting on his cheeks, leaving small wet spots on his face. One lands perfectly on the tip of his nose. You would immortalise this moment, if you could.
It made sense, when you found out, because thinking back? Nobody has ever loved you how Vernon does. He shows it in so many ways – he sends you the songs that he hears and thinks you’ll like, the pretty photographs that he takes when he’s away for work, some variant of a ‘good morning’ text, almost every day. He massages your shoulders, lets you fall asleep on his lap, follows you around like an obedient puppy when you have errands to run just so you don’t have to do them on your own.
He tries, and often fails, to cook you breakfast when you stay over. He brings you coffees, or lunch. He looks at you like you’re the moon and the stars. People have teased for years that you could be psychically connected. That you were cosmically united. That it was fate for Vernon to move into the house down the street from you when you were nine. To be the only other child your age on the block.
Two people, perfect for one another, lives intertwined eternally by fate. Or, in other words…
“Are you…?” He asks, breaking the quiet that has only been filled with your cloud-forming breaths.
“Give me a second,” you breathe. There’s no doubt in your mind.
One.
You lean forward to kiss him softly, free hand settling against the side of his neck. In the February chill, Vernon freezes, no part of his body reacting to you except for his lips. Though they twitch in a gasp, they press back against yours as if he isn’t even thinking about doing it. As if it’s instinctual. As if he was always supposed to kiss you – as if he’s your…
There it all is, when you finally pull away.
Brown eyes, framed by fluttering lashes that untangle from one another to finally see you, too. Brown, you know, because when you asked your mother to tell you about Vernon’s colours when you were younger, that was the only one she told you, saying everything else might change when he got older. Warm, brown eyes. Glistening with every blink, blink, blink of the bulb above you. Pupils slowly dilating, drowning the colours out of view. You see his lids shoot wide as he realises, as he glances left and right, as he takes this new world in for the first time, too.
“I knew it,” you say on a stuttered breath, so overwhelmed you could cry. “My soulmate.”
A brilliant smile threatens to split Vernon’s features in two as he cups your cheeks and pulls you back to him, kissing you again, and again, and again.
“I know you are,” he says against your lips, his bare thumbs pink and cold as they press into your skin. And, before you can kiss him quiet – “but what ‘m I?”
thank u so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3
hello!! big fan here! i think you’re super talented and cool 🫶🏼 can i perhaps request a friends to lovers thing for vernon? do you think he’d be the first one to break and confess or would it be you? if it’s the latter, how does he react? any thoughts on this would be fine really, even if you don’t want to make it into a full fledged story. just love talking about and thinking about vernon.
darling anon i think you broke my brain because i've never written so much in a single day (also thank you so much!!! <3). i love vernon and i've kind of been in a vernon spiral myself recently. i hope you like this :)
chroma — chwe hansol | 2,520 words | fluff
chroma (noun) — the purity of a colour, or its freedom from white or grey. reader and vernon are best friends who SCREAM become lovers. briefly ft dokyeom.
gender neutral reader. warnings: none.
at first glance, you and vernon are opposites.
not exactly grumpy and sunshine opposites, but if you're both the same colour, you're a shade or two brighter than him. which means that you're similar with different energy levels, and honestly? you love your dynamic.
your friends notice that outside of the group, you're the one he's the closest to — so it only makes sense that he's also the one you're the closest to.
he's always near you whenever you're hanging out with your friends — whether you're sitting right next to each other or across the room, he meets your eyes from time to time, if only to check in on you, or to allude to an inside joke when someone speaks.
(you have way too many inside jokes; an unhealthy amount, even.)
he always makes it a point to drop you home. always. unless your other friends are around, in which case he won't rest till you send him a text saying you got home safely. or you crash at each other's places for the night if you're too tired.
you always look forward to whenever he gets random bursts of energy and proceeds to tell you about stuff he finds interesting. but you also use him as a pillow when he becomes extremely quiet, and honestly? it's pretty easy to co-exist with vernon regardless of the silence or the lack of it, because you always match his energy.
he sends you pictures of whatever he thinks you'll like, whether it's a meme or a sunset, but sometimes he sends you stuff he likes — like a cool monument he saw in new york or his cat or a picture of two snails on the side of the road with the caption "us?"
seriously, opening his texts is like a wild card (in a good way).
he always makes it a point to drop you home. always. unless your other friends are around, in which case he won't rest till you send him a text saying you got home safely.
you're slightly more affectionate than him, which is something he doesn't mind.
he's not the first to initiate hugs, but you can trust that he's always going to find your hand for a high five or a fist bump or a quick side hug.
if you're sitting together on the couch listening to music or watching something on the television, he lets you loop your arm through his like it's something you do every day (which it most definitely is).
vernon wasn't very physical in the beginning of your friendship, but now you're used to a light brush of his hand against yours, your shoulders bumping for a second or two, a poke to your cheek — just your things.
now the thing is this: you have a crush on vernon. a huge crush that doesn't seem to be going away any time soon.
"i knew it!" dokyeom says shrilly, and you wince. you love him, but you're not sure if he's capable of keeping your secret.
"was it that obvious?"
"of course it was! i've seen the way you look at him. like he's the funniest guy in the room, even if he's not. or like he's the hottest guy in the room. which he—"
"—is," you finish, and bite your tongue. dokyeom doesn't need to know exactly how in deep you are.
dokyeom shakes his head. "i can't believe he doesn't know."
"kyeom, if you tell him, i swear—"
"i won't! i kind of want to see how long it takes for him to realize."
"i don't think he will," you say, looking over to where vernon is sitting on the couch and arguing with seungkwan and seungcheol about the best movie from 2008.
"how do you know that?"
you shrug. "i've tried dropping subtle hints. he's just...oblivious."
dokyeom follows your gaze and sighs. "he really is. but if you ask me," he says, turning to raise an eyebrow. "this really could go somewhere."
every year, you spend valentine's day together.
it started as a joke the first time — vernon's date somehow cancelled on him at the last moment, and he showed up to your place with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates.
you thought your heart was going to fall out of your body, but he sheepishly explained he didn't know where else to go, or who else to give them to.
it turned into a rant about how he didn't believe in or care about the holiday anymore.
but now it's your tradition to enjoy each other's company rolling your eyes and booing at cheesy movies.
(you wish they'd come to life, specifically with vernon, but he doesn't have to know.)
he isn't the best at comforting you with words. you learned that a long time ago and know it well even now. yet he's the first person you turn to when something's wrong.
you're wrapped in a blanket on vernon's sofa, a hot mug of cocoa in front of you next to a bowl of snacks, but your mind isn't on any of them. why, you think. why, why, why me. you feel terrible for the space you're occupying, even though you've curled up into a ball.
"hey," vernon says from above you, and the next thing you know, you're pulled into him. "i don't know what to say to make it better, and...i don't know what else i can do, but tell me, okay?"
you nod.
"i'm sorry."
you stop crying at that, trying to blink away your tears but failing. "why?"
"he was a dick, and you never deserved someone so shitty."
you try to inhale, but it's shaky. "i'm just...so tired," you say, resting your head on his shoulder. "i don't know why i keep attracting idiots like him. and i hate that you always have to see me like this."
"like this?"
"in pieces. crying. whatever."
"you're not in pieces," vernon says, running his hand over your back. "you're sad. it happens. and i don't mind being here, okay? i'm always here. sorry."
you snort. "you've apologized more to me than he's ever done at this point."
"now you know who to keep around longer," vernon smiles.
you wonder if vernon's aware of the things he does. he talks to you like there's no one else he'd rather be with at the moment. he bends down to meet your eyes when you're talking about something, and you're amazed he hasn't noticed you short-circuiting in the middle of your sentences more than a few times now. he finds the most random things to give you every now and then.
"huh?"
"pebble. reminded me of pou."
"pou? vernon, that was so long ago!"
"do you want me to skip this rock?"
"no, wait—"
fights with him aren't really fights, because one of you always caves in and has to make up.
"your neck's going to hurt," you hear vernon say softly, probably trying not to wake you up. but you weren't really asleep in the first place.
"why do you care?" you grumble, sitting up straight and wincing when your neck does, in fact, hurt.
"i don't hate you just because we had a fight," he says, pulling you down to rest your head on his chest. "sore necks suck."
you chew on your cheek for a while, not wanting to say the words you know are inevitable. "fighting with you sucks, too."
he says nothing; just hugs you tighter.
you're surprised at how well you've adapted to vernon going out on dates.
it wasn't easy, you'll admit. at first it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest while also being crushed, but now it's okay (maybe because he hasn't been dating as much recently — you can't remember the last one he even went on).
you're nothing if not a supportive best friend, so you're okay with the few times his dates go well enough to tell you about.
you teasingly tell him not to give you too many details, but you wonder if he knows why you really ask that of him.
both of you act like a married couple, according to your friends. it made you blush at first, but there's no point reacting to it anymore because it's just not true. vernon doesn't like you the way you like him, and the way you're affectionate with each other is...hard to explain. just friends, you say, even though you wish you were more.
"you're dishgushting," dokyeom says, mouth stuffed full of pizza while he pours himself some coke.
you give him a look. "you or me?"
dokyeom nods, chewing aggressively before swallowing his bite. "you. and vernon. can't stop giving each other those eyes all the time. makes me sick."
"...eyes?"
"like you need a room or something. like there's no one else in here with you guys."
"we don't do that, kyeom."
he snorts inelegantly. "ask anyone. you're lucky jeonghan hasn't snitched on you yet."
and maybe, just maybe, vernon treats you somewhat differently than he treats his friends.
you always get the first bite of his food, always listen to new vinyls he gets on the weekends, sprawled out on the floor and letting the music seep into your skin, always get to steal his hoodies whenever you're cold — you can't think of any other friend of his who gets the same treatment.
but that's just best friend privilege.
at least that's what you tell yourself.
after vernon comes back from his latest tour, he becomes more touchy with you — resting a hand on your thigh, tracing the shell of your ear, linking pinkies with you.
maybe it's just his way of reconnecting with you after being away for so long.
but doesn't he realize what he's doing to your heart?
probably not, you think, when he wraps his arms around your waist one morning when you're in front of his vinyl collection, trying to pick something you think you'll like.
"sol?" you ask, patting his hands before resuming browsing through his shelf.
"hey."
"what's up?"
"tired."
"shouldn't you be in bed, then?"
"you weren't there."
you pause, the magdalene vinyl in your hand threatening to fall before you place it back. "i'm never there."
"wanna change that?"
"what?"
"what."
you think it's some silly pick-up line he's trying to test on you, so you gently push him back to his bedroom, threatening to leave his home if he doesn't sleep for a few more hours.
but it doesn't end there.
those pick-up lines pop up in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected company. you shake your head and laugh them off, but you wonder why he's behaving like this.
there's one possible explanation for it, but you're not going to let yourself walk down that path. not unless he does it first.
vernon's quiet on the walk back to your car from the supermarket, half your groceries with you and the other half with him. he doesn't say anything when you point out his shoelace is untied, or his hair is sticking up a bit weirdly for his liking, or even the fact that there's a cat sitting right next to your car before it skitters away a few seconds later.
you're not worried. vernon does have those moments where he zones out so hard no one can get him back for a while, and this seems to be one of them.
"i love you," he finally says.
your hand fumbles with the grip of your bag. not cool, not when there's a couple of glass jars in there. there's going to be nothing cute to put the cookies in if you break them now.
"i love you too?" you offer, because it's not uncommon for you to say it to each other. it's just that vernon's never brought it up unprompted before.
"no. not how you think."
not how you think? how...
oh.
you can only stare at vernon, mind running a million miles an hour while he refuses to look at you, suddenly finding interest in that untied shoelace.
"love me love me?"
he nods, almost imperceptible if you weren't looking for it. it gives you a sudden boost of courage, of happiness, of everything good. you weren't wrong, after all. you put the rest of the groceries in the trunk and turn to face him.
you've seen this sight hundreds of times before — vernon with his messy hair, in this very hoodie with jam stains on the left sleeve, and those brown eyes that light up from the inside when the sun hits them just the right way and make him look like the most handsome man in the world — but it's like you've been seeing the world, even vernon, in monochrome till he said those words.
chroma.
"oi," you say, grabbing his face in your hands. "sol."
he just blinks.
"are you sure? absolutely sure?"
"yeah," he says, voice a bit rougher than usual, and you see yourself in his eyes for a moment. "i am. but i'm sor—"
you shut him up with a quick peck to his lips, uncaring of who might be seeing you right now. you know you're going to be embarrassed about it, squeal about it to dokyeom, bury your face in your pillow and question if any of it was real, but right now, it doesn't matter.
you've shocked vernon, for once. it feels good. he's staring at you with his mouth open, hands clutching your wrists like there's no tomorrow.
"you're not the only one," you explain, all bravado fizzling out when his full focus lands only on you.
"oh? yeah?" he asks, pulling you closer.
"mm."
he rubs his thumb across one of your wrists. "do you have eggs?"
"...what?" back to regularly scheduled programming, then. trust vernon not to make it weird.
"eggs. or ice cream. anything that needs the fridge. because i want to take you out on a date right now."
some things change: vernon becomes your boyfriend. you move in together a few months later. it's not the first time you've met his mother, but you're still nervous.
but the best thing of all is that he's yours now.
he even tells you how he realized he loved you back.
"i just...remembered you arguing with me about whether penne or fusilli was better, and my only thought was, i want this with you. for however long i could have it. i think i just loved you for so long, but...i didn't realize it was that love. i finally understood why kyeom-hyung kept telling me to get my shit together."
"sol—"
"no one knows me like you do and i don't want anyone else to. yeah."
"sol, babe, i was just asking if you want me to take out the trash."
"you...oh," he says, grinning in that shy way he does. "thought you asked me if i wanted you. but hey, if i'm trash for you, you're legally obligated to take me out, right?"
i've never put pictures before but he's SO boyfriend material, look at him
warnings: mentions of food, mostly dialogue, vernon makes a horrible mess
wc: 818
a/n: oh look she's writing about vernon again - everyone act surprised!
. . . .
He's giving you an incredulous look, one brow quirking up, the bridge of his nose crinkling in the process. His lips are twisted into a clump - not quite a smile, not quite a frown either.
"What?" you ask innocently.
Vernon finally scoffs, craning his neck out towards you. "You really want an ice cream cake for your birthday?"
"Yeah," you reply slowly.
"Y/N, it's winter," he starts. You already know where this is going.
"So?" you jut your chin out at him.
"It's kind of cold-"
"It's my birthday."
"Y/N."
"Vernon."
There's a short-lived stare down - mostly because you aren't up for the challenge. Vernon was great at holding his expression; it could go on for hours if you really wanted to.
You spin on your heels and pretend to busy yourself with packing your bag before you set off for work.
"If it's too much of a hassle, I'll just ask Seungkwan to do it," you tell him nonchalantly.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you hear Vernon making his way closer to you.
You turn back to him, doing your best to keep a straight face.
Vernon tilts his head, eyes widening as he silently pleads you to be more reasonable.
"I want ice cream cake for my birthday and I will get it, even if I have to go buy it myself," you tell him.
He reaches for your elbow and pulls you in closer, quietly asking, "Why do you want this ice cream cake so bad?"
You shrug, "I like ice cream and my mom never let me have it growing up for my birthday because it was in the winter - I didn't choose when I was going to be born."
"Ah," Vernon nods, "Trauma."
"Something like that," you swat at his chest lightly, "Now, I'm grown and can make my own decisions."
He sighs, "Fine." Vernon looks up to meet your eyes, "Ice cream cake it is."
You lips stretch into a smile, holding back momentarily before you plant a chaste kiss on his lips. "Thank you!"
"What flavor do you want?" he chuckles as you spin out of his hold and reach for your bag. You were going to be late for work if you didn't leave at this point.
"Birthday cake!" you call as you make your way to the door.
"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of it being an ice cream cake?"
You shake your head and wave goodbye.
. . . .
[3 days later]
Vernon: Hey
Seungkwan: Hey
Vernon: Um
Seungkwan: ?
Vernon: Would you happen to know how to make ice cream cake? 😅 Specifically birthday cake flavored ice cream cake?
Seungkwan: What? That's stupid.
Vernon: THAT'S WHAT I SAID
Seungkwan: Okay, but why are you asking?
Vernon: [photo]
Seungkwan: OH MY GOD YOUR POOR KITCHEN 😭 WHO LET YOU IN THERE?
Vernon: Me 😅😅😅
Vernon: Help 😭
Seungkwan: OMW - gonna stop at Baskin Robin's first!
. . . .
"Happy birthday to you!"
A round of whoops and cheers went around the room as your friends clap, urging you to make a wish and blow out your candles. Squeezing your eyes tight and clasping your hands together, you quietly whisper one in your head before you purse your lips and blow out the few candles - the first number in the shape of the first digit of your age and the few single ones after making up the other half of your age (Chan couldn't find the last number).
Another round of applause erupts as the room grows dark. A pair of hands wraps around your waist as the lights flicker on as Vernon nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck.
"Happy birthday," he says again.
You place your hands over his, tilting your head towards his cheek in a silent 'thank you.'
"You did pretty well with this cake," you note.
"Oh," he chuckles nervously, "Yeah, um, thanks."
You sense the way he tenses as Seungkwan scurries over to remove the candles and start cutting slices.
"You didn't . . . make this, did you?"
He's silent, prompting you to adjust yourself in his hold to better look at him. Though Vernon has an advantage, tightening his grip, making it harder to turn around and look at him.
"Verno-"
"Birthday cake flavored ice cream cake for your birthday, just as requested," Seungkwan explains. He's already spooning a piece into your mouth. You're a bit slow - some of the ice cream staining the corner of your mouth. Vernon's quick to clean it, swiping his thumb over it and licking it off his finger.
"Not bad," he mutters to himself, nodding in approval. He's quick to raise another spoonful of the slice Seungkwan plopped in his hands towards you. He smiles softly, raising his eyebrows.
You only roll your eyes, pretending to be reluctant to let him feed you and eat more.
(Secretly, you kind of loved it - but he doesn't need to know that.)
in the words of james acaster: starting making it, had a breakdown, bon appetit. also i saw the news about mingyu's post and laughed for a minute straight 💀
gender neutral reader. warnings: none.
being sick sucks in general, but wonwoo thinks it's worse when he's on tour. he's supposed to be seeing new places with his friends, meeting fans and doing what he loves the most for them. in short, he's supposed to be having a good time.
instead, he's stuck in his hotel room all by himself, his limbs trapped inside an insanely heavy comforter which can't possibly be that heavy. and it's not even comforting him right now.
this is all wrong. he should be on the other side of the world, with you, eating the stuff you've made, or going on inadvisable, impromptu snack drives when you can't sleep. he shouldn't be in agony because of some random street food he decided to try with the rest of the group. that he somehow had no tolerance for.
either way, he really misses you, and has even resigned himself to counting the seconds that are passing so that he can bore himself into sleep and make tomorrow come faster. time is supposed to be an illusion, anyway.
his door opens slowly, and his heart jumps against his ribs for a second. there's no way you—
"hyung," comes mingyu's voice, low and concerned. he shuts the door behind him. "how are you feeling?"
"better. but still tired."
mingyu makes a sad noise. "hungry?"
"not at all."
"you sure?"
"yeah."
"okay, uh, we're all going for dinner now. we'll be back in a couple of hours, because dino wanted to visit the park nearby, but if there's anything you want, just let me know, okay?"
wonwoo feels the weight of his phone being set on his chest through the comforter. the block of metal and chips is the only thing that's his link to you right now.
"call me if you want me to get something warm and safe to eat before you sleep."
wonwoo wants to thank him, but he can't even muster the energy to keep his eyes open. he feels mingyu ruffle his hair briefly before chuckling, because that's something he doesn't normally do when wonwoo's awake. wonwoo allows it, just this once, mainly because there's nothing he can do about it.
"see you." and just like that, the room's empty once again.
wonwoo feels his eyes grow heavier after a while, head filled with thoughts about the group's next show and thoughts of you. he wonders what you're doing right now, whether you're sleeping, keeping well, or thinking of him with the same desperation with which he's thinking of you right now.
wonwoo loves you, and knows you love him despite the erratic schedules of his work, but sometimes being apart from you is the worst thing that he has to do.
he's thankful for the thick comforter because he can feel the temperature in the room dipping, and he finds himself going back to sleep again.
the light sound of a conversation is what finally brings him out of his sleep. he hears some snorts from near the foot of his bed. when he opens his eyes fully, having slept better than he has the whole day, he sees someone exiting his room. minghao, probably, going by his build. and there's someone still sitting by the foot of his bed, accompanied by the sound of shoes being kicked off.
it's you.
wonwoo lets out a chuckle and turns around to bury his face in the pillow.
"that's all you're going to say? after all the distance i travelled to get here?"
wonwoo turns around to see you inching closer to him, till your eyes are at the same level.
"are you real?"
you stare at him for a moment before you laugh, and oh, he's in love. it's nothing new — he's already known he loves you, for a long time, but now it's something more, because you're not a dream, and you're really here.
(you're his dream, but that's another topic for another day.)
"absolutely real. here, see?" you say, pushing his hair away from his face. he can see you better now, but you're blurry.
"this is unfair."
"what is, baby?"
"i want to kiss you, but i can't even see you properly. after all the distance you travelled to come see me."
he sees you smile before you reach over him and beckon him to sit up, gently placing them on his face and pushing them upwards till he's comfortable. better.
and you're even better.
"hi," you say, smiling a bit shyly. wonwoo figures it's because he's staring at you unabashedly right now, but surely you can't fault him, not when it's been almost a month since he's been away from you?
"hey, sweetheart," he says, glad you're able to hear it in person and not through a tinny phone speaker. "kiss me?"
"did you mean to say miss me?"
you have a cheeky smile on your face now. wonwoo shakes his head. "of course i missed you. but i want to kiss you. right now."
"you have no idea how badly i want to, but i think you know it's for the best if i don't."
wonwoo frowns at that. just because it's true it doesn't mean it's okay.
"here," you say, before you press a kiss to his forehead. wonwoo feels the tension in his shoulders melt away, his head sinking back into the headboard. you hesitate before pressing a soft kiss to his lips that leaves him wanting more.
"you said—"
"i know," you groan, pushing yourself away immediately. "i'm sorry. but i'm going to kiss you so much after you get better, so you better be ready for that."
it's a threat he can't wait to experience.
"how're you feeling?" you ask, hand combing through his hair. "did you have the medicine mingyu got you?"
"mm."
"feel like having anything?"
wonwoo tries saying something, but his throat feels dry all of a sudden. he extracts a hand from the comforter and points to his throat.
"water? tea?"
"tea...?"
you nod, for the bedside table for a flask he didn't even notice was there before.
"minghao dropped it by before leaving," you explain, filling a cup with some of the tea and setting it on the table. "lemon and honey. he said it'll help."
wonwoo's thankful, but he wants to know more about what you're doing here. "sorry," he says, his hand finding yours. he traces the shape of your palm and fingers, convincing himself you're really here.
"for?"
"you're supposed to be at work. i'm keeping you here."
"pfft. i wouldn't be here if i didn't want to surprise you, okay? it just happened that you fell ill. i'm doing this for me as much as i'm doing it for you. plus, it's a saturday tomorrow."
"oh," is all he can say.
"this tea isn't going to drink itself, you know."
wonwoo sniffs and picks up the cup. he holds it for a few seconds before his hands tremble, and he would have spilled it all over the comforter if it weren't for your hands that immediately took the cup from him.
"hot," he mumbles. "too hot."
you tut. "it's normal, baby. i'm sorry. i thought you'd have been feeling a bit better by now."
wonwoo makes a sound of displeasure. "it hates me."
you laugh, and he feels a bit better again. or maybe he's just imagining it. but it feels good. "no, it doesn't."
"it totally does. i should be sleeping by now."
"you should sleep after you have something. did you have anything since this morning?"
"mm. some soup. and...soup."
you give him a look. he doesn't know what to make of it, but he doesn't want it to be on your face for any longer.
"want me to help you have the tea?"
wonwoo nods and sits up slowly, still weak. he hasn't been this drained in ages, but he's glad you're here. his eyes close when he feels the cup touch his lips.
minghao doesn't joke about when it comes to tea. you sit in silence while he finishes the entire cup, word finally dislodging themselves from his throat.
"it's unfair."
"again? what is?"
he wipes messily at his glasses with his knuckles to see you clearly. "these keep fogging up..."
you take them off for him gently. he watches as you wipe his glasses clean with the edge of your shirt, looking at them in the light before placing them back on the bridge of his nose. better.
but the next sip ruins it again. wonwoo lets out a frustrated groan that turns into a laugh and you join in, and he wonders how he ever expected himself to go through the night without you.
you make sweater paws with your shirt and wipe his glasses gently. "i'll clean them however many times you want me to," you say softly. "but i'll still be here tomorrow morning, so you don't need to worry about not seeing me."
wonwoo wonders if you know how much better you're making him feel by just being here. your hair's not in its usual near state, your shirt is wrinkled, and you look exhausted, too, but it's you. and your familiar perfume, the softness of your hands, the love in your every move. and you're here, is the best part of it.
"just some more," you say, filling the cup again. "then you can sleep."
"i don't want to sleep," wonwoo mumbles, taking a sip. it really is helping him; his throat feels so much better than it has all day. "i want to talk to you."
"we can talk tomorrow when you're feeling even better, baby," you say, resting your hand on his chest. "you need your sleep right now. and i'm right here, okay?"
he knows you're right, but it doesn't quell his want to make up for the past month of virtual conversations. as he takes slow sips of his tea, he notices you looking at him.
"what?"
"hm?"
"you're staring."
you look at him, then look away. "missed you."
he somehow feels it's more than that. "that's all you're going to say?" he asks, parroting your words from earlier.
you meet his gaze, but you're blushing this time. huh.
"it's just...you've been looking so...good, recently," you say. "i've been seeing your videos, and stuff the boys keep sending me. i've missed you a lot. and i'm glad you're...that you're mine, you know?"
"i know," he says, eyes shutting for a moment, a smile spreading over his face. i know how it feels to feel that way.
you take the cup from him and promise to be back in ten minutes after your shower. wonwoo starts counting the seconds again, this time to make you come back to him faster. he likes to think it's worked, when it takes less than 600 seconds for you to be back next to him again.
you switch off the lights and settle down next to him in bed, scrolling through your phone while wonwoo gets used to the darkness again. a series of poorly muffled giggles gets him to open his eyes and turn to you.
"what's up?"
you show wonwoo your phone, still laughing. it's a picture of mingyu looking up and to the side while perfecting his angle for the camera. wonwoo presumes it's from the place dino wanted to go to. when you swipe to the next slide, it's the same picture. so is the next one. and the next one.
"what a goof," you giggle affectionately. "and he's deleted the post. i'm so going to tease him about this tomorrow."
wonwoo smiles at that. of course you will, and wonwoo will, if you forget.
you set the phone aside before moving a bit closer to him, enough for him to drape an arm around your waist.
"better?"
"now that you're here," he says honestly.
he knows you're blushing. "sleep well, okay?"
"you too, sweetheart."
wonwoo gets to see you tomorrow. he gets to go home with you after his final show tomorrow and spend the next two months at your place because there's nowhere else he has to be.
being sick sucks in general, but maybe it's okay just this once. because it brought him you earlier than he would have thought.
