Call your Bluff
Somewhere along the way, a crush had blossomed. And sometimes, when she called him honey one too many times or let her hand linger on his arm in greeting him, his deluded heart told him she felt it too. But all it took was to see her with Seven to realise that it wasn't the same.
A petty part of him knows that if it were him in Seven's place, he wouldn't waste his chance. He'd return her love easily and readily.
Zen x MC / Implied 707 x MC
FWB? Unrequited feelings? A bit of both? An impulsive night out makes things much more complicated for Zen, Seven and MC.
✦ Words: 2575
✦ TW: Alcohol, suggestive scenes
✦ Read on my AO3 instead (registered users only)
It is past midnight. Outside, the voices of the night's last stragglers can still be heard. Zen's living room is quiet, the silence only punctuated by the sounds of heavy breathing. In the dim lighting of the small table lamp, the story tells itself. Two bodies, haphazard, single-minded. Things clumsily knocked out of the way. Better judgement discarded on the floor along with their clothes.
Zen's hair sticks to his forehead. He won't push it away. His hands are elsewhere, on the hips of the body pressed to his. Nothing could make him move them now.
He makes no effort to interrupt their silence. He'd rather bask in this closeness for some time longer. He buries his head in the crook of her neck, takes in the scent of her skin and the warmth of bodies together. She leans her head against his, her fingers smoothing over the half-moon marks she left on his shoulders. There is a weight in the room that will need to be addressed. The implications of what happened. They will eventually have to lay their cards out on the table, and Zen has a losing hand.
This hadn't been the plan for tonight. Despite all his daydreaming and hopes, it had never played out like this in his head.
They had been at a bar together, Zen, Yoosung, Seven and her - the newest addition to their little group. Tucked away on a table in the corner of the room, they talked about their lives and joked and teased with comfortable familiarity. There was a warm buzzing in Zen's chest, and he had drunk just enough to start feeling it in his head and his fingertips.
These gatherings had become more frequent since her addition to the RFA. It was no longer a rarity for them to see one another in person. Even Seven had emerged to spend time with them. Whether it was small nights out like this, the four of them, or she and Jaehee going to watch a show of his or everyone getting together at one of their houses, things had started to feel complete again. Zen's life had regained some colour he hadn't realised was missing.
The conversation had fallen into some passionate debate that Zen had no stakes in. He watched with amusement as the three of them discussed, each argument more outlandish than the next. Yoosung, a few drinks deep, enthusiastically waving his hands around as he made some point. Seven, full of mischievous glee, egging him on. And then her.
She was following the conversation and animatedly interjecting her own arguments every so often. Zen found it captivating to watch her. Her easy smile, the way she'd tip her head back to laugh. How she'd chew on her thumbnail when in thought. And then more; the angle of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder. The glitter in in her eye, like there was something more that she was holding back. He absorbed every detail without meaning to. He was prone to this, especially on nights like this.
He wasn't sure when he had started to notice this particular habit of hers, though. It was a pattern, one that Zen felt privy to as the intruder to a dynamic that wasn't his. He'd watch her, as he was doing that night, as they were all in conversation, and he'd see how her eyes would inevitably drift to find Seven. She'd watch him as though unaware that she was doing it. When she'd make a joke, he was the one she'd look to first for a reaction. Later, Zen would pick up on the inverse as well. Seven would search for her in every room he entered. Almost possessive in their gazes, giving away something he wasn't sure they had ever addressed.
That night was no different. She was watching Seven with a desire that made Zen ache. Seven, more prudent, would only meet her eyes every so often, but with an intensity to match. Whatever passed between them in that look, Zen couldn't know. It was theirs alone.
Their relationship, to him, was an enigma. They were friends. She seemed to understand and match his chaos in a way that the RFA previously couldn't. Seven spoke to her with a vulnerability that it seems he had never been able to share with the rest of them. There was an easy familiarity in their interactions, as though they had known each other for years.
However, their body language when together gave more away. In their looks, there was a want, something that could not be described as friendship. They gravitated towards each other, as though caught in each other's orbit. Zen had a memory of the last party, the two of them, out in the garden alone. Hand in hand, a moment Zen had felt he was intruding on just by having seen them.
It could have been the start to an incredibly romantic story.
But then, the day after. A strange awkwardness in the room. No more games of telepathy across the table. In fact, they had all but ignored one another.
Eventually, things had thawed and gone back to normal. Zen had guessed that there was a game at work between them, some unspoken understanding they had that made no sense to him. There was a line. They could come close. They could, under no circumstances, cross it. Neither of them seemed particularly content about it.
Zen had portrayed countless love stories across his career. He had experienced what he thought was love a few times when he was younger. It wasn't supposed to be this way. At least not when the two of them obviously felt so much for each other. Why did they keep themselves in this limbo? To love or not to love?
He had tried to ask Seven about it, thinking perhaps that he needed some older-brotherly advice. However, Seven had brushed him off, and he had never tried again.
All the while, Zen's heart was playing its own game, doomed as it was. Over the year since she had joined the RFA, through conversations over the phone, meetings at the stage door, nights like tonight, Zen had developed feelings of his own.
They too, were friends. Good friends. They could talk for ages, phone calls that went on late and sporadic lunches in the city when their breaks lined up where they could complain about their day. They'd playfully flirt with each other, using pet names and outlandish compliments. He'd play up his chivalry just to make her smile.
Somewhere along the way, a crush had blossomed. And sometimes, when she called him honey one too many times or let her hand linger on his arm in greeting him, his deluded heart told him she felt it too. But all it took was to see her with Seven for him to realise that it wasn't the same.
A petty part of him knows that if it were him in Seven's place, he wouldn't waste his chance. He'd return her love easily and readily.
The debate continued. She sat back in her chair, then caught Zen's eye. She smiled, as if she could see where his mind had gone. She eyed his empty glass, and raised her own in acknowledgement. She leaned towards him, elbows on the table, so she could speak to him without having to shout.
"Come join me at the bar for a refill?"
"What about them?" He nodded towards the other two across from him.
"I'm sure they won't miss us for a moment," she replied with a conspiratorial smirk.
He needed no further encouragement. She pushed her chair back to stand, and he joined her.
Belatedly, Seven looked up from his conversation. His eyes quickly darted between her and Zen, all of a sudden attentive. A small voice in Zen's head whispered, too late.
They found seats up at the bar and perched side-by-side. Their arms, touching at the elbow. His legs tucked under the chair so they wouldn't bump into hers. Their heads bent together so they could speak comfortably.
He ordered two beers. He noticed her glancing back at the table they had just left. Seven was watching intently. Ah. She was playing some kind of game. And he had just been made accomplice.
He could only guess at her motives.
Well then, he thought. I might as well play. When would he get another chance?
She turned back to the bar just as they were served their drinks. He raised his up to toast her, and their glasses met with a small clink. They drank and didn't say anything for a moment. He sat up straighter, felt the familiar confidence in his limbs that he often felt after a few beers. There was something else too, a shiver that ran up and down his spine, that urged him to do something.
"Isn't it tiring?" He said suddenly. He tried to make it sound offhanded.
She straightened up a little. Quirked her eyebrows at him. She looked as though she had been pulled out of a reverie.
"What is?"
He jerked his chin in the direction of the table. In Seven's direction. Seven, who was feigning ignorance. Zen, who knew better.
"This game the two of you are playing."
She opened her mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. Instead, she laughed. Almost sheepish.
"I'm not sure if it's a game."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know."
He wasn't sure if she was being truthful. It was so painfully obvious, how could she miss it?
"You're in love." He said plainly. He had never brought it up with her before, but he was suddenly desperate to have things out in the open.
She flinched, but didn't deny it. She looked down into her glass and swilled the beer around in foamy circles. She cautioned another glance back at Seven, but he wasn't looking.
"I can't help it."
"Why don't you do something about it?"
"What is there to do? This is all there can be."
So they had talked about it before.
"You know, it shouldn't be this difficult. Love should make you happier, it should be able to overcome all complications."
She tilted her head to the side, a teasing smile playing about her lips. She was humouring him. "Really?"
"Yes." He said emphatically.
"Maybe I should make you my relationship mentor."
"Maybe you should. I could show you just how easy things could be."
His mouth ran before he realised the implications of what he had said.
The light-hearted air of their conversation suddenly drew taut, as though they were both holding their breath. Only when he was performing had he ever held her attention so fully. Had he been sober, it might have given him pause. But he was in the thick of it. No going back.
When he didn't rescind, rephrase, she raised her eyebrows, and her smile grew mischievous. Zen felt a heady air between them. Something had shifted. The tension remained, but it was now one that thrilled him, rather than worried him. They were on new ground.
"Tell me, Mentor Zen," she hooked her ankle around his under the bar. His breath hitched. "What would that include?"
His face felt hot. There was an answer on the forefront of his mind, a devilish little voice that emerged late at night and fed on his desire. Fuelled by the sultry look in her eyes and the warmth of her skin and the alcohol, it was louder than ever. Thin, thin ice. He bit his tongue.
"I would… tell you anything. No secrets."
"No secrets?"
"You could ask me anything."
She made a show of thinking. Eyes drifted around the room, long swig of her drink.
"What do you dream of?"
That was easy. "Being recognised for my skills on stage. Performing stories that mean something to people." He waited a moment. "And being in love."
"Have you ever been in love before?"
They held eye contact for a moment.
"Yes."
He broke first. Took a swig of his beer. He felt his heart thrumming in his chest. What was he doing?
When he looked back at her, she was already waiting.
"What are you thinking right now?" Her eyes piercing straight through him. He thought, you already know.
He coughed. "Many things."
She leaned in closer. Her voice a teasing sing-song.
"That's not an answer."
"Then be more specific." His voice dropped deeper. A dare.
She looked at him through heavy lidded eyes. "What do you want to do with me, Zen?"
All men are wolves.
Zen is no exception.
His gaze dropped to her lips. He gave her a moment to pull back, to end the game. When she didn't, he reached out a hand to cup her chin, pulled her towards him and closed the gap. The noise of the bar fell away. His senses zeroed in on his immediate surroundings. The heat of contact, the scent of her perfume, the taste of beer and something sweet off her lips.
He kissed her hard. Desperately, for all the times he had imagined it before. She responded, matching his fervour. Her hand came to rest on his thigh. He heard a roaring in his ears. The voice in his head made one simple demand: more more more.
They broke apart, breathless. Something passed between them; the hunger was evident in her face. They had to get out of the bar. He quickly paid for their drinks and reached for her hand.
As they stood up from the bar, she turned back for once last look at the table. Seven and Yoosung had given up their discussion, and were watching them in shock. Seven met her eyes, and for a moment she stopped. It was hard to read Seven's expression: something between confusion, apprehension and surprise. Then, the moment passed. She seemed satisfied. She turned back to Zen and allowed him to lead her out of the bar.
Checkmate. Her game had played out. What had been the objective? Was it this? Somewhere in the foggy back of his mind, Zen wondered where it had left him. However, at the time, he'd had more important things to think about.
He doesn't remember the walk back to his apartment. However, he can remember what followed in deep detail.
From the moment they entered the apartment, he had pressed her up against the door, kissing her hungrily, all teeth and tongue. Her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt and slid up his abs, making him shiver. From there, they had traced a clumsy path across the room, fumbling hands and hot breath on bare skin and soft moans and then, louder, his name, breathless in his ear. It would replay in his mind over and over again in the days following.
The apartment is still. Zen holds her close.
He finds himself weighing out the options. What comes next? How much of himself would he give away in order to not lose this? What could his heart take?
She leans back to look at him. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips kiss-red. There's a certain bashfulness in her expression, but it doesn't mask the sharp satisfaction he can read under it. Zen's heart skips a beat.
Oh, it's all over.
It's a losing game. And he is going to play it out.
