i hear your "merlin forgets how arthur looks like" and i raise you: merlin learns how to draw to try and and preserve arthur's memory in time at least in some way. it's not perfect of course, it's not even good for a thousand tries at first and merlin keeps burning papers and can't shake the feeling of deja vu at the sight of the fire burning remnants of arthur. and he's frantic because he wants to be able to capture arthur on paper or canvas or anything before he starts forgetting. and when he gets good at it he still draws like a madman because something's still not right. there are piles of drawings all over his house, he's surrounded by futile tries of keeping arthur at his side. and then it's perfect, he did it. and now arthur looks at him from every corner. and then merlin breaks. because it's not him, none of this is him. he remembers him so well, he sees his face every day, but what's the point if it's not real arthur?
god i hate writing fic, like what do you mean i’m now researching the history of bible translations in the 19th century midwest, i just wanted the blorbos to kiss
notes: this is, for all intents and purposes, a rewrite of netflix's hot frosty which i watched last (yes, last) thanksgiving with my hubs. terrible movie, cannot unrecommend enough!!! i then proceeded to grind out 5k of this fic in two days, never finished it bc hello have u met me, and then picked it up again on and off throughout the rest of 2025 and now! at long last! she's here!!! is she the most ridiculous fic i've ever written? yes! is she deeply unedited? also yes!!!
(what a way to temporarily break my hiatus amirite)
happy holidays, y'all. here's to hoping for a better 2026.
warnings: death of a loved one, inexplicable christmas magic, various shenanigans. who knows, really. it's a fic about a snowman, for god's sake.
BREEP! BREEP! BREEP!
The harsh, discordant blare of your alarm jerks you from your slumber, just as it does every morning. You aren’t sure why the sound quality has deteriorated so badly over the past few weeks—one too many falls from your nightstand, or perhaps the unplanned spin in washing machine last month. Whatever the cause may have been, you’re in dire need of an upgrade.
If only money wasn’t so tight, you think, not for the first time, as you force yourself up and out of the warmth of your bed. The cold air is a shock, raising gooseflesh on your arms and legs in an instant. Shivering, you grab your cardigan from its spot on a nearby chair, flinging it on and wrapping it around yourself as tightly as possible. It’s a strategic location—you replace it there every evening. Only once it’s on can you brave the walk down the hall—past the broken thermostat with its sticky note reminder to call the repairman!—to the bathroom where you immediately turn the shower on as hot as it will go.
Things weren’t always like this, of course. Yoongi never would have let the house fall into disrepair. But cancer was a malicious and unforgiving beast, and three years ago your beloved husband had finally succumbed. You’d scattered his ashes from his favorite bench in his favorite park, overlooking the river. You’d cried and you’d mourned, until you felt as empty as his side of the bed.
And then you’d carried on, because what else could you do?
You brush your teeth as the shower finishes warming up. Warm steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and you swipe a palm across it as you slip off your cardigan. A hot shower always makes you feel more alive, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you step inside and draw the curtain shut behind you. You don’t like thinking about your late husband. You especially don’t like the feelings that thinking about him bring up, so you’re particularly grateful for the shower on this particular morning. The hot water splashing across your face mixes with any tears that manage to escape, swirling them down the drain without a trace.
The sun has just started to rise by the time you leave the house, pulling on your woolly blue mittens as you begin picking your way down the street toward the main town square. You wave at your elderly neighbor, Joyce, and laugh when Daisy, her fluffy little dog, cavorts out the front door and immediately disappears into the thick layer of snow on the ground. Across the street, Marco and his daughter, Luisa, shout their hellos.
There are certainly perks that come with living in a small town. You’d never known your neighbors’ names when you lived in the city, but now, you don’t even think twice about knocking on Joyce’s door to borrow her garden shears every spring. You regularly babysit Luisa when Marco and his wife, Blair, have their weekly date nights. She calls you auntie, and you call her a little jitterbug.
But there are cons, too. You don’t miss the lingering looks of sympathy in Marco’s and Joyce’s eyes as you pass by. You recognize those same expressions from Yoongi’s funeral, when the whole town had come out to mourn and offer you their best attempts at comfort.
Biting your lip, you turn to walk away from your neighbors and onto the main road. Before you can leave, though, Joyce calls your name. Curiously, you turn back to where she’s standing, her white hair tucked beneath a knit hat adorned with an enormous, hot pink pom-pom.
“You’re going to freeze in this weather, dear,” she says, gesturing for you to come closer. “Here.” She produces a deep red scarf seemingly out of thin air, and wraps it around your neck.
You blink dumbly. “Oh? Oh! Joyce, please, there’s no need for this. I have scarves at home; I just completely forgot to grab one today—”
She cuts you off with a raised finger, shaking her head. “Don’t break an old woman’s heart, dear. Just consider it an early Christmas present, all right?”
Sensing that she won’t take no for an answer, you concede and wrap the scarf more tightly around your neck. “Thank you, Joyce. This is very kind.”
“No need to thank me,” she replies, waving you off. “Have a lovely day, dear. Now, where did Daisy get off to?”
Joyce shuffles off in search of her dog, and you veer back onto the sidewalk and continue on toward the main road that runs through town. Seven years ago, you’d leased a ramshackle little brick building just off the square, with hopes of renovating it and turning it into your dream diner. Yoongi had been skeptical, but you’d seen its potential and managed to convince him that it was worth the investment. Today, it stands proud, with big picture windows overlooking the wooden gazebo in the center of the square and a cheery red sign out front that reads: The Milkshake Parlor.
You and Yoongi had compromised on the name. Ever the pragmatist, he’d wanted to call it The Diner. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? No fuss, no frills,” he’d said, waving a paintbrush to emphasize his point. You’d rolled your eyes and grabbed the yellow No. 2 pencil that was perpetually behind his ear, waving it at him in retaliation. “It’s boring, Yoongi. Cherry on Top is a cute name, and it lets people know we make a mean milkshake!” And so, the compromise came into being. The Milkshake Parlor—a name that was cute and pragmatic, as far as you were both concerned.
“Hey, stop it!”
“No, you stop it! You’re going to knock him over!”
The sudden shouting pulls you back to reality, and you realize with a start that you’ve come to a dead stop in the middle of the road. Tearing your gaze from The Milkshake Parlor’s sign, you turn toward the source of the commotion. Two children—a boy and a girl, both about ten or so—seem to be having a disagreement about a snowman they’re building. From what you can tell, the boy thinks that they can stack four snowballs, while the girl is drawing the limit at three and is now trying to forcibly take the fourth ball from him.
Chuckling wryly, you shake your head and head inside The Milkshake Parlor. Already, the smell of freshly baked bread is beginning to waft from the kitchen in the back, and through the window, you can just barely see the top of the chef’s head bobbing around. “Hey, Jin,” you call as the door swings shut behind you.
The chef’s head perks up, and a moment later the door to the kitchen is flung open. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t the lady of the house herself!” Jin exclaims, cutting a striking figure in the doorway with a batter-covered whisk in hand and flour streaked across his black apron. “I feel like I should bow. Or would you rather me bend the knee?”
“I literally come in every day, you weirdo,” you tell him, running a finger along his whisk before it can drip onto the floor. “Have you been rewatching Game of Thrones?
Jin frowns. “No.”
You frown back. “Then, pray tell, why are you being so cheesy?”
He sniffs. “Well, someone has to brie.”
You groan, regretting your question immediately. If you know one thing about Jin, it’s that he will take a pun and run with it, straight into the ground. “Oh, no.”
“What?” he asks innocently. “Cheer up! It’s gouda be a good day!”
“Please stop.”
“If I stop, will you feel cheddar?”
“I hate you.”
Jin slaps a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Oh, man, now I’m feeling bleu. C’mon, Jin, shake it off. Pretend that you don’t camembert.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Yikes, these are getting worse by the second. You should quit while you’re ahead.”
He perks up. “Are you telling me I should stop milking it?”
“Awful,” you sigh. “Absolutely terrible.”
“Agree to disa-brie,” he replies breezily. “Anyway, you don’t have time to stand here all day in awe of my charm and wit. I’ve got some breakfast for you in the back. Ham and cheese omelet—no pun intended—with a slice of my homemade sourdough. I just put the coffeepot on too, so that should be ready soon.”
You squeeze his shoulder and resist the urge to tell him that he’s already made a brie-related pun. “You’re the best. Thanks, Jinnie.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he says, brushing you off. “I like cooking, and I know you don’t eat in the mornings. You’d probably starve to death without me.”
“You’re not wrong,” you reply. Then you frown, racking your brain for the right words. “But starving to death? That would definitely be the worst queso scenario.”
It's the right thing to say. Jin beams, his entire face lighting up like the sun that has now fully risen and is streaming golden through the windows that drew you to lease this building all those years ago. “Now that’s the spirit.”
///
The Milkshake Parlor is always busiest in December. Between the holiday shoppers and families coming in to visit, you don’t have a chance to sit down until nearly four in the afternoon. The sun has already begun its descent toward the horizon, and you sigh in relief as you plop down into a booth to sign some paychecks.
Outside, the Christmas lights are beginning to turn on, transforming the town square into a twinkling wonderland. Santa’s sleigh, lit up in green and red and gold, is being pulled by two neat rows of glittering reindeer. Scattered all around are pinstriped candy cane decorations and glowing gifts tied with lit-up bows bigger than your head. In the center of it all, just outside the entrance of the gazebo, is the tree—aglow with colorful baubles and garlands of shimmery golden tinsel and silver snowflakes. All together, with the lights sparkling off the snow, it’s a mesmerizing sight.
“Has it started yet?”
You glance over at Jin, who’s sliding into the seat opposite yours with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand, one of which he pushes toward you. “Doesn’t look like it,” you murmur, nodding your thanks as you accept the mug and take a careful sip. “I saw Mr. Whittaker walk by with a box of prize ribbons a few minutes ago, though.”
Jin hums. “Man, I made the craziest things during the Snowtime Spectacular as a kid. One year, I just made a giant cow. I think I was maybe nine? Another time, I made that little peeing guy in Belgium. The pissing man, or whatever it’s called.”
“What a name,” you say, laughing. “I hear it’s a lot smaller than people expect it to be, for something so famous. Have you been?”
He nods. “Yeah, once when I was fourteen. I was kind of obsessed with it afterward. Thought it was hilarious.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Still do, actually.”
“How did you make it pee?” you ask curiously.
“Gold wire,” he replies as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Stuck it right in the tip of his dick.”
You nearly spit out the sip of hot chocolate you'd just taken. “Jesus Christ.”
Jin grins and settles back into his seat, eyes sparkling. “So, what about you? Enter any snowman building contests when you were a kid?”
“Hmm.” You think about it for a moment. “Not really. It wasn’t much of a thing where I grew up. We got snow and four seasons and all that, but the winters tended to be pretty mild. If we got snow, it didn’t really stick around for very long.”
The sun has disappeared fully now, cloaking the town in the dusky blues and purples of twilight. In the square, amongst the bright lights and festive decorations, townspeople are beginning to gather. Children, mostly, but a few adults seem to be taking part in the Snowtime Spectacular as well. A few people stop in on their way to the square, and you and Jin sell them generous servings of cocoa and hot spiced cider in paper cups to take back into the cold. You glance out the window whenever you get a chance, watching as the competitors begin building their creations.
Just before five o’clock, your other employee arrives for the dinner shift. Hoseok is a childhood friend of Jin’s, and his cheery disposition and infectious smile make him a perfect server. “Hey!” he says as he walks in, pulling off his beanie and shaking out his cherry red hair. “You guys see those snowmen out there? There’s some pretty impressive ones!”
“No, we’ve been working, unlike some people.” Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen, where he’s assembling a lasagna. “But say more. Did the Patel siblings try to make Godzilla again?”
“Actually, they’ve gone for Totoro this time,” replies Hoseok. “It was turning out pretty well when I walked by. Identifiable, at least.”
Any further conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a group of four regulars—two men and two women—who stop in every two weeks to play poker over bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Hoseok waves at them and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge behind the counter in preparation to greet them properly. You and Jin, meanwhile, head back into the kitchen to get their usual order started.
More townsfolk filter in as the night wears on, and as the diner fills up, you take over some tables to lessen Hoseok’s burden. Whenever you aren’t talking to customers, you stop in the back to check on Jin and help him prepare food. Yoongi had always loved cooking, and he and Jin used to work together seamlessly in the kitchen. But you haven’t had the heart to hire someone new just yet, and Jin hasn’t complained. Instead, you took on the additional workload, doing your best to help out wherever you can.
Three minutes past ten, you finally flip the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and turn off the neon sign in the window. Hoseok is clearing the last of the plates and glasses, handing them over to Jin so he can load the dishwasher. You pull the vacuum from the closet, and together, the three of you set to work cleaning up. Hoseok mops up any spills while Jin wipes down the counters, and it isn’t long before you’re finished. Jin flicks off the lights as you exit, and both men turn to watch you as you lock the front door.
“That was fun. We should do it again tomorrow,” Jin jokes. “Same time, same place?”
Hoseok chuckles. “Count me in.”
You can only shake your head, laughing. “You’re both nuts.”
And with that, you say your goodbyes. Jin heads off in the direction of his house, and Hoseok makes his way toward Whittakers' General Goods, the general store, next door. You, meanwhile, find your gaze drawn back to the main town square and the collection of snowmen and snow sculptures that have cropped up between all the lights and decor. Curiosity lures you in, and you soon find yourself walking amongst them, admiring the admittedly incredible craftsmanship of some and chuckling at some of the others. You find Totoro, lovingly crafted, and a series of blobs that you’re fairly certain are attempts at Pokémon—at least, you think you spy one that could be a Bulbasaur. Smiling, you continue winding your way through the maze of snowy creations.
You’re nearly at the edge of the square when a particularly impressive snowman brings you to a stop. Nestled between a classic snowman with a stovepipe hat and a cartoonish dog you can only assume is from Paw Patrol, is a man. A life-sized, hyperrealistic man, crafted entirely of snow—who also happens to be completely naked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” you mutter to nobody, your breath misting in the cool air. “Who made you? Fucking Michelangelo?”
Your gaze roves over the snowman—the literal snow man—again. Michelangelo hadn’t been messing around; that was for sure. From the strong jaw, to the dip of his clavicle, to the planes of his toned chest, to the firm ridges of his abdomen—and then your cheeks flush warm when your eyes drop lower. At least the creator had stuck a leaf between their creation’s legs to preserve some modesty.
Now feeling very much like a pervert, you take a step back and make to walk away. Something stops you in your tracks, though, and you find yourself turning back around to look into the snowman’s blank, white eyes. “You must be freezing,” you murmur, taking in the smooth, white rounds of his cheeks and the chiseled angle of his jaw. And then, driven on by some force that surely must be madness, you unwrap the scarf from your neck and wind it around his instead.
“All right,” you murmur once the deed is done. “That’s that, and I’m officially a nutjob. A headcase. A big, fucking weirdo who’s talking to a snowman. Coolcoolcool. That’s fine. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot.” You glance up at the snowman once more and take a deep breath. “Okay. I’m gonna leave now. Bye.”
You aren’t sure why you felt the need to bid the snowman goodbye. Shaking your head, you tramp off, forgoing the road entirely. Instead, you make your way across the town square, your footsteps sinking deep into the snow.
Talking to a snowman, you think as you walk away. Good god. I need a fucking drink.
///
A loud bang jerks you awake the next morning. Your eyes fly open, your brain racing to catch up as you glance around for the source of the noise. The bedroom looks undisturbed, and you shiver as you climb out from beneath the covers and seize your cardigan from the chair.
It takes you a moment to realize that the sound is someone knocking on your front door. The thought drags you into motion—flinging on your cardigan and treading downstairs to figure out who dared disturb your precious sleep at the ungodly hour of half past four.
“What on earth could be so impor—” you start, flinging open the door only to stop dead in your tracks. Standing on your doorstep is a man. A naked man. Or at least, mostly naked—if you discount the scarf that flaps around his thighs and conveniently obscures his—
You tear your gaze from its downward trajectory and refocus on the man’s face. “What the fuck?! Where are your clothes?”
The man blinks, as if the thought of wearing clothing had never even occurred to him. “I don’t have any. This is all I have.” And he gestures to the scarf around his neck, which, upon closer inspection, is the exact one that Joyce had gifted you yesterday—and that you had subsequently gifted to a snowman in a moment of pure lunacy.
“I—” You don’t know what to say. “Why are you here? Who even are you? Aren’t you cold?” You pause, then gesture wildly at the deep red scarf that is coming dangerously close to revealing things. “Jesus. Where did you get that, anyway?”
“Hmm.” The man hums thoughtfully, brushing a wavy lock of dark hair from his forehead. “That’s a lot of questions, so I guess I’ll just answer them in order. I’m here because I followed your footsteps in the snow. That took some time, since they got kind of muddled with others. But I figured it out.” He pauses, as if expecting you to congratulate him. Instead, you offer him a dumbfounded look, which he takes in stride with a bemused smile and presses on. “As to who I am, well, my name’s Jungkook. I’m a snowman. So, no, I’m not cold. I don’t think it’s possible for me to even get cold. Thank you for the scarf, though. I meant to thank you earlier, but you left awfully fast and I wasn’t really… well, I couldn’t really walk yet. But now I’m here, and you’re here, and I just…” He smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you. Truly. I’m so happy we met.”
He’s insane. He must be. “You’re out of your goddamn mind,” you tell him, and when you receive only another bemused smile and a little head tilt in return, you sigh. “Seriously, man. Jungle, or whatever your name is. I don’t know if this is some weird prank, or what, but it’s way too early for this shit. Just go home. And put on some clothes, for crying out loud. You’re going to get frostbite.”
The man blinks. “Home? I don’t…” he trails off. “I don’t think I have one. A home, I mean. I guess the town square would be the closest thing, so…” He nods. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll go back there. I'm… I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”
“Wait.” You’re clearly the one who’s insane now. But for some reason, the sight of his forlorn face as he turns to walk away pierces straight through your sternum to your heart. “Hang on a sec. You don’t… you don’t know where to go? You don’t have anywhere to go?”
Jungle(?) shrugs. “Not really. I’m a snowman.”
You opt to ignore this asinine claim and size him up instead. Objectively, he’s handsome. He has a jawline that could cut glass and a body that any Greek god would envy, and his dark hair falls in perfect waves that frame his forehead. His face, though, is at complete odds with the rest of him. Something about his easy smile and wide brown eyes instinctively makes you want to trust him. You can’t see any traces of deception hiding in his expression—only soft vulnerability and confused inquisitiveness. And so, you come to a decision.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you mutter. Then you step aside, pulling the front door wide open. “Do you want to come in?”
The man on your doorstep blinks once, twice, and a third time. And then his face splits open into a wide grin, one that lights him up like the sun breaking through a wall of clouds. “That would be… wow. Yes, I’d love to come in. Wow. Thank you!”
You aren’t sure what to make of his enthusiasm, but you allow him to step past the threshold nonetheless. You watch as he looks around in amazement, taking in each piece of furniture in your living room and each bit of art hanging on the walls.
“It’s so pretty in here,” he marvels, spinning around in a full circle. “Is this all yours?”
Were you a paranoid person, and were he anyone else, you probably would’ve interpreted this question as a way to gauge whether you lived alone—and thus, whether you were an easy target. But coming from him, you have no doubt that it’s innocent. Just simple, honest curiosity. Still, that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t splinter a little as you think of your late husband.
“It is now,” you say quietly. And if your companion senses anything amiss or hears the way your voice cracks a little bit, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen, where the coffee maker is just starting to wake up, gurgling softly before beginning to brew a fresh pot.
“What’s that?”
You pull a blanket from the back of the couch and toss it at him before heading into the kitchen. “It’s coffee. And you should really cover yourself up.” You gesture vaguely at his body, then quickly avert your gaze and busy yourself with fishing two clean mugs out of the cabinet. “Do you want any?”
“I’ll try some,” he says, wrapping the blanket around his waist. “I’ve never had coffee before.”
Weird, but not unheard of, you think to yourself as you pour him a mug. “Milk or sugar? It’s going to be a little bitter otherwise.”
He nods. “Sugar then, please.”
You plop a spoonful of sugar into the mug, giving it a stir before handing it over. He accepts the coffee with a grateful smile, and gives it a curious sniff. Instantly, he recoils, his eyes screwing shut.
“Oh! That’s hot!”
You blink. “Well, yeah, it’s fresh. You can blow on it to cool it down.”
He shakes his head and places the mug back onto the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a fan of hot things.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, waving off his apology. “Here, let me pour it over ice. You can try it then.”
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you pad across the kitchen to the refrigerator. He’s watching you raptly, with an expression caught somewhere between awe and gratitude, and you can’t help but shiver at the intensity. You focus instead on the task at hand—scooping ice cubes into a glass and carefully pouring the hot coffee over top.
“Here,” you say when you’re done, handing the cup over.
He sniffs it again, cocks his head, and then takes a long sip. “Oh, wow." Another sip. "Mm. That’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Really good. Thank you, {Name}.”
It takes you a moment to remember how he knows your name. There’s your good deed for the year, {Name}, you fucking idiot. It seems like an eternity ago that you were talking to a snowman—a snowman that, upon some reflection, does bear a striking resemblance to the flesh-and-blood man standing in your kitchen now. Are you saying you believe that he's a snowman? a little voice in your head asks. You tell it to shut up and go away in no uncertain terms, and mercifully, it does.
Then you remember that you aren’t sure what his name is, even though you know he definitely introduced himself while you were dazed and half-asleep and furious at being woken up so early. It’s definitely not Jungle, you think, but it’s the only thing buzzing around in your head. It must be close, though. John? Jackson? Geronimo?
“I don’t know your name,” you blurt. “I mean, I know you said it. But it was so early, and I was so tired, and now I don’t remember what you said, and… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Your companion laughs. “No need to apologize. The name’s Jungkook.”
“Jungkook.” You repeat it a few times, committing it to memory. “Right. Got it. I won’t forget again, I swear.”
Jungkook just laughs again. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You’re right, anyhow. It was early. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that.”
You shake your head. “It’s fine.”
“Still.” He peers at you from behind a dark curtain of bangs. “I’m sorry.”
You fight back the sudden warmth that threatens to rush to your cheeks at his sincerity. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”
///
Everything is, in fact, not fine. As it turns out, it’s incredibly hard to focus on the diner when there’s a man claiming to be a snowman in your home, doing god only knows what. The worry must show on your face too, because Jin pulls you aside at half past ten, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re being weird. Why are you being weird?”
You frown. “Is it that obvious?”
He nods. “Like a bullet to the head.”
“I’m not sure you’re using that expression right,” you tell him. “But… yeah. You’re right. I… had a weird morning.”
“Well, consider me intrigued,” Jin says, plopping into the nearest booth and propping his chin in his palm. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Expound.”
“I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Try the beginning,” he says helpfully. “You woke up this morning. Then what?”
You hesitate. “Huh. I guess this whole thing actually started last night.”
“Juicy. Say more.”
You look across the table at Jin. He stares back, unblinking, a single brow raised as if to say, well?
Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it for a moment before exhaling it in an audible huff. “I have a houseguest.”
Jin cocks his head. “Really? Is that it?”
“He thinks he’s a snowman.”
Silence. Then: “Come again?”
You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Right? That’s what I said. I mean, not exactly in those words, but it’s a crazy thing to claim, right? Not that I think he’s crazy. But maybe he is, and now there’s a crazy man in my house doing… I don’t know. Destroying the place, or setting it on fire, or… stealing my gold?”
“You don’t have any gold,” Jin points out.
“Well, sure. I’m not Smaug, or a goddamn fucking leprechaun, but the point stands. He could still be trying to steal my laptop or my grandmother’s antique candelabras or something.”
Jin chuckles and mutters candelabras under his breath before sobering up again. “Right. Yeah. That would be bad. Let’s go pay him a visit.”
“Wait, what?” You blink. “Are you serious?”
“As a bullet to the head,” he replies, rising to his feet decisively and flipping the open sign on the door to closed. “Lock up behind us, won’t you?”
///
For the first time in a long while, you are at a complete loss for words. Jin had let himself into your house with his copy of the key before you even had a chance to fish yours from your purse, and you’d wordlessly followed as he strolled into your living room and made himself comfortable in one of the wingback armchairs flanking the front window. Jungkook, who’d been watching some show on television, had blinked in surprise. Jin stared. Jungkook stared back. And now, you’re not sure whether there’s a thing you can do about the silent standoff occurring over your glass-top coffee table.
At least, you think to yourself, I found a hoodie and sweats for him to wear. This would be so much more awkward if he were still naked.
Jungkook breaks the silence first, tugging you from your thoughts. “Um. Hi.”
Jin narrows his eyes. “Let’s skip the small talk. {Name} here says you’re a snowman. What’s the deal with that?”
Jungkook blinks once, and then twice more. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“You. Snowman.” Jin says the words slowly, as if talking to a small child who hasn’t yet learned how to speak in complete sentences. “A prank, obviously. But why?”
Silence. It stretches on, taut and tense, before you break it by clearing your throat awkwardly. “Jin, be nice,” you chide.
“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook is frowning, but he’s nodding absentmindedly, as if to agree with what Jin has said. “I mean, this isn’t a prank, and I’m not trying to play a joke on anyone. But… I guess I can understand how strange this all must be for you.”
“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Jin mutters under his breath, but you ignore him. Sitting cautiously on the couch beside Jungkook, you turn to address him directly.
“What exactly do you mean when you say you’re a snowman?” you ask. “How… long have you been a snowman?”
Jungkook scrunches his nose, and your brain instantly decides to create a new neural pathway that links Jungkook, alleged snowman, with the image of Thumper, adorable bunny rabbit from Bambi. A very clear picture of him with fuzzy ears and a cotton tail develops in your head, and you have to resist the urge to leave the room for the sake of your sanity. Instead you bite your bottom lip, hard, and focus your gaze on the spot just beyond Jungkook’s left ear where your grandmother’s antique candelabras sit on the mantel.
“It’s… kind of hard to explain. I don’t even really have any memories before yesterday. I just remember… snow. Lots and lots of white snow. And then you were there.”
Jin snorts. You glare at him. Jungkook watches this exchange, his brows furrowed, and then hesitantly continues on.
“It felt like I was waking up from a long sleep. I don’t really know how else to describe it, but all of a sudden I was awake. I could walk, and speak, and I just knew I had to find you again.”
“Let’s say you’re telling the truth,” Jin cuts in. “What’s your end goal? Are you trying to seduce {Name} for her money?”
It’s your turn to snort. “Money? What money? Have you seen the state of things around here?” You gesture at the fireplace, where a sticky note solemnly reminds you to call a chimney sweep. Another one on the wall recommends a floorboard replacement soon. A third, stuck on the doorframe leading to the kitchen, simply says: find a plumber maybe??
Jin follows the trajectory of your hand waving with an unimpressed frown. “Wait, you still haven’t called a plumber?”
Your mind drags up a memory of your late husband, coming in from the garage armed with his trusty red toolbox. He’s wearing paint-stained overalls paired with a crooked grin, and you remember plopping down on the cold tile floor beside him with two glasses of lemonade as he wriggled beneath the kitchen sink to begin performing what you could only assume was witchcraft. Three minutes later, he’d reemerged, triumphant. He’d downed the lemonade in three gulps, and when you kissed him afterward, you'd tasted the sweet tang of citrus intermingled with a flavor that was uniquely him. Your Yoongi. Your Yoongi, dead and burned to ash and—
You gasp, wrenching yourself out of the memory. Your chest feels somehow both too tight and too big, threatening to overwhelm you like a tidal wave. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, racing at a full gallop. When you glance down at your lap, you find that your hands are clasped there, trembling.
“Shit.” Jin’s voice breaks through the drumming of your heart. “Shit, {Name}, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I don’t—” He falters. “I mean, are you okay?”
You shake your head, then catch yourself and nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Fuck, sorry. I just—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jin says, standing up and crossing the room in three strides to take your hands in his. “Never apologize to me for feeling the way you do, got it?”
“Got it,” you say weakly. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
He squeezes your hands one more time before returning to his seat. Jungkook, who has been watching this exchange with rapt interest, raises one hand tentatively. “I, uh, didn’t want to interrupt,” he pipes when you and Jin look at him. “And I’m glad you’re okay, {Name}.” His gaze settles on you for a long moment, his eyes dark and searching. You brace yourself for the questions that are sure to come—questions that you aren’t ready to answer now and possibly not ever—but he breezes on as if nothing happened. “Anyway, I think I can probably fix whatever’s wrong in the kitchen, if that’s an issue.”
“Huh?” Jin says.
“Wait, what?” you say at the same time.
Jungkook gestures at the TV, and for the first time, you take in the channel that’s playing. It’s some kind of home improvement show, and you watch as two men who bear striking resemblances to Mario and Luigi explain how to grease an O-ring. “I already poked around the sink a little bit. I hope you don’t mind. I looked in the chimney too, but I haven’t seen an episode on those yet. Maybe there’ll be one later. Then I think I can probably do something about that, too.”
“Do you…” You pause. “Hang on. Are you saying that you can learn how to fix things? Just by watching someone do it?”
A deep furrow etches itself between Jungkook’s brows, then disappears as he nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. Do you have tools?”
You think of Yoongi’s red toolbox and force back the memories trying to spill over. “Yeah, I do.”
“Great.” Jungkook beams, and it’s as bright as sunlight on freshly fallen snow. “Can you show me where?”
///
“I can’t believe you brought him here.”
It’s the next day, and you and Jin are seated at a small table in the corner of The Milkshake Parlor's kitchen, staring at Jungkook’s backside as he maneuvers himself carefully into the space between the oven and the wall. You’d fished out some of Yoongi’s old clothes last night, as much as it’d pained you to go down into the basement to parse through all those boxes, and Jungkook is now decked out in ripped jeans and a dark green flannel, the ends of the red scarf you'd given him tossed over his shoulder as he works.
"He offered to help," you say, shrugging. "And I'm not exactly in a position to turn that down. Besides, he's staying with me for the time being, until we figure out—" you lower your voice "—the whole snowman thing."
Jin sighs and props his chin in his palm. "I guess he did do a good job with the leaky faucet yesterday," he concedes.
"He insulated all the windows too," you add. "After you left. I'd been meaning to do it for a while now, and when I mentioned it, he just took it into his own hands."
Jin tilts his head and stares even more intently, if possible, at Jungkook's denim-clad posterior. "He's acting awfully nice."
You frown. "You think it's an act?"
"I have no idea," he admits. "I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I don't get any bad vibes from him. But this whole thing is insane, and some people are great actors. Can you ever truly know who someone is?"
You glance back at Jungkook—who's now fiddling with the stovetop knobs—and another memory of Yoongi surfaces, this time of him standing over the stove and carefully stirring a pan of your favorite risotto. "I did, once upon a time," you murmur.
Jin understands. Gently, he reaches across the table to take your hand. He squeezes, and you squeeze back, and for now, it's enough.
///
Hazy morning clouds give way to a sun-drenched afternoon. Jungkook finishes his work in the kitchen, leaving behind a cooktop that once again heats evenly, and Jin immediately puts it to the test by whipping up a batch of pancakes.
It's proving to be a slow day in the diner, which you're thankful for. One of your regulars—a grizzled, graying man named Horacio who always keeps peppermints in his coat pocket—sits at the counter with a mug of hot tea. In a corner booth, two teens on winter break giggle over strawberry milkshakes.
Jungkook sits across from you in your favorite booth, his gaze riveted on the creations from this year's Snowtime Spectacular. It had snowed overnight, dusting everything in a fresh coat of powdery white, and some of the sculptures are a little less recognizable than before. Nonetheless, you can still identify a few standouts.
"Do you know who won?"
With a start, you realize Jungkook is staring at you now. It takes your brain another moment to register the question, and you chuckle ruefully as you try to remember the prize results. "The Patel siblings won first place, I think. They made the giant snow Totoro over there." You point. "Second place went to the medieval castle by the old sycamore tree. And third was a tie between the family of polar bears and the classic Frosty the Snowman."
Jungkook nods, eyeing each creation with a critical eye as you point them out. "They're really impressive. It's a shame everyone couldn't get a prize."
"If it helps, everyone got free hot chocolate afterward for their participation," you tell him with a laugh.
He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It does, actually."
Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, plopping three mugs onto the table with a thunk. He follows this with a stack of pancakes piled so high on the plate that it wobbles quite dangerously when he sets it down. "Speaking of hot chocolate," he says, gesturing at the mugs. "You guys must be starving. I know I am, so let's dig in."
You scoot over to give Jin room in the booth while Jungkook thanks him fervently for the food. The next few minutes are quiet, filled only by the sounds of chewing and clinking utensils. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice that Jungkook is eyeing his mug of hot chocolate with apprehension. A whorl of steam wafts up from it, and he flinches back just a tiny bit. You nearly would've missed it, had you not been watching so carefully.
Wordlessly, you pick up your own mug and blow on the liquid within. Jungkook, seeing you do this, follows suit. Once you deem the hot chocolate cool enough, you take a small sip, and he does the same. Immediately, his eyes widen—and for a moment, you aren't sure if he's burned his tongue or not. Then a look of delight settles across his features. He takes another, larger sip, and you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.
Just as you're about to grab your fork and go in for some more pancake, the bell over the door chimes. Jin rises to greet the guest, and you turn in your seat, ready to jump in should he need any help. You recognize the newcomer as Willy Waddlesworth—one of three police officers who work at the station a few streets away. The police chief, Jimin, is a good friend of Hoseok's if you recall correctly.
"Officer," Jin says, offering the portly, red-faced man a hand to shake. "I didn't expect to see you in here today. You having the usual?"
Officer Waddlesworth shakes his head. "Here on business, actually." He looks around the diner slowly, scanning people's faces. He offers you a polite nod of acknowledgment—and then his eyes alight on Jungkook and narrow. "Ma'am, are you aware that this man is a wanted criminal?"
You feel your eyes go wide. "Wait, what?" Across the table, Jungkook is too engrossed in his pancakes to notice the conversation happening about him.
Officer Waddlesworth nods. "I'm afraid so. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker reported him for…" he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket and flips it open dramatically, "…disturbing the peace and public indecency. I'm going to have to take him down to the station."
Jin frowns. "That doesn't sound like something the Whittakers would do."
"Are you questioning an officer of the law?" Officer Waddlesworth bristles, and you are suddenly reminded of a very small, angry hedgehog.
"Not at all," you say, rising to your feet to placate him. "But I do think I'd like to hear their side of the story. They usually drop by for lunch around now, why don't we ask them when they come in?"
Officer Waddlesworth doesn't seem pleased by this suggestion in the slightest, but the bell over the door jingles merrily before he can open his mouth. "Perfect timing," Jin murmurs to you out of the corner of his mouth, before turning to greet the new customers wiping their feet free of slush on the cherry-shaped welcome mat. "Mr. Whittaker, good afternoon! I have a sausage hash with your name on it. Mrs. Whittaker, you're looking lovely as usual. Will it be French toast or waffles today?"
Mrs. Whittaker, a kind-faced woman with silvery gray curls, beams at him. "Waffles for me today, darling. Maybe some extra syrup, if you're feeling generous."
"For you? Always." Jin bows deeply, drawing laughs from the Whittakers, and nods at you and Officer Waddlesworth before heading back into the kitchen. You notice he stays within earshot, though—his head visible through the window as he begins preparing the orders.
Officer Waddlesworth clears his throat. "Mr. Whittaker, Mrs. Whittaker—thank you for coming." He gestures at the booth, where Jungkook is sipping on his hot chocolate happily, a teeny dollop of whipped cream on his nose. "If I could have you think back to the incident you reported a couple days ago… is this the man you saw that night?"
Mr. Whittaker squints and adjusts his glasses. "Hmm, yes, that looks like him. Mighty glad he's finally managed to locate his clothes. It's been awful cold out this week."
"Is he a friend of yours, {Name}?" Mrs. Whittaker asks, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Introduce us!"
You blanch. "Ah. Um. Right, this is…"
Jungkook finally notices the attention on him and picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth. He thankfully gets the whipped cream on his nose as well, and you have to resist the urge to sigh in relief. "Hello," he says brightly, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Mrs. Whittaker. "I'm Jungkook."
Mrs. Whittaker lets out a sound that you can only describe as a giggle. "Oh, aren't you sweet. I'm Clara Whittaker, and this here is my husband, Joe."
Mr. Whittaker steps forward to give his hand a firm shake. "Pleased to meet you, son."
Officer Waddlesworth's face turns redder and redder as he watches this exchange play out in front of him. Sensing that he's quickly losing control of the situation—that is, if he ever had it in the first place—he clears his throat in what he deems is an authoritative way. "Ahem. Right. Now, if we could get back to the matter at hand?" He turns to Jungkook, who simply blinks curiously at him. "Sir, do you admit to the charges of—" he consults his notebook again, "—disturbing the peace and public indecency?"
Jungkook blinks. "Public what?"
Frantically, you wave your hands, as if that will dispel this entire situation. "I don't thi—"
Jin chooses that moment to interrupt, calling out through the kitchen window over the sound of sizzling onions. "C'mon, Officer, it was just a bit of hazing. Jungkook's new in town, and the winters here are no joke. I mean, why am I telling you that? You know that better than all of us combined, braving the cold year after year to patrol town and keep us safe." His expression melts into faux admiration, and you very nearly snort out a laugh. Jin notices this, shoots you a surreptitious glare, then pauses to give his onions a stir before continuing on shamelessly. "So, I gave him a little challenge. Wanted to see if he could hack it here in the long term."
Officer Waddlesworth puffs up with pride like a chickadee on a cold day. He takes a while to formulate a response to Jin's monologue, and before he can open his mouth to speak, Mr. Whittaker steps in, clapping the policeman on the back. "Come on, Willy! No harm, no foul, eh?"
"No harm, no foul," Jin echoes from the kitchen. "Exactly."
Officer Waddlesworth sets his mouth into a firm line and deflates slightly. "I'm not so sure that there was no harm done. There may have been children about. Who knows how many may have seen this man's…" He trails off and gestures uncomfortably in Jungkook's general direction. "And besides, it's indecent, what he did! An affront to the senses, and Mrs. Whittaker's delicate sensibilities, and the innocent children of this town, and—" He stops and nods firmly, and you jump a bit when he suddenly stamps his foot against the wooden floor. "Just improper behavior, all around."
Mrs. Whittaker chimes in, her voice soothing. "Officer, this all happened well after midnight. I doubt any children were even awake to bear witness. And don't you worry about my sensibilities, delicate or otherwise. I've taken my fair share of turns around the sun, you know. This young man's hardly the first one I've seen in the nude."
Through the kitchen window, you see Jin pull a disgusted face and have to resist the urge to laugh again. Jungkook still looks hopelessly confused, his brows furrowed. Officer Waddlesworth, meanwhile, has puffed up again—this time with something more akin to embarrassment than pride.
"I'll be keeping my eye on you, young man," he says at last, wagging a finger at Jungkook. Then he turns back to where you're standing with the Whittakers, begrudgingly tipping his hat in farewell. "Ladies. Gentleman." You watch as he spins on his heel and heads for the door, nodding at Jin on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, the bell jangling gently in the silence that falls.
"Phew!" Mrs. Whittaker breaks the silence first. "That sure was something."
Jungkook glances between her and you. "Am I in trouble?"
"Not at all, dear." Mrs. Whittaker pats his shoulder. "Willy's a bit of a hardhead, but his heart's in the right place. He's lived in this town his whole life. I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do to protect it."
Jin pokes his head out from the kitchen. "He's got good timing too. Food's all done, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker—did you want to eat here or take it to-go?"
Mr. Whittaker sighs and tugs his scarf a little tighter around his neck. "Unfortunately, we've got to get back to the store. Radiator's acting up again, and I can't get Ralph to come out until after Christmas to fix it. We've been using space heaters to heat the place, and I don't want to leave them unattended for too long."
At this, Jungkook perks up. "Could I come by and take a look? I don't know if I'll be able to fix it, but I can certainly try a few things."
Mrs. Whittaker beams at him. "Darling, be our guest."
///
When you wake up the next morning, you find Jungkook sitting on the couch with a blanket tucked around his lap, engrossed in a man on TV with a thick Boston accent explaining how to install shingles on a roof. You watch him silently from the doorway for a while, noting the way his head tilts and his face scrunches when he doesn't understand something.
It's strange, seeing a man in your living room, sitting on your couch like he lives there. You haven't had many guests since your husband passed—and you certainly haven't had any men over besides Jin, Hoseok, and the occasional neighbor. You haven't even thought about dating again—the very idea made your head hurt and your heart ache.
Still, you can't deny that Jungkook is handsome. He's kind, too—and even though all signs point to him either being an amnesiac or a patient at a mental institution, you can't help but want to trust him. It doesn't help that he's wearing a set of pajamas that you'd gifted Yoongi years ago—a purple and green plaid monstrosity that was soft as plush and absolutely hideous, and that your husband had a strong love-hate relationship with as a result. Babe, I look like a deranged Barney the Dinosaur. Your heart twinges at the memory.
A knock at the door startles you out of your reverie. Mondays are the one day that the diner is closed, and it wouldn't be the first time that Jin or Hoseok have stopped by your house out of boredom. Fully expecting it to be one of the two men, you swing the door open only to be greeted by your next-door neighbor's smiling face instead.
"Joyce?" You blink in surprise, then remember your manners. "Please, come on in! It's freezing out here."
The elderly woman laughs and taps the hot pink pom-pom on her hat. "Luckily, I'm prepared." Nonetheless, she steps past you into the foyer, where she wipes her boots off on the mat and starts unraveling her scarf.
"Can I offer you anything?" you ask, handing her a coat hanger so she can hang up her winter gear. "I've got coffee, tea, and I think there's still some orange juice in the fridge."
"You're very kind," Joyce says, patting your arm. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you."
You nod and head toward the kitchen while she hangs up her coat. A few moments later, you hear her pad into the living room, followed by:
"Oh! This must be Jungkook!"
You poke your head around the doorframe, astonished at how quickly you'd forgotten about your houseguest in the presence of company. Your mouth opens, ready to explain the situation, but Jungkook beats you to it.
"Good morning," the dark-haired man says cheerfully, standing up and offering Joyce a hand. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Joyce," your neighbor replies with a smile. Clara Whittaker told me all about you. Said you were such a dear to take a look at their old radiator yesterday."
Jungkook shakes his head. "It was nothing, really. I tried a few things, but ultimately, I wasn't able to fix it."
Joyce nods. "She mentioned that they're going to order a replacement, and that you're going to help them put it in when it gets here. That's why I stopped by today, actually. I've been having some trouble with my water heater, and I was hoping you'd be willing to take a look. I'll pay you, of course, for your time."
Jungkook blinks, as if the very concept of being paid is new to him. "Pay me?"
Joyce doesn't miss a beat. "Money, in exchange for goods or services provided."
"Right." Jungkook pauses, then inclines his head. "When did you want me to come over?"
///
From there, the word spreads like wildfire. Jungkook finds himself as busy as you are at The Milkshake Parlor, if not busier. When he isn't fixing someone's plumbing or repairing a roof, he's at the diner with you—lending a helping hand wherever it's needed. He shadows Jin in the kitchen, learning how to mise en place, and trots after Hoseok to bring plates to tables.
It's been nearly two weeks since Jungkook first showed up on your doorstep, and Christmas is rapidly approaching. But despite the impending holidays and the townspeople's jolly cheer, your mood steadily dampens. You think of Yoongi, and how much he'd loved Christmas. You think of decorating the tree with him each year, belting out the wrong lyrics to holiday classics and getting tipsy on cocoa and eggnog. And then you think of the last three Christmases you spent alone, or going through the motions with Jin and his family.
Mr. Pendergrass from the plant nursery had delivered your tree yesterday afternoon, just as he has during each of the eight years you've lived in this town. You'd thought about lugging the lights and ornaments up from the basement that evening, but you'd stopped at the top of the stairs and turned right back around again. It hadn't felt right these past three years to decorate without your husband, so why start now? Jungkook hadn't even been around to keep you company—he was off shoveling snow for what seemed to be the entire neighborhood—so you'd simply poured yourself a generous serving of wine and wallowed in the silence of your empty home. You'd gone to bed early, and heard Jungkook come back just as you were turning off the lamp on your nightstand.
Today, the thought of decorating the tree taunts you as you drink your morning coffee and get ready for work. It torments you as you walk to The Milkshake Parlor and start prepping the kitchen for service. The decorations Hoseok had put up a few nights ago don't help either—verdant garlands draped with holly berries, sparkly tinsel, colorful bits and baubles, and hand-cut snowflakes seemingly in every window and on every surface.
The hours drag by at a snail's pace. Finally, there is a break in your work, and you can justify taking a break for lunch. Jin has a BLT ready for you, and you smile wanly at him as you accept it and pop it into a takeout box. "Going for a little walk," you tell him, and he doesn't pry. You prepare yourself a thermos of hot chocolate and, at the last second, pour in a glug of whiskey. Then you shrug on your coat, exiting the diner and taking a left. From the front window of Whittakers' General Goods, Mr. Ginger—their shop cat—blinks slowly at you.
Automatically, you crouch down by the window and blink back. "Hi, Mr. Ginger. How's it going?"
Despite his name, the Whittakers' cat sports a tuxedo pattern instead of an orange one. Back when you and Yoongi had first opened the The Milkshake Parlor next to the general store, Mrs. Whittaker had explained that his startlingly bright amber eyes were the actual reason behind the name. Yoongi had always had a natural affinity with cats, and befriended Mr. Ginger almost immediately—no doubt in large part to the treats that he snuck the cat at every opportunity. By association, and over time, Mr. Ginger had grown to like you, too.
After a brief, one-sided conversation with the feline, you straighten back up and continue on your way. You aren't sure that you had a destination in mind when you started out, but your feet trace out the path to the park and you don't try to stop them.
You find the wrought-iron gate ajar when you arrive, stuck in place by a combination of fresh snow and snowmelt that has thawed and frozen solid again. Beyond that stretches the familiar cobblestone path, which has clearly been shoveled in the last couple of days. Only about an inch of snow covers the stones, the icy surface crisscrossed with footprints and the occasional tuft of dead grass.
It was summertime when you were last here—June, to be exact. The grass had been green and the wildflowers had been in full bloom, dotting the hillside in colorful brushstrokes. From the trees, hidden by the foliage, birds had twittered their songs. And you'd sat on one of several wooden benches at the bottom of the hill, gazing out over the river and thinking about how you'd scattered your husband's ashes from that very spot three years back.
The anniversary of Yoongi's passing was always hard, but in some ways, the holidays were even harder. Something about the merriment and the inescapable festivities and the imminent arrival of the new year exacerbated the hurt, making your pain all the greater. Some days are easier than others, and some days you feel like your entire world is crumbling into dust that would bury you under its weight.
Today is one of those days. Today, you feel like you are suffocating—your lungs tight and your body restless, desperately trying to save itself from the all-encompassing despair that threatens to engulf you whole. Breathing in deeply, you tighten your grip on your sandwich and thermos and clamber down the hill to where the bench waits. A thin layer of snow covers its surface, and you dust it off as best you can before taking a seat. Setting your lunch down, you lean back and take another long breath, exhaling it in a whorl of white mist. You take in the view—the skeletal black trees glistening with an icy coat against the periwinkle sky, the glisten of undisturbed snow leading down to the water, the frozen edges of the river stretching cold tendrils over the lazy, blue-green current. A slight chill takes root in your fingertips, and you ward it off by unscrewing your thermos and taking a sip. Hot chocolate and whiskey burn a welcome trail down your throat. Warmth seeps into your belly, and you immediately take another drink.
You're just about to unpack your sandwich when, from behind, you hear the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Instinctively, you glance around, and stop dead when you see Jungkook standing there. He's wearing a new set of clothes bought from Whittakers'—black jeans tucked into tan Timberlands and a thick-knit gray sweater, topped off with what has become his signature red scarf—and for that, you're grateful. You aren't sure you could've stomached seeing him in Yoongi's old things right now. Your heart lurches at the thought, and you quickly take another sip of the spiked hot chocolate, relishing in the sweet, searing rush.
"Hey." Jungkook waves rather awkwardly and takes another step forward before seeming to rethink it and stopping again. "Sorry. I didn't—I mean, I don't mean to disturb you if you want to be alone, or anything. It's just that I saw you walking on my way back to the diner, and I saw this fall out of your pocket." He holds up a woolly, slightly lopsided blue mitten, now dusted lightly with snow. "I guess I probably could've just brought it home, but I didn't know if you'd want it now. Mr. Whittaker mentioned that it's probably going to snow later and that temperatures were going to drop, and I didn't want you to be cold or anything. But… but I can bring it back to the house, or to the diner if you want. I didn't mean to follow you like some kind of weirdo."
He trails off, his expression sheepish and his cheeks tinged with pink. Your heart does another funny, lurching flip in your chest, and you swallow thickly before mustering up your voice. "It's okay, Jungkook. Thank you." You pause, then pat the empty bit of bench beside you. "Do you want to sit?"
Jungkook blinks in surprise, but approaches regardless. "Sure. Thanks." He hands you the wayward mitten as he takes a seat, and you run the pad of your thumb over the soft knit before tucking it safely into your coat pocket with its twin.
Silence descends over you then—one that neither of you are particularly eager to break. Still, you do so first, your voice a murmur that nearly gets lost in the gentle rush of the river. "My late husband gave me these, you know." You pat the pocket with the blue mittens inside. "We'd been dating for nearly a year, and it was our first Christmas together. He'd just taken up knitting as a form of stress relief, and these were one of the first things he made."
Jungkook's eyes widen. You can tell that his brain is whirring, struggling to come up with the right words, and wave him off before the discomfort can compound.
"It's fine—you don't have to say anything. I've heard it all, really. So many people have apologized, or offered their condolences, or tried to comfort me over these past few years." You shrug. "It doesn't change anything. Never does."
There's a beat of silence. Overhead, a lone bird circles in ever-widening loops. The river burbles gently over the stones, worn smooth by the persistent current and time. Then Jungkook speaks, his voice so soft you nearly miss it.
"I can listen." It's his turn to shrug. "If you want to talk about it, that is. I'll be happy to listen. And if you don't, that's okay too. I… I've never lost anyone precious to me, so I don't think I can relate or understand or anything like that. But I can be here, and I can listen, or do anything else you want me to. And if you'd rather I leave right now, just say the word." He nods toward the top of the hill where the gate sits ajar. "I'll run right back to The Milkshake Parlor."
The thought of Jungkook trying to sprint up the snowy, slippery hill makes you snort in spite of yourself. "I think you'd hurt yourself trying."
Jungkook's lips quirk. "Maybe. But I'm pretty good in snow, you know. It's my element."
"Of course." You nod, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth. "How could I forget?"
Silence descends again, but this time, it's broken by a low grumble from your stomach. Exasperated, you glance down, first at the offender, and then at the box where your BLT has probably frozen solid. "Well," you say, prying open the lid, "I suppose I should try and eat this. Do you want some?"
Jungkook shakes his head. "Mrs. Whittaker made me eat a plate of chicken parmesan before I left. Apparently, it's famous?"
"Famous because she buys out the entire cheese aisle at the grocery store every time she makes it." You chuckle wryly. "I hope you got some good cardio in today. That thing's a heart attack waiting to happen."
Jungkook hums. "I helped them carry a bunch of boxes up from the basement this morning. Then we restocked the shelves and swept up the shop. Does that count?"
"You definitely got your steps in," you muse as you bite into your sandwich. "But maybe do some jumping jacks later, just in case."
He smiles. "Can do."
You spend the next few minutes eating your sandwich, washing it down with the hot chocolate that you share with Jungkook by pouring a generous portion into the thermos lid and handing it over. He cups it in both hands and sips at it carefully, and together, you stare out over the peaceful river, lazily winding its way toward a distant, distant sea.
///
Before you know it, Christmas Eve arrives. With it comes an annual tradition—Christmas Eve dinner at The Milkshake Parlor for any and all who want to attend. Jin and Yoongi used to pull out all the stops, and for the past three years, you and Jin have kept the tradition going. Together, you would prepare and cook from morning until six o'clock in the evening when the doors opened. For a flat fee of fifteen dollars—or seven, for children under twelve—diners could come and enjoy a feast, complete with drinks and seasonal, festive cocktails.
With Jungkook's help, this year's preparation had been a breeze. Now, you're in the middle of service, and the diner is packed to the brim with laughing families and friends. Hoseok and Jungkook are running food while you and Jin cook, and things are running so smoothly that you can't help but think that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment.
"You're being paranoid," Jin says when you bring this up to him for the umpteenth time. "Seriously, relax a little. The food's turning out great, and everyone's having a good time. I think we've outdone ourselves this year."
You glance out to the main dining room, where you can see your neighbors at a table by the window—Joyce happily swapping stories with Marco, Blair, and their little daughter, Luisa. At the counter, Officer Waddlesworth and Police Chief Jimin Park are nursing hot toddies. A few seats away, the Whittakers are splitting a bottle of red wine.
An hour passes, then two. Hoseok and Jungkook lay out a grazing table of desserts: cookies, cakes, mini fruit tarts, and a bowl of peppermint bark. You and Jin finally join the townspeople in the dining room, your own plates of dinner in hand. Hoseok hands you an overly full glass of wine, which you gratefully accept.
Slowly, evening turns into night. A few families with young children have already departed, and Marco and Blair are in the middle of trying to convince Luisa to put on her puffy pink coat. "I don't want to go outside," the little girl says, stamping her foot stubbornly as Blair starts pushing open the front door. "It's cold and it smells bad."
Blair frowns. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"
At the same time, Joyce glances out the window, her eyes widening in alarm. "Fire! There's a fire at Whittakers'!"
Chaos erupts. Officer Waddlesworth tries to call for order, but his voice is lost in the hubbub as people mill about frantically. Luisa ditches her puffy coat and disappears into the crowd, and Hoseok is nearly bowled over by a trio of tipsy young twenty-somethings. After several more seconds of confusion, Chief Park finally manages to right an overturned chair and steps onto it, projecting his voice above the din. "SILENCE!"
Everyone stops in their tracks. Chief Park looks to Marco, who is a firefighter by trade and already has his phone at his ear and is talking rapidly into it. "Rest of the department's on their way, sir," he says when he notices that Chief Park is looking at him. "I'll head next door now to assess the situation."
A high, keening voice rises up from the crowd then, and you watch as Mrs. Whittaker pushes her way to the forefront. "Mr. Ginger is still in the store! Someone has to save him!"
Marco leaps into action. He heads for the door, but someone beats him there. The bell jangles and a flash of dark hair disappears outside, and with a start, you realize that it's Jungkook. You cry out, but it comes out as a strangled whimper that's drowned out by Chief Park's shout to stop, wait! Then the police chief is jumping down from his chair and rushing for the door, and Marco is right on his heels, and you find yourself barreling toward the door too, intent on making sure that Jungkook doesn't dive headfirst into some stupid, heroic act.
Freezing air rushes to greet you as soon as you step foot outside. Next door, acrid black smoke is pouring out the front window of Whittakers' General Goods while angry orange flames dance within. A fire truck rounds the corner, sirens blaring, and a small group of firefighters jump out in full gear. Marco is quick to join them, but you don't pay them any mind. Instead, you whip around frantically, glancing from the snow-covered square to the narrow alleyway separating your diner from the shop, hoping in vain to see a sign of Jungkook.
The Whittakers have joined you now, their faces twisted into twin expressions of horror as they watch the flames engulfing their livelihood. The firefighters deploy their hoses and water begins raining down. You blink against the spray blowing back in the wind, and feel the droplets starting to freeze on your cheeks. There's still no sign of Jungkook, and you start forward toward the gaping hole where the front door of the general store used to be. Then, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, and Jin's voice sounds in your ear. "Shh. Jungkook will be fine. He's tough."
At long last, the flames are extinguished. The firefighters head into the building, now damp and blackened with soot, shouting their findings to each other. Chief Park and Officer Waddlesworth are doing their best to set up a barrier, but the fire has drawn an even larger crowd of townspeople beyond the diners at the Christmas Eve dinner, and they're struggling to contain everyone in a safe zone. Seizing your opportunity, you slip away from Jin and the others, making your way to the alley. The windows and doors of the store have all collapsed inward, making entry easy. Furtively, you step inside, scanning the destroyed interior for any sign of Jungkook.
The main floor of the store is filled with aisles of metal shelves, which have blackened and warped in the heat. You wrinkle your nose at the stench—smoke and acrid burnt plastic and an odd smell that you can't quite place until you step on a crinkled, soot-covered bag of Cheetos and release even more of the burnt artificial cheese scent into the air. Coughing, you cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve and continue onward, deeper into the store.
There's no sign of Jungkook amongst the aisles. You check behind the checkout counter and inside the restroom, but he's nowhere to be found. Worry constricts your chest, but you do your best to shake it off as you eye the mangled staircase that once led to the upper floor of the store, which housed the toy section, books, and a small selection of furniture lovingly restored by Mr. Whittaker himself. Your heart aches at the thought of all those things, lost to the fire, but you force it out of your mind and move closer to the stairs. You run a finger along the banister and try to ascend the first step, but it creaks dangerously and you feel the wood splinter and crack underneath your foot.
God, I really hope he isn't up there.
Turning now to the last doorway, you find yourself staring at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, the wooden steps disappearing into the inky depths. These feel much more stable, and you cautiously make your way downward, pulling out your phone and turning on the flashlight as you go. The bright LED light bounces around wildly on the walls and floor, and you realize for the first time how badly your hands are shaking.
After what feels like an eternity, you reach the bottom of the stairs. The smell isn't as bad—smoke tinged with an earthy, loamy scent—and you glance around at the wooden shelves that occupy the majority of the space. The ones nearest you house canned goods and other unperishables, which appear largely unharmed. Just beyond, you see several boxes of toothpaste and other toiletries.
Slowly, you weave your way through the maze of shelves, lighting the way with your phone. The back wall of the basement comes into view, and you sweep your light across its surface, scanning for something—anything that could tell you where Jungkook might be.
"{N-Name}?"
His voice is so soft, you very likely would've missed it had you not been straining your ears. Heart pounding wildly, you whirl around, and at last the flashlight falls upon Jungkook's prone form in the corner. His flannel shirt and red scarf are crumpled on the ground, leaving him in only a black t-shirt, and when you drop to your knees by his side, you find that his entire body is damp with perspiration.
"Jungkook? Jungkook, are you okay?" You dab at his sweaty forehead with your sleeve, scanning him for any injuries and finding none. "Can you stand?"
He coughs weakly but doesn't move. "Probably not, to be honest. I don't feel so good."
You glance around, and your eyes alight on a package of bottled water on a nearby shelf. Ripping one free, you put it to Jungkook's lips. "Here. Drink some."
He obeys as best he can, liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he swallows. Then he coughs again and smiles weakly up at you. "A snowman probably shouldn't run headfirst into a fire, huh?"
"It was pretty idiotic," you agree, trying to make light of it. Wetting your sleeve, you wipe at his forehead again. The air down here is cooler than it had been upstairs, but the residual heat from the fire still makes it uncomfortably warm. You can feel drops of sweat beginning to prick at your temples.
"At least I found Mr. Ginger." Jungkook's voice is softer now, taking on a distant, faraway quality. "Look."
You look. Tucked beneath the flannel shirt and the scarf, you catch a glimpse of fur—alternating patches of black and white and orange. Pulling at the fabric, you find Mr. Ginger curled there, but he isn't alone. An orange cat is huddled there as well, and together, the two cats are doing all they can to shelter a motley collection of tiny kittens.
"He had to protect his family." Jungkook gestures weakly—more of a wiggle of his fingers, really—and you nod furiously, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears.
"Come on," you tell him, tugging at his hand. "Let's finish the job. We can save this family together—get them somewhere safer than here."
Jungkook's smile fades, and a trickle of sweat runs down his neck. "I don't think I can."
"Of course you can." You tug harder, your fingers slipping against his sweat-slicked ones. "Come on, Jungkook. I'm not leaving you here. I can't leave you here. You're—" Your voice cracks. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. And I… I care. I care about you, so, so much. I can't lose you now."
But it's no use. Jungkook's hand falls slack in yours. His eyes flutter shut and his head lolls, and your vision blurs with tears. Then there are arms around you, and you struggle helplessly as they raise you up and drag you away. Vaguely, you're aware of Marco's voice in your ear, but you barely comprehend the words. "It's dangerous in here, {Name}. You really shouldn't be here."
But Jungkook—Mr. Ginger—the kittens! You can't leave them! You try to form the words, but nothing comprehensible comes out. Marco half-ushers, half-carries you out of the basement and back onto the street, depositing you in the back of an ambulance that had arrived at some point and wrapping you in a blanket. Someone presses a cup into your trembling hands, the smell of warm spiced apples wafting up to your nose.
You aren't sure how much time passes between that moment and the next. It could've been hours, or mere seconds, but slowly, you become aware of the sound of people gasping, then crying out in relief. The fog in your brain begins to dissipate, and you glance around for the reason behind the noise.
You see Marco first, exiting the wreckage of the general store with a meowing, writhing bundle. And then, from behind him, comes Jungkook.
He's carrying another writhing bundle, but that barely registers in your mind. All you see is him—his dark hair and sodden t-shirt, damp with sweat. His eyes, warm and brown, and the way his lips curve upward as he whispers something to the bundle in his arms, which you belatedly realize consists of his flannel and red scarf.
Then he looks up and meets your gaze, and you jump to your feet, the cup of hot cider tipping and sloshing onto the ground. Your feet are a little unsteady, but you still manage to reduce the distance between you in a few shaky steps. He closes it the rest of the way, and you soon find yourself gazing up at him, taking in the way the Christmas lights sparkle and dance in his eyes.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you whisper back. "Is… is this real? Am I dreaming?"
"No, you're wide awake," he replies. "At least, I'm pretty sure you are."
You reach out hesitantly, as if to touch his face, but pull back at the last second. "I thought… I thought you'd—"
"I know. I thought so too."
"But you aren't—?"
"Doesn't seem like it."
Jungkook grasps your hand and presses it to his chest. You feel the warmth there—normal, human warmth—and the soft, strong beat of his heart. Had he had a heartbeat before? You aren't sure, but he certainly does now.
A tiny meow interrupts the moment. A little orange head emerges from the bundle in Jungkook's arms, followed by the familiar feline face of Mr. Ginger. The cat looks disheveled, but seems to be otherwise all right. Relieved, you put a hand out for him to sniff, and he inspects it thoroughly before gently bumping your palm with his head. The orange kitten follows suit, sniffing clumsily at your thumb, and you let out a watery laugh.
"Hey, little guy. What's your name?"
"I've been calling him Cornelius," Jungkook says with a grin.
Mrr? says Cornelius, and you both laugh.
Footsteps sound from behind you, followed by a clearing throat. You turn to find Officer Waddlesworth standing there, his notebook and pen at the ready. "I knew you were trouble, young man," he says to Jungkook, wagging the pen at him. "I ought to have you arrested for trespassing—and for interfering with official fire department business. Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"
Marco, who'd been introducing the Whittakers to the rest of Mr. Ginger's family, sidles over then. "Come on, Willy, all's well that ends well. No one got hurt."
"And we have excellent insurance," Mrs. Whittaker adds. "Things will be fine. It'll just take some time to repair the building, and I'm sure dear Jungkook here will be a great asset on that front. And we'll never be using space heaters again, thank you very much."
Officer Waddlesworth looks like he wants to press the issue, but Chief Park chooses that moment to intervene. "Relax, Officer. It's Christmas Eve, after all."
"Actually, I think it's Christmas now," Marco points out, just as the church bell begins to chime. One, two, three…
"Well, then, I stand corrected," Chief Park says with a grin. "Merry Christmas, everyone."
Choruses of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays ring out from the surrounding townspeople. Heads poke out of the neighboring buildings, having been woken up by all the commotion, and shout their own holiday greetings down. All around the town square, the lights twinkle cheerily, reflecting off the glistening white snow. All the creations from the Snowtime Spectacular stand proud, glittering in the luminescence of the lights and the silvery moon overhead. Distantly, the church bell continues to ring. Seven, eight, nine…
But you only have eyes for Jungkook, who is smiling at you like you're the only thing in the world. "Merry Christmas, Jungkook," you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead against his.
Jungkook's smile widens as he reaches up to brush his fingertips across your cheek. "Merry Christmas, {Name}."
The church bell rings out its last—ten, eleven, twelve—and everyone bursts into cheers. And in the midst of it all, you and Jungkook share your first kiss, his lips warm against yours as fresh, fat snowflakes begin to fall.
EVERYTHING IS GREY: NOW HE'S SO DEVOID OF COLOR (HE DON'T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS)
୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: unexpectedly, you make his heart beat. unexpectedly, he misses you more than he’d ever imagine. unexpectedly, the former demon prodigy of the port mafia has fallen in love with you.
✶⋆.˚ wc: 6.9k words; pairings: osamu dazai x fem!reader
Everything was grey.
“I will have you without armor, Osamu Dazai. Without armor, or I will not have you at all.”
A heart is indeed, truly, a heavy burden. To Osamu Dazai, a heart was nothing. In his chest, in place of it, is a hole as black and as empty as the void. It never healed.
It’s been three days.
He’d shed his old life and persona behind, but sometimes in the midst of the tension, he feels the old him slipping out, peeking through the cracks.
It’s been three days without you.
He couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t. How could he, when you looked and treated him like a true friend, cared for him just like Odasaku, and made him feel human, if only for a little bit?
Three days without your presence grounding him at work, at taking care of paperwork, even laughing and entertaining him with his terrible, terrible jokes. Three lonely days without you.
It seemed like an eternity to him, really.
How could he love you when he couldn’t even provide such a comfort to himself?
He missed you more than he’ll ever utter out loud. He’d debated going to your apartment himself, probably by ditching work as soon as he gets the chance, but he never went through with his plan. Not that he enjoyed working or anything, god no, but that would be a miracle, wouldn’t it? No, he never got to do it, because Kunikida had all but slammed a new pile of paperworks on his desk and told him to finish by noon.
He hates his work sometimes, did you know that? Who was he kidding, of course you did; you were there to listen to him, something he finds incredibly vulnerable for him to do. But you’d listened, patiently, watching and nodding along when it seemed right.
You’d listened. That’s the fact he grips onto, the fact that prods at his brain. You had listened when his world seemed to shift from underneath him, when he felt as though the earth desired to swallow him whole as penance for the sins he's committed before. When the skin covered by his bandages itched to be rid of the plaster covering them, when he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the dark shadows that he can never seem to evade no matter how hard he tried to stay in the light.
You'd touched him, too, touched him so gently, treated him like he was equal. Like he hadn't committed all those crimes, those wrongs that clung to him stubbornly like dirt. No matter how much he scrubbed away at his skin until the flesh was red and raw, it remained persistently dirty. He couldn’t rid himself of the unclean skin, couldn’t expose the fresh layer of cells under it, clean and pure and untainted. He could still see the blood coating his hands, his fingers. he could still imagine himself in the throes of the mafia, blood and gore and unending darkness surrounding his vision. The shadows follow him.
Where did you go, Osamu?
You let him talk. You never said a word unless you thought it was appropriate to speak, unless you thought that he was starting to spiral, to float away from reality, unless you felt like you needed to ground him and prevent from being swept in the harsh waves of his thoughts, crashing down on him.
"I like you a lot."
He shakes his head. The pile of papers seemed to be mocking him, looming over his figure, a reminder of the empty seat beside him, which was usually occupied by you. Unfortunately, due to circumstances, you had been given a case that ended up taking more time than anticipated. For you, it was also a chance to breathe, to be free from work, free from him. A chance to collect your thoughts. To Dazai, however, it felt like a curse, a mockery. He knew you were skilled enough to finish quickly, it just irritates him to not hear anything from your end at all, but he supposes that he should’ve seen this coming.
Outside, a bleak and dreary Yokohama sky seemed to sympathize with him, as if it was synced to his emotions. The darkening clouds along with the grey sky showed signs of impending rain, much like his worsening mood and the fact that his brain was not doing him any favors at all.
Dazai hated stormy days. Hated how the raindrops felt on his face, his skin, his coat, a reminder of what he lost all those years before with just a single pull of a trigger. It all ended when the rain started. The end of a beginning and a beginning of an end, how he, quiet and observant and calculated, couldn’t prevent the outcome no matter how much he tried, and how a part of him permanently changed. For the better, or for worse, he doesn’t want to think about it. It hurts too much.
“I like you, I can't help it."
Why does he have your voice playing in his head all the time whenever you're not around? It plagues him more than anything.
You only like the version I show, he thinks, his gaze unfocused. the stack of papers seemed to blend with the agency’s walls, the noises seemed to quiet down, the lights dimmed. the world seemed to blur. Everything seemed to blur.
"You don't have to say anything, really."
You only like the mask I present; you don’t know how tainted I am underneath it all. You don’t know how much blood has coated my hands; how dark I am inside. You don’t know the monster behind the man.
His throat was dry then. he couldn't find the words. He can't find them, even until now. Silver tongue, serpentine; all of it was useless, rendered him a stammering mess in front of the person he allowed himself to be vulnerable with.
"It's okay. Just... stop playing with my heart if you don't feel the same. flirt all you want, just leave me out of your games. I'm not just another heart for you to collect. I refuse." you'd murmured quietly, giving him a small, sad smile.
You looked breathtaking underneath the muted, yellowed lights, tipsy as you were. You looked so ethereal, so pure, so untainted, unlike him. you don’t know, and it’s better if you don’t know, that way you won’t have to realize that the man you’ve been talking to, one of the agency’s smartest detectives, is just as filthy and impure as the dirt on your shoes.
"See you at work, Osamu."
To his credit, he did try to say something, anything, to salvage the situation, to prevent you from smiling at him so sadly like you could see past his mask and into his soul, or perhaps you could see the hole in his chest that never seemed to heal, even after all these years of being—staying—in the light.
"Don't make me like you more than I already do."
You're like a ghost, he thinks, a figure who won't let him rest, who haunts him at every end, every second, every decision he makes. You haunt his narrative to the point he goes to sleep with the sound of your voice replaying and echoing in his head and the thought of your smile is the first thing on his mind as he wakes with the glorious Yokohama sunrise.
See you at work, he thinks bitterly. Now he sits in his chair and gazed forlornly at the impending reminder that Kunikida will have his ass if he doesn’t finish by the time the clock strikes the hour that Ranpo decides (rather early) is lunchtime for them.
Someone’s phone rang, once, twice, before it was answered by one of his co-workers. It turned out it was Kunikida’s phone after all, and he checked the caller id before greeting whoever it was on the other end.
“(Name).”
Atsushi could only glance back at his mentor, but decided to keep his mouth shut and turn back to his duties. Whatever plagued Dazai was not enough of a reason for Atsushi to meddle into, but it wouldn’t take a genius detective like Ranpo to deduce that the former demon prodigy’s worsening mood was caused by the absence of you. He didn’t know what happened between you two, but he could take a guess and say that whatever happened during one of your recent drinking nights was the root of this.
He stayed quiet.
Dazai’s mind was anything but quiet. His thoughts were too loud. A chorus of voices whisper words to him, words he already knows by heart, because when you’re as lost and as broken as he was— is? —you learn that the voices in your head are never truly silent, will never be silent. And without someone to anchor him back to reality, back to the present, his thoughts tend to spiral and leave behind a shell of the man he pretends to be to dissuade the worries of his co-workers.
Distantly, he could hear Kunikida and you talking, though the words were muffled and he couldn’t care less what your topic was. He just needed to know that you were home and safe and—
“Alright. You are at home now? Any troubles? I see. See you tomorrow, I expect the written report to be done by lunch tomorrow. Yes, rest well.”
—you… weren’t coming to the office today. Figures, with this kind of miserable weather, he would rather stay home, too.
He only shifted his gaze to his desk again.
You’d know he was pretending to be fine, because of course you would. Of course it would be a part of you that he’d grown to tolerate, to adore, the way you worried over the other members of the agency as if they were your family. You’d know when he would be somewhere far, away from the present, and you’d coax him back. You played this game with him so well, and he finds himself yearning for more than just casual interactions, more than just drinking nights.
Where were you? You’d whisper, worried, your tone low and quiet, as if your words were scandalous and you meant it for a lover’s ears only. Dazai strangely wishes it were him. You seemed to be somewhere else, Osamu. Where did you go?
You knew, and he can’t seem to find it in himself to hate you for it, but the question is: will you still love him when he lets everything go, rids himself of the mask, of the role he forces himself to play for your sake, and show you all the darkness that lurks within? When you find out about his extensive list of crimes and felonies he has committed in a previous life, will you still hold him as tenderly as you do? Will you still like him, will you strike up a conversation with him, if you knew everything?
Where were you? Where did you go?
He already has an answer even before he finishes the questions. You won’t, plain and simple.
Somewhere under all of this, his heart beats. It is not as empty as he thinks it is.
So why, even after all those reasons and doubts and the innate fear that clouds his mind, why does it feel like he’s making a mistake by allowing you to slip through his fingers like sand? Why does it sting when he can’t have you near, such as now? Why is a voice in his head insisting that he could still make things right, even after everything that’s transpired? Why does it feel natural to have you, even if the both of you knew you can’t have the other?
You are the morning sun, bright and hopeful and so, so warm. You radiate positivity so contagious that even the agency president finds himself smiling a little when you’re near. You are everything that Dazai sullenly berates himself for, because he knows he’s nothing like that, nothing like what he thinks you deserve. Compared to you, the sun and all that his thoughts revolve around, he is dusk. He is dusk and nightfall, where the light dwindles into nothingness, where hope wanes and where darkness is rampant. Nightfall, an evening without even the pale light of the moon to shine, where monsters come out from the shadows to prowl the streets and fill it with despair. To him, you were beyond reach, light years away from his outstretched arms.
You were too sweet for him, as sweet as ripened grapes that grew on their vines, creeping along the trellis. He was as dark as a lake, while you were as bright as the sun, as daylight. You were as beautiful as a flower, petals falling and swaying with the summer breeze. He could keep comparing you to everything, and his list would never run short. He could keep finding similarities between you and every little thing in the world that reminded him of you.
No matter how the sun and moon try to find harmony and balance, they can never shine at the same time. No matter how Dazai yearns to chase after you, he knows he cannot have you as the night cannot have the morning, as the moon cannot have the sun. If he lets himself have you, he knows that the darkness within him will swallow you, and he might as well have killed your hope in life. If he lets himself, if he chases after you, he knows he’s dooming another innocent soul. He doesn’t want that, so he reverts back to tactics he knows will work instead.
He pushes the thought of you away.
He would rather spiral alone than ever confide truly into another, for what if that being is ripped away from him too, taken, as a price, a means to punish him for his sins? To remind him that nothing will ever get better permanently, but at least things will stop getting worse. He couldn’t do that to you, no matter how much it felt like it was going to burst. He’d rather destruct on his own than let you see him in such a state. You weren’t supposed to see him like this; you’re never supposed to see him like this.
But it aches, it aches so bad that it throbs.
It was drizzling outside by the time he finished his work (at the constant nagging of Kunikida, of course) and all Dazai wanted to do by then was go home, but then as the thought struck him, there would be no home to go to, figuratively. Sure, the apartment he lived in was still there, filled with the same empty bottles of sake he never bothered to clean up, with messy bedsheets and the somber mood never seemed to go away whenever he stepped foot inside. It was a reminder of what he could not show to you.
There would be no more tutor sessions about the god-forsaken common language with you, too, not when everything seemed to be in shambles. Why English? He doesn’t know, but he knows that when you offered, with that sweet smile on your lips, all his thoughts flew and he could only nod, his silver tongue powerless against your bright, hopeful smile. The way you gazed at him with your eyes, the prettiest shade to ever exists, he thinks, it makes him weak.
You put Aphrodite to shame if he’s being honest.
“Transitive verbs include the receiver in the action of the sentence, they make a sentence seem complete, ‘Samu. I know English has numerous rules, but once you manage to get past these tricky ones, it’ll all be smooth sailing after.”
It had been fun then, sunlight streaming through your apartment windows, hushed giggles and teasing laughter, all accompanied by your soft voice as you taught him a part of the intricacies of the English language. It had been fun then, teasing you, watching your cheeks flush as you tried to form a coherent thought despite his gaze on yours, never leaving your figure.
“Look is both intransitive and transitive. You looked; you can look. He looked at the sky, he looked up from the book he was reading.”
He thinks looking at you didn’t need a label. He didn’t need to classify whether the verb look was intransitive or transitive or both. He just wanted to look at you like an artist looks at their muse, to gaze at you longingly like one looks at the stars and see the constellations twinkling, to yearn to hold them and offer them to a lover as a gift. Forego the rules and the regulations. He needs you, more than he’ll ever let himself say out loud.
He worries about you, you know. He worries when you don’t come back to the office, even if he expected it. He worries all the way up until it was closing time and everyone was packing up to leave, but dazai didn’t need to pack up anything. He didn’t need an excuse to stay behind, he had no one to help carry their bags home, anyway, nor did he have someone to walk home with. He didn’t have you, and it dawned on him quite late that this really was reality, that his hazy brain didn’t just conjure up thoughts of your absence. He needed you.
Did he love you?
The thought struck him, the same question that plagued him along with the soft echoes of your voice, a siren’s song in his mind. Did he love you? If he didn’t, why was his heart beating at the mere thought of you, and why did it ache when he couldn’t see you?
By the time he got out, the grey Yokohama sky had darkened even more, and the soft pitter-patter of raindrops on the office’s windowpanes earlier had thickened, prompting the brunet to open his umbrella if he wanted to get home without being soaked with a bone-chilling cold.
But the detective didn’t follow the path to his home, instead his legs led him the other way, towards a path he follows when he feels especially conflicted that his brain could not file his thoughts in order despite the moniker demon prodigy engraved in his very being. He follows the path that leads to a companion, gone but never forgotten. It’s only when his tired, brown eyes gazed at the familiar gravestone that he allowed himself to breathe.
S. Oda
“Hello, old friend,” he chuckled quietly, sitting down on the damp grass. He could imagine the deadpan gaze that the older man would be giving him now. “It’s been a while.”
Dazai couldn’t recall the exact scenario where he was convinced that he fell for you. Was it the snacks you bought him, the way you brewed his coffee from the office’s coffee machine after hearing he needed a cup of it so he wouldn’t have to stand up, the way you looked effortlessly pretty under the office lights, or was it the fact that despite everything he thinks he was, despite the rumors that surrounded him of him being so horrendous, he had felt something for you?
He sighs as he recounts the memories leading up to your tipsy confession. It had been, as was your routine, a drinking night together. There was no particular reason why he’d invited you out, but your drinking nights didn’t need a reason. It was comprised entirely by the two of you just going out to drink your problems away, celebrate a success, or just hanging out together.
Apparently, that night would also replay in his mind like a broken record following the days after your hasty exit at his loss for words. He recounts them all, tells them to the stone he sat with his back turned to, umbrella over him as he looks up at the raindrops sliding down the clear material.
“She haunts me,” the brunet muttered, playing with the drop of rain that dampened his fingertips. “Haunts me like a specter. She confuses me, too… how can I yearn for her when she is the sun and I am dusk?”
He thinks the older man would sigh, muttering something about him waxing poetry in the middle of rearranging his thoughts. He continues, undeterred. Dazai has always been undeterred.
He glances up at the gradually darkening sky, paying no mind to the continuous drops of rain with his mind somewhere else. “but you know what’s hilarious? The fact that when I see them with someone else, it sets me on fire, something in me despises seeing another person talk to her, make her laugh like I do. Don’t call me possessive when I know my tendencies may say otherwise… I don’t know what to call this situation, but I know I can’t call her mine…”
And it’s delicate, but he’ll do his best to seem bulletproof.
“When my head is on her shoulder, it starts thinking she’ll come around, but the funny thing is that this was what got me into this situation in the first place,” he says, exasperated. “It was a tipsy confession that led me here, Odasaku. And you’re probably wondering why the hell I’m here instead of there, but it seems right to tell you first."
The brunet lets out a sigh.
"Is it idiotic of me to come here instead of facing her head on? Maybe...” he trails off, unsure. “Am I afraid once I held her close, I'll be the reason her light dims?”
The gravestone offered no reply.
“...yes... I am." He says after a pause, resigned to his fate. “It feels as though I’m subjecting her to my miserable life.”
Was your life as miserable as when you were together, though?
He straightens up, his eyes widening just a little at the question. His mind had devised that, but he didn’t hear his own voices asking it. He heard the echo of an old friend’s.
He needed to think. He needed to file his thoughts in order, organize them in such a way that would allow him to respond to his internal conflict without the need to take yet another detour to drown his problems in alcohol. He could not allow it for tonight, the rain seemed endless and persistent in its passion to paint the world grey, and Dazai hated being out in the cold any longer than he actually has to.
He preferred warm, sunny days over stormy skies. He preferred walking underneath a cloudless sky, picturesque and clean, as if the artist who painted the sky was possessed by the spirits to create a perfect backdrop. He much adored spending his time in those days instead, preferably walking side-by-side with you, like a scenario taken directly from the pages of those romance books you kept on your shelves. He would imagine himself as one of those characters vying for the attention of the female lead, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t desire to win.
He loves the sun.
You are the sun.
He desired to feel the warmth on his skin, watch the golden rays paint specks of light on his figure. He wants to stay in the light. He promised to stay in the light.
You are golden and warm, like...
He wanted nothing more than to bask under the daylight, warmth enveloping him.
Daylight.
He saw daylight with you. He found daylight with you. He wants to bask in your warmth forever. So really, what was he so torn over?
The fog in his life that shrouded him much like a weeping widow’s mourning veil seemed to disappear when your daylight seeped through the cracks of his persona. Try as he might to deny his endless yearning for you, you found a way, you marked yourself in his life like a landmark on a map that he could never tire of exploring.
What is stopping him from basking in the warm rays of the sun?
What is stopping him from loving the sun? What was stopping him from loving you?
Is it philosophy? Is it guilt? What exactly was holding him back?
What is love, really? What does the very word mean?
What do you think it means, kid?
Daylight.
To him, love means daylight, to be able to bask in you and you alone, without worrying about the shadows that nip at his heels, the shadows that shroud him in darkness like a horde of ghosts waiting for him on the other side of the veil.
Can you let your heart lead?
Youngest Port Mafia executive. The other half of Double Black. Demon Prodigy. Emotionless. Inhuman. Heartless, heartless, heartless.
No. He shakes his head. This he knows: he has a heart.
It beats for you.
It beats with the thought of you, of your laughter etched in his memory, of your touch on his skin, a ghostly action that sends shivers down his spine. He has a heart, and it beats. Daylight shone through the dark shadows to reveal his heart, veiled by darkness in the void in his chest.
It was not as empty as he thought it was.
He could imagine the stare that Oda would be giving him, a question lingering in his gaze, silent in watching the younger brunet hurriedly stand up, paying no mind to the fact that he dropped his umbrella in his pursuit to stand up quickly. His mind had finally ordered his thoughts and at the forefront of it all was the thought of getting to you now, even if he had to brave the downpour of the rain.
Dazai hated stormy days, but if such inclement weather meant this was his only chance of rushing over to reach your apartment and tell you what he wishes you would listen to, then so be it. In the end, the rain was just rain.
And you were more than the rain.
“Goodbye, old friend. You were helpful as always,” he said quietly. His footsteps squelched with mud as he exited the cemetery, but he hardly heard it over his frantic running, his mind set on giving you an answer. He hopes you would listen as you always did with him.
His clear umbrella lay long-forgotten beside the gravestone.
The rain seemed endless.
On any other day, you would have been thrilled about the weather as it allowed you to read well into the night under the cozy glow of your lamp as you burrow yourself deeper in your blanket fort, but right now the rain just seemed to mirror how you felt internally.
You didn’t know what to expect, you’d predicted at least four possible scenarios after you would tell him of your feelings, and him being rendered speechless was one of them, but still, you didn’t expect for it to sting so much, as if your heart was slowly breaking into pieces yet again after your head replayed the same exact scenario like a broken record player.
God, why did you have to fall for such a man like him? Why couldn’t be anyone else? Why did it have to be him?
He pretends that he’s fine, but you knew better. You could see the way his eyes dim, or the way he forced out a smile to dissuade the others and fool them into thinking he was alright. He had never let his walls down, always guarded and secured, as if he was afraid to let his defenses down and show his vulnerability. In a morass of complications and blurred lines between you and him, you’ve developed feelings for the man you knew was too far out from your reach, but of course, relentless as you were, you clung onto the threads of fate that bound you two together like a tapestry neither of you noticed you were engrossed in.
Your cheeks flushed with the thought of the way his devious grin had made your stomach fill with butterflies fluttering about, his eyes shining with mischief as he placed his pointer finger against his lips, silently asking you to stay quiet while he moved closer to Kunikida to play a prank on the latter. You decidedly turned away and pretended not to notice the way his smile curved up just a little when you allowed him to proceed with his plans.
But then you blinked, and the warm memories all filled with him that you’ve recounted in favor of sleeping disappeared. Sleep evaded you tonight, and try as you might, squeezing your eyes shut and tossing and turning in your bed for hours was not a good way to get some rest.
You thought you were okay, honestly. You’d just given the object of your one-sided affection your thoughts about him, and then immediately after you were dispatched to take care of a mission that was easier than expected, but you’d used up the allotted days regardless. It was easy, to pretend you were unaffected, even if your mind kept telling you that you’ll never be able to rest until you’d gotten the closure you desperately wished he’d give you. You thought you were okay, but the sinking feeling of your carefully built friendship with the detective slipping through your fingers like sand creeped in slowly, much like vines latching onto walls toward the sunlight. Whatever happens next, you were going to try and keep it together. You were in too deep to resurface now.
Besides, even if you haven’t gotten an answer, it wasn’t enough to make you resent him, because that’s how he is, he was infuriatingly impossible to hate. He was just like that, you supposed, deceptive and enigmatic, and yet you kept holding on anyway. In the end, he finally allowed himself to be vulnerable with you, and you knew it had taken him quite a while before you could even dare to peek through the cracks of his masque. If you voiced your thoughts out loud, you were sure that just the mere whisper of his description is enough for him to materialize in your room. That, you thought with horror, was the biggest sign that you weren’t just curious about him as you’ve told yourself, you had unknowingly let him consume your very being.
Unbeknownst to you, he was worse. You could dispel him from your thoughts and go about your day, but Osamu couldn’t evict you from his thoughts even if he tried.
You haunted him like a specter and he didn’t want you to leave.
The rain was worsening outside, and any poor, unfortunate souls left stranded in the streets would be drenched wet by now. You felt lucky enough to stay inside the modest, cozy apartment you paid for, even if you were restless and unable to sleep a wink.
You almost didn’t hear the knock on the door.
By the time he reached your apartment, water was trickling down his face, but he paid it no mind, not even the light puddles he left behind in his wake as he took the steps two at a time.
No more hiding, no more concealing, no more lying. He wants you; he needs you. You’ve taken his heart and held it in your hands and you didn’t even know. Even if the sun and moon can’t be together, then to hell with waxing poetry and comparing you to them. This is reality, and the only reality that he has now is the chance to talk to you, and perhaps for the first time since that fateful rainy day years ago, he prays that everything would align for him.
He’ll love you in a way he knows how, and if he has to be true to you entirely, then so be it.
“Osamu?”
Oh, he’s never been happier to hear your voice, even if you looked like you had seen better days.
He smiled slightly, ignoring the way your eyes widened at the state of his figure, drenched and dripping wet. “Hey, can I come in?” he asks instead.
For one horrible, cold moment, he expected you to scoff, to reject his question and slam the door in his face entirely. His mind conjured up the many possible scenarios that this conversation would lead to, but none of them included the way you smiled, and it occurred to him that this was the grin he had fallen for, all sweetness and no trace of malice at all. You were untouched by the violence and all things that were kept hidden in the dark, and he thanked the stars that you met him in this lifetime, and not the one where he wore nothing but black.
“You look like you’ve been through shit,” you joke, a teasing lilt in your voice despite how tired your tone betrayed you to be.
He grins. “Such an astute observation, bella,” he replied.
You roll your eyes at the petname, and Dazai was glad that whatever happened didn’t affect you. You were still playful as ever.
You opened your door wider, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on,” you sigh, “you’ll catch a cold if you stay out a minute longer. What were you thinking, running in the rain?”
And there it is, that sliver of concern you tried to hide behind a sigh. You were never good at disguising your worry, especially not when it comes to him.
Dazai oddly felt warm amidst the cold as he stepped into the familiar walls of your apartment, tracking water with each step. You hovered around him like a worried mother, bringing him a towel so he could dry his hair as you took care of his coat and began rummaging around for spare clothes that he could change in. He watched you through it all, and in another universe where he wasn’t dripping wet, he could perhaps prod and tease you, but not in this one. Not yet, at least.
He cleared his throat, calling out your name. as always, you turned to him, waiting patiently for whatever he had to say to you.
Why did he feel so nervous?
You gazed at him, giving him a quizzical look as you tilt your head to the side in curiosity. “What?”
His mouth felt dry, and his tongue felt heavy, made with lead. Why couldn’t he get the words out? Why was he freezing again? Was he going to lose you, too? Was he doomed to spend his days stuck in his head, stuck in the moment where he lost it all because any capacity left for speech abandoned him?
But you reached out and cupped his face tenderly, breaking him away from his thoughts. Ah, you’d done it again. You’d come and observed him and steered him away from the deep end of his mind.
“What is it, Osamu?” you whisper. Up close, he could see the way your brows furrow with worry, the way your eyes focused intensely on him. Such a pretty shade, he thinks, his eyes roaming over your face. He could see the galaxy in them, and like the stars, they were endless pools of the prettiest colors and it all fit you.
“You astound me,” he declares quietly. His hand reached up to brush away the stray hairs that fell in front of your eyes. “You consume my very being. Frankly speaking, you astonish me, bella. Why are you like this?”
You open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off.
“It’s unfair,” he continued, “you are unjust. You fill my thoughts completely, and I can’t dispel you from my mind. You are a being of immense capabilities and one of them is consuming my entire soul.”
“I don’t know what you mean—” you began, but again, he silenced you. He reached out, arms snaking around your waist to pull you in, your head nearly colliding with his chest before one of his hands tilted your chin up so you looked at him.
He looked so serious, as if his joking demeanor had been replaced with something else, something far more solemn.
“Between the time when the flowers bloom and scatter, scars heal and buds emerge,” he murmurs, thumbing your cheeks gently. “We all live for this moment, the first and the last moment where we feel safe, and I feel that every time I am with you.” He said simply.
He continues, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched with his explanation, though he still didn’t give you an answer to your confession. Nonetheless, you let him continue, because you always kept your promise: you’d always listen to him, no matter what.
And he was thankful for that.
And then he smiles, so achingly sweet and shy and so, so vulnerably open that you feel your entire being reaching out to him akin to that one painting from the Renaissance. He’s letting down his walls, he’s letting you in. You could practically feel the way his heart thumped against his ribcage, begging to be set free.
“That’s why,” he said softly, “That’s why, I won’t take you for granted, because amidst everything, you chose to love someone like me.”
“Osamu,” you whispered again. “Are you…?”
He smiled again, his eyes softening. “I’ve often wondered what the point is in living, you know? Because what is the point in living through life, wandering like a lost soul? Isn’t the idea of what there is beyond life enticing?”
You could only stare at him, wondering what his point was.
“I’ve lived through my life for the moment where books and movies and poetry describe as the click, the one moment where everything makes sense, and I never seemed to experience that. I thought, well perhaps I was just… fated not to have that moment, ever. But the moment I met you, I knew everything had meaning. The future that was once hazy turned vivid because of you. You are daylight, bella. You brought daylight into my life, and I…” he trails off. “And seeing you leave the bar with such a sad smile on your lips made me realize that I don’t ever want you to walk out of my life. Call me selfish, but I won’t let you. You’ve consumed my entire being.”
By this time, you felt your heart flutter at his words, and in another life, you might have never gotten an answer at all, but this is reality, and this reality is the only one that matters. This reality is the one where Osamu Dazai lets down his walls and allows you to see him as he truly is. There is no more hiding.
“Someday, surely, you’ll be in my heart,” he breathed. “Is it bad to wish for that day to be today? You’ve made me realize something, bella.”
“What is it?” you asked, voice no louder than a whisper, as if you were afraid of breaking the fragile moment between you two.
Oh, the way his smile curved up and the way his lips parted to say his next words was indescribable, and yet, you were rendered silenced, in awe of the man before you who ran through the rain just to get to you, the man who carried your bag home from work like you were high-school sweethearts, the man you were pining over for weeks.
“You made me realize that I want to be someone’s everything,” he expressed, bringing you closer to him. “I want to be your everything. If you’ll have me, bella, I want to be yours, just as you’ve professed that you’re mine. And if my confession is too late, I am so, so sorry, but as you’ve said, my mind isn’t the kindest.”
“Oh, Osamu,” you breathed, “You will never be too late. It’s still you.”
He smiled softly. “Is this the part in your novels where the guy kisses the girl?”
You giggle. Of course, he’d remember that specific part of your romance novels. It’s a wonder he’s reached that far when he complains of the slow burn in those pages. But now, it’s becoming increasingly clear that he could not longer keep his thoughts off of kissing you, if the way his eyes darted down to your lips said anything.
“Yes, Osamu. It’s this part,” you giggled, watching the way he grins deviously, bending down to press his lips tenderly against yours. The dripping rainwater that wasn’t toweled off slid down his nose and onto your skin, but neither of you paid any attention to it. Why would you, when the love of your life is kissing you?
It was the sweetest thing you’ve ever experienced in your entire life.
Eventually, you broke away, breathing heavily. Despite your gasps for air, the fact remained that Osamu Dazai had just kissed you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to do it again.
But the bastard, as if he possessed the gift of reading minds, only grins again, leaning down once more to whisper in your ear.
“One more time?” he whispered breathily.
Wordlessly, you tilt your head up again to capture his lips in a kiss, your soft laughs silenced by the affectionate gesture. It all felt so natural, the way your bodies fit together like a puzzle, the way he embraces you close and oh, the way your lips felt so soft. Dazai could never get enough of it.
The world wasn’t grey anymore.
bonus:
Y/N: Did you try to pull a Mr. Darcy, Osamu?
Dazai: ...Um... No-
Y/N, teasing him: My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love—I love—I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on. I—
Dazai, muttering: I love you, most ardently. But, bella no, I'm not Mr. Darcy.
Y/N, cheekily: But you could be my Mr. Darcy~
Dazai, sighing: You're so silly, bella.
author's note: anddd that's it !! i hope you guys liked reading colors !! this was my first time writing angst/comfort sooo please be gentle with me QwQ
oh !! if anyone can guess that one renaissance painting reference i put in the story, you'll get a kissu (platonically) from me and the biggest hug i can offer !!
until next time !! fun fact, this story is just one side of the coin, you'll see the other side soon ~~ mwah !!
The house now desolate and messy, you decided to finally emerge from the bedroom you found yourself hiding in for most of the party.
You would have gone home, if not for the fact that you said you would stay with him to help tidy the mess the guests made after they got lost into the night.
There were cups pretty much everywhere, you swore you didn’t see that many people when you did your rounds before giving up socialising for the night.
The bottles were all empty, thankfully none smashed and there was just a general disarray which is to be expected after such an intense night.
In your dazed state from exhaustion, you helplessly picked up the bottles and cups and started to tidy more. You weren’t the type to leave the house messy, you certainly never liked people dealing with things on their own.
You continued with your task, finishing off picking up the cups from the floor when you felt a presence behind you.
There’s usually some people who didn’t find their way home, you just suspected that it was another one of your drunken friends who had woken up from their pass out.
You thought nothing of it, you just carried on with your mind list of chores.
“Hey,” a deep voice said, sounding tired and defeated. Almost angry even?
You knew who it was just from the voice alone, tones you were all too familiar with at these parties. And a man who was also all too familiar with you.
“Oh, hey!” You replied, not wanting to sound off putting since you assumed he was angry for whatever reason.
“I uh- just wanted to talk,” a long sigh left his lips as you turned around to finally face him and potentially get into something.
“Niki look i know trust me, is it something about how i hid away all of the time? If so please put me in my place and show me how to enjoy the presence of all these guys practically vandalising your house,” assuming the least but most obvious answer.
He looked great, his figure complemented in black and his bleach blonde hair messily falling in-front of his face. Thats it, a mess. But a tempting mess.
“Listen, just because you don’t enjoy parties doesn’t mean you can hide away the whole time. I want to see you, i want to talk”.
You already knew this was lies, so you confronted him with his truth.
“You want to show me off don’t you,” you said completely abandoning the tasks you set for yourself to focus on the way he reacted to you.
His mouth stayed shut, he just breathed out heavily. Signifying that he was already done with your attitude.
“Well is it the truth because it seems like this is the only reason you invite me to come over?”
He didn’t verbalise a reply, just turned around and guided you down the hallway with a beckoning.
You instinctively stayed still, not having been near him in a while; you didnt like how bad he seemed to be at communicating with you now.
“What?,” you asked, remaining stationary.
He shot you a look as if you were joking with him, his eyes rolling.
“Come on, come and explain yourself. Why do you think i want to show you off? Why would you think i want to do that..?,” he trailed off into a rhetoric. He seemed personally bothered by the fact that you were confident enough to think that highly about yourself without him praising you for it and telling you that himself.
But maybe thats where he was coming from.
“Come and show me why I might want to show off a pretty girl like you”.
The rest of the house was pretty tidy, assuming someone had cleaned it up or the drunken crowd couldn’t work out how to use the stairs.
The room that you knew as Nikis even cleaner. He was the host after all, you always knew him as a clean type even though his actions didn’t really prove that.
Especially not in this moment.
But the bed was layed perfectly, a dim orange lamp illuminating the room and his playlist on in the background for some ambience.
You were living for the moment, even though you thought there was no way anything could possibly happen between you two, not again.
You hadn’t had sex since the last time you were all too willing to reciprocate Nikis advances, you had learnt your lesson by now on how he displays his ‘need’.
A hand around the waist, a whisper in the ear. He was casual but polite about it, enough to make you melt into his actions.
And you hadn’t kept your distance from him exactly either. You both wouldn’t make things official, work getting in the way. But it was obvious some feelings were forming, the world always bringing you together even if you didn’t plan it.
Bumping into each other at the store, being at the same random restaurant at the same time or even when you went on a trip to Tokyo with your friends, you still saw him.
You shrugged it off, but your superstitions were too strong to play it off as coincidence.
And because you knew his advances, you thought he was just taking you into his room to have a private conversation incase anyone somehow found themselves back at the house or even still being inside it.
How silly. You had forgotten what he even said to you in your dozing.
He welcomed you to sit down on his bed, you made yourself comfortable and ran your fingers through your hair for something to do to alleviate the awkwardness you felt.
He didn’t sit next to you, instead choosing the chair at his desk.
“I miss you,” he said, convincingly.
“What do you mean miss me? I’ve been right here,” you just wouldn’t budge your attitude, not to be messy and sassy but rather to provoke him.
You didn’t want to start anything, but it was fun seeing him a little impatient.
He again rolled his eyes,
“You and your attitude huh?”
You cracked a smile, you knew it wasn’t a bother when you both giggled.
“What about it? You missed my attention didn’t you,” you pressed.
“Huh i guess i did, i miss your attention. You seem a little off, is everything okay?” He turned his head to the side like a puppy.
“No I’m fine, just thinking thats all”.
Thinking? Thinking? That was certainly true, but not for an answer. More about what you wanted to happen. But there was no way right? He’s so nonchalant about it. You shook it off.
He let out what you can only describe as a growl, he sensed that something was wrong and walked over to the bed to sit next to you.
“You know you can tell me anything,” he says as he sits down opposite you, reaching for your hands.
Your vulnerability grew, not like you minded. It was just the way he was able to shift you from being bratty and pessimistic to being soft and gentle.
Your change caught you off guard.
“I miss you too.” You forced it out.
There was nothing more you could say, you just looked at him.
And the expression he shot back was all too familiar. No words were needed, you just knew.
You both sat there for a few, hand in hand.
“You know I invite you to be near to you, i like asking you around. And all i have wanted is to be alone with you after all this time.” An honest answer, Nikis eyes falling upon your body.
He was hungry, there was no doubt about it.
“And all you do is hide away,” he continued. You felt guilty, he sounded so upset but not angry. Just rather disappointed. Dissatisfied.
“I know I’m sorry”.
“I miss seeing your face, i miss hearing your voice. I invited you over just so i could see you”.
You just gave in, regret becoming evident on your face by the way he reacted.
His hands unlocked from yours, moving to the sides of your face.
You kept your eyes on him, you couldn’t take them off him. He truly looked amazing and deep down you’d been waiting for another advancement from him for a while. You just didn’t expect that it would be tonight.
“You have to keep your eyes on me. If you don’t pay attention to me all night you will now,” he grew frustrated. The attention you hadn’t been trying to deprive him of had him erratic.
You got lost in your own mind for a second. The suddenness of it all was all too overwhelming. But you didn’t mind, the pacing in your mind slowed when he placed a hand on the back of your head and layed you down gracefully. Gently.
Too gently, your guilt still screaming at you for repercussion.
Niki sat back up after laying you down, pulling the black shirt off his figure in one movement.
“Niki,” you said in a questioning tone, though there was nothing to be answered. More a demand in the form of “don’t be gentle. I can handle it”
And you knew you could.
He didn’t hold back.
Your clothes were demanded off of you, and you complied. You wanted this now, your provocation ignited him.
His hands worked faster, instantly locking position on either side of you as your lips met each other .
He started slow, passionate but grew hungry. Fast.
“You’ll behave right? Remember eyes on me,” he growled.
Eyes on me.
You scanned his body and it was instantly met with a hand firm on your face.
“Listen”.
You were desperate so you did as he said, which he rewarded with a subsequent, passionate thrust into you.
You didn’t have time to adjust, you caught so off guard that your head threw back involuntarily.
You instantly fixed your mistake, refocusing your gaze on his face. A look of ‘really?’ showing on it.
“Fuck I’m sorry”. Whispered you out of the mouth that once argued, but now merely lingered in the air.
“What was that princess? Speak up, i know you can,” Niki was full of compliments even though you told him to not be gentle, he still respected you.
Thats why you felt differently, he always treated you so perfectly. Perfectly satisfying every inch of your body with his power.
“Please keep going,”You insisted, he smiled and kissed you as he continued to move. Slowly, but forcefully.
You felt like you deserved it, the regret was being forgotten and replaced by the force of him fucking himself into you.
He moved up, repositioning himself. Allowing the necklace he never took off to make contact with your nose slightly.
Your eye contact reminded fixed on each other, your hands moved to his back.
Your nails scratched his skin, his breath grew heavy. He stopped moving, sat up and grabbed your wrists and forced them above your head.
One hand of his could hold them down perfectly. The other laying beside you again.
“You said to not be gentle?” He checked in, he looked soft, his pupils wide with lust.
“I did say that, why are you asking?”
“Im just checking if you can handle it, thats all darling,” he replied, smirking at your fluster.
He moved again, your moans erratic and loud.
And he had no issue with this, kissing your cheeks and whining himself.
You both moved against each other, the tension building as your voices collided in the air and complemented each other.
The way he was holding you, his eyes telling you words he wouldn’t verbalise, and the way he was making you feel was ecstatic. He continued to grow the pace, your sensitivity heightening as your eyes teared. But not once leaving his.
The pace of his started to falter, he let go of your hands and they instantly found their way down to his back again as he steadied himself and leant his forehead against yours.
“Fuck im close-“ your words stumbled, he smiled at you in response weakly.
“Mmhm, i can tell. Not yet, keep going”.
It was torture, the knot in your stomach begging to be lifted and your legs screaming to relax. But you’d asked for it and he was giving you exactly what your desperation wanted.
You only lasted for a couple minutes longer before you repeated your phrase, “please i cant-“
His eyebrows furrowed, otherwise an expression of focus was what you could gather.
“Come for me, you deserve it baby”.
His words echoed through your mind, instantly letting go and breaking the eye contact.
“So pretty- good girl” his moans breaking his sentences as he followed in his own orgasm.
The moment took a while to still, at least of felt like a while as you lay next to one and other trying not to lose yourself to sleep. What felt like a punishment to ask for turned into reward, feeling nothing but empowerment from the way the night flipped itself.
“You won’t hide next time now,” Niki pestered.
“If you do this every time, maybe,” you giggled as he pulled you closer.
The eyes were the first thing you noticed a rich, muddy brown, as deep as any ocean blues but far more alive.
The irony of that was obvious, for a man who called himself dead, wearing skulls and skeletons around the carnage of his work, his eyes betrayed his entire persona.
You wondered if his eyes were the reason he wore the mask at all. As they were so expressive, so …him. If anything, it would make more sense for him to cover his eyes instead.
You told him once—after the battle had quieted, when the lights were low—how beautiful you found them. How much they revealed of the thoughts he never said aloud.
He chuckled at that, a low sound, amused by the foolishness of your words spoken in the aftermath of fire and death.
Still, you watched him. The way that brown merged with the dirt and blood on his mask, shifting hues from reddish ochre to onyx black depending on the light.
And it was clear he thought about it too, what you had said. Because for someone so skilled at killing, his eyes were incredibly soft.
You knew he was thinking about it when, one day—while the blood still pooled dark and wet at your feet—he caught your gaze and said, almost in a whisper,
“The dog that weeps after the kill is no better than the dog that doesn’t. My guilt will not purify me.”
———————————————————————————
I haven’t posted any of my writing in a while but this quote was in my head and I had to do something about it, so there you go.
Steve had just wanted to eat his damn ham sandwich in peace. He was over the hushed whispers, the pain in his left eye, and the side-eye he'd been receiving all day. He thought maybe he just wanted to go to the courtyard to eat his lunch, maybe he'd get some peace and quiet, but no, the theatre kids were rehearsing some off the wall bullshit and Munson had seen him and was currently crawling on his knees towards him.
“Heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!” Eddie came to a halt in front of him, his knuckles brushing gently against his left cheek as he gazed at Steve. “What villain has tormented you so, my dove. I will make haste and slay that beast, should I get a single kiss from thine lips.”
“Dude, what?” Steve said leaning backwards as Eddie moved closer to him still, “what nerdy bullshit did you blabber?”
“Mine heart!” Eddie clutched his chest as though struck through and fell onto Steve's lunch much to his chagrin. Steve wanted to be annoyed, truly he did, but it was almost endearing and he found himself smiling as he rolled his eyes.
“Look, man, if you want one of my cookies I'll hand you one, but you need to stop smashing my lunch with this theatre stuff.” Eddie popped up with a wild grin on his face.
“Cookies you say?” Eddie pulled his hair in front of his face before turning to his nerd friends, “alright everyone, we'll meet up later to go over our lines again.” He settled beneath the tree close to Steve, their thighs touching.
After they both had been quietly chewing for a few moments Steve decided he needed to ask, “why recite whatever that was to me?”
Eddie choked, then glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye before swallowing the last bit of his cookie, “You looked lonely, and like you could use the cheering up. But also, you have to know you're the most beautiful man in this school. If people don't want to be with you they want to be you.”
Steve felt himself flush, but he leaned more into Eddie's space before lowering his voice, “and which one are you, my cute little riot?”
Eddie's eyes went huge, and he stared at Steve, eyes darting around his face looking for something, before he leaned in so their lips were almost touching, “I suppose you'll have to figure that out soon, won't you big boy?”
Steve pulled him further into the treeline by the school before pushing him against a tree and lining his body against Eddie's who had gulped at the manhandling, “I think you want to be with me, but you won't make a move.” He whispered as he lifted his thigh between Eddie's legs effectively pinning him in place, he leaned and kissed Eddie until he was writhing gasping mess beneath him, and smiled, “you should come by my place tonight, practice your lines some more.” He winked at Eddie before letting him go. Eddie whimpered, reaching down to fix his now entirely too tight pants and nodded.
Waking slowly is an indulgence that is new to Y’shtola. When she was a girl, her limbs had always itched for movement, her mind restless with study and discovery. When she grew older and ventured beyond the comforts of her homeland and Matoya’s cave, the sky had fallen again and again and left her with no opportunity to try.
Only now, after so long, has the world quieted enough for that to change.
Y’shtola first wakes with her ears. They twitch against the silken fabric of her pillow and the song of the seabirds outside. Her fingers come next, brushing the crinkled cotton of her sheets, warmed with the heat of her body. Her nose follows to track what has shifted overnight: cooled wax from a candle she’d used to temper the clasp of a necklace; a seabreeze that is different from the night before.
She wakes next with her chest, her stomach, her knees. She’d cracked a window open overnight and the air she breathes is fresh with the morning market. It invites her to breakfast, stomach grumbling in response, but Y’shtola has been a student of patience all her life. Her knees twinge when she shifts, a new but already familiar change of her body. She is growing older and autumn will soon give way to winter. She makes a note, idly, to ask Krile for another tin of poultice.
Y’shtola wakes with her eyes last. This, too, is new, when looking at her life as a whole and not parceled out in pieces, but it is now familiar, as well. No longer does she see the hewn stone ceiling that makes up Sharlayan architecture, or the changing colors of the sky over the ocean. No blooming bouquets greet her at her bedside, and she has not seen her own face in a long time.
Y’shtola wakes to darkness. The sun is warm on her skin. She turns her head towards it, noting how the dwindling aether of her cut flowers is fainter than before. They will need to be thrown out before the wilt of them has turned to rot. Her jewelry pulses bright with her own imbued aether beside them and she reaches for their familiar shapes. The rings slide smoothly on first, pulsing in welcome when they tangle with the currents of her body; and then her headpiece, feathers soft and oiled and humming a gentle aether-tune.
Y’shtola breathes in, long and peaceful. She tilts her head towards the sunbeam and stretches her neck, her shoulders. She breathes out.
Her feet sink into the thick weave of a rug when she rises. She has an apartment in the Archons’ Quarter further in-land, where the streets sprawl just a little more and the bustle of the port is less audible, but she finds herself seeking the familiar comfort of people to awaken to.
Her quarters in the Baldesion Annex are small and easy to navigate. First the bathroom, where she washes away the last vestiges of sleep. Then the wardrobe, where she pulls out a garment bag containing one of several outfits Krile helped her coordinate. She stops by her bedside again to select one of her necklaces, their gemstones pulsing in the darkness around them.
She takes the vase of dying flowers when she leaves.
The murmur of voices is louder outside her room. The Annex, much like the rest of Sharlayan, is all stone and gilt, with aether lamps lighting the way. Y’shtola follows their will-o’-the-wisp trail with measured steps. Here, she passes the personal chambers; here, the meeting rooms. The library. The doors to the courtyard. She passes them all until her feet lead her into the kitchen, where the sounds of Krile and G’raha waiting settles over her like a well-loved cloak.
They have opened the windows wide. An opportunistic bird has settled on the sill of one, its soft grey aether painting her the picture of its shape. Trees and flowers color a landscape of branches, leaves and blooms beyond.
Krile calls her to the breakfast table with easy warmth. The sounds of tea and serving platters join the noise of their chatter. Y’shtola’s nose picks up the selections of the day: peaches and grapes and melon, and buttered toast with berry jam. G’raha spears a link of sausage as he gesticulates with his free hand to make a point to Krile, who’s pouring herself and Y’shtola their preferred peppermint tea. Y’shtola doesn’t bother pointing out the inaccuracies of his statements, content instead to sit back and listen to Krile do it.
Krile’s aether is the verdant green of new growth. It flows in her body to map her every detail and loops back in on itself when there is nowhere left to go. Y’shtola always thinks of early summer when she’s around Krile, especially summer in the Black Shroud: she remembers the sheer greenery of life that greeted her every which way she looked, uncurled and eager to stretch into the sunlight to grow. Grow bigger, grow stronger, reach towards the far-away sky.
G’raha’s aether is red. She doesn’t know if it is the same shade of red as his hair. It reminds her of Coerthas’ mirror apples before the Calamity swept all their orchards under snow. Aether has no taste nor scent, but sometimes she wonders if his aether would taste the same way the apples did: sour first on the tongue, and then a rush of sweetness that lingered long after.
Y’shtola takes a sip of her tea. The mint is a familiar burst of sharp flavor.
“Oh, Shtola, I think you left this in the library.” Krile breaks her debate with G’raha to turn to her, her green arm holding out a void. Y’shtola’s had years of practice since losing her sight—and her jewelry has been a welcome help in orienting herself against the world—so she takes it without issue. The material is soft but smooth, and cool to the touch—a tome. She turns it over.
Letters written in enchanted ink declare the title: Codex Chrysopoeia.
Her ears perk up at the sound of G’raha sitting up in his chair. She doesn’t need sight to know the look of envious curiosity on his face.
“Wasn’t that banned in the Sixth Astral Era?” He breathes. “However did you get your hands on it?”
Y’shtola runs her fingers over the ink before setting the tome in her lap. The curve of her satisfied smile is hidden behind her cup as she takes a languid sip. “A dear friend saw it in her family’s library. She was kind enough to let me borrow it.”
There’s a moment of silence while she drinks, in which she imagines her companions exchanging knowing glances. There is a very small number of family libraries with the privilege to hold on to such a tome, and the first assumption of the Leveilleurs gets thrown out the window considering its current head of household. The process of elimination continues leaving even fewer, and when taking into consideration that the original Codex Chrysopoeia was not written in enchanted ink, and would therefore need to be transcribed with it to ensure Y’shtola could read it…
“D’you think she’d let me visit her library for my nameday?” G’raha sighs wistfully.
She would do far more than that if you asked, Y’shtola thinks privately and with no small amount of amusement. But G’raha rarely asks, and it is that which endears him to her on behalf of their shared friend.
Krile laughs and chides him in the same breath. The two go back to their good-natured bickering and leave Y’shtola to enjoy her tea. She flattens her fingers against the curve of the cup, feeling its weight; her other hand brushes once more against the inked title.
Enchanted ink comes in many different hues and vibrancies. There are inks that blaze bright and blinding in her eyes, allowing her to read them only in short bursts lest she be left with a migraine; and there are inks so old, and others so cheap, that trying to read them is reminiscent of reading next to a guttering flame.
She’s spent the last half a sennight reading the Codex late into the night. The ink must have been custom made, she knows, because she’s never seen its unique color before. The letters blaze steady against her fingers, clear as stars.
How kind, she thinks, her chest filling quietly, to be seen through such a gift.
How kind, after all these years, to find her own eyes gazing back at her from the pages.
