“I think the best part about love is that I have absolutely no control over it.”
“Vernon, it’s 1.25 am,” it comes out more as a sigh than a sentence.
You wiggle out of his hold, creating just enough distance for you to look up at him (even though his eyes remain closed). You close your eyes again, teetering on the edge of consciousness.
There's the gentle hum of traffic downstairs, and the ticking of the clock you both have grown accustomed to. Your leg remains caging Vernon at the hip as you move your head back between his arms, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“I think love is more a decision, no?” You whisper, unsure if he was sleeping (since he has a tendency to sleeptalk at times), though the sentence was definitely all too coherent to be considered sleeptalking.
He hums. Unsure, in thought; deliberating. He starts:
“Yeah, but I’m talking about the other parts. The things that don’t make sense.”
“…Don’t make sense?”
Vernon stirs around for a bit before continuing, maybe repositioning the arm you lay on because it’s starting to numb out.
“When we’re just laying together, listening to each others’ breathing until we fall asleep. It makes me so certain that I’m in love with you, when the situation itself inherently means nothing. And because I feel it, and it should be a feeling, but it’s not. Because if it was a feeling, there's no actual basis that my love for you would last, right? Since feelings come and go, but its not like my love for you comes in waves. It all just came all upon me one day and I couldn’t run. So what would actually make it more of a decision than a feeling?”
You crack one eye open and smile to yourself when you see that Vernon’s eyes are still closed. Absolutely impossible. He doesn’t even look at you after spilling his guts, rambling out debatably coherent sentences like a defunct radio talking just for the sake of talking, and you’re somehow expected to make sense of it at one in the morning?
Both your eyes are open now, thinking to give Vernon a response, which is already too much effort considering the two of you are supposed to be asleep. (Love really doesn't make sense, right?)
A sigh.
“Then what’s the difference between romantic and platonic love? I think we all have love to give, but I don't think we actually fall in love. It’s more like a discovery, kind of. When you meet the right person, it’s kind of like a snap and then you realise ‘oh! I wanna spend forever with this person and I wanna have their kids so bad’.”
Vernon elicits a brief exhale of amusement.
“And then the promises and compromise come in because you want to spend forever with them, and you don’t wanna bet on the fact that you’ll be able to move on and love someone else the same. I think it's a decision in that aspect.”
Vernon’s hand shifts from your shoulder down to your waist as his thumb begins to rub soothing circles into the small of your back.
“You feel that way about me, huh?”
“I still love you even when I have to kill spiders and release moths from our apartment. You think?”
You hear the reverberation in his chest as he chuckles at your statement —
“It’s rotten work.”
— and now it's your turn to laugh.
“Not to me, not if it’s you.”
Silence consumes the room. And for a while, it’s just the traffic, the clock, and breathing again, you and Vernon.
You start, “So why did you decide to love me then?”.
He thinks for a moment, but decides it’s more worthwhile to continue this conversation another time.
“I’ll tell you that another day, Y/N. Let’s go back to sleep.”
You click your tongue, unsatisfied by his answer. But you don’t press further, because you know his love for you is unwavering, and you know better than to question it.
It’s silent again, and Vernon breaks it one last time:
WHO’S THERE! A new school brings a new roommate! What could possibly go wrong?
cw: roommates2lovers, f!reader, mentions of alcohol and sex, fluff
a/n: ok this turned out WAYYY longer than i anticipated. i was planning on hitting 18 pictures...then suddenly....my hands werent under my control anymore idk...but i enjoyed writing this sm! my first time ever writing an smau scenario (and BND piece), and it was such a different experience lol; shout out to all reegular smau writers omg.. my storage is exploding.
The walk back home is only 10 minutes long, but Seungcheol insists it’s longer than it seems. Though it technically is a fair statement to make when he was in bed only 45 minutes before.
His movements are slow and sluggish, and you’d be fooled with the way he begrudgingly held onto bags of groceries if it weren’t for the fact that he was the one who followed you out of the house by his own initiative.
“You expect me to stay at home alone, lying down alone, on a cold, sad bed?”
You glare at him, then sigh. It’s not the first time you’re hearing him complain about matters this trivial — though he claims that it’s only what it seems like to you.
Seungcheol slings the bag in his left hand over his right shoulder, and takes another one from you.
He pouts, glancing at you – who simply refuses to look even in his general direction – then walks impossibly closer until both of your arms are touching.
“Y/N…” he whines, but you decide to have a little fun with him instead; play him like a violin then cut his strings.
You speed up a few paces but it only takes Seungcheol two long strides to catch up with you again.
“Nice try.” His voice is taunting, and he bends over to meet your gaze right in front of your face with his eyebrows knitted together.
Chafed at his petulant whining, you click your tongue and bump your shoulder to his chest which still looms over you.
Seungcheol holds the elevator door, allowing you to enter first before he clicks the ‘7th storey’ button. The two of you ride in silence, save for the hum of the elevator shaft.
Seungcheol thinks to himself that you’re getting a little bit of a kick out of this entire situation. Wrong. Gravely mistaken, even – you’re thoroughly enjoying it, prolonging his suffering like a sadistic matriarch. And you both know he’s enjoying it too (though, maybe a little too much).
The lift doors open and you dig your keys out of your pocket, handing Seungcheol the bag you’re holding.
For a while, the air seems neutral. It’s quiet and smells like nostalgia.
You swing the door open and Seungcheol makes a beeline for the kitchen island after kicking his shoes off into a mess by the front door.
Entering after him, you toe off your shoes quietly and place both pairs neatly back onto the shoe rack, dusting your hands off before standing upright to lock the door.
And the moment you turn around to join him in the kitchen, Seungcheol strikes with a carefully curated plan: He sweeps you off your feet, and suddenly you’re in his arms bridal style as he begins peppering your face with kisses, working his way down to your jawline.
“Choi Seungcheol!”
He plants a kiss on your lips, and you give your best attempt at a scowl but do poorly at hiding the way your lips curl upward.
His face lights up, beaming like a victor.
“Not this time, pretty.”
You slap his chest and kiss him back with the tease of heat, before you pull away, hands cupping his cheeks.
cw: fluff, mentions of food, like..nothing i think
wc: 1k
a/n: ok this is pretty much NOT related to harry potter omfg it was just mentioned and i have no better title FML... but i shat out this piece on new years to hopefully shift the mood on this blog! i hope to post more this year sooooo yippee!
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• ♫ Piece of You - Nathaniel Constantin
31 December, 8 PM.
Jeonghan arrives like clockwork every single time to welcome the new year with you.
His fingerprint is already registered into your smart-home system, so when he lets himself in, you appear out of the bathroom half-dressed. Your towel drapes over your clothed torso, the dampness soaking into your T-shirt though it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as your hair ends drenching you from the shoulders down.
You flick the lights off, picking up one end of the towel to dry your scalp.
“You could consider moving in already, Hannie.”
He only chuckles in response before turning his back to you to lock the front door. Jeonghan toes his shoes off at the entrance and places them neatly on the shoerack, and is kind enough to rearrange your mess of shoes that piled up maybe some few days ago.
Jeonghan walks into the kitchen to place the takeout box of dinner down onto the island. He almost loses his balance when he stretches over to snatch you by the waist, pulling you against his body.
A warm kiss lands on your eyelid.
“Mmm..? Maybe I will,” his voice gradually grows lower as his other arm snakes around to cage you, his head beginning to nuzzle into the crook of your neck to take in the scent of your shampoo.
You lean into him slightly, raising your hand to cup his cheek and press a chaste kiss to his jaw.
“I’ll take what I can.”
It’s a yearly tradition between the two of you, dating back 2 years ago: On new year’s eve, Jeonghan would pick up whatever he wanted for dinner and bring it back to your place; You chose the movie to watch. And so far, the both of you have been kicking off the new year somewhere in between the second and third Harry Potter film.
You say it suits the weather, it being cold and all. Jeonghan thinks it’s adorable, but he gets to choose what to eat for dinner since he never has a say in your choice of entertainment for the night.
Tonight, Jeonghan brings a spread of Chinese Cuisine. He pulls out a tub of Pork Congee, Xiao Long Bao, Egg Tarts, and a few new dimsum pastries neither of you have tried before. He lays them out on the table, you having already placed your cutlery and bowls down prior.
He sits at the dining table facing the television scrolling his phone while you pull up your much beloved piracy website to binge your eight films of the night (though, the two of you usually tap out after The Order of the Phoenix).
The both of you spend the next hour or so enthralled by the gripping plotline and the minorly amusing acting of more 11-year-olds than either of you can count.
Neither of you pause to clear the table, having the entire script practically memorised word-for-word at this point.
When you move to the sofa, Jeonghan is the first to plop himself down. He sprawls himself across, giving you no choice but to lie down against him. He shifts further into the couch to make space for you, outstretching his arms to you like a baby waiting to be lifted by its mother.
You narrow your eyes at him, pressing your index against the area between his brows, pushing his head back. He lets out a weird squawk at that, but makes a swift recovery to lunge forward and pull you down into his lap.
You coast past the first installment without much commentary to offer, save for the short-lived debate of whether or not either of you would be friends with Hermione in your first year. You start off by saying that her smart-assery would more than likely tick you off and it would probably end in a brawl between two 11-year olds. Jeonghan offers a different perspective; He says that keeping her around to intentionally piss her off would keep him motivated to both show up and do well in school.
You think that pretty much sums up your relationship, more or less.
“I’d probably do better than her, anyway.”
You stab his side with your foot.
By the time you’re halfway through the second film, it’s already close to midnight. The two of you have conquered every square centimetre of the sofa there is, and you’ve both now settled on occupying your own corners with only your legs overlapping each other’s.
The scene where the three students are brewing a polyjuice potion on the bathroom floor slowly begins to fade out to the dueling club where Draco and Harry are set to duel against each other. Professor Lockhart appears on screen, earning a scoff from Jeonghan who – in his words – “hates this blonde bitch”.
Jeonghan takes a quick look at his phone, places it down, and begins crawling over to your side. He fits himself between your arms and cozies up against your chest, breathing out a dreamy sigh before he starts.
“Y/N.”
“Jeonghan.”
You prod at his cheekbone, and he grabs your hand by the finger, intertwining your fingers with his.
His glassy eyes focus on you through his long eyelashes – something you’d always been jealous of him for – and you look back down at him. You hum quietly, prompting him to continue. And right as the ball drops, a loaded sentence:
“Let’s move in together, yeah?”
The soft thundering of fireworks begins somewhere right off the coast. It’s pretty far from your building, but grand enough to shake the city.
He presses a long, warm kiss to the back of your hand, sucking in softly to leave a little bruise on the flesh right under your thumb.
“Happy new year baby, we still got a long way to go.”
You smile down at him, leaning over to press your lips against his upside down. His lips are warm and wet against your slightly chapped ones, courtesy of Seoul’s winter.
When you pull away, he brushes your hair behind your ears, circling back to cup your face at your jawline.
“You’re such a freaking sap, you know?” You reach over to grab his wrist, “happy new year, bean.”
Tuesday night starts out with a long island. 2 shots of tequila and cola the rest of the way.
“Excuse my house for not being as loaded as our beloved frat house,” Minghao starts. He’s sprawled out over the couch from across the island; watching you rummage about the cabinet until you’d finally decided on the half-full bottle of tequila as opposed to the strikingly dusty unopened whiskey.
He lifts himself off with a sigh, but bends over to pick up a new joint and a lighter before making his way over to you.
“Though I’m sure they’d love to have you any time.”
You ignore the low blow.
There’s something about being exes, where reluctance and love still lingers all over the place. Sometimes the tension is there, sometimes it’s not, and neither of you can swallow the urge to be the least bit snarky because neither of you can stand the resentment.
Sometimes the distance is magnetic, other times polarising.
He moves behind you, torso beginning to press up against your back while his right arm slings around your shoulder. His left hand remains free to hold up the joint to your mouth. And when his fingers ghost over your lips all-too intentionally, your heart stings and your jaw tenses.
The rage is quite inexplicable. No one knows what happened between you and Xu Minghao in your second year; You wouldn’t say that you’ve fully processed it either, because it felt like one day everything began moving quicker than you started, and suddenly everything just all started to slip out of your hands.
Though it would be more just to say that the two of you got swept up in the waves of deadlines and washed up on the shores of singularity.
Minghao holds up a lighter, teasing your chin as he guides you over to light the joint. Your eyes flit upwards, and he’s already looking directly at yours. And his gaze is soft, romantic, sultry, and so magnetic.
It doesn’t take much effort in the ill-lit room to catch the intention behind his eyes – because you feel the same way too. But both of you would know better than to dance around it in this manner.
You breathe in, and bite back the urge to cough when the smoke hits your pharynx — the first puff always feels like that.
It's distracting — he’s distracting — really, infuriating, intoxicating, melancholic, and it hurts all the same from three months ago.
You take another hit, sighing out the residual smoke.
“Minghao,” you manage in between sniffs.
He hums.
His hand is already sliding up your back under your shirt, and presses himself impossibly closer to you. It snakes around and up your abdomen and traces the waistband of your panties.
You try to ignore it and focus on intoxicating yourself to blank out all the noise around you instead.
His free hand steals the joint out of your hand to take a hit for himself, and he laces your fingers together with his and fits the joint cleanly between his index and middle finger. It seems like a small act of reconciliation which you don’t think you’re ready for. Yet your hand remains in his.
Minghao rests his chin atop the crown of your head, his working hand moving upwards to the crease under your breast.
“No bra?” He murmurs, and shifts to rest his cheek on your head instead.
You’re quick to deadpan, “this used to be my house too, y’know.”
There’s a slightly sour twinge to your words, and it delivers more venomously than matter-of-factly.
“Used to,” his voice cracks a little, barely above a whisper. He shifts up to cup your breast and it lingers there longer than it should, before his hand drops back down to your hip again.
It feels like innocence and rekindling. Because the action itself isn’t inherently lustful, and if Minghao wanted it, he could’ve done more.
But you know that he has never been one for debauchery; Despite the alcohol, drugs, partying – life hasn’t been exactly kind to him, and he let himself get swept up in the torrent.
Minghao still remembers what it was like to fall in love with you. It wasn’t a grand discovery of feelings like others had described it to be; It wasn’t sudden and insatiable; It wasn’t loud and demanding. It felt soft and sombre, subtle; unsuspecting and incomplete. You loved each other quietly, but it was loud in ways that it was only between the two of you, and maybe he’d even go so far as to say that it’s quite boring (comfortable is what he means). He’s never wanted to proclaim his love from the rooftops, but wanted to leave you notes of the weird, uncomfortable ways in which he loved you that no one else ever could.
He had always believed that love is beautiful in the ways it’s dehumanising, a sentiment which you tend to argue against – but he still remembered the first time you held his hand, hugged him, kissed him, and suddenly his life wasn’t his anymore.
“Minghao, not like this.”
“Come back, Y/N,” he breathes into your hair.
“Please, Mingh-”
“Hao. You’ve never called me Minghao since two years ago.”
His words come across somewhat pathetic, but it’s a subtle nod to the fact that he hasn’t let go of you yet – that he’s willing to try again. And it makes your eyes water in so many ways that feel so diminishing because you both know that you can’t bear to let go of the man that you’ve loved for the sweetest two years of your life.
You let your head fall back onto Minghao’s shoulder and close your eyes to relieve their burn. A sob bubbles up in your chest and you do your best to swallow the painful lump that lingers in your throat.
You dither for a bit before speaking:
“I miss you.”
A beat. “I know. I miss you too.”
“Three months isn’t enough to change that, Hao. Just a bit longer, I promise”
He doesn’t respond, but his thumb begins stroking over your knuckles.
“I’ll wait,” he pauses for a moment when you turn to fit your face into the crook of his neck. You breathe in his scent, “I’m not going anywhere Y/N.”
You hear the hurt in his voice, the bite in his tone.
And the two of you stand there intertwined and incomplete, your hand in his; his hand on your hip. The joint has burnt out now, sitting on the countertop as a pile of ash. You stare at it, and back at your hands, the weight of love sitting unopened in your hearts.
Insomnia consumes both you and Soonyoung tonight, and the weather is no help either. The icy winter air creeps into your room, and unfortunately for you, the heating unit sounds like it’s on its last legs.
Your last hope lies under the thick down duvet, and next to you in the form of Kwon Soonyoung; you lay caged between his limbs – only your heads peeking out from under the blanket.
Soonyoung, on your right, stares up at the ceiling in deep thought, all the while you’re busy on your phone; But who are you kidding, right? No one’s awake at this ungodly hour on a weekday night. So you end up scrolling through your gallery, starting from the very beginning: 8 May 2016.
A freshly post-pubescent Soonyoung graces your screen: a photo of him looking into a full body mirror, his fingers fiddling with his freshly pierced lobes; His face is an amalgam of awe and shock.
You let out a breathy laugh at the memory: Soonyoung had begged you to follow him to the parlour, insistent that he get his ears pierced before his group’s next album release. When he had finally settled into the chair, his eyes were glued shut and his cheeks puffed up with anxiety as the piercer prepared the station. His fingers intertwined with yours, locked your hands so tightly that the tip of your index nearly turned purple.
You swipe to the next picture, and it’s Soonyoung again, only this time smiling at the camera – flashing a toothy grin, sporting his new sparkly studs. You let out a slight giggle at his childlike charm in the photo, catching Soonyoung’s attention.
His head whips over to look at you, intrigued by your sudden spike in energy. He wiggles even closer, fitting his head in the crook of your neck to look at your phone – which you held right above your face.
You tilt the screen to him, allowing a clearer view of the picture as you turn to look at him with a grin on your face.
“Remember? When you got your second lobes done.”
He smiles a little at that, and his eyes have a bit more of a glimmer in them.
“Look at your cheeks! You were such a baby.”
His grip around you tightened, pulling you closer to him. His arms crept down to cradle your hips, and his legs remained wrapped entirely around yours.
“I’m still cute…” Soonyoung whines, puffing his cheeks out a little bit as he flashes a pout with feigned hurt.
You furrow your eyebrows in fake disgust before returning your focus back to your phone. You roll over onto Soonyoung, pushing him to lay flat on his back as you rest your cheek on his chest. His hand remains on your hip, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your side in a way that sends goosebumps shooting up your body.
As you continue filtering through old memories and other unrelated photos, you find yourselves all the way back on the 27th of June, 2018.
It was a photo of the scenery: A lush green field, with part of its vibrancy muted by the overhead leaves that blocked out the sunlight. It was on a small cliff overlooking a river, the sky almost blending into it because of how clear it was. There was nobody, nothing to disrupt the serenity of the picture – it was your first date with Soonyoung.
Even though he doesn’t say anything in particular, you feel him grow soft at the photo. The both of you know the place all too well – away from the prying eyes of the media, the location of your first date, and the location you return to every year for your anniversary.
You swipe to the left, revealing a photo – still at the same location – but this time capturing both of your legs over a red and white gingham mat. Neither of you say anything, but you keep staring at the photo as if to relive the memory in your head.
Impressive, isn’t it? How impossibly riveting a photo of two pairs of legs could be – something so insignificant to outsiders of your world. Not to mention how impressive it is that just one day could change Soonyoung’s entire life for the better, and in ways he never expected.
There was nothing more he enjoyed than having all eyes on him when performing – appeasing the masses, validation from his fans – that is except you, of course. Everyone knows that Soonyoung only searches for your eyes in the crowd, listens out for your cheers – it was your validation that he craved the most.
You were the one to encourage him to not give up when things got tough for the company – defamation scandals, lawsuits, and troubles with company executives. Only you are the one closest to fully comprehending exactly how much his livelihood and career means to him, and if you were one day to ask him to drop everything he had and disappear with you – who was he to deny?
Soonyoung had little care for repercussions, frequenting the CEOs office for unintentional slip-ups, spoilers, the whole nine yards. So what was another scandal or two, right? As long as he has you by his side – your relationship risking being exposed every other week – then Soonyoung was willing to risk it all for you.
“I remember that day,” Soonyoung mumbles into the crown of your freshly shampooed head.
“I sure hope you do…” you narrow your eyes at him, eliciting a chuckle.
Soonyoung sighs.
A comfortable silence settles in the room for a few seconds before he continues talking.
“What I mean, is that I never would’ve thought I would get to live a life like this.” His hands still resting on your side, slides up ever so slightly under the hem of your shirt, seeking out warmth.
“You’ve really changed everything for me Y/N, I hope you know that.” You put your phone down next to Soonyoung, focus now entirely on him alone. “And in the best way possible too.”
“Like, you’ve shaped me into a better person, and we’ve seriously went through everything together since we were students. You always tell me that I don’t have to struggle alone, and you make sure that I really don’t.”
You look up at Soonyoung, and he looks back down at you, making eye contact.
His gaze is soft and sincere, yet filled with an unchaste – almost lecherous – desire for you. The latter though, not much of a cause for concern – Soonyoung’s never been one to hide, and was very loud in loving you. He had no shame in having his feelings on full display for you to see.
“You’ve helped me learn to love so many things and so many more people.”
Soonyoung’s free hand creeps up along your arm, landing at your nape as his hand cups the entire back of your neck. You notice his eyes flicker down to your lips for such an infinitesimal second that with one blink, you would’ve easily missed.
“And I’m so glad it’s you.”
He presses your head closer to his, closing the gap as his warm lips encapsulate yours. His kiss is tender, but hungry.
He starts off slow – both of you moving to a slow, steady rhythm – and your hand snakes up to caress his jaw with a featherlight touch, the other on his chest as you slowly begin to prop yourself up. Your movements grow more desperate as you finally manage to gain leverage and angle yourselves well. Soonyoung’s hand rests at the small of your back as both of your legs move to straddle his thigh.
Soonyoung moves to sit up, resting his back against the headboard. His hand tangles itself in your hair, the other moving to snake around your waist to pull you in closer. You feel yourself getting warmer, and you’re sure he feels it too as he slips his tongue into your mouth with a familiar desire that never fails to send your hormones through the roof.
He sucks on your lower lip before slowly pulling away.
His eyes roam your figure – his hands following closely behind, before his eyeline finally lands on your face. He studies your every curves and the familiar contours of your face, that he's more than proud to call his.
His hand moves to cradle your cheek instead – his gaze different this time, though. A striking bipolar switch, his eyes were now filled with the familiar essence of infatuation that you saw on your first date with him.
He sighs, thumbing over your supple cheeks.
“And ever since that day in June, I’ve never learned to loved summer so, so much more.”
cw: angst, angry confessions, idiots in love, alcohol
The bar is buzzing with people, and Jeonghan’s mind is a blur, yet you somehow remain the focal point amidst everything. With each pump of his heart, more alcohol circulates to cloud his head – Jeonghan’s blood alcohol is at an all time high, triggering a resurgence of past memories and old versions of you.
Nothing new – you’ve seen Jeonghan drunk before, but the last time you’ve actually witnessed it was in your adolescence.
Now, you’re both pushing thirty, but neither of you feel it yet. Because when you’re with Jeonghan, you’re twenty-one and in love again.
You’re not exactly how sure it started, but what does it matter? Nine years in the making – raw, unabated love – a love story that yearns for its ending, unsure whether Jeonghan even feels the same way about you.
Jeonghan has been on several dates over the years that you’ve known him, entered a number of short-lived relationships. And so your initial fiery feelings have settled into a somewhat quiet smolder, convinced that all you can do is admire from afar. Nine years later, you still question whether or not you actually love him anymore – though you really mean to ask if it’s still worth pursuing.
But your heart betrays your conscience time and time again; because you know deep down that you want it to be him in the end, because you’re sure that if it was anybody else, you’d be gone by now.
He hardly notices that you’ve long stopped talking, hell, even the way that he’s looking at you tonight. You definitely notice it though, something different about him; Behind his featherlight, innocent gaze, something about it feels somewhat unchaste, and you’re not sure how to feel about it.
You’ve grown to hate his annoying wisecracks, his steely but tender gaze, how he has you completely wrapped around his finger – you absolutely loathe him for the vice that he is.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you say bluntly, immediately snapping him out of his daze.
His eyeline shifts from your face to your eyes, and he lets out a small smile. He fakes a pained hiss, before looking at you with a confused pout on his face.
“Ouch. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You sigh.
You’re flustered and feel the familiar flutter in your stomach, but truthfully sick and tired of playing the same game over and over again; running the same laps you’ve been the past few years. And Jeonghan sees your frustration all too well. He knows you’re not up for your usual banter, but tonight he doesn’t concede.
He leans back against the booth, crossing his arms, “alright, alright, I’m sorry.”
However, he still looks at you with that familiar gaze, his head cocked to the side as he watches you take another sip of your what, fourth? Fifth? Beer of the night.
“But I hope I’m not leading you on, though.”
You freeze, and everything around you stops too. The chatter dies down, and the throng of people seem to slowly take their leave.
You take that like a shot to the heart. Does he even know what he’s saying? You can blame the alcohol drowning out all forms of rationality, but the urge to fight him pulls at your heart violently.
Sure, Jeonghan has a gentle soul and harbours the sensitivity one would only imagine a mother to have, but god does he know how to get under your skin. He knows just the right amount of venom to inject his delivery with to piss you off, but still conveys the lightheartedness of the sentence.
That’s what twelve years of friendship does to someone, doesn’t it? It gives you privy to each others’ feelings, and apparently comes with a chokehold on the other’s heart — though that is yet to be discovered by Jeonghan.
You slam your glass down a little harder than intended, your feelings overtaking you. You look at him through bloodshot eyes, speaking with an alcohol-addled conscience unable to filter out unnecessary emotions.
“The fuck are you saying? What kind of sick joke do you think you’re making?”
That nearly sobers up Jeonghan entirely, feeling the weight of his words fall back on him.
“Joke? I meant every word I said Y/N.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“Then just stop talking.”
Jeonghan hears you begin to choke up, and notices that your bloodshot eyes are more than just the product of the alcohol in your body.
You can’t bear to look at him anymore, and can’t stop the words from tumbling out:
“Nothing is funny. This,” you gesture grandly between the two of you, “isn’t funny.”
You let out a shaky exhale, feeling all the suppressed emotions begin to bubble up at the surface — all those nights spent crying over what you hoped was a fleeting crush, the pain of watching him run off with another girl, the pain of feeling walked over by Jeonghan every time you two spoke.
“I don’t know why you get off of tormenting me every single time we’re together. Stop talking to me like I’m beneath you, because you know damn well that it’s true.”
You look up at the ceiling in a vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing out.
“Do you know how it feels? To have what you so painfully want repeatedly ripped away from you even though you know you’ve never had a chance to begin with? Maybe you don’t, I wouldn’t know. But I do, and I hate it so, so much.”
A painful silence ensues between you both. You can’t look in Jeonghan’s general direction, but he can’t stop looking at you.
“I hate you so much, Yoon Jeonghan,” you breathe out barely loud enough for him to catch.
And you feel the first tear drop, then the next, and you know there’s no stopping now.
Jeonghan looks at you, expression unreadable. Though if you were actually looking at him, you could easily tell that he’s dumbfounded. His mind draws a blank, and he’s not sure what to say next.
Jeonghan never knew you felt this way about him — that your heart feels trampled over, that he’d taken a bite out of it and left it for dead. He’s well aware of his undeniable feelings for you that blossomed the very moment he laid eyes on you. But one question continues to linger in his mind — why did he wait so long? Perhaps he was waiting for the right time to confess — somewhere scenic, cliche, and a little bit cheesy to stand a chance at winning you over.
Ironic isn’t it, that Jeonghan was unaware of your feelings all this while?
He wants so badly to grab you by the shoulders and shake your brain back into sobriety, tell you that all the other girls meant nothing to him. That he was only looking for a distraction, that everything was short-lived only because none of them were you.
Jeonghan has done enough running to last a lifetime, and he’s made an oath to waste no time finding you in the next. He’s not sure why he waited nine years too long, but Jeonghan is done with denying himself the pleasure of your love.
You choke out another pained sob before standing up to leave the establishment, embarrassed of the entire ordeal. If you couldn’t run from your feelings, the least you could do for yourself was to save face and evade the scene.
Hot on your heels, Jeonghan gets up immediately and sprints out of the building like his life depends on it — because well, technically it does.
Jeonghan’s regret is immense, but his love is stronger; he can’t let you run away, not until he tells you how he feels. Jeonghan can’t imagine a life without you, and he can’t believe that he’s been so blind to everything all this while.
So he will do anything and everything to finally get your galaxies to collide. He’s wanted nothing more than to join you in your orbit, and he wasn’t letting you go until he got exactly what he wanted.
a/n: honestly i dont really like this piece tbh, so unsure if ill even make a pt2 lolol
"The art of learning to love the moon is an acquired one. One that has taken Kwon Soonyoung six years to master.
And once he’s finally caught up, the world stares in awe of your eclipse."
genre: best friends to lovers, fluff, angst
a/n: i might just be physically incapable of writing something more than 2k words...lol. tagged some songs inside, hope you listen to them! also a repost in case you saw it jn...made some edits
─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
fade in: ♫ never loved this way before - BOYNEXTDOOR
You and Soonyoung are quite the opposite souls.
Soonyoung loves like the sun: Among his charm and charisma is a love that always gives. He expects nothing in return, even if it means his love has to remain unrequited for 6 years and counting.
Kwon Soonyoung has always been in love with you since the start. That has been a known fact, to himself, to his best friend Jihoon, and everyone else who knows him.
It’s hard to miss the way his eyes glimmer with adoration whenever he looks at you, the way his head tilts to the side when he listens to you talk incessantly, giving an occasional hum to let you know that he’s still listening.
A little amusing, but also quite the tragedy. Akin to watching a puppy on a leash; eyes full of hope, excitement, and the uncertainty of where its owner is going to take him next. You being the owner, of course.
The owner of his heart, the one that keeps it isolated outside your body when it longs to beat alongside yours all this while.
— Within the same cage, beating the same rhythm, circulating the same lifeline.
You love like the moon: Quiet, angelic, enchanting, haunting. Not always visible, but Soonyoung knows that you think of him every time the night falls. He only wonders though, if you think of him with a heart as heavy as his when he thinks of you.
When people think of the moon, they admire it for its tranquility, quiescence. They marvel at its beauty, but that’s all they take it for.
Because the art of learning to love the moon is an acquired one. One that takes years of mastery. Kwon Soonyoung loves you for your elegance, your radiance, and calming presence – a stark difference to his own radiant charm, sometimes overwhelming (not to you, though).
─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
Soonyoung hears a knock at his front door at 1 a.m, and he already knows who it is. He groans as he wakes, vision clouded with sleep as he moves to sit at the edge of the bed. His head lulls with drowsiness, contemplating whether or not to wait it out so you come back to him in the morning at a more appropriate time.
Still, he lifts off the bed and makes a steady shuffle through the living room and towards the front door.
His hand lands on the handle, covering a yawn with the other as he twists the knob to open the door. It reveals you, unsurprisingly, though disheveled and distraught. Notably barefoot, your heels are in your hand, purse slung over the shoulder of the same arm.
Wordlessly, he lets you into his apartment. Soonyoung picks your handbag as you drop it onto the floor, placing it onto the dresser by the front door.
He shuffles to the kitchen with more grace than before. He doesn’t bother with the kitchen lights, the lamp from the living room already illuminating the area.
Soonyoung steeps you a hot cup of rooibos and places it on the end table. He sits on the ottoman adjacent to you, and lowers his head to meet your gaze which remains trained at his feet.
He places a hand on your knee.
“What happened to your date?”
You don’t even bother anymore. It’s the same story each time, almost like a joke that writes itself.
“Same shit.” You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your chin on them. “It’s always the ‘too emotional’ bullshit. Like a lady cant have some fucking feelings and thoughts on how shitty her date is being.”
“I’m starting to feel all guys are the same raunchy pieces of shit.”
That elicits a sympathetic chuckle from Soonyoung.
When you make eye contact, you let out a small pout and your posture softens.
“Don’t be like that,” he moves over to sit next to you.
“There’s someone out there who’s on your level. I’m sure of it.” He looks at you with his lips pursed in a tight smile, masking the fact that he knows exactly who he’s referring to.
You grab the TV remote and flip between the channels, eventually settling on its built-in spotify feature. Soonyoung’s night playlist appears first and you hit shuffle on that.
The soft hum of a synthesiser ensues. Then a beat syrupy and sweet. It feels a little empty, feels like yearning.
Soonyoung kicks back on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table and his head against the sofa. He looks up at the ceiling fan then closes his eyes.
He doesn’t need to look at you to know exactly how you look right now: You’re picking at your fingernails like you always do, and biting the skin off your bottom lip.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. It opens again.
“He left me, you know.” You turn to look at Soonyoung, who’s looking at you now through half-lidded eyes.
A sigh.
“He left me at the restaurant. An Irish goodbye in Korea, can you believe it? The gall of people nowadays, seriously.” It’s a poorly timed joke, and one that doesn’t land because Soonyoung isn’t smiling.
Only the music fills the room now. You’re thinking how to phrase your next words carefully so it doesn’t seem like you’re the asshole.
“Said I was boring, then spent half the date laughing as he texted away instead. God knows who it was, probably another girl who’s more interesting.”
He’s looking at your hands that continue to pick at your cuticles. You let go to let them rest at your sides instead and lean back on the couch the same way he does.
You let the silence linger a little longer – it’s Soonyoung’s kindness to you.
And it’s the same peace you’ve been craving after, and he leaves it with you to mull over your thoughts before you continue speaking.
“I should get used to it, the heartbreak, the hurt. I’m always subjected to it for some reason, but it hurts all the same.” You choke up towards the end.
And you can’t help it anymore, but you do your best to quell tears threatening to spill over.
Saying it out actually makes it sink in more, makes the delivery more painful than it already is – the crushing reality of what you fear may be your eternal damnation.
It feels venomous almost, but not lethal enough of a dose to stop you from chasing the high of love at its hottest.
“Why are you even thinking that you should be getting used to it? Of course it’ll all hurt the same”
Your head turns to the side. A tear rolls out of your eye and lands on the sofa with a soft thump.
“You’re just with all the wrong guys. You know, like, they don’t actually like you for you. Just the idea of a trophy wife.”
“What?”
Soonyoung sits up now. He places his hand on top of yours. He’s cautious, but it’s warm, so you let it be. Like the afterglow of the sun, it’s healing and grounding.
“Y/N, you're beautiful, incredibly attractive, and you’re literally accomplished to hell.”
It’s a dangerous road he starts on, but he trudges on nonetheless.
“Soony-“
You want to stop him, stop him from saying something he might regret later —
“You’re easy to talk to, so incredibly interesting, kind and caring, and so so smart.”
You finally shift from his fingers to meet his eyes, and his gaze goes straight through to your heart. Your breath catches in your throat.
It's piercing but strangely melancholic.
— to stop him from saying something that maybe, you’re not ready to face just yet.
Because you both know. And it's sad and it's sweet, and it mangles your heart in ways that you have his.
“So please, realise that it’s me.” He laces his fingers through yours.
His voice breaks, and continues in a voice barely above a whisper:
“Give me one chance; and it’ll be the best and your last.”
fade in: ♫ pages - WIMY
The art of learning to love the moon is an acquired one. One that has taken Kwon Soonyoung six years to master.
And once he’s finally caught up, the world stares in awe of your eclipse.
