Surface Pressure
Pairing: KSJ x Reader
WC: 6k
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff
Rating: T
Warnings: Panic attack, emotional abuse, parental abuse, bullying, mention of mental illness, descriptions of depression and anxiety, mention of JK Rowling (don't support TERFs)
Part of @thebtswritersclub project: “Sentimental”
Banner by @introlxv
Beta’d by @mapleglasses27
Summary: Your life has always had various aspects of pressure. Cracks in the wall at every turn so it's no surprise when it finally breaks. Thankfully there's someone there to help keep you together.
Under the surface, I feel berserk as a tightrope walker in a three-ring circus
Academics
“Gifted.”
Your mom looks so proud when she says it. “You’re doing well, sweetie. You’re a natural.”
Is it natural? Does she understand that your grades are a reflection of your life at school? The other kids aren’t as studious because they’re outside during recess, running from each other in games of tag, giggles echoing in the courtyard. You still hear it when you hole yourself up inside. You ask your teacher if there’s anything you can do to help them with so you don’t have to go out there and face that you’d sit alone under the slide hiding from the group of girls that spend their time hunting you down only to throw insults at you.
The bullying makes the day pass slowly with nerves on end but the side effects are beneficial. You never see your mom as happy as when she’s looking at the dean’s list with your name plastered with other ‘gifted’ kids. Students that have surpassed academic expectations. Students who can be considered above their peers, better. You.
For nearly a week after you the bulletin comes in you can hear her behind the door. She’s bragging, as she always does if she thinks she has anything to leverage above anyone else. You’re her leverage this time around. She loves that she gets to boast to everyone she knows that her child is superior, that she is superior. Your accomplishments are just as much hers as they are yours, she raised you after all. You know better than to point out that your grandparents have spent more time rearing you than she has. She claims it’s her genes, she was considered ‘gifted’ too at your age.
You’re congratulated and treated to a movie and a meal at any restaurant of your choice. You get ice cream and indulge in what your little heart desires, simply spending time with your mother as she looks at you with a light in her eyes.
The routine follows into high school, bulletin coming in every quarter to cement your reputation of the perfect student. Your mother’s smile stays, until she forgets and waits for the next one to come and bring your worth back up to the forefront.
The lulls between your achievements are filled with harsh words. Insults and gaslighting from both her and her new husband. You continue to push through, tears staining your pillow every night.
It’s nearly 2 weeks before your second year of high school when you answer the phone. It’s the school, they’re asking for your mother. The fear that fills you should be unfounded. You’ve been a star student, there’s no reason for you to be scared of what they might possibly speak about.
Your nerves are quelled when you hear how high your mother’s tone reaches. Her fake perfect family voice. You’ve heard it at every extended family event or when she’s around her friends. She sounds charming and sweet but you know the viciousness that usually inhabits her voice.
“That’s amazing news! Of course, sign her up. She’s definitely capable.” You can only hear bits of the conversation as you wait for her to exit her office. They’re talking about you obviously but what are you being enrolled in?
It’s not long before you can hear her end the call and her steps come closer to the door. You’re light on your feet as you flee from being caught eavesdropping, throwing yourself into the couch to act as if you’d been there the whole time, uncaring about what could have possibly been discussed.
“You did so well last year that the school wanted to know if you wanted to enroll in the higher elective program so your classes will be taught differently next year.” You catch where she says that the school wanted to know if you wanted to enroll but the question never came your way.
You never had the control over that choice and you know her expectations will only grow. You would have to continue to outshine your classmates even though these ones will be on equal ground, you’ll all be considered ‘gifted’. Your grades next to the class average will no longer feel so bright and shiny.
Each year the climb gets higher. More AP programs and more challenging electives every year. Your friends are excited as they discuss the various trips they get to take with their leadership class whereas you’re struggling to lug the various textbooks from your two separate sciences courses from your locker to the classroom across the building.
It’s inevitable when you cross the threshold of your home, your mother waiting behind the door hand extended knowing the report sits heaving in your backpack. You avoid her eyes and try to slip away but she doesn’t let you off that easy.
You’re stuck under her shadow as her eyes peruse the names slowly. One by one to make sure she’s not wrong when she notices that yours isn’t among them. You try not to flinch as her lips purse, her knuckles nearly white with the force with which she grips at the paper. Her eyes are daggers you don’t need to face, preferring to keep your vision at the floor.
Your voice falters when you try to defend that you’ve just barely missed the mark but it’s useless. For the first time you don’t hear her blabbering on the phone.
Pressure like a drip, drip, drip that'll never stop
Student Council
It’s public school and these are teenagers. The student body isn’t fighting each other to be part of the student council so you easily get onto the board but that’s not enough. You’re aiming for the top prize.
Most of the other students in the room are happy enough to be part of the council itself since it’ll be good enough on their college applications to pick them apart from other candidates but not him.
Namjoon is well known around the school. He keeps good grades, not to the point of following you in your academic path but enough to shine out of the mass of the mediocre crowd. He’s popular, seems to greet everyone in the hallways as he swaggers from one classroom to the next with his group of goons.
You try to argue that popularity doesn’t make someone fit for the role but you’re overruled. The board decides to simply eliminate the vice president position and elect you co-presidents. You’re not happy about the decision but it’s better than being in a position under him.
Your expectations are met as you walk into meetings too often to find yourself the only one present out of the two. It’s nearly insulting when you can peek out of the window and see him below in the quad laughing with his friends.
You don’t need him to do your job anyway. You take on the responsibility of the position and organize the various school events. Bake sales and fundraisers, every penny passing through your fingers.
You’re furious when you see Namjoon congratulated by teachers when you pass by.
“The latest fundraiser paid for nearly all we’ll need to organize the graduate dinner this year. Those events aren’t really within budget and we need all the help from the students to make them happen. You’re an integral part of these successes, my boy.” The teacher’s hand lands on Namjoon’s shoulder with a solid thud.
He doesn’t spare you a glance as you pass by him. He’s so casual with his answer. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad it helps.” You disappear down the hall.
Pressure that'll tip, tip, tip 'til you just go pop
Cheerleading
You’re clenched, body tight as you go down and back up again. Breathe out as you fall. Your coach’s eyes are hard as she inspects your form.
“You start spinning too late. You won’t land correctly because you’re not out of the spin in time. Again.”
Your bases connect, hands gripping tightly around the other’s wrist to form the square for you to gently put your feet onto. Your arms are sore as they hold up your body weight. Eyes forward, elbows bent, deep breath.
5, 6, 7, 8
Their counts are off. You can feel it as you’re propelled upwards. You don’t go into the spin. Your gaze is pulled to beneath you, their eyes up at you completely blank. You’re veering off course and they’re not moving to adjust for your trajectory. You’re going to hit the ground.
You anticipate the thud of the hard gym floor under you but you’re met with an uneven mess of limbs and a grunt. Luckily your best friend has been on spot and has taken it upon herself to throw her body under you to break the fall. It’s not graceful but neither of you are injured. Coach calls it for the day but the inadequacy feels personal.
There’s a game tonight and the eyes that follow you through the halls are judgemental. It’s not your fault your school’s colors are an ugly mess of green and yellow. The skirt of your uniform attracts all the wrong kind of attention. Your ponytail feels too tight, pulled high with a scrunchie. Your lips are painted a too ostentatious red, you never liked red lipstick.
Cheerleading may be an extreme sport but the school board would never treat it the same as the other sports on their roster. Your work only gets to be showcased at home games paired with ridiculous pom poms that have nothing to do with the discipline. Who cares if you’re probably in better shape than most of the other student athletes. You’re made to dance around the sidelines as the boys bring in the school’s merit.
Your throat is raw from the screams and silly little rhymes you’re forced to let out to encourage idiot teenage boys. You’re shaking. Is it from the cold October wind or because you’re being held up 10 feet in the air, supported only by the flimsy grip under your soles.
Pop.
Kick.
Twist.
Cradle.
You’re back on the ground as the referee whistles the end of the game. You can only defy gravity and the burden of expectations for so long but the brief moment where you fly is relief enough to keep going.
You’re curled up into yourself in the hallway. The tears are hot against your cheeks, running without control. There’s a sharp pain gnawing at your spine, fanning throughout your back, up to your neck and down to your knees. The pain is excruciating.
You start missing too many practices as you go into physio appointments. Your therapist tries her best to bend you back into shape but you can’t move the same anymore.
Your teammates are cruel in their jabs.
“You’re not flexible enough for this.”
You can’t be flyer if you can’t bend like you used to.”
“You’re useless on this team.”
So you give up.
Cheerleading is breaking your body apart and your mother says her insurance has capped out. There’s no more money to upkeep your treatment. You’re freshly 15 when you’re told you’ll be in pain for the rest of your life.
Pressure like a grip, grip, grip and it won't let go
Humanitarian
It’s no secret that you’re extremely competitive. The mention of any type of contest gets your neurons running. The expectations thrust upon you by your mother have taken root deep within and the need to come out on top.
Your ears are ringing as soon as the words leave your teacher’s lips. You’re sitting in your journalism class, the only elective you manage to convince your mother to let you take that wasn’t a STEM related subject.
The group is made up of 7 people, each with their individual tasks from promotion, fundraising, documenting, topped with you at the wheel as project coordinator.
There’s a lot of preparations to put in place. The prize is to put the plan you’re tasked to create into action from start to finish. Your team is much more excited about the possibility of traveling to Peru to document the organization’s efforts than actually planning how to convince them to pick you to begin with.
There are too many sleepless nights. Too much pleading for your team not to get ahead of themselves. There’s a lot more to this than packing your suitcases.
The deadline comes too quickly and the document your plan still sits too empty, your cries for help falling on deaf ears. So you do it yourself. Hours spent with your teacher huddled over various promotion ideas and reaching out to various media, anything to cement your proposal as the right choice.
You’re in line at the cafeteria when you’re hunted down by one of your team members. The decision has come in and if the squeals she’s letting out are to be trusted the answer is obvious. You won. Of course, you don’t fail when you decide you want something.
You’re going to Peru.
Fuck.
You’re not a traveler. You like your routine and your safe space. You’re reminded of the two weeks you spent at sleep away camp as a child and how each of those nights were spent crying yourself to sleep. You suffer through the multitude of different vaccines you need to take to protect yourself from illnesses you might be subject to.
You miss your connection due to bad weather. You call your grandmother from the room at the hotel you’re placed at for the night. You miss her already and you’re barely halfway to your destination.
Your group finds a 50’s inspired diner in the airport and it lifts everyone’s spirits. Belly full of burgers and milkshakes you finally make it to Lima.
Your luggage does not. You’re in a foreign country with a limited and broken knowledge of the language with only the clothes off your back. You’re told your luggage will be found and sent to you soon.
It takes three days for it to happen. You suppose it’s not easy to deliver luggage into the mountainous range of Peru. The change of clothes feels heavenly after so long. The only respite to the crusty and smelly fabric that clings to your skin is the cold showers in your host family’s bathroom. The only way for the hot water to run is through an electrical device and the open wires so near the stream makes you too nervous.
Your group is more focused on taking hikes to see the sunrise or bathe in the waterfall of the forest that you visit than the actual task at hand. You watch them frolic and giggle in your peripheral as you’re bent over the laptop that holds your work, transcribing the bits of interviews you understand.
Your reservations from the village in which you stay works in your favor after all. Every single one of your team members comes down with something in one way or another. Some suffer from sunstroke (you made sure to keep your shirt and pants long and never stepping outside without your hat). Others fall to exposure from the water (you didn’t partake in the waterfall). Most are just unlucky. You’re up thousands of feet off ocean level and their bodies weaken from the altitude change or get visited by pesky bed bugs throughout the night.
You leave Peru intact but exhausted and longing for familiarity. The best part is the flights. You don’t remember your previous experience in a plane; you’d last been on one when you were 7 years old. You snag a window seat and seeing the clouds surrounding you feels freeing until you’re back home and the routine starts again.
Pressure like a tick, tick, tick, 'til it's ready to blow
Technician
You got roped into it by complete accident. There was a showcase happening in the auditorium and the dance teacher needed some extra hands to man the spotlight and film it for review later.
One minute you’re in your seat and the next you’re handling the large equipment necessary to highlight the dancer on stage. It’s hot under your touch, the light within strong enough to blind. Your muscles strain with the effort of shifting it left to right as your classmate twirls and frolics in front of the audience.
You’d never bothered to spend any time in productions. Crowds are terrifying and the idea of being under scrutinous glares is enough to make you run but you feel comfortable here. The light you project into the room keeps you invisible behind it, hidden and safe.
When the show closes the dance teacher thanks you for your help and asks if you’d be open to repeating the experience. The yearly musical needs to fill the light tech role. It’s an easy decision to accept.
You’re taken under the wing of the senior that’s been doing the sound tech for various activities held by the school. You learn what each switch and dial controls on the soundboard that’s so large you can’t reach the ends of it with your arm span while also becoming the expert of the lighting board.
He graduates that year but he leaves you with the knowledge you need to keep the work going. Technically a senior has to be ‘head’ of the team but it’s mostly in name only, the responsibility falls to you. You’re at the helm of the technical team for each variety show, musical, and announcement. You build your own little team and continue the tradition of imparting your own knowledge upon them.
Your senior year you’re finally ready to get the title, officially. Unfortunately the dance teacher has moved along and supervision of the technical team falls on an administrator that’s had it out for you for years. You dress your friend in drag one time in a school bathroom after school one time and you’re on the chopping block for years. Honestly, that’s just homophobic but whatever.
She picks a classmate you’ve been on good terms with, you’d consider yourself friends honestly. Taehyung is nice and could probably have learned the role perfectly well except it was already yours and you weren’t giving it up.
He notices how you’re always the one called out of class to help with something in the auditorium, how at every event he can see you at the top of the stacked seats seated behind the console. He not only asks to be included but dares to demand that you treat him as your superior such as his title deserves.
You entertain him for a second. Bring him up to the consoles after an announcement when the student body is filing out of the room. You’re nonchalant as you point to the boards before you. You ask him how to mute a certain microphone, open a particular light, change the output from a speaker, and no matter how many switches he flicks the result never comes.
Did you really have to humiliate him to prove your point? Probably not but did it hammer it home? Absolutely. At the next event he asks politely if you needed extra help. You turn him down, you’ve got it handled. He may outrank you on technicality but your skills will outshine him and the teachers and administration that need the help know who to come to.
The variety show is probably the biggest pain. Between having to link up all the students’ instruments and readjusting your outputs as they rotate through the acts and having to tamp down their attitudes when they claim you’re distorting their sound. Too often a greasy teenage boy in a dirty band tee marches up to your board to try and adjust your settings.
“Touch my board and you’ll be down a hand. Not sure how your mediocre solo will sound then. I know what I’m doing, maybe tune your shitty guitar and we’ll see if that improves the sound, how about that?” Putting each of them in their place brings a smile to your face.
By far your favorite is the year end musical. You’d spend the better part of the school year in the auditorium, your nose in the script learning the light cues. You’re out of class every week to be at rehearsal, moreso during tech week right before opening day. Tae’s eyes follow you as you walk out in front of him every time.
When rehearsals go into a break you bring your team up to the catwalk. You’re hidden in the ceiling of the auditorium. You could see each actor look small beneath you. You all carve your names in the crumbling cement of the beams, marking your presence as every technician has before you. A small piece you own, your little haven against the rest of the students.
You spend many afternoons after classes controlling the various lighting cues of the play as the opening day comes closer. You go in on every ped day and every weekend in the month before.
Your mother complains every time you ask for a lift to the school. She never bothers but thankfully your grandparents pick up her slack for parental duties, as they always have.
You invite her to opening night. She scoffs, insulted at the idea that she’d have to buy a ticket.
“You’re not even in the play, why would I go?” It’s clear how she views your efforts. If there’s nothing to show off that she can brag about then why bother caring about your interests at all.
You take your bow on stage when you’re invited on by the cast when they thank the crew members. There’s nobody in the audience for you.
Line up the dominoes, a light wind blows, you try to stop it tumbling but on and on it goes
College
You only apply to one college and get accepted easily. You pick Modern Languages, not a terribly difficult major to meet the requirements of. It’s in the big city and your home sits in a smaller town a nearly 30 minute drive away. You’ve just reached the age at which you could sign up for your driving courses but being able to drive in yourself is still 2 years off and your mother hates your current town.
She gives you a choice. Either move to the new town in which she and her husband bought a house, one without a room for you where you’d have to make a space for yourself in a basement and she’d drive you in and out of the city every day since she had to go in for work too. Unlikely. You know her words are empty and you’d have to suffer through the nearly 3 hours of public transit you’d need to reach both ends.
The other is to move into the city by yourself. She’s found student housing just next to the school. You’d be a 3 minute walk from your bed to your classes but you wouldn’t be with family anymore. Boohoo, tragic.
You don’t even have to think about it. The second the dormitory lets students move in you already have your boxes packed. The semester doesn’t even start for another month but the sooner you’re out of the house the better. It’s 2 weeks after your 17th birthday and your life truly begins in a cramped room, walls so close to each other you can touch them with the tips of your fingers if you extend your arms enough.
You thought the distance would make expectations diminish. The control your mother held over you just a little harder to reach. You’re wrong, of course. She might not be just behind the door but she is still right in your phone.
You’d bought yourself the coolest phone on the market at the time, the one that flipped open to reveal a whole keyboard so you don’t have to input every text through the keypad.
She has a copy of your class schedule but that doesn’t stop her from texting you in the middle of a lecture, each message increasingly impatient as you ignore her. You feel your teacher’s eyes on you as you try to appease her, pressing one key at a time slowly from within your bag while trying to keep your eyes ahead. You sheepishly run out of the room, whispering soft apologies to escape into the hall and call her.
It’s the first step you take towards establishing boundaries with her. Do not contact you during class time. It’s the least she could do after forcing you to take the maximum of 7 classes this semester. You’re barely keeping your head above water as it is, being distracted in class isn’t helping.
She appeases you. Your grades are her only fuel to showcase how she’s managed to succeed at maternity.
You’re in your Psych class. You somehow managed to sign up for a second year class on mental disorders and you already stress enough trying to catch up without the Psych 101 foundation. It only gets worse when you realize that you’re a little too familiar with the various symptoms that are outlined.
The DSM is a garbage manual and severely biased and outdated but you do have to abide by it for class. You feel targeted. Depression. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Borderline Personality Disorder. Every class feels foggy as your own mind screams for attention.
You skip half your Spanish classes for the semester. They happen twice a week but you can’t focus after your Psych class so you run back to your dorm on autopilot. One foot in front of the other until you’re in your bed, body numb.
A flaw or a crack, the straw that breaks the camel's back
You stop going to your Gym elective. You tried to explain to the teacher that you have issues with your back and that you’re trying but your efforts will look lackluster next to the others but he doesn’t care. Your grade for the class is already nearly failing and all you’re doing is adding more pain to yourself. Screw that guy.
Your lack of attendance in Spanish bites you in the ass. Turns out learning a new language when you miss half the lessons isn’t sustainable, who knew? You still attend, you sit in the back and avoid questions and look at your test papers dejectedly when they land on your desk.
English had always been your best topic in high school. You had a great relationship with your teacher and had upheld the standards of the AP program until you graduated. Your college English class feels inadequate in comparison. The teacher spends too much time explaining how to use a comma in class once and she was wrong on top of that. Your midterm essay is on Pride and Prejudice. You’re confident in your ability to create a literary analysis. You even visit your high school teacher to look over your work. He smiles and says he’s proud of you. The warmth that spreads through you is unfamiliar.
It shocks you when your grade shows up on the online portal. 62%. You’d basically failed and your teacher refuses to give you any reasoning behind the grade other than it wasn’t what she was looking for.
The only thing keeping you going is your Humanities class. The topic for the semester is Greek Archetypes and you’re thrown into an old obsession as you spend every class reading and analyzing the myths of the twelve Olympians.
You’d spent most of your childhood using books to escape your reality, fantasy being your poison of choice. You’d read every Percy Jackson book and every series Rick Riordan published thereafter. You’d escape into worlds created by others: Christopher Paolini, JK Rowling, VC Andrews amongst others.
You aced every quiz, your name always coming out on top of the list. You were so excited when the topic of the final essay was announced. Analyze the archetypes for yourself or a fictional character, a minimum of 2 pages. It was a very light assignment for a final and boy did you run with it. You easily pop out a 10 page essay analyzing the archetypes of the Golden Trio of Hogwarts in an evening which earns you a near perfect grade.
Unfortunately Humanities is your only class to end on a high note by the end of the semester. Your presence in class has dimmed so much that it’s landed you in the school’s psychologist office. It only took one class where your German teacher noticed that your head stayed bent over your textbook instead of your usual alertness to send you straight into counseling.
You were upset at first. You didn’t need help. You could handle it yourself, you were strong enough.
Who am I if I can't carry it all? If I falter?
The cloud you feel over your head clears when the psychologist can pull some strings and make your failing grades disappear. She can strike them from your record completely. It’s as if you never took them. No credits, sure, but also no ugly taint of failure attached to your name. It feels a little easier to breathe.
You have to call your mother to update her. She pays for your tuition after all. You half hoped she’d be happy to hear that you have a new slate and can start fresh. Maybe you can lower the amount of classes you take next time, it’ll take an extra semester or two to finish but you’d have a much better end result.
You’re not shocked or surprised with her reaction. The failure is stamped onto you even if it’s expunged from your academic record. You’re not enough, you’ve never been enough.
The dam finally overflows. The crack in your voice is the first fracture you can feel. The rest of you shatters through the tears falling onto your cheeks, your knees buckling from under you sending you hurling to the floor, the phone clattering onto the cheap linoleum of your dorm room.
You’re unsure if she even hears your final words, “How would you have felt if the same pressure would've pulled you under?” but it doesn’t matter. You’re aggressive as you hang up the phone and turn it off completely knowing she would immediately call back to continue the barrage of insults she had started.
The world buzzes around you. The blank white walls seem blurry through your tears. Your throat is raw. Your knees are sore.
There’s a knock at the door.
Your eyes shift up but there’s not enough energy to muster getting up. Your breath is coming in gasps and your limbs are shaking as you’re trying to push yourself to stand. Darkness floods back, your eyes struggling to stay open. There are noises around you but you can’t quite make out what’s going on outside yourself.
“Hey, it’s okay. I got you.” The voice is smooth, lower than your inner monologue that keeps screaming in your ears. There are strong arms around you. You’re pulled tight against a strong chest, hard against our back.
There’s a soft hush bleeding through the fog. Your hands which had been hard into fists are being pulled apart, fingers weaving through your own. Your arms are crossed over yourself. You can’t move, between the force in which you’re held and the hard mass behind you.
It takes some time for the suffocating feeling to ebb away and you can focus on the little things again. The wide shoulder where your head rests. The small comforting rubs of a thumb against the top of your hand. The soft reassuring words being whispered in your ear.
Your sight comes back into focus enough to peer behind you. It’s Seokjin. Of course, he’s the only one with a spare key to your dorm room since you tend to lock yourself out repetitively.
Apologies jump to the tip of your tongue, your body trying to remove itself from his grasp but he continues to hold strong. “Don’t apologize, it’s fine. I get it, it’s your mom again. Sorry I overheard, the walls are trash. Just take a second, make sure you can breathe.”
Sweet, sweet Seokjin. You’d struck the dorm lottery when he’d been assigned the room next to yours. You share a few classes and he had already been incredibly helpful in sharing notes and studying together. The friendship that blossomed between you had been so natural, you’d assume you’d known each other for years.
It’s not the first time he sees you in this kind of position, though not nearly as bad as this. He’d always burst through the room when the sounds of your erratic breathing or muffled sobs went through the thin walls of the dormitory. He’d just start a movie on his laptop and hold you as you both waited for the panic to melt away.
He doesn’t ask for an explanation but you give it anyway. You know he’ll never judge you and being able to unload the burden within you helped lighten the weight you held. His brow furrows and his jaw locks when you lay out the different insults your mother had laid upon you at the most recent update but he lets you finish. Your breath is quick again as the thoughts come rushing back, head bowing low to stomach the wave of panic.
His hands leave yours to rise up to your neck. They hold the bottom of your jaw softly and his thumbs wipe away the new stray tears that run down to meet them. “She’s wrong, Peach. You’re enough. No, you’re more than that. You’re perfect. So what if she doesn’t think you’re perfect for her. You’re perfect for me.”
His eyes flit away from yours for just a millisecond but it’s enough for the air around you to shift. He’s still just as soft as he’s always been with you but the intention behind his touch sends a flame through you. He’s licking his lips, as if he could taste the nerves on his skin. He’s hesitant, you’re just recovering from a panic attack, still vulnerable.
“Kiss me, Kim.”
And he does. Your surroundings fade away again but the screams of your earlier disassociation make way to a warmth that spreads from the gentle pressure of his lips on yours, down to where his hands still hold your face, and through your body fighting against the cold of the floor which you’re still collapsed against.
It all ends too fast but you’re endeared by the blush that colors his skin, the red of his ears so familiar. Your foreheads are pushing against each other, the only strength to keeping either of your heads up.
“You have no idea how often I want to do that.” It’s a soft chuckle that escapes him at the thought.
“How often?”
“Every time you beat me at Mario Kart, since that very first race.”
“So nearly every night since the beginning of the semester then?” There’s a teasing smirk behind your tone.
He’s quick to defend himself. “Yah! You don’t beat me every time. I win races too!”
“Winning a race and winning a cup aren’t the same thing and you know it. Sure, you won seven races last time but I won the other forty one. Not to mention the ones I won with my hands literally behind my back.”
There’s a ridiculous squawk that escapes him at the jab. “I was just being a gentleman! I was letting you win!”
“Sure, whatever you say.” You’re hiding a grin and rolling your eyes at his preposterous exclamation.
“Fine, get up. I’ll beat you right now and if I win you have to be my girlfriend.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, practically throwing you off him back onto the floor in search of your Switch.
You don’t bother telling him you’d agree to be his even if when you win.
If I could shake the crushing weight of expectations would that free some room up for joy, or relaxation, or simple pleasure?
_______________
Masterlist ||
