Summary: You and Yuta have something special. And it only comes alive in the summer, under the shining sun, children laughing in the background. Peek through their memories.
a/n: this is my submission for the summer 127 collab by @nct-writers
—
We met at a party, do you remember?
The air is humid, even at 8pm in the evening, and the festivities have slowly but surely began. Your friends have long abandoned you, making their way around the beach, mingling, catching up, stoking the campfire.
You, meanwhile, head straight to the handsome blonde man sitting a little further from the party, the light of the fire illuminating the planes of his face.
You muse at how pretty he is. And his ugly printed shirt. But you supposed he pulled it off.
Hopping onto the boulder, you give him a delicate wave with your fingers. “Hello, stranger. How’s the party from here?”
—
Yeah I do.
Yuta flashes a smile at you,
“It seems much better from here than there, thank you very much. Social interaction isn’t really my idea of a good time.”
You giggle at his forwardness, “How about we have a good time elsewhere?”
Yuta frowns at your iridescent swimsuit, shoots you a look.
“Oh don’t worry, I’m not trying to hit on you!”
He grins at you, wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Grabs your hand, the two of you running away from the fire and the drinks and the dancing.
—
You wore this hideous printed shirt.
“Your shirt is absolutely hideous, you know.” You giggle at his affronted expression.
“This is Gucci, asshole!” He tackles you into the water, fingers digging into your sides.
Thrashing around, you suddenly remembered something.
—
And you wore this effervescent swimsuit that wasn’t supposed to touch water.
“MY SWIMSUIT!!”
You ended up having to wear that hideous shirt, sprinting back to the villa for a change of clothes, the two of you laughing like idiots.
“Which idiot wears a bikini that disintegrates in water, to a beach party?” Yuta grumbles as he blows your hair dry, fingers combing through your hair, teasing the knots out.
“It was for the aesthetic, obviously. I was supposed to post pictures of this. My mom’s going to kill me!”
“Oh come on, I’ll buy you another! How was I supposed to know it would disintegrate like that? Seriously.”
—
And we were so captivated that we met the next day.
“You free tomorrow night?”
“For another beach party where everyone does cult dances around the bonfire? Nope.”
“Oh come on,” you whine, yanking on his sleeve. “I wanna go shopping! You still owe me that bikini!”
“Alright, alright. God, you’re so stubborn.”
“Okay!”
Yuta hangs up quickly, cheeks pink and and a smile on his lips.
“See you, kid.”
—
We were so infatuated that we didn’t even ask for names.
“I totally forgot to ask you what your name was!”
“Yuta, Nakamoto Yuta.”
“Woah! As in heir to the giant building conglomerate? That’s cool! I’m (Y/N), (Y/L/N) (Y/N). Socialite is the official term of my occupation, but I prefer to call it a social service.” You wink at him.
He grins at you.
“Cute,” he thinks.
—
You had this beautiful blonde hair that you grew out. I’ve always like it long.
Your hair was like, bright pink? It kept changing, I was wondering how it hadn’t been totally fried.
My hair treatments are expensive, dumbass.
Typical of you.
—
How’s everything, Yuta?
It’s okay. Company’s busy but nothing out of the ordinary. How are you?
Normal. I think I’ve really grown to enjoy these socialite events, their hors d'oeuvre and petit fours are always divine.
That’s new, you never liked those events.
—
Well, things change Yuta. You don’t wear your hair down to seem professional now, and we never thought that would happen.
You see him on the camera before you actually see him. Hair slicked up in a small ponytail, dashing in his suit, a pretty girl on his arm.
But you don’t care. You don’t. That’s what you tell yourself. You know that after hours of primping, you are far more beautiful than this temporary placeholder. Obviously.
You imagine the feeling of running fingers through his hair, pulling at the knots, picking up a hairbrush. It was soft and wild then, framing his pretty face. No matter. You seem to be getting more and more pathetic these days.
—
Are you implying something here?
Yuta’s eye brows are pinched, fingertips brushing across the phone screen.
The girl who is supposed to be his date places gentle fingers on his shoulder, asking if he’s alright, but he brushes her off.
—
No, no. Why would I be? You chose to leave, I’ve accepted it. Summer flings don’t last.
Yuta is thinking of summer. Splashing in the sea, holding barbecues, kissing in the evening.
You are thinking of when he packed his luggage the first summer you met. Sunglasses no linger perched on his head, contacts removed, spectacles in place. His hair is tied up neatly, and he’s shrugging on a blazer. “Sorry,” he says. You scream at him, slap him. His response is simply, “Sorry,” as if it could fix everything.
The second time, he leaves when you’re sleeping.
The third, you just let him go, ignore his goodbyes, cool yourself dinner and try not to cry.
You realise how stupid you are in time, how easily you forget what happened last year, over and over again. The routine doesn’t change. And really, it doesn’t have to.
—
Seriously? Summer was months and months ago.
It was. But it doesn’t matter. You still break my heart every time.
—
Forget it.
I don’t want to.
…
…
I’m sorry.
Yeah, me too.
—
Somehow, at the end of the day, Yuta always finds you at your spot on the beach during the summer.
And somehow, habit always brings you to a spot on the beach to wait for Yuta during the summer.
It could be Cannes, Hawaii, The Maldives, Fiji, Bora Bora. You’ll always end up back together, drowning in your money and the sun and each other. A chemistry only the summer sun can fizz.
It may be a fling, but what’s in a name? You and Yuta are the youngest millionaires in the world; beach parties and all the champagne in the world are an escapade from being a CEO and an upper echelon socialite. Over and over, your fingers will touch when mixing the drinks, and you’ll get lost in each other.
Then you will part ways, send passive-aggressive messages throughout the months to deal with the longing. And then comes Summer, and Yuta will wear another ugly shirt, and you a swimsuit that you can’t swim in.
There is something to be said here, with the sun shining, the ocean a brilliant turquoise, a stretch of soft white sand. Wealth doesn’t matter here, its just the giggles of children and the laughter of the two of you.
