#I don't like the angst is placed out of nowhere but this fic was BORN IN ANGST | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

husbandhoshi · 3 months

Text

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

#literally on my hands and knees begging for the tags to work #mine #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu angst #seventeen angst #mingyu imagines

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hahahahahangst · 6 months

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Oldest (Be The Young 47)

TW: [suicidal thoughts, self h*rm, violence] Other tags: [sister fic, canon-level violence, angst] All chapter titles are song titles, some of them translated from Italian songs. We start from the first season and make out way through the series. I will occasionally break canon✨ .

Summary: Emily Reed, born and raised in Portland, is preparing her admission papers for Stanford, medical school. One night, a fire erupts in her house. All that is left is a letter and a name: John Winchester.

"After reading this whole letter, call John Winchester. [...] He’s your real father."

NOTE: if you’re just starting out reading this, I suggest you READ THIS FIC ON AO3, as I posted this on there in a REVISED, somewhat EXPANDED version, including journal entries and more accurate tags.

BTY MASTERLIST

GENERAL MASTERLIST

Oldest

Trying to live up to the girl they see 'Cause I knew somebody had to be Steady, safe, and focused If I'm not sure, won't show 'em When I fall, I feel all eyes on me But I guess somebody had to be Oldest, oldest

“Another brother?” Repeated Emily, staring at Adam’s body. “Did dad not know how to use a condom?”

Dean and Sam raised their eyebrows. “Well- one thing is for sure: we need to hide him.”

Castiel walked in between the trio and touched Adam. He immediately woke up, in pain.

Confused, he started looking around. “Where am I?”

“It's okay. Just relax, you're safe.” Said Sam, walking towards Adam, who had gone from confused to scared.

“Who the hell are you?”

Dean glared over at Emily before he said anything. “You're going to find this a little...a lot crazy, but we're actually your brothers.”

“It’s the truth-” Said Emily. “see, that’s S-”

“Wait, I know who you are.” Adam raised hand to stop her. “The angels warned me about you.”

“Warned? That’s hurtful.” Whispered Emily. Sam scowled at her.

“Now where the hell is Zachariah?” Continued Adam.

Emily exhaled. “Oh, good, now he’s looking for the bald guy.”

“Emily, shut up-” Dean briefly turned towards her. “Adam, why don't you just tell us everything? Start from the beginning.”

“Well,” Adam hesitated. “I was dead and in Heaven.” He said. “Except it—it uh, kinda looked like my prom and I was making out with this girl, her name was Kristin McGee…”

Dean interrupted him, way too interested in the topic. “Yeah, that sounds like heaven.” He smirked. “Did you get to third base?” Emily hit the back of his head.

“Ignore him, Adam, his dick’s always hard.” She tightly smiled to Adam as he kept talking.

“Well, these…these angels, they popped out of nowhere, and they tell me that I-I'm chosen.”

“Let me guess…” Said Emily, opening a beer and taking place behind Sam’s chair. “They want you to ice the devil?”

“Yeah, me and Micheal, we-” Emily almost choked on her beer.

"You and who!?” She looked over to Castiel.

“That’s not surprising, actually.” He said, firm. “I think they’re moving on from Dean.”

“Are you saying that- since he’s also John’s son and Sam’s brother, he could be Micheal’s vessel?” Asked Emily.

“It’s not perfect, but possible.”

Silence fell into the room. Emily looked at Sam and he reciprocated her gaze, a vague thought forming in the back of her brain.

“Cas, does that mean that-”

“Don’t even think about that!” Sam interrupted her.

“Why not?”

“Because no- you are not Lucifer’s vessel!”

“Well I could, I mean- I am John Winchester’s child and I am Dean’s brother.”

“You’re also Sam’s brother.” Dean pointed at her.

Emily scratched her nose and looked at Castiel, confused. When he didn’t give her an explanation, she looked at Sam. “Adam’s also both- You know what, it doesn’t matter. Why would they use Adam as a rebound vessel?”

“Maybe they're desperate. Maybe they wrongly assumed Dean would be brave enough to withstand them.”

Emily barely reacted to that, still wrapped up in Castiel’s words' implications and in the logi behind it. If there was any. If Adam was an alternative vessel, she could also be one.

Her attention was only back to the conversation when Sam named her, progressively upset.

“...suddenly the angels have not one but possibly two plan Bs?” He pointed at Emily and Adam. “Does that smell right to anybody?”

Adam stood up. “You know this has been a really moving family reunion, but uh, I got a thing, so-” He tried to leave.

“Yeah, no- Adam…” Emily pushed him back on the couch he was sitting on. “Whatever the angels told you- it’s crap, okay?”

“I don’t think so.” “Why? Because they’re angels?” She mocked. “Well, welcome back to planet earth, angels are dicks!”

Sam crossed his arms. “Did they tell you they were gonna roast half the planet?” He asked.

“They said the fight might get pretty hairy, but it is the devil, right? So we got to stop him.”

“And you believed them?” Emily raised her eyebrows. Adam nodded. “Dude- it’s quite literally the apocalypse.”

“Look, Adam- there’s another way, okay?” Said Sam. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Great.” Said Adam, sarcastic. “What is it?”

“We're working on ‘the power of love.’” Answered Dean, sarcastic.

“Alright listen. You don’t know us- I get it, but please… just trust us.”

“Why would I do that?”

Emily looked over at Sam, not knowing what to say and sitting on the counter. “Because we’re blood.” She saw Dean roll his eyes again.

Adam scoffed. “No, John Winchester was some guy who took me to a baseball game once a year. I don't have a dad. So we may be blood, but we are not family. My mom is my family. And if I do my job, I get to see her again. So no offense, but she's the one I give a rat's ass about, not you.”

Emily took over the conversation. “I’m sorry Sam, but I don’t think John is a good card to play. Never.” She said, sipping her beer. “Look, Adam- I know you don’t care about us, okay?” She climbed down the counter. “But we’re your best shot. I know being John’s child can be… questionable, hell- orphan is probably better than that, but-”

“Emily, come on.” Dean interrupted her.

“What? I’m sure you have wonderful memories with the man, Dean, but not me. Not Adam. We- We’re the illegitimate children, okay? Literal accidents. You know how many times dad visited me and my mom in Oregon before she died? Zero. I never had a father until he had to take me in for some stupid promise he made when he was probably drunk.” She exhaled. “And even then- it was still a crappy experience, but that’s not the point.” She turned back to Adam. “This is not about John Winchester, this is about your mom. Wouldn’t she be proud to know her son didn’t side with the bad guys?”

Emily went to check on Dean. She locked the door of the panic room behind her and handed him a beer.

“Is this really necessary?” Asked him, nervously opening the bottle.

“Yes.” Emily leaned on the door, firm.

“You’re not letting Adam do it, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Emily didn’t answer. “Figures.”

“What am I supposed to do, uh? Let you out of here, into Micheal’s arms?”

“The kid’s not taking a bullet for me.” Dean leaned on the desk that they had put in the corner. Emily rolled her eyes.

“He won’t. Sam’s keeping an eye on him.”

“Emily, I’m serious.” Dean and Emily stared at each other for a second. Emily nodded. “I mean, think about how many people we’ve gotten killed.”

Emily exhaled. “I swear to god-” Emily turned the other way around. “If you bring up Jo- I will break at least one of your bones.”

“It doesn’t matter. You got my point. And I’m tired of fighting.” Dean paused. “Aren’t you?” Emily sharply turned back towards Dean.

“Tired?” She repeated, upset. “You’re asking me if I’m tired?” She scoffed. “Dean. I’m fucking exhausted of fighting.”

“Admit it, you would do the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

“No.” She said. “I fucking wouldn’t. Not again.” Emily crossed her arms and walked towards Dean. “Because you know what happened last time I stopped fighting?” Dean nodded, silent. “That’s right. I fucking killed myself. So, no- I’m not going to let you be Micheal’s puppet. Not over my dead fucking body.”

“You know if I really wanted- I’d be already out the door.”

“Yeah-” She sighed. “Some things never change. You’d run me over with your car if it meant saving Sam.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What are you? Jealous of Sam or something?”

“No, just- really? Dean, I’ve been in your position before. I know- It all feels like there’s no other option. But that’s not true, that’s what Micheal wants you to think.” She sighed. “Just like that was what Azazel wanted me to think.” Dean averted his gaze. “That’s right. You can avoid it all you want, but there’s no different between what I did and what you want to do. You’re siding with the bad guys so you can feel better about yourself. How did that work out for me?”

“So what-” Dean looked at her, hesitating for a second. “What am I supposed to do?” Dean flopped on a chair, surrendered. Emily sat next to him.

“I don’t know.” She whispered. “I’m sorry.”

#be the young

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bytheangell · 3 years

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I Don't Want to Keep Secrets Just to Keep You

(Written for the @sh-rare-pair-exchange! Check out the tumblr or AO3 collection for other amazing rare pair fics!) (CW: angst with an open/ambiguous ending) (Read on AO3)

There’s a part of Alastair that doesn’t want to do this. A part of him that thinks maybe he overreacted before to Charles’ desire to keep them a secret, a part that wonders if maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable to want to cover up in public what they did when they met in private. Perhaps Charles had the right idea all along...

...and then the moment his mind begins to think along those lines, Alastair gets a tight, sick feeling in his stomach and he knows that it’s wrong… or at least wrong for him. He can’t go through that again, and he’s tired of hiding. Being forced to keep his emotions behind locked doors and constantly be on guard of every instinctive glance or desire to reach out is awful. He’s tired of lying, by omission or otherwise, about what’s important in his life. About who is important in his life.

About who he loves.

Because there is no longer any doubt in Alastair’s mind that he loves Thomas, and he thinks that Thomas might love him back. He hopes that Thomas does, because that may be the deciding factor in the conversation they’re about to have.

They agree to meet at Thomas’ today - his family is out of town, away in Idris until later that night - so they have the place to themselves. Alastair is barely inside the front door before it slams shut behind him and Thomas pushes him against it, their lips colliding with impressive intensity.

Instinctively, Alastair kisses Thomas back, losing himself for a second or two. Maybe they could do this first, then talk… but he knows if he allows that to happen then he’ll never go through with it. A small part of him wants to do it anyway, just in case it’s the last time, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind he knows it doesn’t feel right, that his heart wouldn’t be in it while his thoughts are so otherwise distracted.

“Wait,” Alastair says, shifting his head to the side as he has nowhere to pull back to, his body still pressed against the door. “There’s something we need to talk about.” He’s trying to sound casual but there’s a nervous edge to his words that he can’t fully conceal, and Thomas picks up on it.

Thomas freezes around him, arms pressing against the door on either side of Alastair where he immediately boxed him in. “Why does it sound like you’re about to break up with me?” Thomas asks, and though he forces a short laugh his tone is quiet and fearful. He takes a step back to give Alastair room to move away from the door.

“Can we break up if we aren’t formally dating?” Alastair questions, immediately knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, the words coming out far more bitter than intended. “I can’t court you, or take you to dinner or for walks in the park. I can’t even smile at you the wrong way in front of your friends,” Alastair points out as he continues. He’s voiced individual concerns here and there in the past, but now it all comes tumbling out at once in his frustration.

“Alastair…” Thomas says, the name soft and pleading.

“I know you don’t want people to know. I know you’re not ready, and I would never make you do that against your will. I just… I’m not certain I can keep doing this until you are.” It feels like a weight lifted off his chest to admit. He never gave himself and Charles this chance, this opportunity to have a proper discussion about it before the whole thing blew up into a fight. Alastair doesn’t want to repeat that history, not with Thomas, not when he means so much to him.

Thomas moves to lean back against the wall, still silent. The quiet hangs heavy between them, uncertainty souring the air, and Alastair speaks again to fill the silence before it suffocates them.

“I’ve done this before. I’ve been a secret before, I can’t do it again. But before there was never any hope of being anything else. He was never going to tell anyone. We were never going to be properly happy, not the way…” Alastair moves to stand in front of Thomas now, to make sure he’s really listening. “Not the way you and I can be. If you want to wait, I can wait. But only if there’s going to be a time when we won’t be a secret. I won’t hide forever, neither of us deserve that.”

Charles was never going to allow them to be together properly. Charles would have his wife, whoever that ended up being, and he would have his secrets. Alastair refused to be that secret for him, or anyone else. He could wait, he would wait, if Thomas needs time. But he can’t stick around if there’s no hope of that future.

“I can’t keep the entire part of myself that loves you a secret. It’s too much of me now. And I do love you, Thomas” Alastair adds because it feels important to say it now. No matter what happens, Thomas deserves to know how deep his feelings run.

Now that he’s said it Alastair wants to say it again, and again, and again. He wants to gasp the words against Thomas’ skin and muffle them into pillows at night and whisper them sweetly in the morning.

Before this moment Alastair had steeled himself to be alright with however this conversation played out, but now he’s struck with the sudden fear that he may never get the chance to say those three words to Thomas again.

“Oh,” Thomas says finally, the word spoken in a breath of surprise.

“I…” Thomas starts again, before immediately trailing off.

Alastair fights the surge of panic born from Thomas’ hesitation. I love you, Thomas. I love you. Please, love me too, Alastair thinks, as if maybe he can think the words loud and desperate enough for Thomas to hear them.

“I’m sorry, Alastair,” Thomas finally finishes the previously aborted sentence. “I can’t.”

The entire world feels as if it’s crashing down around Alastair.

“You can’t say it back? Because that’s fine. That isn’t why I said it,” Alastair attempts to salvage the situation, but Thomas shakes his head to stop him.

“No… I mean, I can’t say it back, but I also can’t... '' Thomas motions vaguely between them as he struggles to find the right words. Alastair can tell he’s flustered. “I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be ready. I can’t make that promise, and it isn’t fair to you, to string you along until I’m maybe ready someday. You deserve someone who can be there for you all the time, not just when no one else is around, and I can’t… I can’t be that person.”

“I see,” Alastair says, wishing he were even half as numb as he’s pretending to be. He reminds himself that this was always a possibility, as much as he hoped otherwise. Alastair waits for Thomas to change his mind, to take it back, to realize that they’re worth the risk of promising that one day soon they can tell the world about them.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, looking everywhere but Alastair’s eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.

“So that’s it? Just like that?” Alastair isn’t sure who he’s more upset with, Thomas or himself. He expected there to be more of a discussion, or at least more of an argument, over what they’d do next. He expected at least enough uncertainty to try and convince Thomas that they could still work out, not for Thomas to be so immediate and sure in his inclination to want to end things.

Perhaps he expected too much from both of them.

“It’s probably for the best. I think we both always knew it’d end sooner or later…” Thomas says, voice unsteady.

Alastair wants to scream at him that no, they didn’t both know that. That he doesn’t think Thomas truly believes it, either. He almost does, but he doesn’t think he can survive hearing Thomas repeat the words to try and convince him.

“I suppose I should leave then,” Alastair says instead, pausing only to step forward and give Thomas a chaste kiss goodbye before leaving without another word.

He thought they were in this together, that their relationship meant more… that he meant more than something Thomas could simply throw away without even fighting for.

The moment the door closes behind him Alastair feels the tears prickle in his eyes. He makes no attempt to stop them from falling the entire way home.

---

The moment Alastair leaves, Thomas slumps back against the door and slides to the floor.

What did he just do?

Thomas told Alastair he deserves someone who’s sure, but the problem isn’t that Thomas isn’t sure of Alastair, or even of them as a couple… it’s only himself he’s unsure of. His own doubts and hesitations and hold-ups.

He should’ve said he needed time, but he panicked in the moment. He knows he can’t make that sort of promise, not when his mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusions of how taking their relationship public may go over. And Alastair is right - it isn’t fair of Thomas to force that secrecy on him for who knows how long. Weeks? Months? What if it took Thomas years to come to terms with… well, everything their relationship entails?

It isn’t just him affected by this decision, it’s Matthew and James, it’s his own family who were hurt by Alastair’s petty rumors in school. Just because Thomas heard Alastair out and forgave him doesn’t mean anyone else would, and then where would they be? That isn’t even taking into consideration his family’s reputation, the Lightwood name already under such public scrutiny…

There are too many variables, too many things that can go wrong, and Thomas isn’t sure he’s strong enough to face them. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be, no matter how much he loves--

Loves.

Fuck.

For the briefest moment, he considers going after Alastair to talk things out properly instead of just shutting them down. He hesitates with his hand on the handle of the door, because what would he be doing, really? Bringing the man he loves back to a life of secrecy and stolen kisses in the shadows? If he loves him, he should let him go, to find someone who can love him better, the way he deserves.

Thomas cancels his plans that night, and the night after, and every day for the following week, saying he's feeling under the weather. He is, in a way - every time he thinks about what happened between him and Alastair he feels ill, a sick churning in his stomach he can’t ignore. He uses his ‘illness’ as an excuse for being quieter than usual for another week, and then two, until his friends finally decide to call out his lie.

Matthew, James, and Christopher wait until Thomas has a few drinks in him to pry into the real reason he’s upset, and it’s obvious they’ve discussed this amongst themselves because there are theories ranging from Thomas secretly hating them now and planning to run away to Paris, to Thomas having an affair with a half-mermaid.

“You’re all ridiculous,” he says, with a small smile and a fond shake of his head. It’s more than he’s managed in weeks. He weighs his options and decides that he needs to tell them something, thinking that perhaps he can manage enough of the truth while being vague on the details, just enough for them to believe him and drop the matter. He knows that if he lies now it’ll only spiral into a series of curious questions he can’t control and wouldn’t have answers for, so a vague truth seems safest.

“I was seeing someone,” Thomas admits slowly. “But I made a mess of things, and I don’t think I can fix it now.”

The others descend upon him immediately. “You’ve been dating? Behind our backs?! What kind of best friends are we that we didn’t know?” James declares.

“What kind of best friend is Thomas that he didn’t entrust us with such vital information?!” Matthew shoots back.

“You… wouldn’t have approved. I dare say you’d be glad to know it’s over,” he admits, and that only serves to break his heart further. He can’t even go to them for support because they’re part of the reason he did what he did, and-

-no, that isn’t fair. It isn’t their fault he put their comforts over his own. It isn’t their fault he wasn’t brave enough to talk to them about Alastair, and the fact that he still isn’t able to only further justifies that Alastair is better off not waiting around in case he never is.

“We would not,” Christopher says from the corner. He didn’t crowd Thomas like the others but as always, he’s listening even when he doesn’t appear to be. “We would never wish for something that upsets you.”

Thomas feels his pulse quicken as he considers - seriously considers - telling them. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to tell them now then go to Alastair and beg forgiveness. But what if they react poorly? What if they cast him aside, and Alastair doesn’t take him back, and he’s left with no one?

It’s the fear that stopped him every time before, and it serves to stop him again. His whole life he sought out little moments of quiet and isolation from an overbearing and doting family, but when it comes to the friends who are a permanent fixture in his life now he isn’t sure what he’d do without them by his side, and he isn’t keen on finding out.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing a night of drinking won’t solve. Come on, Matthew, let’s get another round,” Thomas says, hoping the distraction (and the promise of more alcohol) will be enough to shift the focus away from himself. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Come now,” Matthew says instead. “Don’t be embarrassed. Whoever she is, she can’t be any worse than the sort I’ve already brought ‘round the group.”

Thomas hesitates. The temptation to let the assumption pass by without correction is strong and he nearly gives into it. Nearly.

“He,” Thomas corrects softly.

Matthew’s expression softens from the casually teasing grin it had before. “Okay...” he says, processing that information for a moment. “That doesn’t matter to us. Right?” Matthew looks encouragingly at James and Christopher for support.

“Of course not,” Christopher agrees immediately.

“Matthew might be a little offended that you have a crush on someone other than him,” James says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “But other than that…”

“See. You don’t think we’d judge you for that, do you?” Matthew looks relieved that they’re all in agreement, and Thomas wishes he felt that same immediate relief.

“No,” Thomas admits. “I mean... Maybe that was part of it. But that wasn’t the main reason,” Thomas clarifies. He knows he’s said too much now, that he won’t be able to drop it here without explaining further, and the panic rises again. He knows that Alastair wanted them to go public when they were together, but what right does Thomas have to tell everyone about them now that they’re over? “I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s over. Just… let it be over.”

Thomas anticipates the look that passes between Will and Matthew even if he doesn’t look up to see it - the unspoken communication they’ve perfected over the years, Matthew’s silent desire to find out more but trusting Will to be the better judge of whether he really should or not.

Will seems to read the way Matthew’s entire body is tense and defensive, and Thomas catches him giving a single quick shake of his head to Matthew.

“Alright. We won’t bring it up again. But we’re here if you want to talk about it; if you change your mind and decide it’d help,” James adds.

Thomas nods, grateful. He knows that this is his chance to do that, one last moment before the topic drops to come clean… and then the conversation shifts, and the moment is gone.

---

Nearly a week later, on what would be the one month mark after ending things with Alastair, Thomas has to admit he isn’t doing great. He’s barely doing fine. He hasn’t been sleeping well or eating properly, and he’s on his second stamina rune just to get through his patrol that night. Mr. Herondale almost didn’t let him go, but Thomas insisted he was okay. He needs this to feel useful, to return to something close to normal. He needs the comfort of a routine again.

And maybe he would’ve been fine if it wasn’t for the demon he happens to cross paths with. He spots the ichor first, tracking it to an alley, expecting to be able to take care of an already injured demon just fine. Except the demon isn’t injured, the blood was left as a trap - and the demon also isn’t alone. Thomas holds his own surprisingly well in his current condition, but that only lasts a few minutes before he takes his first hit, which leads to a second and third in rapid succession. Thomas stumbles as he tries to stand from where he fell, realizing he can’t feel his right leg where deep gashes leave his blood spilling onto the cobblestone below. He can’t see his side or left thigh at the moment but feels them in a similar state.

He can’t get up. Thomas struggles, but between the three injuries that leave him bleeding out on top of his already fatigued state, he can barely manage to prop himself up on his elbows, let alone stand. He watches the demon dive down at his chest with the knowledge that this is it, this is how he dies.

The demon sinks its teeth, sharp and ravenous, into Thomas’ chest… and then something pierces the demon’s head. No, not just something - a spear.

Thomas would know that spear anywhere, even as his vision begins to darken at the edges, blurring as the demon falls off of him. And then the demon’s face is replaced by Alastair’s, and Thomas feels the runes Alastair tries to draw on him, an iratze, an amisso… but Thomas can feel himself fading. He’s too injured, he’s losing too much blood too quickly.

“Hold on, Thomas,” Alastair mutters above him, but Thomas barely hears the words that sound so distant and muffled despite how close they are, despite the fact that Alastair is right there, his arms and the front of his shirt now covered in Thomas’ blood. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why he’s there, only to be thankful he gets to see him again.

“Alastair,” Thomas whispers. He barely manages the one word and isn’t sure how he’s going to manage the rest, but Alastair deserves to know. He needs to say it. Hell, he should’ve said it a month ago, and regretted his decision not to every single day since then. Each labored breath is an acute reminder that he’s out of days to waste on regret. “I-”

“Save your breath,” Alastair says, shushing him, but Thomas doesn’t listen.

“-lo-” Thomas continues, forcing the words out one at a time through gasps of air and shuddering coughs. Because this is important. And their breakup may have been his fault, but he needs Alastair to know what he meant to him - what he still means to him - if this is his last chance to say it.

“No,” Alastair says, shaking his head. Thomas can’t tell if there are tears in Alastair’s eyes or if that’s just his own vision blurring. “You don’t get to say that now. Stay with me, and you can tell me later. When you’re better.”

“-love you… too…” It takes the last of what little energy Thomas has left to force the words out. The moment he does darkness overtakes him, and he doesn’t feel the pain any longer, only peace.

#thomastair #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #tsc #tlh #the prompt was for angst and only angst so for once the sadness isn't my fault ;)#...okay at least not ENTIRELY my fault #this is entirely angst #the open ending is the only reprieve #GOOD LUCK SOLIDERS #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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