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hinaaspanda · 3 years

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...and they were (more than) roommates! | njm

Pairing: Campus Pretty Boy + Roommate! Jaemin x Dancer! Reader

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Word Count: 9576

Your easily distracted mind had made it maddeningly clear; no song, no matter what the tempo or melody, could take your mind off of your one and only roommate, Na Jaemin.

a/n; hi! for this fic i tried adding my own oc (Hina) just to spice things up!! lol totally not to insert myself as jenos love interest or anything ahaha anyways please enjoy!

Huang Renjun never thought that breaking off one college relationship would be so detrimental to your heart.

It really was such a small relationship, just one month of innocent pecks on the cheeks in between classes, weekend dinner dates, and trips around the city on your breaks. It was such a minute thing, yet your heart couldn’t get enough. You grew invested, never wanting to let go. Becoming dependent on mere goodbye kisses. And after one month of being together, you were stuck watching him drift away, fingers intertwined with that of someone new. Now, of course, one question remained; if it was such a short relationship, why in the world did it hurt your heart so much?

You sat under the brisk afternoon sunlight, gnawing at the cafeteria food as your campus friends began bickering over god knows what. You tune out the ruckus before you, your mind wandering like a lost child between the aisles of a supermarket. An image of him swims into your mind as you curse under your breath. It didn’t matter how healthy your break up was, or how put together your persona must’ve seemed. The only thing you wanted was to be in Renjun’s arms once again.

Suddenly, you felt the stares of a concerned Hina and Shotaro burning through you. Your shoulders shivering at the sudden thrust into the spotlight. Was your thinking face that miserable-looking? You sent a half-assed chuckle in the hopes of diverting their attention.

“Is something wrong-”

“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?” Your childhood friend, Hina, began rather harshly, throwing off your more laid-back classmate, Shotaro. “About Renjun?”

The soda that slid down your throat almost shot out of your lips, straight into the air as Hina stared you down, interrogating you. How obvious were you? You pondered for a little bit, your eyes now meeting Hina’s and Shotaro’s concerned ones. You couldn’t defy the truth to your overly caring friends, even if you tried. “...Yeah. I was.”

The somber air around you thickened with each passing minute as you finished off your lunch for the day. You wince, fearing your friends would, out of disappointment in your inability to shut up about your failed love life, cut ties with you right then and there. You wouldn’t blame them, though. Even you were starting to get tired of your weak, measly heart. Shotaro breaks the silence, a sweet grin plastered on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, y/n! You just need to find something to get your mind off of him!” Shotaro chirps, his upbeat demeanor infecting Hina beside him. Hina continues, a grin now lining her lips.

“How about another date? With someone new!”

You almost scoff out loud. “Another date?”

The bold figure of Hina crossed her arms in disbelief. “There are other guys out there, y/n. What about your roommate? Isn’t he single?.”

“My roommate? No! We’re just friends, nothing else!” You quickly retort, waving your hands in a very strong denial. Hina’s head tilted in persuasion.

“You’ll never know until you try, y/n.” Your head hung low as you let out the fifth sigh that day. You loved Hina, you truly did, but with these outlandish ideas protruding from her head, you were convinced she was going crazy.

...

“What? You gonna chicken out or something?” Donghyuck scoffed through a disgusting amount of food stuffed in his mouth. “You’re telling me the campus hottie’s too scared to go on a date?” Jaemin’s eyes sent nothing but death threats to the aggravating college student, sipping on the vending machine drink destructive to his health. He was offended, to say the least. Offended at how inaccurate his so called ‘friend’ was being, anyways.

Na Jaemin had it all. A decent fashion sense, heavenly proportions, good grades and work ethic. A face most people would classify as attractive, and a bright, luring smile to tie it all together. Some say he was the whole package, driving the women of the campus insane as they line up to get a simple glimpse of the school’s resident hottie. He was the campus pretty boy, but one question remained; why was he still single?

It’s been theorized by many, some believing in his virtuous desire to focus on his studies, while others believe he might just swing another way or simply not interested in the idea of romance. But one thing stayed true, Na Jaemin was not some coward who couldn’t get a date.

The pretty boy sat before his set of now intrigued college friends, Donghyuck, Jeno, and Yangyang, all riddled with such an irritating curiosity it made Jaemin cringe. It was only Tuesday, Jaemin had a tower of school work waiting for him back at home, and the last thing he needed was three idiots challenging his love life. He reached for another sip of his drink, cursing at lack of said drink in the can.

“Don’t be stupid, Hyuck. I could get a girl if I wanted to. I’m just...busy right now, with schoolwork and stuff”

“Oh really?” Donghyuck’s sly voice ticked a flame in Jaemin’s soul. He huffed out a disbelieving scoff as he leaned back on the cheap, plastic chair. Was he really doubting him? He quite literally had the entire female population of the school at his grasp, and Donghyuck was doubting him? Lee Donghyuck was bound to eat his words, as gross as a child to their ice cream.

“Yeah, I can get any girl around here, just watch. And if I don’t?” Jaemin’s eyes scour around, searching for a way out another stupid idea before finally landing on the trash pile that was Yangyang’s homework. “...I’ll do your guy’s homework for a week.”

Everyone’s eyes widened at Jaemin’s proposal, a proposal that stunted even the slyest of prankers, Lee Donghyuck himself. Was he really going all out? Sacrificing a week of freetime for some measly bet? Even stupefying the once unbothered Jeno, trapped in his own, unexpectedly unfortunate love life.

“Dude are you serious? Deal!” Donghyuck and Yangyang practically hollered, both sending Jaemin a crisp slap on the back. Na Jaemin, how much of an idiot are you?

“So, who do you think you're gonna go for?” Jeno gripped the strap of his school bag as him and Jaemin trotted away from their final class of the day. Jaemin huffed out what felt like the 100th sigh that afternoon. His eyes grazing the trees peeking through the campus windows. Surely he needed a plan, right? No matter how many girls relished in his good looks, he wouldn’t possibly survive without one. Jaemin’s palms grew cold, pupils shaking in a sudden fear. God, maybe he would be stuck writing Yangyang’s overdue essays for the next week.

“What about that y/n girl?” Jeno suddenly chirped. “The quiet one from the dance department?”

Jaemin froze in his tracks, looking synonymous to a deer caught in headlights. He tilted his head, puzzled, to say the least. “...y/n?”

“Yeah, I heard she got out of a relationship recently.”

Jaemin’s once boastful voice soon grew into a stuttering mess as Jeno walked past him, sending a heartwarming chuckle. Jeno turned around, giving one final look to Jaemin, currently bathing underneath the small snippets of evening sunlight.

“It’s just something to think about, Jaem. Don’t worry about it too much.”

...

Your legs were anything but stable as you stepped off the city bus that night. You loved to dance, but you wouldn’t be lying if you said it drained you faster than a mosquito sucking out your blood. The mustard streetlight effortlessly cascaded off of your frame as your wobbly figure began its long trek to your apartment. Sudden buzzes from your phone shook you awake一a sensation your exhausted self clearly needed一before you clicked on the notification.

Roomie :) [7:34pm]: I bought us some dinner before I got home

Roomie :) [7:34pm]: sorry it’s frozen pizza lol I’m too poor :((

Roomie :) [7:36pm]: oh also I got a favour to ask when u get here

Your mind trails back to lunch, with a familiar phrase replaying in your head for the umpteenth time that day.

How about another date? With someone new?

You huffed out another somber sigh, something you found yourself doing a lot, lately. Could you really do it? Could you finally let go of the dead weight? Finally free yourself of the heartbreak tainting you? You feel your heart clenching inside you as you fumble with your house keys. Could your heart handle another simple date?

What about your roommate? Isn’t he single?

No, your roommate didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve being bombarded with the atrocity that was your failed love life. He was too sweet, too caring to deal with anything of the sort. Besides, with how gentle and pleasant he is, it was certain you didn’t deserve him.

This wouldn’t have been the first time you held your roommate in such high regard. He really had it all, a kind personality, decent looks, and an exquisite taste in cheap, diabetes inducing food. He knew all the best coffee places and knew the perfect times to surprise you with your favorite drinks. He wasn’t just some rando who split the rent with you. He was your friend. A sudden rush of unwanted blood heats up your cheeks as you stop in your tracks.

He was your friend. Nothing more.

The golden light of your apartment blinded you as you strolled in. The figure of your roommate was cast before you, dawning his classic ivory shirt and grey sweatpants, paired perfectly with his undone hair, and a plate of steaming hot pizza, straight from the microwave. It looked nothing like the pretty boy image he left your apartment with before class this morning. It was surreal, really. Only you got the luxury to see him like this. It was one of the strange perks of being roommates with the one and only, Na Jaemin.

“Welcome home!” Jaemin chirped to your sleepy figure. He thrusted the plate of pizza to you, a smile wiped across his cheeks. “Pizza?”

...

Your heart almost leaped out of your chest.

Your trembling, sweaty palms couldn’t stop shaking since dinner, almost breaking one of your scarce dinner plates in the process of washing them. You couldn’t blame yourself, though. Na Jaemin’s proposal was nothing but calming.

“So, what were you gonna ask me, anyways?” You spat through your mouth full of rubbery pizza. God, you need to eat properly before practice. You glanced at our roommate, currently fiddling with the tips of some miscellaneous fork as he suddenly dodged your eyes.

“Uh, yea, that.” He stuttered. So timid, it was unreal to you. Usually this man had no fear of asking for favours. Whether it was doing his laundry or fixing up dinner on his assigned day of the week, he would never show any hesitation on asking you to do anything.

“Okay this is gonna sound weird, but…” Jaemin started, breaking into a cold sweat. “I need you to go on a fake date with me.” Jaemin finally exhaled before connecting his eyes with yours. The whites of your eyes spilled out, along with the juice that almost had the chance of successfully slipping down your throat. He wanted... what?

“Don’t worry! It’s just gonna be one date! I made this stupid bet with Hyuck, and if I don’t get a date soon, I need to do their homework for a whole week!” He gripped the locks of his hair as he slumped onto his side of the dining table.

You shuffled back to the dining room, clenching your paper towel tightly in your palm. Anything to help calm your rapid heart down, just for a moment. “And, you can use this as a chance to distract yourself from that Renjun asshole.”

A sudden pain struck your chest like a lightning bolt to a lanky tree, barren in a grassland. You wince at the sudden calling of that name, your taste buds growing sour. You let out another soft sigh. You really need to get over him, fast. You stretch up from your seat, hoisting up the now empty dinner plate as you trudge towards the sink. But not before stopping in your tracks, tilting your head in Jaemin’s direction.

“I-uh-I’ll think about it.”

Oh, you thought about it, alright. Screamed into your poor, innocent pillow about it, at least.

It all zoomed too fast for you, too swift for your brain to handle. Your breathing grew short and shallow. You felt as if you could die, right then and there, gripping onto your bed sheets while freaking out about Na Jaemin, your bold roommate. No, you couldn’t take up his risque offer. You were in no shape to go on another date, even if it did have no actual meaning behind it. You were too tangled in your mess of a life, and this stupid move would only fan the fire.

You can use this as a chance to distract yourself from Renjun.

The phrase rang through your head more time than you would’ve liked. No matter how much you shielded yourself from his claim, Jaemin would still be right in that manner. You needed to distract yourself, sure. But was this the way to go?

Another sigh escapes your lips as you rush down the hall of your apartment. Your steps, hesitant as ever, dripping in a mix of confusion, exhaustion and nervousness. It’s official. You are the worst at well thought-out decisions.

“Hey” you huffed at your roommate, eyeing him timidly as he washes the dishes. Something your shaken figure couldn’t properly complete without breaking a glass that night. He shifts to face you, a slightly nervous expression painting him. You clear your throat before continuing, hoping that small cough would stop time in its tracks.

“I-I’ll go on that date with you.”

His classic boisterous smile spreads across his face once again. If your mind wasn’t rushing around in four different places at once, you could probably admit that you found it the slightest bit cute.

“Really? Thanks so much! How does this Saturday at 7 sound?”

You only had the mental energy to swiftly nod your head as you zoomed back into the confines of your room, your safe space. You couldn’t help but notice the heat rising back to your cheeks as you plopped back onto the bed, vigorously scrolling through your phone to find your saviours.

the gorls and shotaro [9:48pm]: guys I need help with something

the gorls and shotaro [9:49pm]: let’s meet at hina’s after class

...

“I don’t care if you’re just going on some fake date to lie to his friends, I still wanna make you look hot!” Hina never failed to leave you, Shotaro, and probably some people passing by her house, shaken by her booming voice. With her small, fragile looking frame, she was the last one you’d expect to have such a bold personality.

“Please, that’s the fifth dress in your closet she’s tried already. It’s just a fake date, we don’t even need to try hard!” Shotaro challenges, his attention leaving a now grumbling Hina as it turns towards you. “Why did you even say yes, anyways?”

“I dunno, I’m stupid?” You murmur, the hint of bitterness caught in your breath. You give a subpar twirl to your audience, a deadpan expression shielding your face. “I guess I wanna help him? It would suck to do all that homework for a week.”

“Yeah, but he could easily ask any other girl on the campus. This is freaking Na Jaemin we’re talking about!” Hina once again hollered. An action that would guarantee her a slap on the head if you didn’t love her so much.

“Are you sure it's just for that stupid bet?”

You slip into the makeshift change room, which was really just blankets hung on coat hangers, propped across two sides of a corner in Hina’s room. After making your final decision for your outfit of the night, you change back into your own clothes, stalling your response to Hina’s question. You never knew why you felt the need to stall, though. You should know your answer by now, right?

“Yeah, it’s just for the bet, nothing else.” You find your voice trailing off at those last words of yours as you emerge from the corner, holding the destined outfit that made the cut. Hina sighed, plopping onto the bed like the main character of those dramas after they finally find out they’re in love.

“Just make sure you aren’t lying to yourself, y/n. It could hurt you.”

“Oh really? Isn’t it time you listen to your own advice??” Shotaro provoked, Hina now shooting up from the bed in irritation. “How are things going with that Jeno guy, huh?”

“I am going to murder you.” Hina’s voice stayed low, barely trembling before zooming through the door, chasing a now escaping Shotaro and his incredibly fast feet. You, however, couldn’t pray for Shotaro’s survival. Not with your mind stuck in it’s own rut, and your cheeks now glowing a violent pink.

This was just for a bet, nothing else. You reminded yourself once again.

...

“This wasn’t too bad, right?” His soothing voice swam through your ears softly, but it did absolutely nothing to calm down your heart, which was currently pacing anywhere but your chest. You mustered up all the courage in the world to glance back at his eyes across the restaurant table, your breaths stopping in an effort to hide the sudden rush of blood flowing to your cheeks. With his unbothered eyes locking onto yours in an instant, Na Jaemin sent you another one of his heartache-inducing smiles. “Thanks for helping me with this.”

This shouldn’t be affecting you this much. After all, the only thing you and Jaemin really did was sit under the restaurant roof, order dishes deemed perfect under the social media lens, and take pictures with said dishes, becoming the perfect pieces of evidence to show that Na Jaemin was no coward. However, with the romantic, first date type outfit draped onto your figure, and the general ambience of the room, you couldn’t help but feel just the slightest bit flustered. You shot him another smile, one hiding the forest fire that was your mental state. “Uh, yeah! No problem!”

Silence fell over the two of you as you listened to the clinks of glass sounding off from the dishwashing station behind you. A silence that you wanted to hold onto more than anything. But alas, Your roommate breaks it, glancing up from the ground.

“You look great, by the way.”

Your cheeks flush a deep vermillion. They’ve been doing that a lot lately.

“Thanks, Jaem.” You barely muster out, dodging his eyes. “But you don’t have to say stuff like that, this is all fake, remember?” You took the time to remind him, not fully sure who truly needed it. You fiddled with your fingers as your ears picked up the sudden ruckus of obnoxious college students coming from down the dining hall.

“You should ask her out, Jeno!” a voice chirped

“No! Are you crazy? She probably thinks I’m weird or something”

“I doubt it, you’re hot! Plus, she’s in my department! I can alway ask-”

“Guys, quick, look! Over there!”

The voices grew closer and closer, the whites of your eyes spilling more and more in utter shock. You can’t help but check on Jaemin, the same expression now burning through you. You mirrored each other so much, you could tell the exact words running through his mind right now. Mostly because they ran through yours, too. Oh Shit.

“JAEMIN!!” The voice of an irritating Lee Donghyuck rang through your ears at an alarming, and unwanted rate. The hollers of an equally aggravating Liu Yangyang from Jaemin’s class, swiftly followed, leaving behind the only tolerable one, Lee Jeno behind. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“Ahaha, hey!” Jaemin stuttered, panic overflowing in his eyes as the three intruders squished into the already occupied, two person booth. His eyes scanned the restaurant, grasping for any way to escape. Afterall, this was certainly not part of the plan. Donghyuck’s curious eyes scanned, too, his pupils finally focusing on you. “And who might this be?”

“I-I’m y/n” You stuttered out, your wrist feeling heavy as you began gesturing to the date in front of you. “I’m his da-”

A lightbulb jumped from Jaemin’s head, his shoulder jolting in response. Na Jaemin wasn’t one for outlandish pranks, especially if you were at the receiving end, which only made your thumping heart wonder; what the hell was he trying to pull now?

“She’s my date.”

Suddenly, your once isolated and vacant hand was tugged to the center of the dinner table before softly getting encased in his. His fingers, notably bigger than your nimble ones, interlocked with yours. Heat began to creep up at your ears. Who knew your hand fit so perfectly in his? You looked down, foolishly hoping that your cheeks would stop flushing into that embarrassing red if you hid it well enough. “See?”

“Oh!” Donghyuck lined his lips with a stupid grin, his eyebrows wiggling as he scoffs in disbelief. Yangyang riled up with excitement beside him, and even the calm Jeno couldn’t stop his jaw from falling to the floor. Na Jaemin did it. He really pulled it off. “I guess we’re disturbing something, then?”

“No worries! We were just about to leave, anyways” Jaemin still held onto that panicked tremble in his voice as the two of you shuffled through the restaurant booth. He stalked behind you before handing you your coat. “See you guys tomorrow!”

Your mind couldn’t help but focus on the light touch Jaemin’s palm left on the lower, small of your back as he gently escorted you from the restaurant. You felt like a princess, protected by your knight’s brute strength, as you tiptoed on your path of feathers. That darned flushed heat wouldn’t leave your cheeks. Na Jaemin, your one and only roommate, was driving you crazy.

The wind roughly brushes against your cheek as the two of you finally exit the restaurant. The breeze was the last thing you would’ve classified as comfortable, which was why you felt just the slightest twinge of disappointment once the warmth of his hand snaked away from you. His palm hugged the nape of his neck as his eyes softened from their former panic.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t know they’d show up so randomly.”

No, he had nothing to apologize for. It was your fault for being so greedy. You instinctively widen the distance between you, saving yourself from a wave of embarrassment.

“It’s fine.”

It’s official, you hated your weak heart more than anyone.

...

Three. There were three instances in which your heart was set on fire the next day, by none other than the infamous Na Jaemin, of course.

[10:49 am]

A violent GAME OVER! blasted through your ear drums as you slumped on the couch, watching your roommate die for the 70th time that evening. He let out an equally jolting groan, throwing the controller to the depths of your living room carpet before rushing to check if it was okay. You sat promptly on the couch he leaned against, mindlessly scrolling through your phone as if last night you didn’t experience the most heart-collapsing date in the 19 years of your life.

Your heart still hasn’t properly healed from it, either. Every time you pass by him in the halls, whether it be a quick snack or a glass of water, your heart never fails to tense up, your throat tightening up in a cruel response. You swear, Na Jaemin was out for your blood the moment he asked you to stay in the living room with him, even if it was to simply watch him fail play.

“Aw fuck me!” Jaemin suddenly blurted out as he examined the now loosened control button. As if on cue, an army of redness storms through your cheeks as you listen in, his simple word choice setting you off. Your head shakes vigorously enough to give you a pounding headache, before you get the chance to fill your head with certain spoiled thoughts. Wow, you really are evil.

You didn’t spare him the explanation for your sudden departure from the living room couch. All you knew was that your mind and heart were running haywire, and the only thing that could stop you from thinking about your roommate as anything but your roommate was a deep rethinking of your own morals beside your castle of stuffed animals.

[2:45 pm]

“Here, I’ll get that for you.” Jaemin’s towering figure shielded your back from the apartment kitchen as he stretched over, retrieving the ranging dish your pitiful frame couldn’t reach. He closed the air between you, his extended chest grazing your shoulder as you stood frozen, your mouth gaping open. He sends you a playful grin as he hands you the plate. “You should try growing a little more, y/n!”

You were too stuck in your questionable haze to tighten your grip on the glass plate, so it was only natural to feel the glass slip through your fingers, shards of the crisp material scattering around your bare feet. Frightened, Jaemin scurried below you, the gentleness of his fingers as he picks up each shard of glass sending butterflies to your stomach.

“Oh my god! Y/n, are you alright!?” You wanted to scoff at his face. Of course you weren’t.

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay.”

He glances up from below you, his fingers circling the new scratch on your foot that only surfaced from your astound clumsiness.

“Be careful next time, alright?”

You nod hesitantly, staying frozen as Jaemin swiftly works around you; throwing out the dangerous glass shards, running away to retrieve your first aid kit, and patching up your pathetic wound in what felt like one swift heartbeat. God, how pathetic were you?

[8:22 pm]

“Have you seen my hoodie? The blue one?” Jaemin showed no mercy to your innocent door as it swung straight into the wall beside it. You let out an award-winning shriek, your once calm figure jumping from its curled up position. “I think it’s in your laundry bin.”

What he actually had on was...minimal. Nothing but tousled, damp hair and a white towel hooked around his waist. You would let out another shriek if you wanted to, but the lack of air reaching your lungs, all from the utter shock of a half-naked Na Jaemin in your wake, stopped you from spitting out any kind of noise imaginable. You dig your fingernails into the flesh of your poor teddy bear as you shield your eyes from your door frame.

“Gahh! What are you doing?”

“Huh? Oh.” It finally clicked in his mind that his current appearance was not for the faint of heart. Not for yours, at least. You let out another ear- piercing wail. “Put on a shirt already!!”

Jaemin let out a boastful, childish laugh. He leaned over, digging for your eyes, which were currently finding anything else to lay their attention on. “What, are you getting flustered?”

Your eyes finally meet up with his as he keeps you hostage with his stare. A familiar heat storms up your cheeks for the millionth time that evening as you grip the limb of another one of your stuffies on standby. With one final whine, you chuck the plush at his direction. Your lack of looking back all in an effort to hide your glowing red face, out for revenge. “Get out!”

“You’re so cute, y/n.” Jaemin teasingly hums as he slips out of your door frame. You let out an exhausted huff, your chest loosening so much, you’re convinced you haven’t been properly breathing before then.

Na Jaemin will seriously be the death of you.

...

You knew it was cowardly, but you just had to run away. Your weak heart wouldn’t be able to survive otherwise.

You wisp into the barren walls of the dance studio, the flickering lights blinding your vision as you switch them on. You shuffle to the corner of the room, dropping your bag before fumbling with the music station. A soothing song swims through your ears as you settle down in the center of the room, an eye keeping watch of your posture. You close your eyes. Maybe this will finally calm your heart down.

You start slowly, an arm traveling artistically through the air as your legs twirl around the floor. The melody of the music carries your limbs away, leaving your mind alone to think.

They were just simple interactions, a simple slip up ending with a broken dish, a simple choice of words, a simple clasp of the hands to keep up with some measly lie. They were such small things, so why did your heart light up in flames everytime? Why did each instance leave a staining image of Jaemin in your mind, everytime?

You think back to the man that held your heart, before brutally smashing it with his own fist. Huang Renjun. He hasn’t grazed your mind for quite some time now, but this familiar feeling wasn’t exactly pleasurable. Your heart soaked itself in that same lonely feeling, the desire to cling back. You froze from your dance, expecting full well your mind would submerge in a pool of sorrow. Yet, this week was just full of surprises, wasn’t it?

Another image of your horrid roommate flies into your mind, your head mentally swatting it away like a pestering insect. Nonetheless, it’s trailed back, persistent as ever, as you grumble your way to turn off the music. Na Jaemin, wins again.

You could admit, Jaemin kept his promise at shielding your mind away from your failing love life, but he never warned you about the repercussions that were of him seeping into a corner of your heart. His risque, almost flirty behaviour, his teasing remarks, a smile that would brighten up a barren world. He just wouldn’t leave your mind. Yet, you knew you couldn’t have him. If your forest fire of a romance with Renjun had taught you anything, it was that you couldn’t love. You were too clueless, too childish to properly hold someone’s heart. You didn’t deserve anyone’s love.

After gathering your belongings, you trek out the door. You were so lost in your thoughts, not even the thing you held to your heart so dearly, dancing, could pull you out of your rut. You were in no state to go back home just yet, so your fingers trace your phone screen to look for Hina, your resident childhood friend and therapist, apparently. And you wished you had the luxury of plopping onto Hina’s bed, screaming out all your anger into her pillow as she sneaks snacks up to her room, but your horrid life had other plans.

A familiar figure stop’s in their tracks, their bag swaying in their grasp一a grasp that was almost loosened in pure shock一 as they connect their eyes to yours. You stay frozen, your breath hitching as you search for anything to say. And by the looks of it, they were doing the same.

“Y-y/n?” The voice of a flabbergasted Huang Renjun rings through your ear. “W-what are you doing here?”

...

It didn’t take Jaemin long to realize you had left early that morning. Your dance bag left an awkward space beside your night stand in its absence, the dish drying rack was already occupied, with one simple plate and a glass turned over. But more importantly, Jaemin woke up with an empty, lost feeling rumbling inside him一something he only felt when you weren’t around.

It first occurred during the third week of splitting rent, when you joined the school’s dance team. You had left the room without a trace, leaving Jaemin to search for you like a lost puppy to its reluctant owner, instead of getting ready for his afternoon class. He tried his best to brush it off as simple boredom, but with the way his vision simply lights up in your presence, even he started to get suspicious of himself.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint it at first, the very reason you always trailed in his mind. It could have been anything. Your immense amount of talent, the wisp of anonymity that surrounded you, one he strived to break to get to know you better. The angelic personality he was first greeted with once he did break down that barrier. Anything about you could’ve easily pulled his heart closer to you. He was in love.

Nevertheless, he clearly wasn’t obvious enough, as within weeks of beginning your college career, your figure was cradled in the arms of another man. Huang Renjun, resident A+ student and Jaemin’s childhood classmate.

As the days pass by, and he becomes bombarded with endless homework, the two of you slowly drift apart, returning to the simple ‘roommate’ label on your contact lists. He resorts to the abundance of girls around the campus. Hoping each one he’d fool around with could finally get his head away from you. Yet, as he always comes home just to see your face, so did his heart, apparently.

Don’t get him wrong, he felt terrible the night you trudged home in tears, the fresh sadness of a break up welling through you. And he tried everything in his power to make you feel better, though it never worked. But一 and he would rather kill a man than ever let this slip from his tongue一he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit relieved that you were finally in his grasp once again.

“So, how serious are you? About her?” Jeno quizzed through the phone, a now distressed Na Jaemin on the other side of the line. Jaemin fell onto the bed, dust particles jumping into the air.

“I really like her” Jaemin huffed.

“So? Then go tell her! You should be with her, not here blabbering about her to me. Look, you don’t have anything to worry about, Jaem. It’s not like she’s in a relationship anymore.”

Jaemin's eyes widen and Jeno’s nonchalant words. That's right. You weren’t taken anymore. Not trapped in the confines of another man’s arms. It was what he was fighting for, all those months ago. Na Jaemin finally had a shot with you.

“Are you sure you like her?” Jeno pulled Jaemin back to reality as Jaemin scrambled to the bathroom. He placed the device down on the bathroom sink, his eyes locking in with his reflection from the bathroom mirror. “Yeah.”

He chuckled to himself before ending the call, an image of you rolling into his mind. ‘Like’ would be a deep understatement. He was in love, has been for months now, and he was finally ready to tell the truth. He probably looked like a little kid hungry for ice cream, but he didn’t care. He paced out the door. He was going to finally have you, once and for all.

...

“She and I are good, yeah.” Renjun stuttered out, not looking past the drink he hastily purchased before the two of you sat down in the campus cafe. “What about you? How have you been?”

With all your might, you stopped your throat from belting out a petty laugh. How have you been? Was he being serious? You’ve been pleasant, aside from all the inner turmoil ringing through your heart at the moment. You sent a bogus smile at the man in front of you. “I’ve been...alright.”

The awkward silence suffocated you, squeezing your throat so tight, not a single sliver of air could slip through. Why did he come across you now of all times? And why did he have to be so much more emotionally sound than you were? Renjun shifted around, clearing his chest with a small ahem! You knew he was always a man who would never beat around the bush, and today was no exception.

“I’m sorry…” His sudden confession shook you to your core, the liquid inside your glass mimicking your shivering movements. Your eyes, out of pure shock, finally take the courage to graze across Renjun as he continues. “I’m sorry for leaving you like that, I know I didn’t give you that much of an explanation back then.”

Your eyes retire back to the wooden table in front of you. He didn’t need to apologize. He didn’t need to explain himself at all, not when your greedy heart was at fault. “I knew I couldn’t give you what you wanted. I wasn’t enough for you.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Renjun.” You were having enough trouble forgetting him as it is, you didn’t need this.

“I didn’t wanna lie to myself, so that’s why I left you so abruptly like that.” He explains, his fingers turning white from his grip on the coffee cup. Your breaths grow short, your mind scurrying to find the hidden meaning behind his words. All this time, your mind retired to the idea of him running away from your clinging figure, claiming that now rash narrative as valid; correct. Tearing your heart up into little pieces in the process.

“So we didn’t break up because I was being...selfish?”

“Selfish? Of course not.” He comforted. “You deserve someone else, someone way better than me.”

Your mind trails back to your roommate once again, his smile growing more contagious. You find your lips sneaking in a small smile at the thought of him. Except, this time, no twinge of sorrow had followed. Like a bag of bricks lifted off your shoulders, you were finally free. You shined a genuine grin, your first in a long while. “So, we’re good?”

“Of course, y/n.”

You were so trapped in your own childish thoughts, you didn’t notice the hasty booming steps crash through the cafe door frame.

“Y/N!” The voice of your roommate flew through your ears, striking you like a deer caught in blinding headlights. His volume was so loud, you wouldn’t be surprised if someone heard him from the outside of the cafe. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

...

Usually, Na Jaemin was laid back. Generally unbothered with a smirk lining his lips every now and then. It was one of the ways he stayed on top of the collective campus hierarchy for so long, he was always calm, cool, and collected. He always was, except for today. Instead, he was scrambling at his feet, thumbing through every inch of the school, looking for the infamous y/n.

He finally skips to the cafe, the faint scent of coffee and flavouring overtaking him. He was a panting mess, his hands gripping at the bolts of his knees as he leaned over in pure exhaustion. It was weird, Jaemin always considered himself to be decently fit. It must’ve been you, suddenly turning his world upside down.

She’s gotta be here.

As if on cue, your head pops up on the corner of his eye, basking under the afternoon sunlight which generously seeped through the cafe window. Your eyes weren’t on him, but that wasn’t the worst of his problems. His eyes travel further down your direction, his limp legs mindlessly following like a puppet on two strings. Your eyes weren’t on Jaemin. They were on someone else.

Renjun.

A familiar clenching feeling pulls on his heart harshly, so much so, that his hands reach up to palm the pain through his chest. He’s only felt this rude awakening one other time in the 19 years of his life; the moment you left the house on your first ever date with Huang Renjun. A flame ignites within him as he stalks up to the table. With his heaving breaths and awkward, stiff posture, it was inevitable he'd summon a couple of stares from various customers, but he couldn’t care less.

Usually, Na Jaemin was laid back, but because of you, he became this gross, jealous, poor excuse of a man.

“You didn’t have to be so loud, you know!” You found your voice peaking at the end of your sentence, probably gathering more attention than what you were currently lecturing Jaemin for. A blush stained the circles of your cheeks, though you were never quite sure whether it was the embarrassment of being the center of attention, or the fact that Na Jaemin came rushed and disheveled, looking for you. You cleared your throat to hide your obscene thoughts一a practice you’ve been getting the hang of, lately. “What did you need from me anyway-”

“Why were you with him.” Jaemin cut in. Although, with his stone cold frame now towering over you, his eyes; unassuming and distant, and shallow, hitched breaths, you weren’t even certain this was the same roommate you couldn’t get out of your head for the past week. You simply wave your hand away.

“We just happened to meet up by accident, and we got to talk some stuff out, that's all.” You prayed that your calm voice could soothe the currently tempered man before you. Of course, however, it didn’t.

“Was it really?”

“Yes! Okay, Jaem? What’s with you today?”

“Don’t visit him anymore.” His voice boomed towards the end of his sentences, startling even the finest of nature as two innocent birds fly away in fear.

Something didn’t click, didn’t sit right in your head. Since when was he so demanding? So rude? You found yourself slowly backing away from his figure, an action you thought you’d have to do in your life. Before, he was always a safe space for you, even without your confusing feelings for him. He was always there for you. But now, the air around turned gray, and you were scared more than anything. You scoff, throwing Jaemin off.

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“I’m only worried for you, y/n.”

“Worried about what, exactly? That I’d get back with Renjun?” You stand firm before him. Y/n, what the hell are you doing now. To your own dismay, you continue. “Why would you care about that anyways?”

“Am I not allowed to care about you!?” He practically hollered at the top of his lungs. A fire welled up inside you, with no way of fanning it down. Who does this guy think he is?

“Last time I checked, we didn’t have anything real! Everything between us was all a damn lie! So no, maybe you don’t!”

You lay one final blow straight to Jaemin’s chest, knocking him down like a line of concurred dominoes. Your heart clenches in a cruel response. You were right, factually correct, but the truth always came with a price. Spectators began to crowd around the scene, as a fuming Jaemin stalks towards you, closing the distance between your shoulder blades and brick wall behind you.

“WELL MAYBE I WANTED SOMETHING REAL!” Jaemin retorted, eyes holding a flame you never thought your calm roommate could ignite within him. The air around you grew cautious, the only things sounding off were the weary engines driving past the scene of the crime. His breath grew shallow as it brushed against your skin, your trembling figure watching as he let out an aggravated sigh. His fingers, laced in irritation, comb through his hair as he softens his voice into one final whisper.

“But you don’t want anything like that, right? ‘Cause you’re still caught up with that Renjun asshole?”

“Jae-”

“Forget it” Jaemin spits, his eyes finally dodging yours. He backs away from your trembling figure, his hands buried in his pockets as he quickened his pace away from you. Jaemin hissed under his breath, everything finally clearing up in his head. You didn’t want him, You were never ready to move on. It’s official, Na Jaemin couldn’t have you, and he never will.

...

Your brain always had a knack for remembering things, keeping random nuggets of knowledge stored deep within random crevices of your head. Your brain always had a good memory, and today was no exception.

Forget it.

You could probably liven up a lifeless desert with your endless tears that stained Hina’s pillows that night. It would be life or death to retire properly to your own home, not with the atrocity that was this afternoon still thriving in your wake. One more bottled emotion, and your body would simply burst out of existence. You could only properly pinpoint three of them; exhaustion welling up in your feet, confusion tearing through your brain, and guilt overflowing in your heart.

“What am I gonna do?” you weep through the flesh of Hina’s teddy bear. After tossing the empty pop can into her makeshift trash can, Hina plopped onto her bed beside you, drilling a finger straight into her temple. “You need to tell him how you feel, y/n, you can’t just leave him in the dark like that. That’s probably why he got so riled up.”

Your eyes shake as they stay on the ground. Hina shuffles around arms crossing in a full interrogation. “You do know what you want, right?”

Slowly, and without much thought pulling at your strings, you slowly nod. “Well then, what is it?”

An image of your roommate shines into your head once again. The kind roommate you had the great luxury of coming home to, the one always saving you a slice of frozen pizza for when you arrive, the one who reaches the irritating dishes at the top of the cupboard, the one you couldn't get out of your mind. His heartwarming demeanour, his charming smile, his everything. You can’t lie to yourself anymore. With a twinge of determination, you lock eyes with Hina.

“I want it all to be real. I wanna be with Jaemin.”

Hina rested her back onto the plump mattress, a smug grin lining her lips as she crossed her arms in pride. “So you’re finally gonna start listening to me, hm?”

...

“Are you sure about this, Jaem?” Yangyang has never一in Jaemin’s two years of knowing him一sounded so concerned for his friend’s wellbeing. It sent shivers down his spine, how pitiful Jaemin must’ve looked right now. His fingers grasped the horrendous stack of papers; one wrong move could easily decorate the floor with the homework, and Jaemin was...concerned, to say the least.

“Why are we even doing this? You won the bet!” Donghyuck hugged his own stack close to his chest as the three boys watched Jaemin’s head sink low to the floor, and watched his heart sink even lower. “Yeah, about that...”

Even if the truth hurts, it needs to be said, right?

“...Y/n wasn’t my date at the restaurant. I never asked anyone out, actually. The truth is… she’s my roommate. I only asked her out on a fake date so I could keep the bet going.”

Jaemin felt the confused, yet somber stares of Jeno burn through his skin. It only made sense that Jeno had a few questions; Na Jaemin’s beaten up, hunched over figure was nothing like the lovestruck, head-over-heels Jaemin he’d witnessed just a couple of days prior. “But it didn’t work out that well with her, so here I am, ready for the punishment.”

It struck Jaemin’s chest more times that could count, slashing at his heart, his pride, everything he loved. How could he be so foolish? Convincing himself his simple crush could ever reciprocate his feelings. Could ever love him back. Nevertheless, it was more clear now than ever before. To you, he would always just have one label; a simple roommate.

“Jaemin-” Donghyuck reluctantly brushed his palm on Jaemin’s shoulder, his best excuse for a peace offering. Jaemin, however, finally snapped, shooting a glare through the eyes of his rather persistent friends.

“What? You were right, okay? I can’t get any girl I want. I really am just a coward, so I deserve this!” Jaemin slumped his figure一drenched in a sorrow he’s gotten quite familiar with, as of late一into a cheap, cafeteria chair, his heart leaping through his throat.

“She was the only one I wanted, anyway, so what’s the point?”

“I think you got a few things wrong there, buddy.” A familiar voice rang through Jaemin’s ears. The whites of his eyes spilled out of their sockets as Jaemin shot up. You couldn’t blame him, though. The last thing he expected to see was his childhood classmate, Huang Renjun, before him. “You still have a chance with y/n, Jaemin.”

Jaemin sent a rough hiss at Renjun before slowly backing down at Renjun’s unnaturally calm demeanour. “What?”

“I’m not after her anymore, nor is she after me.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Then why-”

“It was an accident, we didn’t mean to meet up like that. And that talk at the cafe? It was all for closure. It was something she and I both needed, a lot, if I might add.”

“So… you weren’t trying to get her back?”

Renjun squinted at the utter dumbassary currently blinding him at the moment. “No, are you stupid? I have a girlfriend. And besides, when she first saw you barge into the cafe, her flustered reaction tells me she feels the same way, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Heat rushed over to Jaemin’s cheeks, the cause being a 50-50 blend of pure embarrassment一from letting his jealous heart take over his mind一and the simple, but beautiful thought of you. Everything started to fall back in their rightful places. His head was finally cleared, his anger had finally wisped away. And more importantly, you were moment’s away from being his. Moments away from retiring the ‘roommate’ label.

Donghyuck leaped from his seat. A directing hand pointed towards the dance department wing as Donghyuck shifted into his ‘fight or flight’ stance, riling up with energy. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR? CONFESS!!”

Without any further hesitation, Jaemin shot from his seat, his eyes etched with determination, and his heart moments away from bursting through his chest. Donghyuck let out a defeated sigh, arms crossing in disappointment. “God, I can’t believe the campus playboy is such a wuss!”

...

Your easily distracted mind had made it maddeningly clear; no song, no matter what the tempo or melody, could take your mind off of your one and only roommate, Na Jaemin. It also didn’t matter that you spent a whopping one night without his bedroom just across the hall from yours; as your heart was still drenched in the guilt you couldn’t seem to get rid of. However, one thing was made clear that night. Your heart purely and utterly belonged to Na Jaemin alone. Only one thing stayed in your way; he may more may not hate your guts now.

Your palms dripped in a cold sweat as your limbs begrudgingly swam in the air. It was bad enough your dance instructor gave not one, but two lectures about getting distracted to blow your ears dry, but even after that public display of embarrassment, your head couldn’t stop recounting the different ways you could finally tell Na Jaemin the truth; the whole truth.

I want the real thing with you

I don’t just want something fake, Jaemin

I wanna be with you

That last statement threw your cheeks into a heated, rosy frenzy. You cup your hands attempting to hide your horrid thoughts as your dance instructor, with a few deadpan words, sets your class free for the evening. You scurry to the corner, peacefully shoving your things into your bag when Shotaro’s voice suddenly rings behind your ear.

“Y/n? Oh yeah, she’s right over there.”

“Great, thanks.”

You freeze on the spot. You could recognize that voice from a mile away. It was almost concerning on your part.

“Y/n!” The voice yelps, in a tone you hadn’t heard in a while. You smile under your breath. You missed his cheerful voice. You slowly prop up, dropping your bag to the depths of the dance room floor. You pivot on your heel, your chest coming face to face with none other than Na Jaemin, in the flesh. “I need to tell you something.”

After scrambling out of the dance room, certainly not attracting the attention of any unwanted instructors, the two of you hide behind the studio entrance. Jaemin stood just centimeters before you, his breath shivering despite the warmer weather. Although, and you wouldn’t be surprised, but this warm sensation could simply be deriving from your cheeks, which was nothing new.

“I’m sorry I lashed out at you yesterday, I never wanted to be mean to you or anything, I was just… heated, yeah.” Jaemin finally began, scratching the nape of his neck. You didn’t like the fact that he was the one apologizing to you, when you knew it should’ve been the other way around. “You don’t need to say sorry, Jaem. I lashed out too and-”

“I was being all selfish, when I really should’ve been thinking clearly. I-I was jealous when I saw you two together, and I couldn’t take it.”

You stopped dead in your tracks. Jealous? He was jealous?

“Truth is… I’ve liked you for some time now, probably ever since we first met. And while the fake date was really fake…” His eyes finally lock yours up, keeping them hostage in his determined glare. “...I really wanted something real between us.”

Jaemin’s hand reached down, cupping your nimble fingers in it as he kept his eye contact tight. His breath hitched as he eyed you, all flustered and adorable with your eyebrows furrowed in a hopeful confusion. Everything about you made him want to cradle you in his arms, never letting go, forever.

“Can I be more than just your roommate, y/n?”

You stayed frozen, mouth gaping wide open at every confession he threw at you. You stayed so still, the only thing visibly moving on your body was the rapid blush zooming through your ears and cheeks, except this time, you didn’t feel the sudden urge to hide such a sensation. Your mind didn’t carry the necessary brian capacity properly function, so naturally, your arms did the job for you.

Your palms cupped the edges of Jaemin’s jaw, a sudden confidence surging through you as you pulled him closer. The tips of your noses collide moments before the surfaces of your lips. You melt into a passion filled kiss, a kiss that’s been pending since the day you first moved in together. Jaemin hugs the small of your waist as you hug his neck. Instinctively, your stomach tucks itself, hiding the embarrassing butterflies fluttering within it. You felt like a celebrity, kissing the campus’ pretty boy; Na Jaemin. Your eyes flicker open.

“Of course you can.”

Your’s and Jaemin’s world crashes back into reality at the sound of a pestering holler, one which Jaemin could only sigh in grief to in response. You turn around only to find a snooping crowd right behind you. Shotaro, joined with two of Jaemin’s friends you first met at the restaurant; Yangyang and Donghyuck, jump for joy at the sight of you two, while a distressed Hina rips her hair out at the fact that she missed the most world shattering confession scene known to man. Jeno, to the right of her, calms her down in a heartbeat. Those two were really perfect for each other. You turn back to Jaemin, a wide grin now taking over his face. He tightens the grip around your hand, a hand that you noticed he’s never let go since he first arrived at your department.

“Do you have another class after this?” “No, why?”

A sly smirk lines his lips as he raises an eyebrow. “Then, shall we go home, darling?”

Gosh, he was such a dork. “Of course.”

…

The long awaited kiss between Hina and Jeno was much more dramatic than any first kiss you could’ve imagined. In fact, it was practically ripped right out the current episode of the drama you and Jaemin had settled down to watch. The air was filled with cheerful hollers roaring from Yangyang and Shotaro and the pathetic wails of Donghyuck realizing that一with Shotaro’s crush on the new girl on campus and the random girl Yangyang met online一he would be the last one standing in the terribly single committeeTM. Jaemin grumbled beside you, his head tucked under your chin as you sat cradled in his arms

“Jeez, Jeno’s stealing my thunder!”

“Let them live, Jaem. They’re in love.”

Jaemin huffed with over exaggeration. “I can’t believe Jeno would betray me like that!”

You pulled Jaemin’s chin up, his face now inches from yours. “Why don’t you forget about them, alright? Just focus on me instead.”

The two of you lean into a kiss, basking in the afternoon sunlight that was peeking through the campus roof. It didn’t matter who was around you anymore, whether they were random strangers or your annoying yet close knit friends. You had already won at life, being the girlfriend of the infamous Na Jaemin; your very special roommate.

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a65232-joshywoshy · 4 years

Text

Colorado Crybaby

Warning: The following chapter depicts scenes of violence and may not be suitable for all audiences. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 6

The sun shined brightly through the bedroom window. Two women were asleep in a bed.

“Good morning, Rachael.”

Rachael jumped. She forgot that there was a person in her house. Who is in my house?! Oh no. I’m about to be raped or murdered.

Penny spoke more softly. “Good morning.”

Rachael was awake enough to catch up to what was happening and she remembered all the details again. That voice was Penny. Penny had spent the night. Rachael had only 1 bed in this house right now. So Penny had woken up next to her. No danger. It’s just Penny. Penny is safe. Penny is in my bed. PENNY IS IN MY BED. The thought was partly terrifying and partly exciting. Her co-worker of several years and best friend had slept in the same bed as her. How do normal people act with a hot girl in their bed? A hot girl. Rachael’s mind repeated the phrase again. Why did she say that? Penny had said she was bisexual. She remembered being stunned by seeing Penny in her pajamas last night. Penny was hot. Rachael liked how Penny looked.

“You’re right, Penny.” Rachael’s voice was a little deeper, having just woken up. “I am bi.”

Rachael turned over to look at her friend’s face.

“And I admit now. You, Penny, a girl, are hot to me.”

“I KNEW it!” Penny smiled and let out a soft squeal. “We could date each other, you know. That’d be fun.”

Rachael was blushing again. “No. Penny! I’m only just now finding this out about myself. I mean… it would be, I guess, pretty fun to date you…”

“Exactly.” Penny kissed Rachael gently on the forehead.

“Palpitations. PALPITATIONS!” Rachael blushed yet again. “We’re… we’re co-workers, though. You’re kind of my boss.”

“No. Mr. Pendleton is your boss. I mean, I kind of have some influence over you, but… I don’t know. It’s not like everybody has to know.”

Penny got out of bed.

“We should get dressed and start the day.” Penny grabbed the bottom of her pajama shirt and slowly started to pull it up. “Should I change... right... here?”

“Oh my god!” Rachael threw her head under the covers and Penny laughed.

“You are the most adorable thing. I’m not going to change in front of you... Yet. I would melt your brain for the rest of the day if I did that. Wouldn’t I?”

“Why are you torturing me with your beautiful body?!?!” Rachael was still hidden under the covers.

“Because I know I can now. And it’s fun. I’ll wear my work clothes from yesterday. I don’t think I can fit in your clothes after all. I have boobs. You have less boobs.”

“Thank you. I only have 2 casual outfits anyway. They’re a little small on me, so you would just…” Rachael daydreamed about what Penny would look like in her white tanktop and denim shorts. “Yeah.”

From the bathroom, Penny continued the conversation.

“My voluptuous figure would pour out of it like champagne? Which is a polite way to say I’m fatter than you.”

Rachael quickly corrected her. “You’re not fat. No. I didn’t mean…”

“I’m kidding. I don’t think I’m fat. I like how I look. There.”

Penny emerged from the bathroom back in her work clothes.

“We’re definitely going to my house so I can change into more comfortable clothes, and for your sake, less attractive clothes.” Penny smiled.

“That’d be nice. I’d really like to stop thinking about you that way.”

“I don’t mind it. You’re pretty, too, you know. You do need to get dressed, though, sleepyhead. And don’t strip in front of me. I’m not ready to have sex with you.”

Rachael blushed again. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You told me to change and my brain was like ‘Must obey. Must change.’ You… You can do things to my brain that no one else has ever done before.”

Rachael picked up her tanktop and shorts to go change.

“I kind of had a feeling I was able to do that. Even when we first met, you seemed to have this kind of… awe towards me. That’s why I want to see that you’re well taken care of. You’re too precious to get hurt.”

“Aww.” Rachael was getting dressed in the bathroom now. “Thank you for caring so much about me.”

“Caring for you has this weird… automatic instinct for me, too. When you got outed in Anaheim I didn’t hesitate. I just ripped you out of there as fast as possible. I had to protect my girl.”

“That’s one of the many reasons I love having you as a friend, Penny. You’re just amazing like that.”

Rachael opened the bathroom door. Penny looked over her.

“I love it. You look so ‘White girl.’” Penny smiled. “But seriously, though, you are super cute. I can’t remember the last time I saw you in street clothes. We both work too much.”

“Why can’t I make you melt like you made me melt? That’s not fair.” Rachael started cleaning out her purse so it only contained the essentials for the day.

“I’m immune to your powers of hotness. Mwa ha ha. We’ll take my car for our shopping trip today.”

“Sounds good. I don’t like driving much.”

The two went downstairs to Penny’s car. Rachael locked the front door behind her. Penny’s apartment was in downtown Denver. It was a small apartment near Sloan’s Lake. It was a 25 minute drive from Rachael’s house to Penny’s apartment. They talked for the whole drive. Since they were finally having a conversation outside of the workplace again, they had a whole list of things to talk about. Penny questioned Rachael about being bi, but Rachael’s answers were often just ‘I don’t know.’ Rachael wanted to talk about that topic more with her friend, but she was still trying to process it all internally and needed lighter topics while her mind digested her new reality.

When they walked into her apartment a few minutes later, Rachael thought Penny’s apartment was wonderful. It was recently remodeled and looked luxurious on the inside. Penny had just the right amount of decoration. It was all tasteful, elegant and modern. Some of the art on the walls was video game themed, but still fit the styling of the other modern decorations.

“I didn’t know you played video games.” Rachael said, as they toured the apartment.

“Occasionally. I like the art more than actually playing.”

“I’m disappointed in the amount of mess, though. You said your home life was a mess. This is a fantastic mess, Penny.”

Penny pointed at her head. “This home. My personal life. My life choices at home. I didn’t mean my house was a mess.”

Rachael looked in her bathroom and noticed a dildo on the floor.

“See? Dammit.” Penny quickly shoved the dildo in a drawer, embarrassed.

Rachael teased her now. “Oh no. A dildo. Penny has NEEDS!”

They both laughed.

“Look, kid. I don’t need your sass.” Penny joked.

They ended the tour in Penny’s bedroom. There was another dildo on the bed.

“Holy cow. You are the horniest woman I know! Do you have a dildo in every room?”

Now Penny blushed as she stashed another dildo in a drawer. “I have a high libido, okay? Would you get out of here so I can change, you brat?”

Rachael laughed. “Yes ma’am.”

Penny changed while Rachael wandered the apartment, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the private life of Penny De LaCruz. At first glance, the apartment seemed normal enough. A bookshelf in the living room held several books that focused on the artwork of video games. The walls were decorated nicely with stylized video game art. Penny had turned on music in her room. Rachael didn’t recognize the artist, but she heard a strong female vocalist singing. The air carried a hint of coconut and vanilla from wax warmers in other rooms. The apartment was kept clean, an easy task, since Penny was only here to sleep most of the time.

“There. How do I look?”

Penny came into the living room wearing denim jeans and a loose fitting short sleeved shirt. The jeans had a tear mid-thigh, obviously designed that way. On her feet were pink and grey sneakers with ankle socks.

“Beautiful. And I don’t go nuts when I look at you, now! A+. 5 stars.”

Penny laughed. “Let’s go shopping, then.”

They left the apartment and drove to a nearby home decor store to begin their shopping trip. This store would most likely have the lamp, nightstands and mirror they wanted. They walked inside and quickly found the lamp aisle.

“Here you go.” Penny said sarcastically. She pointed to an antique lamp that was brand new, yet looked ancient. “This is adult enough for you, right?”

“Please don’t put that in my house. Ew. I can’t believe people buy some of this stuff.” Rachael’s attention was drawn further down the aisle where a large floor lamp with multiple arms branched out. The small shades over each bulb were brightly colored with bright silver arms going back to its base.

“That’s pretty.”

“Penny! I want it! I know it’s not a nightstand lamp, but I want it! I am so getting this.”

Rachael loaded the large box into their cart, a big smile on her face.

They continued to walk around and shop, getting twice as many things as they came for. They were nearly done shopping at this store when a man walked up behind Rachael.

“Hey. How are you?” The man said.

“Good. Thanks. You?” Rachael turned and looked over the man, checking to see if she was supposed to recognize him, but she didn’t.

“I’m good. I just wanted to let you know there’s a huge sale happening behind this building.”

He didn’t give anyone time to respond.

“Let’s head back there and check it out. They have this same lamp for 90% off. We have to hurry, though, or they’ll sell it.”

Penny tried to cut in. “It’s behind…” He cut her off.

“Yeah, it’s behind the store. We have to go right now. We can’t miss this deal. They probably have everything in your cart back there. Let’s just go.”

He reached out and grabbed Rachael’s arm.

Faster than Rachael could blink, Penny was behind him and had a switchblade knife to his throat.

“Let her go. Now.” Penny hissed.

“Fuck, man.” He dropped her arm. “It’s just a sale, shit. Fuckin’ ungrateful bitches.”

Penny pointed the knife at him as he backed away.

“Fuckin’ crazy ungrateful bitches.”

“Fuck off, asshole!” Penny roared. “Let’s go.”

Penny put one hand on Rachael’s back and the other hand on the cart. Before Rachael had a second to think, they were at the checkout.

“There’s a man in this store who grabbed my friend. He said there’s a sale happening behind the store? I think he wanted to take her.” Penny explained what happened to the slightly terrified cashier. Rachael began to shake a little.

“I’ll get security.” The clerk talked quietly. She picked up the phone and made a page over the intercom. “Cleanup on aisle 42.”

The store was fairly large, but there was no aisle 42. Within seconds, a security officer was by their side.

“Are you ladies alright?” The officer quickly looked at the girls, then around at their surroundings.

“Yes, sir.” Penny said. “Some crazy white guy said there’s a sale happening behind the store and tried to take my friend. He’s about my height, crazy hair, needed to shave.”

The security officer quickly got their information from them and escorted them out to their car. He assured them they would check the security cameras and someone would be in touch to ‘resolve the issue’. Penny knew there wasn’t much they could do, but they loaded the stuff and they were safe in Penny’s car again.

Rachael sobbed.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I know that was scary for you. I’m kinda terrified myself. Are you okay?”

“I’m *sniffle* I’m okay. *sob* You! You you you! With the knife and the guy!” Rachael continued sobbing again.

“Me?”

“My girlfriend is my bodyguard!” Rachael threw her arms around Penny, squeezing her tight.

“Bodyguard? Girlfriend? I mean…”

“You were SO BRAVE! You told the mean man to go away and he DID! And you OWNED HIM! You were like WOOSH! And that made him leave! You’re my big strong protector!!!” Rachael sobbed some more.

“Oh, kiddo.” Penny stroked Rachael’s hair gently. “It’s okay now. We’re okay.”

They hugged for a few more minutes. Penny managed to pry Rachael off and buckled her up. She drove to a nearby restaurant for lunch and ice cream. They used the drive through and ate in the car.

“Okay.” Rachael licked her ice cream cone, then let out a shaky breath. She was still reeling from what had happened. “So that happened.”

“I hate men.” Penny stared into the distance. Her face seemed to suggest she was imagining strangling many different men.

“Me too.”

“Are you going to be okay shopping, or do you just want to go home? And what about clubbing tonight?”

“I don’t want to spoil your fun.” Rachael looked disappointed.

“Sweetheart, some stranger just tried to grab you and do who knows what. If you want to go home, I have no problem taking you home. We do need to make at least 2 more stops, though. But I want to pack a bag to spend one more night at your house and then get something from one more store.”

“I still want to go to that club tonight. But I don’t think I want to shop anymore. I’m pretty much done shopping for the weekend. I have groceries being delivered on Tuesday, so that’s already covered. I basically got everything I need. I’m still okay to do other stuff.”

“Are you sure, Rachael?”

“Yeah. As much as this whole situation sucked, I don’t want men running my life, either.”

“Amen to that. Okay, kiddo. Finish your food, then buckle up. We’ve got places to go.”

-----

13 notes · View notes

softjeon · 5 years

Text

Devil’s Hand | Final

• Pairing: King!Namjoon x Jungkook • Side-Pairings: Namjoon x Jimin | Namjoon x Yoongi | Prince!Hoseok x Jungkook • Genre: Angst / Smut | Royal!AU ( → Gifset Trailer) • Words: 9,8k | Co-Writer: Cat @cassiavioletblue • Disclaimer: alcohol, abusive relationsships, abusive behavior, (sexual) violence, major character death

↳ There had been rumors, but in the end it was not really a secret that Namjoon loved delicate and beautiful things. Especially when it came down to his lovers and his castle. It was decorated with lot of flowing, long blue curtains, colorful paintings in every room, rows of marble columns leading along every aisle. There was a large garden surrounding the palace, which was by far Jungkook’s favorite place to be – next to the king’s bedroom.

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A/N: Just a reminder to be aware of the disclaimers for this chapter! Thank you!

When Jungkook finally looked up, the sun was already setting low on the horizon, illumining the clouds with rosy tints. He sighed deeply and rose from ground when there was someone behind him. “The king is asking for you!” The maids stern tone made Jungkook jerk around, wiping over his eyes quickly to get rid of the tears. He didn’t need more evidence of his own softness. So, Jungkook nodded, telling the maid that he would come as soon as possible. Smiling faintly at Taehyung, he hugged him once more, thanking him before he made his way up the stone staircase to the king’s chamber. He was panting when he finally made it. So, Jungkook tried to take a few deep breaths and then knocked on the king’s door, letting himself in right after.

“I apologize,” He said quietly, averting his gaze down to his feet. Jungkook stretched out his hands for Namjoon to see, “I...I burned myself pretty painfully. I asked for the maid to bring you the tea...so, so I could take care of it a little.” Jungkook bit his lip, scared that Namjoon wouldn’t believe him again, thinking that he used it as a way to get away from him or meet up with Hoseok again.

Namjoon gripped his wrists and pulled him closer, making him stumble forward. He examined his palm and then sighed deeply. “You idiot. Can’t you take care of yourself? What should I do if you injure yourself, hm? Take someone else? You know it doesn’t work like that. I need you and only you. So, try not to do it again. Go to my personal doctor after this. Have him take a look. I want you healed as quickly as possible. And if I ever feel like you do this to get more rest then I’ll make sure you won’t even remember what rest feels like, understood,” He waved Jungkook closer. “Now come here.”

“Of course, my king. It won’t happen, again.” He spoke fast, his eyes still a bit teary but Namjoon probably waved it off that it was from the pain. The young servant nodded quickly and only hesitantly moved closer to Namjoon when he ordered him to do so, not sure what the king needed from him now. Looking up at him, Jungkook blinked a few times. Being so close to him, he could feel Namjoon’s heartbeat, the warmth coming from him and all he wanted was to wrap his arms around his waist and feel safe again.

“Sit down.” He let Jungkook sit onto his thigh were the younger could sit comfortably while Namjoon could still look at him. “You know that after everything you’ve done you’re still important to me. Even though you betrayed my trust I still want to keep you close to me. You’re the one that knows me best. No one else can see me like you are allowed to. You know that’s something special, right? Letting you see me in private all the time?”

Jungkook held onto Namjoon, feeling nervous out of a sudden with the way the king was talking to him. “Y-yes,” He averted his gaze when the guilt washed over him again. And still he couldn’t stop his mind wandering towards Hoseok the moment Namjoon talked about it. He hadn’t seen the prince for a while now and he wondered if Hoseok was missing him? With horror, Jungkook realized that he was only half-heartedly listening, so he quickly returned his attention to the king. With shaking hands, Jungkook reached out for Namjoon pulling a string of hair aside and smiled. “I…I am yours, my king.”

“I know that you are. I would never allow for you to leave me.” He leaned in, kissing Jungkook right on his mouth in a surprisingly sweet, non bruising way. “Now get off and go to your quarters to rest a little. I’ll expect you to be here at lunch time again. Don’t let me search for you. Be nice. Maybe I’ll think about cutting you some slack next week. You’ve been good, Jungkook. If you weren’t so easily seduced by illoyalty you’d be the best.” He made Jungkook get up and reached for the tea. “And next time you can’t make my tea please make sure the person doing it for you knows what they are doing.”

Jungkook was feeling a mixture between relief and anxiety. He bowed slightly, promising Namjoon to teach the maid but in the end both of them knew that no one could make it the way the king wanted as Jungkook did.

The young man was sweating when he came out the chamber, rubbing along his neck with a tissue as he walked down the hallway. “I would never allow for you to leave,” Jungkook repeated those words in his mind like a haunting curse. He knew what he was about to do was the stupidest thing he had ever thought of. Namjoon would have his head for this, if he ever found out. So, Jungkook quickly went to the doctors first just like he had promised the king (he was sure Namjoon would ask if the young boy was there after all) and then made his way down to the visitors wing. If there was a slight chance for a better lifer, for love, for…everything that Jungkook had always desired with Namjoon and knew he couldn’t get, then he should take it. Taehyung had suggested it after all. And Taehyung was never wrong.

He always knew what was best for Jungkook.

“…he’s no use for us like that! I haven’t seen him in four days! I can’t even get close to him without at least three guards watching my every move! You were supposed to help me from the inside! But right now, you’re just as useless as him. Try to find out if there’s someone else who’s close to him. Not even he can be so secluded as to only let one person close. Ad even if the others need to know at least something. I’m sure you know how to be persuasive. So, use it. Come back when you know more!” Hoseok sighted deeply, sinking down into the luxurious cushions. His whole plan was fucked. He had told the flower delivery boy to be unobtrusive and instead that total dumbass had managed to run into the king. The king of all people! And now he hadn’t seen Jungkook in four days and how on earth was he supposed to get the king’s secrets out of the younger if he couldn’t even meet up with him.

This was a disaster!

Jungkook stood frozen on the spot. He had hidden behind a veil so fast, right next to Hoseok’s room where he could listen to the last bits and pieces of what the prince had said and not be seen by the one he had been talking to when he came out. His hand pressed tightly onto his mouth to keep from breathing too loud, his eyes wide and mind not believing a single word he just eavesdropped on. Jungkook shook his head.

This couldn’t be.

This wasn’t right.

Hoseok couldn’t have meant him. It was an overall talk, this didn’t mean anything. The prince didn’t mean him. It was a simple mistake. Not everything was about him. Namjoon had told him that many times – to not overthink. Jungkook shook his head, raking a hand through his hair in a desperate manner and took a deep breath. Still, it took quite a while until Jungkook came out of his hiding spot. His heart was beating fast, palms sweaty when he knocked on the princes door. “It’s m-me,” His voice was shaky and Jungkook quickly cleared his throat and repeated himself.

Hoseok was at the door in a second.

“Jungkook!” Surprise and something else flickered over his face. Something like wariness. “How did you get here? I thought… I’ve been told the king wouldn’t let you out of sight since...” He stepped aside. “Come in, you better shouldn’t be seen with me.” He closed the door behind them, turning the key. “What happened Jungkook? I am so, so very sorry for what happened! The delivery boy was meant to give you the flowers with no one else noticing. I’m so sorry I got you into this mess. Are you alright?” He gently took the boys face in his hand, looking right at him.

Jungkook nodded, taking the prince’s wrists in his hands and pulling them away from his face a little. “I have to be back by lunch but…I needed to talk to you,” He spoke more confidently that he would have thought. Hoseok pulled him along and on the bed to sit and Jungkook was fumbling around with the hem of his shirt. It wasn’t about you. He likes you. He send you flowers. Jungkook’s mind was a rollercoaster of thoughts, Taehyung’s voice mingling in with his own doubts and fears. He didn’t know how to explain, so Jungkook simply began to roll up his sleeve to show a few of the bruises that clearly caused by someone and not an accident.

Hoseok’s face twisted in empathy. “Oh no, Jungkook, what… Did Namjoon do this? Because of...me? God, Jungkook, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for you to get hurt!“ He gently reached out of the youngers hands. “Is there a way I could help? Do you want me to send Jimin to his quarters? Maybe he can take the king’s mind off of you a little. Are you hurting somewhere else? Do you want me to call my Jimin in here? He knows a lot about herbs and medicine.”

Jungkook shook his head, “I mean…there’s more but I don’t need medicine. It’s okay. It’s just.” The tears came falling all on their own and Jungkook quickly tried to wipe them away, hiding his face a little more. He was taking a deep breath, before he spoke again, “You like me, right? When we kissed…that meant something…the flowers and…”

“Of course, I like you! I didn’t do this on purpose, really! This wasn’t meant to make Namjoon hurt you, I wanted to give you a little gift, something nice, something to make you smile. You have such a beautiful smile Jungkook.” Hoseok gently wiped the youngers tears away. “Please don’t cry. Namjoon has so many difficult decisions to make and so many things he has to take care of, doesn’t he? He’ll forget about us. Besides he can’t even know that we kissed. No one was there. It was just flowers. He can’t be mad at you for that forever.”

Jungkook smiled at that, his heart skipping a beat when he heard Hoseok said that he liked him. Everything that he had eavesdropped on wasn’t about him. It must have been about someone else. Hoseok cared about him. When the prince talked about Namjoon not knowing though, his heart stopped for a second. “I…I told him,” Jungkook reached out for Hoseok hands to hold onto him, searching for warmth and that he would understand his situation. “He was…threatening me,” The servant explained and finally told the Prince all about the abuse. The way Namjoon had hit him, made him suffer, not eat for days because he was busy working so much that there wasn't time for that and keep him close by his side for whatever he needed. He showed a few more bruises here and there, hoping that when Hoseok saw the damage, that he wanted to help him. “Please, my prince, I don’t know what to do,” Jungkook looked at the other with tear filled eyes, “I’d smile forever if I could be by your side. T-take me with you. I can’t…” Jungkook’s body was shaking from the effort, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t say the words that he couldn’t stand being with Namjoon anymore. Because although his heart longed to be with Hoseok, to be safe and feel content, one part of him would always belong to Namjoon. His first kiss. His first love.

“No, what… what are you talking about? You can’t just leave Namjoon like that. You’re his valet, the one who’s closest to him. What do you think he’d do if you wouldn’t come back to him? He would search here! And it would get us both in trouble. I can’t just let you stay here, Jungkook, as much as I wanted to.” Hoseok looked truly shocked. “Y-yes but you’re a prince, too. You have power, right? You could…do something? If you like me,” Jungkook stopped, his eyes flickering back and forth between Hoseok’s while the other was looking at him disbelieving. “You need to…I can’t stay, he will…he will,” The young man reached for the prince, “Please. Anything…let me go back with you.”

“Anything?” Hoseok licked his lips nervously. He would have prefered it if he’s had a little more time with Jungkook, maybe kissed him more or seduced him so that Jungkook was properly involved with him. Though he had no idea if he would get another chance to pry and Jungkook was absolutely desperate so why not take the risk now? He could backtrack and say that it had been just a stupid idea if Jungkook would refuse him. And who knew, the younger might happily say yes after what Namjoon had put him through. Maybe all of this had worked out in his favour. “If I really take you into my court than I need to know that your loyalty is mine. So, it would be just fair if in exchange for protecting you you would give me the kings secrets. Tell me what it is he needs for his empire to work, tell me with whom he’s doing business and what kind of goods are exchanged for what price. What his plans are especially regarding my kingdom. Do you agree to this?”

Jungkook gulped heavily, when he heard what Hoseok asked of him. Suddenly, he was afraid. Shaking his head, he refused right away. “I can’t. I don’t know much about that anyways, my prince. And I can’t as much as I wouldn’t tell anyone on you…I just,” Jungkook was stumbling over his words, not sure what he was supposed to say and if this was a test or not. “Take me with you, please,” Jungkook raked through his hair, begging and pleading for Hoseok to just take him somewhere else.

“You’re right maybe this was too much of you to ask. Maybe you want to think about it though? Namjoon hurt you - and it’s not like you would belong to his court any longer if you are with me. Wouldn’t you want to get a little bit of revenge on him? Besides it wouldn’t really hurt him would it? It’s just business, simple business secrets to help with trading. Don’t you think it would be nice to help me in return if I help you? Just think about it okay?” He tried an encouraging smile, patting Jungkook’s arm.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Jungkook was panting, his mind and heart fighting a war at the moment. Hoseok was blackmailing him. He didn’t want to help him because he liked him, but because he had information. Closing his eyes, Jungkook bit his lip so hard that he was afraid for a moment that he could draw blood, but instead he spoke in a shaking voice. “It’s true…what I heard? I am not of use for you, if I don’t…don’t give you information.” He opened his eyes and looked at Hoseok, his heart falling into a million pieces right now while tears burned behind his eyes. “You don’t want me, do you?”

“What… you heard us? What did you...,” Hoseok held him tightly on his upper arms, keeping the younger in place. He saw the recognition in Jungkook’s eyes and he realized that he had lost. “Damn, I’ve been doing so well and then everything goes to hell because I didn’t close the door!” He laughed. “It’s so stupid, how a little mistake like that can ruin everything. Everything else went so smoothly, I met you and you were shy and timid and starving for affection… Namjoon really keeps you at arm’s length does he? I wonder... would you have given me what I wanted if you hadn’t heard me talking? And... why did you still come in if you knew what I was planning? Where you trying to make sure? Did you want to get a confession out of me?” His grip tightened even though Jungkook whimpered unter it. Hoseok's fingers were digging into his bruises mercilessly.

“Don’t think Namjoon would believe you. If you tell him anything it will be your word against mine. And he doesn’t trust you right now, does he? Besides he wouldn't want to ruin his changes of trading with my kingdom just because some little servant couldn’t distinguish between fantasy and reality. You have nothing against me, Jungkook. Absolutely nothing.”

Jungkook’s whole body was shivering, but there was nothing else but emptiness inside of him. The tears fell silently, as he had listened to everything Hoseok had said. He was nothing. Just a figure in the game these kings were playing. He meant nothing to anyone and even Taehyung would be better off without him. So much Jungkook knew. The sob that broke through him was quiet, but it shook him to the core. Hoseok’s hold had hurt, but it only reminded him of his mistakes, of his failure and about his stupid belief that there would be more out there for him. Someone that could truly love him. Jungkook shook his head as if he was in trance. No one would believe him. He was a servant. His words meant nothing. It hurt. It hurt so goddamn much as if a knife was stabbing him repeatedly in the heart and Jungkook wanted nothing else but push his hands onto his ears and make Hoseok stop talking. He writhed himself out of Hoseok’s hold, his eyes empty, stumbling backwards. The prince had been everything Jungkook was hoping for. He had been golden to him. Full of warmth and care for him. But now, the one who was staring back at him, wasn’t the prince he had fallen for. How could Jungkook be so blind? So dumb? So easy to manipulate?

Running out of the chamber, Jungkook could barely see where he was going. Tears were clouding his view. He stumbled a few times, bruising his knees in the process but he didn’t care. Because Namjoon had been right about it all. Jungkook was pathetic. He didn’t deserve anything. Not even the king.

Hoseok cursed when Jungkook broke free from his grip and ran out onto the hallways. He couldn’t just chase after him or someone would notice. And then he had a problem. An even bigger one that he already had. He had lied. Of course Namjoon would believe his valet, the one person he had grown up with. And even if there were just rumours and Namjoon couldn’t directly act on it it would make the negotiations even more difficult. His father would be furious if he didn’t manage to make Namjoon agree to their receivables. This was his baptism of fire! His father had let on that if these negotiations went well he would get more responsibility, more official duties - in short he’d get even closer to becoming king. And maybe he’d even get the crown by the end of the year. But for all of this to happen it was crucial that this worked out for him. And he wouldn’t let some little servant ruin his chances of being king. If Jungkook had agreed on keeping his mouth shut they could have worked something out but the way he had fled, completely distraught anything was possibly. Maybe he told the very first person he met.

So, he needed to make sure that Jungkook wouldn’t talk.

Ever.

Jungkook was utterly confused, running along the hallways as if he was lost. He knew every corner, every step and way in this castle but right now, nothing seemed like how it was supposed to be. The tears were clouding his view, the sobs making him choke on the lack of air. He wasn’t sure for how long he was stumbling across the hallway, so Jungkook sat down on the cold stone stairs, trying to catch his breath and try to understand what just happened. His heart was aching and every breath hurt - but Jungkook knew he had to talk to Namjoon even though it meant telling him that he saw the prince again. It could ruin Namjoon if Hoseok knew too much, if the prince was planning to take away his power.

Jungkook stood up a bit too hasty, so he swayed a little. Just as he was about to walk ahead, Jimin turned around the corner and Jungkook stood frozen on the spot, watching the other’s expression turn from obviously stressed to a smile. Jungkook turned to look over his shoulder for a second, but there was no one else the dancer could mean.

“Hey. There you are. I saw you running down the corridors but you were so fast that I lost you for a second…,” He broke off when he saw the younger’s tears. “Are you okay?” He took in how distressed Jungkook looked, how he swayed from exhaustion, from stressing himself out, running too much, crying too desperately. The streaks down his cheeks showed pretty obviously that this wasn’t the kind of crying were a a few silent tears were enough to cleanse the heart of it’s pain, Jungkook had been crying his heart out. And from the hiccuping breaths his body was still trying to catch up with him. Jimin gave him a sad smile, one that said ‘I’m sorry you have to go through this. I understand.’ instead he asked him, “Do you want to talk about it? Or you could just catch your breath at my place. I have tea and it’s warm. And you can tell me what you want to say. Or just stay silent for as long as you need until you feel better.”

Jungkook just looked at the other in confusion, then he silently shook his head. Why did Jimin care about him out of a sudden? Offering him a safe place to talk about whatever was going on in his mind. “It’s alright,” He answered and showed off a faint smile. “I...I have work to do...gotta be back by lunch. Namjoon’s already waiting.” Jungkook kept his head low, his voice quiet when he mumbled another apology. He didn’t want to talk about why he was hurting. Maybe if he just pretend that it didn’t happen at all, then he could forget.

“It’s not lunch time yet. And… I’m sorry, Jungkook I don’t want to offend you or be impolite but... are you sure you want to go see the king like this?” He let his gaze wander over Jungkook’s tear streaked face. “You could use the bathroom if you want. While I make us tea. How does that sound?” Jimin smiled at him, nodding his head into the direction of where his room was. “Come one, Jungkook. Don’t be shy. I won’t bite, I promise.”

The servant hadn’t much to say against what Jimin had said. He was right. When he looked at his reflection in one of the mirrors in Jimin’s bathroom, he knew he couldn’t face the king like that. It would only make it worse. Make him seem even weaker than he already was.

Jungkook washed his face thoroughly, trying to get make his eyes seem less red and puffy. But everytime he thought he was okay now, he felt his bottom lip tremble again. So it took him some time until he finally walked back into the guest room that Jimin called his own for his stay. “T-thank you,” He smiled, when he saw the dancer pour in some of the hot beverage into a cup for him.

“Don’t mention it. We have to stick together, the ones who can’t drown their sorrow in wealth and power. We only have tea.” He held up his cup, “But it’s something.” Behind the dancer there were a few herbs and flowers hung up to dry, small posies and single leaves where it wasn’t obvious if they had been hung up for decoration or herbal purpose. He blew on his tea gently to cool it and looked at Jungkook over the rim of his teacup. “So... do you want to talk about what happened - or just sit in silence and drink tea? Both of it would be fine. I just want you to… to calm down. Relax a little. Collect your thoughts. I’m sure everything is going to be fine, Jungkook. “

The young servant chuckled low, his fingertips nervously tapping against the warm cup. “It won’t be fine. I ruined it all…but it’s all right,” Jungkook said quickly, hoping that Jimin wouldn’t start giving him more advice. He didn’t want to hear it. It was his fault for trying to live his own life, for wanting something that he knew, he could never have. No one ever loved him. Maybe his mother, but that’s it. Namjoon needed him, maybe. And yes, he was close and important to him and Jungkook had mistaken it for love so many times. He was nothing but a play toy. And one day, he would die as such. He sighed deeply, looking out of the window in deep thought. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the way Jimin looked at him; attentive, searching, as if he wanted to see right through the surface and into Jungkook’s heart. “If you could change one thing about your life - anything really - what would it be?” Jimin suddenly asked, lowering his voice a little as if what he was saying was something heretical and forbidden.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow at Jimin’s question and shrugged his shoulders. “Was it ever my life?” He spoke quietly, “I never had much of a choice. I was born to be a servant and I will die as such.” The young man sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. His expression turned into a smile. A sad smile. One that spoke more than a thousand words. “I’d change the way my heart aches for love. It never brought me anything good. It’s my sweetest desire and at the same time it’s my curse.” Jungkook looked at Jimin with tear-filled eyes, “I wish my heart wouldn’t want something I can’t have.”

Jimin nodded, fingers tightening around the cup. “I know what you mean. People say that longing for something pushes you forward, makes you thrive for more. Though honestly, I think it rather drags you down. To see your dreams close but never close enough. You think you might make it - and then reality pushes you back. It’s cruel. Sometimes I think life would be better without hope and without dreams… but we can’t help ourselves, can we? You can’t force yourself to stop dreaming. And maybe… maybe the king will love you back one day. See you for what you are. He will regret so much when he realizes how important you are to him.” Jimin was still talking though his eyes were blank as if he wasn’t really there, lost in his own thoughts, “We only really know what someone means to us when we lose them… another cruel joke of life. Only when there is no chance to get back what you had can you see how lucky you were before.”

Jimin’s words pained him, so Jungkook just nodded, taking a sip from his cup of tea. He eyed the dancer from the side, wondering what he had meant with his last words and if Namjoon would really miss him if he was gone? But he wouldn’t be. He would never be able to leave the king, his only attempt had failed and it had ripped him into pieces. His whole body was aching and Jungkook felt awful. If Namjoon ever found out that he had tried to get away from him again, it would be over for him. Jungkook coughed, his cheeks heating up at the horrible thought of what could await him. He could feel the sweat at the nape of his neck, the fear creeping up his bones as a shiver ran down his spine. When Jimin noticed that Jungkook had emptied his cup he finished his own tea in one go, wiping his mouth. “Don’t mind me. You’ll be fine. You’ll see there’s nothing you have to worry about. It’ll turn out okay.” He smiled at him encouragingly although there was a sadness hiding behind that kind of ruined it. Again Jimin had fixed his eyes on Jungkook, not uncomfortable but gentle and empathetic. As if he didn’t want to leave the younger unguarded for even a second and it made the younger uncomfortable, feeling as if he was gazing into Jungkook’s soul. He jumped up from his seat, swaying a little as he blinked his eyes repeatedly to get rid of the dizziness. With a faint smile, he thanked Jimin for his kindness again, walking out of his room moments after. He didn’t want to go back up to his room and since he didn’t need to be back with Namjoon soon, Jungkook made his way outside and into the garden.

The garden was still one of his favorite places after all.

Jimin looked after him, knowing that this would very certainly be the last time he had seen Jungkook alive. It was a lucky coincidence that Jungkook hadn’t run straight to Namjoon and that Jimin had been in his chamber or else this wouldn’t have worked. But as soon as Jungkook had left Hoseok’s rooms the prince had sent a messenger to Jimin with a very short, very urgent message.

“Jungkook knows. Make sure he can’t talk. Ever.”

So, he did what he had to. Even though he had kind of liked the younger. Despite everything he had been through he still seemed hopeful. Soft. As if he managed to preserve a little piece of his innocence. And now he would die like this, hopeless and alone, somewhere in the halls of the castle. He hoped Jungkook would be too exhausted to fight. If he didn’t hold on to life choking wasn’t even that bad. And he wouldn’t feel any pain. Not really. He would get dizzy and then collapse and before he would really know it he would lose consciousness. Hastily Jimin closed the door and got rid of the herbs he had used. He didn’t think that any of Namjoon’s people would know the herbs of Hoseok’s kingdom, let alone which of them were poisonous and what the symptoms would look like but he was better safe than sorry. He didn’t want to risk losing his head here. Not even for Hoseok.

And he would do anything for Hoseok.

Anything for his love.

Jungkook leaned his head back, letting the cool wind soothe over his skin making it feel like it could take away his worries for a moment. He let his feet take him, not really caring about where he was going as he strolled through the garden deep in his thoughts. When Jungkook gazed up, he could see the stables from a far and a faint smile appeared on his lips. His unconsciousness brought him back to Taehyung. Maybe his friend knew what to do now? Though he had been the one sending him to Hoseok, Taehyung never had done it if he knew. Tae was the only one who had never hurt Jungkook.

Stumbling along, Jungkook felt the dizziness creep back into his body, making him blink his eyes a couple of times to shake it off. He groaned painfully, when he felt something burning and itching down his throat. Coughing violently Jungkook held onto the wooden wall of one of the stables, that's how hard the coughs shook him. For a second he thought that he caught a cold, but then he saw the blood. It wasn’t much, but there were droplets of red on his palm. His heartbeat quickened right away, his eyes widened in shock as he wiped over his mouth to see if it came from him. A shuddering breath took hold of him, wracking his body. A spasm shook his torso and more blood oozed out of his mouth.

“J-jimin,” He whispered to himself, stumbling forward when the tears fell onto his cheeks. He laughed once, cold and harsh. A cruel joke of life. Jimin’s words repeating itself in his mind, as he let himself fall into the haystack, sinking down and curling in on himself. It had been so easy for Jimin to poison him. His whole being longing for someone to understand, to emphasize, to hear him. It made him weak. Easy to lure in. And now he would die. Turn into what he had been all along. Nothing. Jungkook was shivering, every cough shaking his body while he tried to take deep breaths. He had managed to get away from the door a little more. No one would see him now. It was pathetic. Even the way he would die was pathetic. A painful cry escaped his lungs and Jungkook wished for nothing more to feel safe again.

Taehyung had just finished preparing one of the horses for one of his knights and came back to the stables to clean up after himself when he heard it, a sound, painful and miserable. “Hello? Is anyone there?” There was no real answer but he could still hear something. It sounded uncomfortably close to someone fighting for breath, like troubled gasps and fruitless gulps of air. “H…hello?” When he rounded the corner he something lying in a stack of hay. He rushed over - and then froze before he could touch the figure. Because he knew him.

“J...Jungkook?” The shock loosened his limbs and he scrambled to get towards him. “Are…are you okay? Can I help? What happened?” Jungkook coughed again and there was blood sprinkling the hay. Jungkook's eyes swam in tears and he looked so hopeless, so pained that Taehyung made a bold decision. Whatever this was it was serious. So he would not waste time to find out what it was while Jungkook was suffering. He kneeled down to pick Jungkook up so he could carry him and then ran off as fast as he could to see the king. At first Jungkook had tried to keep Taehyung from lifting him up, but he had been too weak, his words slurred as the other carried him easily. “’s prince, he’s…bad,” Jungkook mumbled, holding onto Taehyung as tight as he could, “J’min…I thought he was nice.” A painful cry escaped him and Tae quickened his steps.

…

“The wedding is in a few days and the queen arrives tomorrow and you still haven’t seen the priest or ordered your shared chamber to be prepared?” Yoongi sighed and threw his hands up. “I am not the one getting married, my king. Where is your mind?” Shaking his head, he walked over to Namjoon, lowering his voice, “I know it is a lot, but it’s going to be over soon. Then it’s almost as if you have your old life back. So, please. No more distractions.”

Sometimes Namjoon would have loved to just get up and leave. He didn’t want to see a priest nor to share a chamber with anyone but the partner he willingly chose. His arranged marriage felt choking already and it hadn’t even started. Still he knew Yoongi had a point but he was sulky, a last bit of childish stubbornness left in him. “Well I am busy with other important matters - but if you start getting nervous then how about you arrange everything. I don’t need to be present for every little detail and I trust you to make good choices.” And even if Yoongi didn’t it wasn’t as if he cared. God he couldn’t wait to get into bed tonight after this stupidly long day, call for Jungkook and then bask in the other’s warmth and softness until he had drowned everything else out with kisses.

Yoongi sighed, raking a hand through his hair in a desperate manner. He nodded at Namjoon’s order and turned on his heel. “Then don’t whine if it’s not like how you wanted it to be when I am choosing everything,” He teased the king one last time, but before he could reach for the door handle it busted open. Yoongi was just about to scold whoever was barging in like that into the king’s chamber when he froze completely.

With shaking knees and tears in his eyes, Taehyung sunk down onto his knees in front of Namjoon, holding onto Jungkook tightly. “K-king, I…I found him,” A sob broke out of him, helplessly trying to soothe the younger while explaining, “Sh..it’s going to be…the King will…” The servant whimpered, when another cough shook him hard and his blood covered hands tightened around Tae’s neck, trying to keep close to his body heat. He just felt so cold.

“Taehyung what the…,” The reprimanding words died on his tongue when he saw the state Jungkook was in. Taehyung wasn’t rebellious. He would never break the rules if there wasn’t a very good reason for this. Jungkook’s wheezing and coughing told him right away that it was serious. And then he saw the blood.

“Get the doctor. Now!” He sent Yoongi away with a look that told him he’d better hurry if he didn’t want to be on his bad side. He got up and over to Taehyung giving a damn about keeping his distance. There were way more pressing matters at hand. “Did he eat something he shouldn’t? Drink the rusty water from the rain gutter behind the pavillon?” He refused to see this as serious as it was as long as there was still hope left. Taehyung shook his head violently, “N-no. He said something…I didn’t get it, really. I don’t think it’s just that. Please.” He was pleading, hoping that Namjoon could help them. Make it all alright again.

When Jungkook heard the familiar voice, he snapped his eyes open looking at Namjoon. Silent tears fell down his cheeks, when he realized that it was fault, and his own fault alone. He had been dumb enough to think that he could be more than just a servant and now life was paying him back. Reaching out for the king, Jungkook tried to put on a smile, before another spasm shook him and he fell out of Taehyung’s grip, holding onto Namjoon’s shirt tightly.

Namjoon didn’t care about what was appropriate, that he was kneeling on the floor besides the stable boy or that Jungkook was getting blood all over his blouse with his coughs. He stroked back Jungkook’s hair which was matted with sweat. His eyes looked glassy. Namjoon swallowed harshly when he realized that it didn’t look good. There was a cold hand reaching for his heart and it caught him completely unprepared. Jungkook was his, he had always been. Never in a million years had he thought that he could lose him.

“’m sorry,” Jungkook mumbled, pulling himself closer to Namjoon. He felt a lot warmer, his body being warmed up from the fireplace inside his chamber. “’s my f-fault,” He choked on the words a little, letting Namjoon’s arms wrap around him to hold him tight to him. “shouldn’t trust,” Jungkook’s voice was barely audible as he spoke with his eyes closed, hoping that the pain would be gone soon. He cried out, coughing up more blood until his body shook with how cold he felt.

“Hey.. hey!” Jungkook’s voice got more and more breathy and he could hardly understand anything that the younger told him. “Don’t fall asleep! What did you swallow? You have to tell me so that I can tell the doctor. He will have an antidote and then you can rest. I’ll.. I will take you off duty for the rest of the week for you to regain your strength. And I will send you over to Jin so that he can teach you about herbalism.” His voice wavered but he refused to let it break. Jungkook was awfully pale and his lips were turning blue. This couldn't be. He wouldn’t allow this! He was the king goddamnit! What worth did his power hold if he couldn’t protect the one he…

… the one he loved?

A faint smile was visible on his lips and Jungkook shook his head, “Tea. S…some tea with J’min…I.” He coughed again, but even those were sounding weaker now. As if his body wasn’t even trying to fight anymore. It just hurt too much. Reaching up for Namjoon’s face, he traced over the king’s cheek. A tear fell down his own and Jungkook took in a sharp breath. “Don’t b’ scared. I’ll be…m’okay. I…I…mak’ your ba-bath later. J’st not now,” He closed his eyes tiredly for a moment, opening them again took a lot more strength than he remembered. But he did it anyways. He wanted to remember Namjoon’s beautiful face. Wanted it to be the last thing he would see. There were tears dripping down onto Jungkook’s face and Namjoon angrily wiped them away until he realized that they were his own. He was crying. Crying for his servant. Who was dying in his arms.

“Where.. where the fuck is that doctor?!” He screamed but absolutely nothing changed. When he looked down at Jungkook’s face again the younger had closed his eyes and it was like a stab right in the heart. He felt scared, so utterly, terribly scared of losing Jungkook. He shook the younger, desperately and way too rough but it made Jungkook open his eyes again. He wasn’t coughing anymore. In fact his breath had died down to something fleeting, barely there and Jungkook’s body laid so motionless in his arms that he felt already dead. “Don’t… please! You can’t leave me! You are mine! You hear me? You are…you are… Jungkook, please, please don’t go!” There was a smile on the younger’s face as if he wasn’t hurting any more. As if being in Namjoon’s arms was all he wanted.

“I’m yours,” Jungkook whispered weakly, “Always loved you.” The younger one tried to soothe Namjoon, reach for his cheeks and shushing him quietly. Namjoon’s comfort was way more important to him than his own. It always had been. He hissed painfully, when his breathing got more shallow, more constricted. With wide eyes and shivering hands, Jungkook was realizing that he hadn’t got much time left. Even if the doctor would arrive soon. There was nothing they could do. Hoseok had wanted him to be dead. To take his knowledge of his plans to die with him. But Jungkook didn’t want to give in to that, so he reached for Namjoon’s neck, pulling the king down to him. “P-please…shhh, it’s okay, Namjoonie,” The cute name slipped from his lips so easily, one that he hadn’t used in ages but only when they were younger. “…please.”

Hearing Jungkook tell him that he loved him even after everything that happened, even though he was dying and probably dying because of him being king broke Namjoon completely. He couldn’t stop the tears anymore nor the sobs but he tried to push both of them down, if only for long enough to kiss his servant, his confidant, his love. “I’m sorry. I’m so... so very sorry… for everything I did to you… for punishing you for my own emotions… for taking you for granted… for ... for hurting you… I’m so sorry Jungkook. So sorry.” He placed little kisses on the younger’s face, fleeting, like butterfly wings caressing his skin. He leaned down, so close that only Jungkook could hear him before whispering, “You’re going to be the only one who ever owns my heart. You were… the only one I ever really trusted. Even if I didn’t act like it I love you just... just as much. And I always will, no matter what.”

For a moment, Jungkook thought he was already in heaven. The words too good to be true, but when he saw Namjoon’s expression, he knew he was speaking honestly and from his heart. The king’s eyes were full of tears and Jungkook ached with the thought that he couldn’t soothe him, that he could never be there for him again. “I...love ‘u,” The young boy mumbled, pulling Namjoon in for a kiss. One that left him gasping for air, but he didn’t care. He would waste his last breath for him.

Jungkook’s lips tasted like blood and his kiss like death. Nonetheless Namjoon kissed him with all he had. It was like time had been slowed down after that. It was pulling on his mind, stretching and straining like rubber.

“Hoseok,” Jungkook whispered with the last bit of his strength, holding onto Namjoon tightly to keep upright. His knuckles turned white from how tight his grip was. “B’ aware of him. It…it was…he needed,” Taking in a shaky small breath, Jungkook’s voice wavered and he wasn’t even sure if Namjoon could understood a single word he was saying. “…me to be quiet,” He let go of Namjoon’s shirt, falling back into his embrace. Fighting the pull that was trying to lure him into the darkness, Jungkook’s eyelids fluttered as he forced to keep his eyes open. “I…don’t want to…be alone,” Jungkook shook with the sob that broke through him. He was scared, so so scared of dying and being without the one he loved. The one who always kept him warm. “’m so..c-cold.”

Jungkook told him something but he only really got Hoseok’s name out of it. Although he didn’t want to think about anything further than those seconds. The last seconds that Jungkook was still alive. Namjoon could almost watch the last bit of life drain from him, how the air fled his lungs. Jungkook sobbed, one last, final time. He mumbled something, about being cold, so Namjoon held him closer, tried to keep him warm. He didn’t realize that Jungkook couldn’t feel it anymore. In a last desperate attempt he held onto the younger’s body as tightly as he could. Something whispered to him, sweetly, something that felt like hope and that told him that as long as Jungkook’s body wouldn’t get cold the younger wouldn’t be lost. He couldn’t… he couldn’t have died! But no matter how close he held him or how gently he rocked him Jungkook didn’t move again.

He was dead.

Taehyung had watched the scene in front of him like a puppet. It all happened so fast and at the same time everything moved in slow motion. He wasn’t sure how that was possible, but he didn’t even jerk when the door busted open again and the doctor finally came but Jungkook didn’t move anymore. His hand hanging loosely from his side, his eyes closed while Namjoon was rocking him back and forth. Never before had Taehyung seen tears in the king’s eyes. The king didn’t let go off him, even when the doctor asked to try and attempt to reanimate him – but it would be no use either, Tae realized that now. The words had made no sense to him before but now.

“They poisoned him,” He breathed out, reaching out for Jungkook with shaking hands to caress over his hair one last time, “Jimin. Jungkook said something…Hoseok is bad, that’s what he said and Jimin must be the last person he saw, because he mumbled something about a tea.” Looking back and forth between Namjoon and Yoongi, Taehyung was frantically searching for one of them to get what he was trying to say. His gaze fell back onto Jungkook’s lifeless body and a tremble went through his own. They had played with him and Jungkook, poor, naïve, sweet Jungkookie had thought he would find love or something alike. All that the younger had wanted had been those words that Namjoon only had dared to say when he was dying in his arms. Pressing his hand onto his mouth, Taehyung’s body shook with his cries. “He didn’t,” He choked on his words, “He didn’t deserve this.”

It took a lot of (absolutely inappropriate) manhandling and persuasion from Yoongi’s side before Namjoon finally let go of Jungkook’s body. He knew that Yoongi had always frowned upon his close relationship with the younger but there was nothing that showed it now. He was respectful, gentle almost when he picked the lifeless body up. “God, he barely weights anything…,” The words were whispered to himself and Yoongi paled when he realised that he had said them out loud but neither Namjoon nor Taehyung were in a state of mind where they could register anything besides their loss and hurt. Jungkook looked relaxed, like he was sleeping, nothing but the specks of blood telling that he had slowly died from asphyxiation. When he tried to get up Namjoon’s hand closed around his wrist so quickly that Yoongi startled. “Don’t take him away. Please don’t take him away from me.” It hit him hard to see the king like that; so vulnerable and broken. He had seen anger on the king's face, disgust or hate, boredom, amusement and numerous other emotions - but he had never seen him like that.

Heartbroken - that’s what he looked like.

Yoongi bit his lip heart to keep his eyes from tearing up. He had still seen Jungkook grew up, had seen him try to get Namjoon’s attention over and over again, only to fail. He had tried so many times to tell Jungkook that the king was playing games and that was just how he was, but in the end – Yoongi had been wrong.

There was always more between them.

“He will stay close to you forever, my king,” Yoongi’s voice broke a little, “L-let me clean him up and we will bury him with the most beautiful flowers. Please, my king.”

Taehyung shivered at the thought of burying his friend, feeling completely out of place. The anger inside of him was raging. He wanted revenge for whatever the prince had done to Jungkook.

Finally, Yoongi could take Jungkook away. He draped his silken coat over the youngers body to shield him from people’s eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to cover up the younger’s face. It would have looked too much like a shroud. Therefore, even though it didn’t take him long to bring Jungkook’s body from the king’s quarters to Jungkook’s room, the news about the younger’s death spread like wildfire. Jungkook had been well beloved by the other servants because he had always been kind and showed them a smile no matter how much stress he was under and so it went like a collective outcry through the castle.

Taehyung was still on his knees on the hard floor, his hands closing into fists, his knuckles turning white repeatedly. “He didn’t deserve this,” He mumbled to himself, shaking his head as he still couldn’t believe what had happened. Tae’s eyes flickered around the room, when it fell onto something. The lowering sun was reflecting on the shiny metal of the king’s sword making him blink his eyes furiously. His chest was rising heavily with every breath he took as he slowly got up. He was almost a knight. And this right here didn’t need any status.

It needed rage.

A low growl escaped him, when Taehyung reached for the king’s sword, his eyes red with the anger burning inside of him. “What do you think you’re doing?” The king’s voice sounded brittle, like something fragile that was streaked with cracks and could crumble any moment. Nonetheless he was still the king and his words exuded power. He reached out for his sword, but Tae had already taken the sword and he didn’t look like he was keen on giving it back. “For taking my sword alone I could have you beheaded.” There was no threat in that sentence, just an emotionless statement. Namjoon was tired. He wanted to lay down and forget what happened and wake up to Jungkook by his side and the youngers beautiful smile that reached his eyes that made him look so happy and so... alive… Namjoon got up, shaking the memory out of his head. He would lose himself in them if he gave in. And he would lose another servant, because Taehyung would never even make it close to the prince or Jimin or whoever else he tried to attack. He wasn’t wearing a knights attire. People would see the sword and hold him back.

“You should have protected him!” Taehyung yelled at Namjoon furiously, “Because of you he is dead. It’s your…your fault! All he wanted was your love and you made him fear you! Made him run to someone who used his weaknesses and still…” He choked on a sob, sinking down onto his knees, while he desperately held onto the sword. His blood covered hands shaking with the weak attempt to keep himself upright. “They killed him, because he was yours,” He gulped heavily against the lump in his throat, his teary eyes gazing up at Namjoon, “He deserves revenge! His death shouldn’t be for nothing!”

Namjoon let the servant scream at him, had him yell those words that spoke from his heart. Because Taehyung was right. Jungkook had always been starving for his attention, his affection, anything that made him feel like Namjoon could possibly love him in a way. And he had known it - and used it against him, to manipulate Jungkook, to keep him in check and keep him for himself. Maybe Taehyung was right that none of this would have happened if he had only shown Jungkook a little more kindness, a little more love. Because the saddest part of this was that he had loved Jungkook. He just hadn’t let him see in fear of seeming weak or being at Jungkook’s mercy.

“What will you do Taehyung? Will killing someone bring Jungkook back? Do you think he would feel better if he knew that his best friend got himself killed as well? Because they will get you and then they will put u to death for murder, no matter if you made it to the prince or got caught on the way.”

Taehyung stern gaze was piercing through Namjoon. “I don’t care! I can’t go on and pretend like nothing happened,” He spat at the king not caring about any finesse or any rules, “What do I have to lose?” For a moment, both of them just looked at each other, tears flowing from their cheeks. “He didn’t deserve to be a part of yours and Hoseok’s games! He deserved more! He deserves to be remembered!” He paused, shaking from the effort it took from him. “I promised to protect him, my king,” Taehyung finally broke as the sword fell onto the floor and the stable boy barely held himself up on his hands. The sobs shuddered his whole body. “I promised,” He whispered repeatedly.

It felt strange, to show his ‘weakness’ so openly but he figured with the salty streaks still over his face he didn’t have much to lose. So, he reached out for Taehyung and pulled him close, embracing him like he should have done with Jungkook everytime the younger was hurting - instead of using his ache against him to bind the boy further to him. “Jungkook will never be forgotten. Not ever. Even if I tried I couldn't. And Hoseok will pay for this. He and everyone who was involved with this. I will make them pay with everything they hold dear until they regret that they ever even thought of hurting Jungkook. And Jungkook he... he will get the most beautiful grave. With white marble and the flowers he liked so much. And I promise to visit him regularly so he’ll never be lonely. We can make picnics on his birthday in the garden under the willow were you two played hide and seek. I’ll give you the whole day off and we can fill the day with memories of Jungkook until it feels like he was still alive. I… I told him that I would never let him go. And I won’t. He’s gonna stay with me forever and I won’t… I won’t let anything come between us. Not even death.”

Taehyung held onto Namjoon’s shirt tightly, sobbing into his shoulder but listening to every word he said. He nodded, soft little hiccups coming from him in a weak attempt to speak. Leaning back, Taehyung’s expression turned stern and he looked up at the king. “Make me a knight,” He spoke softly, “I want to stand up for him, stand by your side if you fight. I want to be able to protect him.” Taking in a sharp breath, his voice cracked a little, “I…I learned everything already. Jin taught me everything. I only need to receive the accolade from you. Let my rage be your weapon.”

Namjoon laughed, humorlessly so at the way Taehyung’s eyes had changed. He had always looked so innocent despite his age and his training. Now the innocence was gone, and he could see the same expression that a few of his other knights had; the ones that were the first to fight and the most difficult to be killed: a recklessness that went beyond his own physical integrity, a hint of madness born from pain - and last but not least a pure hunger for revenge that would only be sated with blood.

Gently he wiped the tears away from Taehyung’s face, a sad smile on his own. “Yeah, you look ready. Don’t get yourself killed please. He would never forgive me if I let you get killed. And I need you to remember him with me. So, if you can guarantee both of that, then I will grant you your wish. And then we will come for those who hurt him.”

Neither of them had anything left to lose now as silly as that sounded coming from the king. But he had never felt as whole and real and alive as he could with Jungkook so now that the younger had died taking that spark with him he had no idea how he should be able to stand the fake wedding and the nonsense meetings and the repetitive, exhausting and boring conferences that had become his life. If this was what was awaiting him - then he didn’t want it. There was no worth in living for glory or wealth or all those other empty promises. He had them and they only made him feel empty. It was the people that filled his life with meaning.

But he had realized that too late.

And it had needed a piece of his heart dying to teach him.

A/N: I am sorry for any minor mistakes since I cried while editing it again lmao. Anyways, We hope you liked the story although it was a sad ending for a change ;; There are more smaller stories coming soon and we’re already working on a Sequel to the ‘Mile High Valentine Club’ Minjoon story for you guys! Thank you so much for every comment and the love you sent to Cat’s and my stories.

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whatdoyouexpectthistime · 4 years

Text

Blood Spatter - Part 2

Part 1

________________________________

It isn’t often I wake in the morning, even when it’s Sunday and the club is closed, so it takes a while for sleep to fall away and for me to gather my faculties. The place beside me is empty and cold, and I stare at the impression left on the sheets where the blanket it still a little pulled back.

Torrid recollections flood my mind, awakening the same heat deep within my body – it’s so intense I can feel Kiril’s thumb trailing down my cheek, playing across my lower lip and slipping into my mouth. But I know for a fact it was Sebastian who warmed my bed last night.

There has never been anything remotely unsatisfying about our encounters – when we relent to our need for carnal relief he is all I am able to think about, if I’m able to think at all.

I’m just lucky I didn’t moan Kiril’s name while in the throes of rapture.

I hope I didn’t.

Noises from elsewhere in the apartment draw my attention to the fact Sebastian is still here.

Another first.

He has never stayed the night, nor have I at his place, and that’s the way we’ve preferred to have it… have each other. Flesh on flesh without the hang-ups.

So what the hell does it mean?

He’s pottering around in my kitchen by the sounds of it, again not something he’s ever done nor am I used to – I am not entirely sure how I feel about this, especially with the memory of Kiril Lambert’s hands gripping my hips still vivid and fresh.

Wrapping myself in my fluffy robe, I take a moment to stretch out the wonderful ache of my body, and marvel at how much better I now feel.

Jazz still weighs on my mind – I will never let it go – but my brain is free of pain.

“Sebastian?” I call tentatively, poking my head out of the bedroom to scan the hall before heading to the kitchen.

“Expecting someone else?” he quips, meeting me under the arch, and if he hadn’t been smiling his usual charming smile, I might have really worried I’d sighed the wrong name in satisfaction.

“No, it’s just… this is different,” I offer, flopping onto a stool.

“Well, I had to make sure you’re okay,” he points out. “You were pretty messed up yesterday. How’s the head?”

“Still there,” I quip, rubbing the back of my neck. “Pain free, thanks to you.”

“Luckily for you, that’s the kind of healing I’m good at,” he grins, and with a wink turns to open the fridge.

Luckily he can’t see my expression – a cringy hybrid of guilt and scorching reminiscence.

“Your fridge is a tragedy, it’s no wonder you’re unwell,” he grumbles, removing a bottle of milk well and truly past its use-by date.

“I don’t eat here often,” I shrug.

“Often enough to stock up on beer though,” he snorts.

“Beer is an important food group!” I defend sheepishly, and he casts me a reproachful look over his shoulder. “Come on, Sebastian, you’re not my nutritionist.”

“Maybe I should be,” he grunts, holding up a jar of… something. “This has been here since you moved in, hasn’t it?” he sighs, and I shrug. “Miho, it’s growing features of its own.”

“I’ll call it Jeff,” I announce proudly, and Sebastian straightens. “Fine, I’ll go shopping today and fill the fridge with vegetables.”

“Which you’ll inevitably not eat,” he huffs.

“Well it’s your fault for letting me have dessert first!” I volley triumphantly, and he narrows his eyes.

“You’re not having dessert for breakfast,” he tells me sternly.

“I’m an adult, I can eat whatever I like,” I proclaim obstinately, and he approaches when I get to my feet.

I feel like I’m playing a dangerous game with him standing here in my kitchen, like we’re about to cross an invisible line that borders fuck-buddy and love interest; not sure how I feel about that.

What I am sure I feel, is the settle of his hand on my hip and the warmth radiating from his chest as he draws closer.

“Eat whatever you like, huh?” he smirks, tapping his fingers.

“And yet I’m very selective about, what I put in my mouth,” I exhale against his lips, tempting him with half lidded bedroom eyes.

“Sadly, I’m not one of the food groups,” he teases, nipping my lips but refusing to allow me to delve much deeper.

“That’s fine,” I grin, pursuing him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’ll counteract with some exercise.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, letting me catch him, delve into him, and get far too aroused before he pulls away. “Wish I could,” he says.

His eyes say yes, but he’s stepped back.

“But I have to get to Heathrow.”

My arms cross sulkily over my chest.

“My sister is coming home for a visit, and I promised to pick her up,” he adds in explanation.

“Fiiiiiiine,” I grump. “Guess I’ll just have to amuse myself.”

“Now there’s a stirring image,” he smiles cheekily.

“Ugh, get out before I jump you,” I growl, taking his arm and swinging him toward the door, and laughing he allows it.

Doing something as normal as supermarket shopping feels for some reason quite strange. It’s not like I’m above the mundane necessities of life, but wandering up and down aisles pushing a cart is so far removed from the doof-doof of the club or the crystal finery of Pale’s lounge.

Hmm, the lounge, my wrist encircled by Kiril’s fingers.

“Are sanitary products truly so fascinating?” a voice queries, a caress down my spine though no contact is made.

“Did I just…” I blink, turning to look into Kiril’s laughing eyes.

“Did you just…?” he prompts, the slow smile creeping into his lips indicative of where he thinks my mind has gone.

He’s a regular customer and a powerful man… a stunning specimen… and so I try my best to hold in the roasting return volley that jumps first to my mind. Still, he’s the one inexplicably ambushing me in the feminine hygiene section.

“I’m just trying to decide if it’s worth paying extra for the organic product,” I remark casually, “considering its ultimate fate.”

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at the discussion over tampons.

“One should never compromise on the finer things,” he philosophises, as easily as if we were talking about fine wine. “If you are unable to afford the more pleasant option, however, I would gladly pay the difference.”

There is no way I can’t laugh at this.

“Seriously?” I chuckle. “What on Earth are you doing here, Mr. Lambert?”

Shopping for a girlfriend perhaps? I know he doesn’t have a wife – a wedding like that would be spectacular. Kiril Lambert is business royalty after all.

“I’m stalking you,” he declares, his boy-like shrug incongruous with the expensive, clean lines of his charcoal, Savile Row suit.

A thrill shudders through me. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“I read somewhere you’re the CEO of a high-profile insurance company,” I say slowly, trying to measure my breaths. “That doesn’t dominate your time?”

“One should never compromise,” he repeats, reaching to the shelf and picking up a the most expensive box of tampons available, “on the finer things.”

Fighting a blush, I cover the effect of his implication with an incredulous laugh.

“So, let’s finish your shopping so we can talk,” he adds, and I feel my cheeks relax in response to the change in his tone.

Stern.

“Talk about what?”

“Your missing friend,” he replies, “and what I can do to help you find her.”

This I did not expect, and it slaps me into a bit of a daze.

”Wh… why?” I manage.

“Here is not the place to hold such a discussion,” he tells me, and begins to wheel my trolley.

Together we travel up and down the aisles in silence, and when all is done and paid for, he tells me his limousine driver will deliver them to my apartment when we’re finished with our café date.

Kiril’s words, not mine.

But it’s not just the café around the corner; oh no, we ride in conspicuous luxury to London’s newest exclusive eatery. This isn’t somewhere you can just walk off the street and enter, grab a table and a latte – it’s the kind of exclusive that opens with a month long waiting list, and a menu with pastries costing more than I might spend on food for a week.

As we enter, I’m aware of eyes turning to us: mostly women envious of my company and equally as critical of my ‘day off to slum it’ attire.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” I murmur but Kiril doesn’t break stride on his way through the doors toward a spacious booth at the rear of the café, urging me along with the feathery touch of his fingers in the small of my back.

“Ignore the spiteful stares of the envious, Sparrow,” he tells me softly, adding to the heat in my cheeks. “Unless you’d like to draw their ire a little more with a true spectacle?”

Suddenly, all I can hear, see, smell, taste and feel, is him. The recollection of the previous night, with the sense of him superimposed over Sebastian, hits me with full force and I actually stumble as my legs weaken.

“That’s a yes, is it?” Kiril whispers into my ear, my back against his chest, his arms steadying me. “Hmm? Right here in the middle of the café?”

“Mr. Lambert, welcome back,” a voice welcomes cheerfully, and Kiril shifts his eyes slowly in that direction. “Oh…uh… I apologise for interrupting,” the waiter rushes. “Should I… just…”

“Bring menus,” Kiril snaps, and the waiter scurries away, nearly falling over his own feet.

“Hungry?” I ask, gaining control over my senses again, but when I pull away from Kiril’s body I immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Oh, I could eat you up right here,” Kiril rumbles, and I think all my clothes fall off.

“I don’t think you’ll find me on the menu,” I tell him, leaving off the part where I’d happily make the necessary amendments.

“Shame,” he muses, entering the booth and settling.

He watches me do the same, every move I make catalogued by a stare that misses nothing.

“You said you could help find Jazz,” I say, knotting my fingers in front of me on the table top. “How?”

“I’ll be honest,” he says bluntly, the toe of his perfectly polished shoe bumping into mine, “but my information doesn’t come for free.”

That I will give him anything he asks for without hesitation is on my lips instantly, and I only just manage to keep from voicing it.

Anything is awfully broad.

“What could a man like you possibly want from me?” I ask instead, and his answer comes first as the slow brush of his foot up my calf.

So here is this insanely remarkable man playing footsies with me, and I ask him what he could want?

“Miho, it’s pretty clear what he wants!”

Even though his expression is polite, the amicable look of a man conducting business, he’s nudging me closer and closer toward a reaction. And I should want to demand he stop – hot or not he is all but a stranger and I do have a sense of decency – but I’m paddling against rapids trying ardently to sweep me away completely.

I want it, but I have my pride, and men like him don’t do anything without reason – take the risk?

“Take it,” a voice whispers: silk flowing over my skin.

“I’ve an incredibly boring work event to attend tonight, which would be infinitely more interesting with you at my side.”

“A date?” I chortle, unable to keep in my incredulity trapped. “That’s the best you can manage?”

Then the toe of those perfect shoes are against my thigh, moving closer to somewhere he most certainly shouldn’t be touching – my legs clench together, trapping his foot.

He doesn’t fight, leaving it where it is, and I absolutely should be standing up and stalking about enraged, but a very large part of me wants to find out what he intends to do with those mirror-shine shoes.

“Shall I show you the best I can manage?” he grins, an animalistic gleam in his eyes.

“I accept, on one condition,” I manage, my voice thin and dry, and one of his eyebrows lifts in amusement,

“Which is?”

I want Jazz back more than my own life is worth, but I’ve never uttered a sentence more difficult.

“You keep your hands – and feet – to yourself.”

Is there disappointment there? Frustration? Anything reflecting the rage of my own flesh? Maybe, but Kiril agrees nonetheless.

“I will hold you to your word,” he tells me seriously: a smouldering promise rather than a threat.

“And I to yours,” I exhale, wanting it to sound a whole lot more self-assured than it actually does. “So…”

Looking satisfied, Kiril leans back and temples his fingers.

“So, I need an escort,” he declares smugly. “Business dinners are tedious – you, will make it less so.”

Not exactly what I was anticipating, and that, along with some measure of disappointment I wish I could have kept to myself, must be written on my face because Kiril’s smile widens knowingly.

“Escort?” I repeat sceptically, hardly oblivious to the connotations.

“Would you feel better if I referred to you as my date?” he offers, challenging me in a different way. “Is that what you want it to be?”

A hawk, his gaze sharpens on his prey – me, a pigeon – and he’s about to sweep in for the kill.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter what it’s called,” I finally reply: non-committal. “You want arm candy; it is what it is.”

“Entertaining arm candy,” he adds. “Old men in pressed suits and starched collars are anything but exciting.”

“Surely a man in your position is used to that environment,” I point out.

“My familiarity with it has nothing to do with my lack of enjoyment,” he volleys easily. “And here you are, the perfect candidate to spice up the evening.”

“Because you have something I want,” I frown. “Or so you say.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered by his proposal, and my attraction to him is so powerful, I can barely contain myself.

I cross my legs.

“The moment you concede to my request, is the moment you find out for sure,” Kiril smirks, choosing to emphasise that word specifically, and I scowl.

It’s clear he is used to getting his way, but it’s just as evident he knows I’m not one to roll over, to bow, to surrender – but this is Jazz.

My greatest weakness as well as strength is laid bare before him, and he is taking advantage.

“I already told you,” I sniff, trying not to sneer or pout.

“Use my words, Sparrow,” he insists, burrowing through my sense of self-respect, laying waste to my ego.

Swallowing my pride, I square my shoulders confidently, owning my decision, my commitment to getting back my friend.

“I concede.”

This victory doesn’t seem to please him as much as I thought it would, and I capitalise.

“Now tell me what you know.”

Without hesitation he nods, and I’m floored.

“The Konstantin you’re searching for,” he begins, leaning back in a more casual posture, “is my little brother.”

Like I’ve been punched in the gut, all the air leaves me. Gasping like a fish out of water. The song and dance I’ve been making all over London in my attempts to locate Jazz and the one person of interest I have in her disappearance, and his very brother has been in my club every other night.

Suddenly I’m livid.

There’s no way he didn’t hear about my quest; I’ve been shoving my nose into every place I can think Jazz and Konstantin might have gone together, shouting my distress from the rooftops, and received only silence, even from the police.

“You had to have known before now,” I hiss, only just managing to keep the venom behind my teeth.

Leaning forward, I rise up, hands now fists pressed against the tabletop if only to keep them from lashing out at him in anger.

“Calm down, Sparrow,” he instructs, no longer smiling, but he can take his pet name and shove it up his ass.

“Don’t you dare ‘Sparrow’ me,” I growl, baring my teeth and pouring out all my potential for intimidation, which isn’t insignificant by any means. “Where is she?”

“That I do not know,” Kiril responds, spreading his hands with perfect calm. “In point of fact, I don’t even know where Konstantin is.”

Quivering with indescribable rage, I rock back and shuffle out of the booth, dead set on marching to the hell out of there and placing a call to Inspector Parker about this revelation, but Kiril slaps his hand around my wrist.

“You intend to go back on your word?” he whispers, tugging me against the edge of the table at his side.

“Oh, you set me up!” I exclaim loudly, glaring down at him - stares across the café turn to us.

“Yes, I did,” he admits, ignoring the attention we’ve drawn in favour of attempting to freeze me with those beautifully verdant eyes. “But if I’m not mistaken, you’d do anything for your friend, and agreed to do so.”

“I don’t need you to find her, Mr. Lambert,” I grate, lifting my arm, but Kiril holds firm. “I will take your name to the police and tell them you know something, so get your secretary to leave some time open for your interrogation.”

“Unlikely,” he counters, stroking the inside of my wrist with his thumb, which only enrages me more.

Against his pale skin, Kiril is suddenly wearing the handprint of my displeasure.

“If you knew anything about Jazz, you wouldn’t act like such a smug bastard,” I seethe, and my lips poise to continue when Kiril’s eyes narrow keenly.

The rising crest of my anger and indignation shudders as an opposing force meets it, attempts to push it back.

“Get off,” I snarl, throwing off his grip and stepping out of arm’s reach, allowing the swirl of ire to gather momentum once more. “If your brother has done anything to Jazz, I will burn him, and you also for daring to stand in my way.”

Storm clouds gather in his expression and thunder rumbles through every word Kiril speaks.

“It is unwise to threaten me, Miho,” he enunciated slowly, and cold ripples through my body.

“I… I’m leaving,” I stammer around the lump in my throat, but I find it impossible to move.

“If you leave now,” he says, so quietly and yet not whispering, “you will likely never see Miss Mann again.”

“And it’s just as unwise to threaten me,” I exhale thickly, though the heat in my face and the trembling air in my lungs is evidence enough I’m losing control of my composure.

Unaffected, Kiril rises, not once breaking eye contact. He is far taller than he should be, and the darkness at his back, outlining the shape of his imposing figure seems too real.

“Konstantin has an apartment not far from here,” he tells me, ignoring my unimpressive retort. “And I have a key.”

“Give it to me,” I hiss, breathless, too proud to cower, but far too unnerved to raise my voice much more.

“No,” he drops plainly, then his very edges soften. “But, you may join me – assuming of course you can wrestle your ego into submission long enough to reiterate your commitment to our agreement.”

Hubris calls for me to slap him again, to stalk out and ban him from ever entering Pale again – but my friendship with Jazz is far stronger than that. Even if he has something to do with Jazz’s disappearance, too – and I’d be stupid not to consider this given his manipulation – I have no real choice but to accept.

“I agree,” I tell him frostily, re-affixing my handbag on my shoulder and crossing my arms over my chest.

Kiril watched Miho closely, relentlessly, where she sat beside him in the back of his limousine. She was still, a statue frozen in a moment of wrathful indignation, with her gaze fixed forward; but he knew she had him in her peripheral vision, seeming ready in an instant to defend herself from unwanted contact.

Contact he wanted.

There she was, so close to him, warm, determined and fierce, and desire pulsed through his veins. How easy it would be to drag her into his lap, snake his hands around her and squeeze around her delicious curves, and bury his face against her neck.

But he didn’t, because he suspected something Narumi had missed when she manipulated Miho’s thoughts into forgetting her encounter with Alex – a recollection that had already begun to surface once more. This resistance, the way she fought against his ability to overwhelm her emotions – and won – suggested she was even more than the stunning, confident businesswoman he’d first taken her for.

And he wanted her all the more for it.

As their vehicle pulled into a secured underground car park, Miho’s eyes widened a little.

“He lives here?” she questioned.

One Tower Bridge overlooked the Thames, and the iconic Tower Bridge itself. The complex as a ridiculous piece of real estate someone like Miho would never be able to afford – millions of pounds for luxury she only ever saw in film.

“This is the last address of his I’ve known,” Kiril responded, exiting the car himself, though it was the driver who released Miho from its confines.

Unlike the subterranean car parks Miho had experienced across the city, this one was bright and absolutely spotless. There were no petrol fumes, no rubber marks on the sealed concrete ground, and all painted markings were in pristine condition.

Without a word, Kiril began in the direction of the elevator, using the same key-card that had admitted their entry to the car park, to open them.

Dubiously, Miho stared at the confines of the elevator interior, obviously cautious about being trapped in the small space with Kiril without the presence of another person. Pure obstinacy pushed her forward and to the very back, where she leaned against the mirrored wall and glared as Kiril joined her.

“It’s going to be a very long night for you if you keep that up,” he pointed out, smiling like he actually hoped she’d persist.

“I suppose you’ve love me to be compliant and pliable and all over you like the women you bring to Pale,” she snorted, continuing to glower as the doors closed them in.

“Oh no, I quite prefer you combative,” he chuckled, moving closer, and Miho sidestepped to avoid being further boxed in. “Much more entertaining.”

“I’m not here for your amusement,” she huffed, crossing her arms again, but it made balancing a second dodge a little difficult.

She found herself in the corner, Kiril directly before her looking most pleased with himself; and she was infuriated, in part because he insisted on challenging her when she was here only to serve her mission, but more so that the closer he drew, the more her skin eagerly anticipated his touch.

The doors opened on the fourth floor to a clear and pleasant chime, but Kiril continued to smoulder, close enough to Miho for her to actually feel the radiant heat from his body – or so it seemed.

“No comeback, Sparrow?” he prompted smugly, leaning his head forward, and Miho turned her cheek.

“My comeback might very well be my knee to your groin if you keep pushing me,” she growled, but Kiril’s smile only widened.

“The lady likes to rough-house,” he noted, and Miho expelled a frustrated breath, using her shoulder to nudge past him and exit to the landing.

Chuckling, Kiril followed – the more she rebuffed him, the greater his desire for her to submit to him willingly.

“So you’re a big-wig CEO,” Miho said, approaching one of only two doors on the floor. “What does Konstantin do to be able to afford a place like this?”

“I tend not to involve myself in my brother’s affairs,” Kiril replied, touching the key-card to the electronic lock beside the door. “The origin of his wealth has nothing to do with me.”

“Yet you’ve access to his luxury apartment,” Miho pointed out dryly.

“I never said it was given to me,” he responded, reaching around her to push open the door. “Ladies first.”

Well that obviously changed things a little – card or no card, it was trespass if Kiril didn’t have permission to be there. What if Konstantin was home?

“Even better,” Miho muttered in determination, and stomped into the spacious, dark wood appointed living area.

But it was quiet and clean, and Miho’s call to Jazz went unanswered.

“Refrigerator is empty,” Kiril noted, not that he was especially surprised, but Miho did not respond.

In the master bedroom she’d thrown open the door to the walk-in closet to search for women’s clothing, but finding none, she made her way to the ensuite. There she found no evidence of a woman either, but that only meant Jazz hadn’t made herself at home – or maybe hadn’t been given an opportunity to.

“Damnit,” she cursed, rushing from room to room, scanning, opening, searching every nook and cranny.

Kiril, meanwhile, was far from frantic. He wandered lazily from room to room, but wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. When he finally reached the master bedroom, he stopped in the doorway, staring.

On all fours, with backside in the air and her right cheek pressed against the plush carpet, Miho was peering under the king-sized bed, fishing around for what, Kiril did not know; but he found himself transfixed by the sight. Her posture was not an invitation by any means, and yet the idea of folding himself over her, pulling back on her hair and tasting the skin of her throat, bubbled furiously in his blood. Resisting the urge to follow through tainted the sound of his voice when he finally spoke.

“What are you expecting to find under there?”

Her body flinched but did not straighten. Instead she reached a little further, grunting as she reached her limit, and only sat back when she’d snared her prize.

“Apartments like this are serviced by professional cleaners,” Kiril pointed out, approaching. “It’s unlikely you’ll find any traces of your friend.”

“And yet…” Miho smiled thinly, staring at the small black and white swirled bead.

To Kiril it meant very little, but obviously Miho knew something.

Inhaling slowly, I close my eyes.

This seemingly generic bead clasped between my fingers is personal to me. The ridiculously overpriced Pandora bracelet I’d given Jazz for her last birthday, comprised of elements I had chosen individually.

But there is something much deeper here, and I’m suddenly not me anymore.

The world tilts and my ears are filled with the sound of Jazz laughing, laughter emerging from my lips. She opens her eyes and I’m staring into the face I know as Konstantin’s, and his lips press against my collarbone.

Raggedly, my breath hitches as he holds me firmly against him, my legs, Jazz’s legs against the edge of the bed – and I’m giggling as he kisses up my neck and threatens to topple me backwards. But he has to work for it, I struggle and squirm and try to fend him off, but the way he grips Jazz’s wrist is a grip unbreakable, somehow gentle but commanding against my refusal to submit. Finally, he twists a leg behind mine and shoves us back against the mattress, and as Jazz’s back sinks into the deep softness of the duvet, the Pandora bracelet explodes from my wrist and beads bounce all around us.

A stillness falls as the last glass sphere rolls into hiding beneath the bed, and Konstantin peers at me with an intensity that stokes a dangerous furnace within my belly – and I can feel his desire pressing insistently between my thighs, and as he releases Jazz’s wrist, I fold my arms around his neck and draw him down to meet a fierce passion of my own.

It bounces twice, the black and white, silver swirled bead as it drops from my hold to the sound of a breathy moan. A shudder rips through my body, but as I blink, it’s Kiril’s hand I find against my cheek, his body so close we’re lightly touching. We’re standing in Konstantin’s bedroom, of course – I was always there despite what I saw and felt; it doesn’t make sense. And my emotions are muddled, mine and Jazz’s blended together, my flesh singing from Konstantin’s promise of carnal pleasure: suddenly reflected in the coolness of Kiril’s palm brushing against my face.

“What… are you?” I exhale, heat on my breath, a shivering anticipation of his slowly approaching face and a painful conflict between wanting him to take me like his brother had – hadn’t – and knowing I have every reason to shove him away.

I should shove him away.

“That look,” he responds, green fire crackling in the slim space between us, and I tremble as his other hand comes to rest lightly against my hip. “That invitation.”

“It’s not…” I begin, but my body betrays me, shifting with his encouragement to close all distance. “Kiril…” I hiss, desperately fighting to order my thoughts before I’m drowned by this wave of inexplicable need, this ludicrous urge for him to smother me. “I saw… I saw them…”

“I see you,” he states plainly, and his lips tease across mine.

Arching into him flashes an unintentional green light, and our mouths unite with a dizzying lust over which I have very little control.

PART 3

#miho fujiwara #Jazz Mann #Kiril Lambert #Konstantin Lambert #Vampire #Vampire fiction #OC #original fiction #Blood Spatter

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selinavizari · 6 years

Text

A Day At The Carnival With Taron

Anon Request! Thanks again for the idea! Sorry for the long ass wait. I’m slacking.

Content: Fluff, Smut, Strong Language

Word Count: 1788

It was a gorgeous summer afternoon. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I stood outside the carnival’s entrance. Visitors were passing by me and I watched them march on. There were hordes of excitable teens congregating among each other. I wondered where Taron was. He did say he was close by but he was running late. The urge to double text was at the tip of my fingers. I frowned and started to adjust my knee length dress. It was stretchy, cotton, airy... perfect for this weather. I adjusted the thin straps and ran my hands through my hair. Anything to avoid sending what could be an obnoxious text. I kept glancing towards my phone in hopes of seeing a message from him. Maybe he can’t make it. That unfortunate thought washed over me as I looked towards the street and then down at my painted toes. The grass brushed against them. I wriggled them and began to fidget. I took a deep breath and began wondering how much the uber would be to get back home...you know… just in case. I reached into my pockets and began to untangle the ear phones. It was only in their for a few moments and they were already in a knot. My eyebrows furrowed in complete concentration. Out of nowhere, I felt something rub against ankle and it abruptly made its way to my calf. I almost leaped out of my skin and that sent my earphones flying.

I swung my elbow around at the assailant and it was Taron. His eyes were wide and his grin was almost cartoonish.“Gotcha!” He managed to dodge my blow. I slapped his arm. It was a love tap. He pulled me in for an embrace. “Oh my god! I’m glad I was able to get out of the way in the nick of time. You could knocked me out!” When he released me, I crouched and scooped up my fallen earphones. “You could have been some weirdo pervert!” I exclaimed. “True. I'm not a weirdo. But I'm positive that I'm a pervert.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave me a most suggestive smirk. I took immediate notice of those adorable dimples. I could feel his eyes all over me. I blushed. Sweetness returned to his voice as he whispered. “For real. I am sorry that I left you here waiting. That’s not cool. Not at all.” “It’s okay. Glad you’re here now.” I stood there shuffling my feet like an infatuated schoolgirl. Taron held my hand up to kiss it. I couldn't maintain eye contact with him. He drove me wild. “Let’s check this place out!” A glint of mischief hung over those words. We strolled towards the entrance with our arms interlocked. I stole a few glances at him. He was wearing a fitted cotton white shirt that had a few wrinkles, and relaxed denim jeans. They were worn in. His hair tousled. I felt safe and secure while his hand held mine. The aroma of popcorn and cotton candy filled the air so I couldn’t get a whiff of his cologne. I could see a slight tiredness in his eyes and then I felt guilty for even thinking of leaving the park. He could been on on set or with his agent. I should ask him? Maybe not. I involuntarily gripped his hand tighter. Taron noticed and looked at me through the corner of his eye with an inquisitive look. “Hm? You okay?” “I’m-m-m good.” I stammered as I collected my thoughts. After we stood in line for our tickets, Taron asked, “What do you want to get on first, love?” My eyes surveyed the massive park for a few fleeting moments like an explorer. It was a landscape overwhelmed with bold, garish colors. As I squinted my eyes, I rubbed my chin. There was plenty of amusement rides, food trucks and carnival games to choose from. “Don’t think too hard.” He folded the magenta strip of tickets into his back pocket. I found it. “Right over there! The Tilt-A-Whirl!” “Cool. Let’s go.” The line was short and that was one of the main reasons why I choose it. We were able to get on the ride in no time. The operator strapped us in this free spinning car that looked like a sliced, bright red apple. When the ride started, I squealed and then covered my mouth. The sound that left my mouth sounded a child. Taron mocked me by trying imitating me. When it picked up speed, our apple car began spinning out of control because of the uneven platform. I couldn’t stop laughing. Taron was having a great time! “Ooohhhh Myyy Goodddd!” He yelled out. This was an absolute blast. When the Tilt-A-Whirl slowed down, we both caught our breath. I wobbled my way across the platform, and down the heavy duty metal staircase. Taron made sure I was steady. “What’s next?” I pointed at the spaceship. The broad blinking lit sign read, “Gravitron”. Taron scratched his head, “What is that?” “...You’ll find out.” I answered cryptically. He was going to be in for the shock of his life. When Gravitron took off, and the spinning entered turbo mode. We felt glued down to the panel. Taron screamed, “What the FUCK is this? Get me off of this! What is all this pressure?! This is insane! Y/N, why do you hate me?!” He struggled to raise his arm. I laughed so hard my belly ached and tears formed in my eyes. The ride slowed down and I could not stop giggling as I wiped my eyes. “Oh this is funny?!” He beamed towards me as he gestured his hands around the spaceship. I nodded. We were both out of breath. “Okay, it kind of is.” He admitted. “I pick the next one! You lost all choosing privileges! That was bullshit.” “Fine, fine!” I rolled my eyes. “What about that roller coaster? We’ll sit in the front. It’ll be fun.” I raised my eyebrow. I knew he was trying to get back at me a little. “No problem.” “So you’re not scared at all?!” “Nope, I’ll will never be as scared as you were in that spaceship.” I teased. “I wasn’t scared! I was mad!” He laughed as he cleared his throat. “Surreeee, you were.” I responded sarcastically. We sat in the infamous first row reserved for thrill seekers. He rested his hand on my thigh. The track was wooden, and a vintage model. That made me a little nervous. The cars went up steadily and I paid close attention to the clinking of the gears. I could feel Taron’s hand wandering up my thigh. The roller coaster climbed higher and higher. He was going for it. Right now. His middle finger rubbed my on clit through my panties. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. I could feel myself getting wetter and my legs spread wider. As soon as we reached the very top, he pulled his hand away. He broke the trance he put me under. I opened my eyes to witness that we were going to experience the first drop. I looked over at him and he winked at me. I shook my head. “You are something….ELSSEEEE!” The roller coaster dropped into an almost vertical downward slope. My stomach did backflips and I thought I was going to be flung right out of my seat. My body tensed up in anticipation for every twist and turn. Before I knew it… it was over. I looked over at Taron in utter disbelief and nodded my head. “Well...that was interesting.” “I told you it would be fun.” He held my hand and led me down the staircase and back to steady ground. I wondered if anyone noticed our antics.“We can continue over there I think...” He nudged his head towards this outlandish fun house. “But...how…” I was unsure. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” He pulled me in close and whispered into my ear. “I can’t wait to find out what your pussy tastes like.” He brushed his thumb across my lips. I gasped at how casual he was about this sexual escapade and he kissed me. I always believed that he was sexy but today he was taking things to new heights. He led me towards to the entryway. We walked down the aisles and glanced at our distorted reflections in the mirrors. Then we proceeded to wade through this multi-colored ball pit. It was rather quiet. Not a soul around. Then we arrived at a plastic yellow tube that we needed to crawl through to get to the other side. “Ladies first.” He bowed. “Mhm. What a gentleman!” I bent over to crawl on all fours. “Is this what you want? Enjoying the view?” “I want it. This view is perfect.” He licked his lips. Taron looked behind him to make sure the coast was clear. “Go in...a little further.” I crawled a few inches into the tube. He gripped my thigh, “Stop.” He pulled down my panties and I arched my back. I felt the cool air up against my exposed pussy. He lifted my dress up and grabbed my ass. I moaned. I felt him put two fingers inside and thrusted slowly. I moaned louder but lifted my hand to cover my mouth in hopes of stifling the sounds. I didn’t want us to get caught and that turned me on even more. “You are so wet.” He murmured and then placed soft kisses on it. I could hear the smack of his lips against me. What followed was Taron’s warm, stiff tongue fluttering rapidly on my clit. The build up was swift and I was adrift in absolute ecstasy. I arched even further so that he get a better angle. My face was inches from the plastic tube’s smooth cool surface and my breasts almost spilled out my dress. It yanked up so far that I would have taken it off if we had the luxury of privacy. Those delicious, wet sounds bounced off the interior walls and my eyes rolled back. “Please... Taron… right there. I’m so close. Sofuckingclose.” I struggled to constrain the volume of my voice. My legs were shaking as he maintained that brisk, rhythmic pace. A powerful orgasm surged throughout my body. I tried to pull away but he held me down. He had a taste but thirsted for much more. A coarse, authoritative voice rang out from behind me that wasn’t Taron’s. It was a little too far away. “What the hell is going on here?!”

#selina fanfiction #taron egerton #taron fanfic #Smut #fanfiction #taron #taron x reader #fluff

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ilya-t · 4 years

Text

Living in the Transit Lounge by PICO IYER (1998)

By the time I was nine, I was already used to going to school by trans-Atlantic plane, to sleeping in airports, to shuttling back and forth, three times a year, between my parents’ (Indian) home in California and my boarding-school in England. Throughout the time I was growing up, I was never within 6,000 miles of the nearest relative—and came, therefore, to learn how to define relations in non-familial ways. From the time I was a teenager, I took it for granted that I could take my budget vacations (as I did) in Bolivia and Tibet, China and Morocco. It never seemed strange to me that a girlfriend might be half a world (or ten hours flying-time) away, that my closest friends might be on the other side of a continent or sea.

It was only recently that I realised that all these habits of mind and life would scarcely have been imaginable in my parents' youth; that the very facts and facilities that shape my world are all distinctly new developments, and mark me as a modern type.

It was only recently, in fact, that I realised that I am an example, perhaps, of an entirely new breed of people, a trans-continental tribe of wanderers that is multiplying as fast as international phone lines and Frequent Flyer programmes. We are the Transit Loungers, forever heading to the Departure Gate, forever orbiting the world. We buy our interests duty-free, we eat our food on plastic plates, we watch the world through borrowed headphones. We pass through countries as through revolving doors, resident aliens of the world, impermanent residents of nowhere. Nothing is strange to us, and nowhere is foreign. We are visitors even in our own homes.

This is not, I think, a function of affluence so much as of simple circumstance. I am not, that is, a jet-setter pursuing vacations from Marbella to Phuket; I am simply a fairly typical produce of a movable sensibility, living and working in a world that is itself increasingly small and increasingly mongrel. I am a multinational soul on a multicultural globe where more and more countries are as polyglot and restless as airports. Taking planes seems as natural to me as picking up the phone, or going to school; I fold up my self and carry it round with me as if were an overnight case.

The modern world seems increasingly made for people like me. I can plop myself down anywhere and find myself in the same relation of familiarity strangeness: Lusaka, after all, is scarcely more strange to me than the foreigners' England in which I was born, the America where I am registered as an ‘alien’, and the almost unvisited India that people tell me is my home. I can fly from London to San Francisco to Osaka and feel myself no more a foreigner in one place than another; all of them are just locations—pavilions in some intercontintental Expo—and I can work or live or love in any one of them. All have Holiday Inns, direct-dial phones, CNN and DHL. All have sushi and Thai restaurants, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Coke. My office is as close as the nearest FAX machine or modem. Roppongi is West Hollywood is Leblon.

This kind of life offers an unprecedented sense of freedom and mobility: tied down to nowhere, we can pick and choose among locations. Ours is the first generation that can go off to visit Tibet for a week, or meet Tibetans down the street; ours is the first generation to be able to go to Nigeria for a holiday to find our roots—or to find they are not there. At the lowest level, this new internationalism also means that I can get on a plane in Los Angeles, get off a few hours later in Jakarta, and check into a Hilton, and order a cheeseburger in English, and pay for it all with an American Express card. At the next level, it means that I can meet, in the Hilton coffee-shop an Indonesian businessman who is as conversant as I am with Michael Kinsley and Magic Johnson and Madonna. At a deeper level, it means that I need never feel estranged. If all the world is alien to us, all the world is home.

I have learned, in fact, to love foreignness. In any place I visit, I have the privileges of an outsider: I am an object of interest, and even fascination; I am a person set apart, able to enjoy the benefits of the place without paying the taxes. And the places themselves seem glamorous to me—romantic—as seen through foreign eyes: distance on both sides lends enchantment. Policemen let me off speeding tickets, girls want to hear the stories of my life, pedestrians will gladly point me to the nearest Golden Arches. Perpetual foreigners in the transit lounge, we enjoy a kind of diplomatic immunity; and, living off room service in our hotel rooms, we are never obliged to grow up, or even, really, to be ourselves.

Thus many of us learn to exult in the blessings of belonging to what feels like a whole new race. It is a race, as Salman Rushdie says, of ‘people who root themselves in ideas rather than places, in memories as much as in material things; people who have been obliged to define themselves—because they are so defined by others—by their otherness; people in whose deepest selves strange fusions occur, unprecedented unions between what they were and where they find themselves.’ And when people argue that our very notion of wonder is eroded, that alienness itself is as seriously endangered as the wilderness, that more and more of the world is turning into a single synthetic monoculture, I am not worried: a Japanese version of a French fashion is something new, I say, not quite Japanese and not truly French. Comme des Garçons hybrids are the art-form of the time.

And yet, sometimes, I stop myself and think. What kind of heart is being produced by these new changes? And must I always be a None of the Above? When the stewardess comes down the aisle with disembarkation forms, what do I fill in? My passport says one thing, may face another; my accent contradicts my eyes. Place of Residence, Final Destination, even Marital Status are not much easier to fill in; usually I just tick ‘Other’.

And beneath all the boxes, where do we place ourselves? How does one fix a moving object on a map? I am not an exile, really, not an immigrant; not deracinated, I think, any more than I am rooted. I have not fled the oppression of war, nor found ostracism in the places where I do alight; I scarcely feel severed from a home I have scarcely known. Yet is ‘citizen of the world’ enough to comfort me? And does taking my home as every place make it easier to sleep at night?

Alienation, we are taught from kindergarten, is the condition of the time. This is the century of exiles and refugees, of boat people and statelessness; the time when traditions have been abolished, and men become closer to machines. This is the century of estrangement: more than a third of all Afghans live outside Afghanistan; the second city of the Khmers is a refugee camp; the second tongue of Beverly Hills is Farsi. The very notion of nation-states is outdated; many of us are as cross-hatched within as Beirut.

To understand the modern state; we are often told, we must read V.S. Naipaul, and see how people estranged from their cultures mimic people estranged from their roots. Naipaul is the definitive modern traveler in part because he is the definitive symbol of modern rootlessness; his singular qualification for his wanderings is not his stamina, nor his bravado, nor his love of exploration—it is, quite simply, his congenital displacement. Here is a man who was a foreigner at birth, a citizen of an exiled community set down on a colonised island. Here is a man for whom every arrival is enigmatic, a man without a home—except for an India to which he stubbornly returns, only to be reminded of his distance from it. The strength of Naipaul is the poignancy of Naipaul: the poignancy of a wanderer who tries to go home, but is not taken in, and is accepted by another home only so long as he admits that he's a lodger there.

There is, however, another way of apprehending foreignness, and that is the way of Nabokov. In him we see an avid cultivation of the novel: he collects foreign worlds with a connoisseur's delight, he sees foreign words as toys to play with, and exile as the state of kings. This touring aristocrat can even relish the pleasures of Lo culture precisely because they are the things that his own high culture lacks: the motel and the summer camp, the roadside attraction and the hot fudge sundae. I recognise in Nabokov a European's love for America rooted in America's very youthfulness and heedlessness; I recognise in him the sense that the newcomer's viewpoint may be the one most conducive to bright ardour. Unfamiliarity, in any form, breeds content.

Nabokov shows us that if nowhere is home, everywhere is. That instead of taking alienation as our natural state, we can feel partially adjusted everywhere. That the outsider at the feast does not have to sit in the corner alone, taking notes; he can plunge into the pleasures of his new home with abandon.

We airport-hoppers can, in fact, go through the world as through a house of wonders, picking up something at every stop, and taking the whole globe as our playpen, or our supermarket (and even if we don't go to the world, the world will increasingly come to us: just down the street, almost wherever we are, are nori and salsa, tiramisu and naan). We don't have a home, we have a hundred homes. And we can mix and match as the situation demands. ‘Nobody's history is my history,’ Kazuo Ishiguro, a great spokesman for the privileged homeless, once said to me, and then went on, ‘Whenever it was convenient for me to become very Japanese, I could become very Japanese, and then, when I wanted to drop it, I would just become this ordinary Englishman.’ Instantly, I felt a shock of recognition: I have a wardrobe of selves from which to choose. And I savour the luxury of being able to be an Indian in Cuba (where people are starving for yoga and Tagore), or an American in Thailand; to be an Englishman in New York.

And so we go on circling the world, six miles above the ground, displaced from Time, above the clouds, with all our needs attended to. We listen to announcements given in three languages. We confirm our reservations at every stop. We disembark at airports that are self-sufficient communities, with hotels, gymnasia and places of worship. At customs we have nothing to declare but ourselves.

But what is the price we pay for all of this? I sometimes think that this mobile way of life is as novel high-rises, or the video monitors that are re-wiring our consciousness. And even as we fret about the changes our progress wreaks in the air and on the airwaves, in forests and on streets, we hardly worry about the changes it is working in ourselves, the new kind of soul that is being born out of a new kind of life. Yet this could be the most dangerous development of all, and not only because it is the least examined.

For us in the Transit Lounge, disorientation is as alien as affiliation. We become professional observers, able to see the merits and deficiencies of anywhere, to balance our parents' viewpoints with their enemies' position. Yes, we say, of course it's terrible, but look at the situation from Saddam's point of view. I understand how you feel, but the Chinese had their own cultural reasons for Tiananmen Square. Fervour comes to seem to us the most foreign place of all.

Seasoned experts at dispassion, we are less good at involvement, or suspensions of disbelief; at, in fact, the abolition of distance. We are masters of the aerial perspective, but touching down becomes more difficult. Unable to get stirred by the raising of a flag, we are sometimes unable to see how anyone could be stirred. I sometimes think that this is how Rushdie, the great analyst of this condition, somehow became its victim. He had juggled homes for so long, so adroitly, that he forgot how the world looks to someone who is rooted—in country or belief. He had chosen to live so far from affiliation that he could no longer see why people choose affiliation in the first place. Besides, being part of no society means one is accountable to no one, and need respect no laws outside one's own. If single-nation people can be fanatical as terrorists, we can end up ineffectual as peace-keepers.

We become, in fact, strangers to belief itself, unable to comprehend many of the rages and dogmas that animate (and unite) people. Conflict itself seems inexplicable to us sometimes, simply because partisanship is; we have the agnostic's inability to retrace the steps of faith. I could not begin to fathom why some Moslems would think of murder after hearing about The Satanic Verses: yet sometimes I force myself to recall that it is we, in our floating skepticism, who are the exceptions, that in China or Iran, in Korea or Peru, it is not so strange to give up one's life for a cause.

We end up, then, a little like non-aligned nations, confirming our reservations at every step. We tell ourselves, self-servingly, that nationalism breeds monsters and choose to ignore the fact that internationalism breeds them too. Ours is the culpability not of the assassin, but of the bystander who takes a snapshot of the murder. Or, when the revolution catches fire, hops on the next plane out.

In any case, the issues, in the Transit Lounge, are passing; a few hours from now, they'll be a thousand miles away. Besides, this is a foreign country, we have no interests here. The only thing we have to fear are hijackers—passionate people with beliefs.

Sometimes, though, just sometimes, I am brought up short by symptoms of my condition. They are not major things, but they are peculiar ones and ones that would not have been common fifty year ago. I have never bought a house of any kind, any my ideal domestic environment, I sometimes tell my friends, is a hotel room. I have never voted, or ever wanted to vote, and I eat I restaurants three times a day. I have never supported a nation (in the Olympic Games, say), or represented ‘my country’ in anything. Even my name is weirdly international, because my ‘real name’ is one that makes sense only in the home where I have never lived.

I choose to live in America in part, I think, because it feels more alien the longer I stay there. I love being in Japan because it reminds me, at every turn, of my foreignness. When I want to see if any place is home, I must subject the candidates to a battery of tests. Home is the place of which one has memories but no expectations.

If I have any deeper home, it is, I suppose, in English. My language is the house I carry around with me as a snail his shell; and in my lesser moments I try to forget that mine is not the language spoken in America, or even, really, by any member of my family.

Yet even here, I find, I cannot place my accent, or reproduce it as I can the tones of others. And I am so used to modifying my English inflections according to whom I am talking to—an American, an Englishman, a villager in Nepal, a receptionist in Paris—that I scarcely know what kind of voice I have.

I wonder, sometimes, if this new kind of non-affiliation may not be alien to something fundamental in the human state. The refugee at least harbours passionate feelings about the world he has left—and generally seeks to return there; the exile at least is propelled by some kind of strong emotion away from the old country and towards the new—indifference is not an exile emotion. But what does the Transit Lounger feel? What are the issues that we would die for? What are the passions that we would live for?

Airports are among the only sites in public life where emotions are hugely sanctioned, in block capitals. We see people weep, shout, kiss in airports; we see them at the furthest edges of excitement and exhaustion. Airports are privileged spaces where we can see the primal states writ large—fear, recognition, hope. But there are some of us, perhaps, sitting at the Departure Gate, boarding-passes in hand, watching the destinations ticking over, who feel neither the pain of separation nor the exultation of wonder; who alight with the same emotions with which we embarked; who go down to the baggage carousel and watch our lives circling, circling, circling, waiting to be claimed.

#pico iyer #living in the transit lounge

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sapphyrelily · 7 years

Text

people were never meant to be alone

Inspired by a love song/non-love song by Jon Cozart and Dodie Clark

i. Semi

It’s beautiful tonight.

It seems odd, that I can still think this, even after all that’s happened, even after being left behind, like this.

But maybe that’s not quite true.

We've made our choices, and though circumstance has had a part in it too, the end result is the same.

I am here, and he isn’t.

The lights dancing across the water are captivating, breaking apart and coming back together, jolted sideways by the waves. Above the harbour, the streetlamps and lights of the buildings shine, bright and welcoming, even though it is close to nine.

I laugh a little, and the sound that escapes surprises even me – it sounds so bitter. But maybe that’s true. I do feel kind of bitter.

It’s lucky that everyone else is too caught up in each other to notice me.

It’s an odd habit, but I pat the railing before I step away, casting a last look at the small bit of sea invading the harbour, at the ships bobbing on it.

Tomorrow, one of those will set sail, a cruise bound for Thailand before looping around and returning here.

Here. That’s a funny thought.

Here, where I am, where we were supposed to be, together.

I’m rambling again.

But hey, at least I’m not like every other sappy couple here.

I am alone, a tourist, even though I am visiting all these sites populated with couples.

-----

My room is a small one – large enough for just me, maybe a squeeze if I were to share it.

The bottle of wine on the table seems to mock me – as does the single glass beside it. I do not look at them, but open the balcony door, leaning on the railing to regard the pool below.

I should put it out of mind and enjoy my stay here – my mini vacation, in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Definitely not the most romantic, said to be the busiest and the least happy.

It doesn’t seem all that different from Japan, to me, except that the malls are more crowded, the weather decidedly more humid, and the people are louder.

It is probably a cultural thing, but it’s…peaceful.

It’s nice, I suppose, to be able to hide in a crowd like this, where the bustle drowns out your thoughts.

Where I don’t have to think about what others think of us, where I don’t have to pretend that it’s something it’s not.

“You are together? Congratulations.”

Ha.

Maybe once, Wakatoshi. But no longer.

I don’t quite know how to describe us, anymore. It’s a sort of limbo, and neither wants to make the first move to unbalance the equation.

So we keep pretending, I guess. We haven’t slept in the same bed in months, nor have we spoken of anything past usual pleasantries and maybe a joke or two.

It’s like we regressed back to being friends, or perhaps, distant acquaintances.

No, that’s not it. Still friends, but nothing close to what we shared before.

It’s sad.

I sigh and retreat back into the room, turning out the lights, the lightest click the only sound in the following darkness.

The covers are thick, still cool from the air-conditioning, and his voice follows me, a complaint replayed at the slightest touch of coolness.

I tuck myself in and shut his voice out, willing my brain to stop talking.

(I wonder, is this what it’s like, to grow apart?)

ii. Shirabu

“Okay, and again!”

You smile for the camera, tilting your head in the angle he likes best, letting the artificial wind push the hair back across your face. The camera clicks in quick succession, the director calls a halt, and you step out of the blinding lights.

Another day, another job done.

You hate the long hours and the lights, the fussing and twittering, but modelling is a job that pays well, despite all that it takes from you.

You feel your mind begin to drift, skipping down the forbidden path, and you force it back, slapping it back on track.

You thank the director, the photographer, the make-up artists… Everyone that you must greet gets their share of thanks before you can excuse yourself to the luxurious room they prepared for you.

Luxurious, but empty.

Your mind wanders again, to the thought of companionship in a sun-drenched place, of warm hearts and elbows rubbing, and easy conversations.

You have but one of those, when you took up this job, and left behind a chance at perhaps, something more.

You are alone, in the taxi, and you decide that maybe, it would be alright to entertain these thoughts. This notion, that you could have had a full bloom, when you already have a half-open bud.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting your foolish thinking, and you pull it out.

It’s funny, that the name on the screen matches the face you were just thinking about.

Typing back a quick reply, you hit Send before you realise what a plain, generic answer that was. The same kind of answer you are used to giving, the one that never merits a bigger response than that.

Something small, that you noticed only recently, that is probably why you are growing apart.

Huh. You were growing apart. From the one person who never stopped pursuing you in the past – yet it seems otherwise, now.

(When did he stop? When did he stop running, slowing past walking, coming to a crawl?)

(Will he decide to turn back?)

(Is it worth trying to salvage it?)

Your phone buzzes again, and you see bright photos, lovely scenery, coupled with a smile you know all too well.

Wish you were here! The caption reads, but you shake your head and smother a laugh.

He doesn’t, not really. He admitted so when he was drunk once, though he was quick to re-affirm that he adores you.

(Maybe not so soon, but someday, someday, surely.)

(Surely, he will leave.)

Sometimes you wish you could have returned that affection in the way that he wanted, but yours is a friendship turned relationship of convenience. There is no love lost between you, especially after so many years.

(Sometimes, you wish there was.)

But looking at the photo, you let yourself dream a little.

What would it have been like, if you had followed him?

iii. Semi

The streets are always so busy, no matter where I turn. Maybe it’s because I don’t know any non-tourist areas, but where would be the fun in pretending I was anything but a tourist?

My phone’s camera is awful, but good enough, and I manage to get shots of buildings with not too much sky in them – Satori never lets me live it down if there’s too much sky in a photo.

“Are you taking picture of the thing or of the sky?”

I turn my face down, hoping everyone else is minding their own business. It wouldn’t do for a tourist to be upset on a holiday, now, would it?

Except that I still am upset. By something found and lost, but mostly by the what-if of it all.

It would be easier, perhaps, to pretend. As I always do – as we always do, did.

And it’s not so hard, to pretend, when I can practically hear his voice yammering inside my head.

It’s only hard because I know it’ll never happen again.

And I can’t help it, I can’t help the thought that forms automatically, despite knowing that it would benefit me to not think about it.

I miss you.

iv. Shirabu

It’s quiet, but still a little busy – this is, after all, a city that hardly sleeps. The lights weaving together on the arches of the bridge are bright, but not blinding, the glow enough to set a mood.

You try not to glance around – left and right are couples strolling hand in hand, though there is the occasional single or a small family. It matters not who they are, but what they have – relationships, bonds, people they care about and to whom they can return after a long day.

You cannot say that you have the same luxury now.

You left your base, your home ground – the metaphorical nest. You stepped out and spread your wings, hoping the downdraft would lift and help you glide to the ground.

You have glided this far, and the winds are failing, the current dying away. You have not looked down – have never looked down, have been too trusting, too confident – and now, you are uncertain where you’d land.

Your phone is silent in your pocket, despite usually being the opposite – and that is answer enough.

You’ve landed somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere hostile, and you do not have a single person at your back to fall back on, to trust in.

(A barren land, desert and unforgiving sand, with neither water nor sustenance. A place where one will perish, for sure.)

Maybe…

Maybe you should’ve held on.

(The memory of an empty inbox, unsent drafts, cutting words tears at your heart.)

(A figure turned away, without a since glance back.)

(Dismissal.)

You look ahead and exhale through your mouth, trying not to crumple.

(Pretty pictures fold themselves away inside your mind, hiding in a box, sliding into a dark and dusty corner.)

v. Semi

I’m back.

Back here, at the waterfront, with the lights shining over the water, but this time, no boat in the harbour.

I can hear the soft murmuring of the couples at my back, and for the umpteenth time, I wonder, why am I doing this to myself?

(I’m not sure I’ll ever find an answer.)

But watching them, even the slightest glance, brings back floods of memories, remnants of times past, and it’s like they are happening anew.

A hearty laugh, a shock of red hair, hands pushing at mine, until his hands are on the controls instead. “Eita-kun, you suck so much at this. Let me get it.”

Within a minute, a large plush is in my arms, blocking my vision.

But I can hear his laugh from over it, and the unbridled joy in it makes me smile.

I can see an arcade from where I stand, and have to turn away, bite my lip, keep the emotion back.

“Aisle seat?”

“Nooo. Oh my goodness, you never watch movies from the side! There, we’re taking H-10 and 11. Right in the centre.”

“Satori–”

“Shh. It’ll be better, trust me.”

The movie theatre is on the opposite side of the mall. I start towards it, trying to keep my face blank, but I’m failing, falling.

“You’ve got a choice. Pick one.”

I look at both shirts, but neither of them impress me. He shoves one at me anyway, pushing me into the changing room, and I have to catch myself on the wall, but I’m laughing.

They were good times. That is for sure.

Hands swinging by each other, until finally one gives up and grabs a hold of the other, pinkies loosely intertwined.

“Eita?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

I have to cover my face for a moment, the memory is so strong.

A chaste kiss, lips lifted in a smile.

“Forever?”

“Always.”

But forever is shattered, like powdered glass, and there’s not enough of it left to fit in a stained-glass window.

Forever spins away on a breeze, and I watch it go, left behind with a half-hearted lie.

vi. Shirabu

Your fingers hover over the blackened screen, the train’s lights reflecting off of it.

You are hesitating.

You are reluctant.

It’s for good reason, you tell yourself, fingers clenching around the device, turning it over so you can’t see the screen.

But in the next moment, you have flipped it over again, unlocked it, and you stare at a background that only heightens your conflict.

A picture of the two of you, smiling broadly for the camera.

You still remember how it was taken, a giant cliché.

You are laughing, hard enough that he has to support you, because you are bent over, wheezing.

“Shirabu-san.”

There’s a lilt of happiness in his voice, a tad more than usual, and you look up, only for the camera shutter to go off.

You don’t bother to make him delete it, because your good mood remains – and also because you like the way he tries to preserve memories like this, sometimes.

His arm around your waist is warm, as is the sun reflecting off your smiles in the photo.

You bite your lip as you stare at the screen, chest aching horribly.

You open your messaging app, stare at the latest message, and once again, exit without sending anything new.

Your home screen wallpaper mocks you, and you have a sudden urge to change it.

Don’t, a voice inside you whispers, but you shake it off and open your photo gallery.

It is so difficult to pick something, anything, but you settle on a patch of blooming flowers, lit by the setting sun, even though you are breaking apart.

You know better.

This is the way to redemption, and to salvaging what’s left of your…friendship.

You are better, smarter than this. You should know, you should know that the only way to get over this is to leave it alone.

You do know.

And that is why you slip your phone into your bag, watching the flashing lights for the upcoming train station instead of trying to reply, because you only make things worse when you speak.

vii. Meeting

Two figures headed in the same direction, paths bifurcating at the casino. They almost don’t notice each other, both caught up in their own world, in their haze of distraction.

Neither of them really knows who notices the other first – but they agree that it started with the fireworks.

The fireworks, that go off in the amusement park at eight thirty, a light show that most people stop to stare at.

It is in the aftermath – or perhaps, even the middle of it, the glow lighting the faces beneath – that they stop, and their eyes meet.

They promptly look away, neither of them acknowledging the other, still half in a daze, still hoping, dreaming, on their own.

But the fireworks die away, and the world begins moving again, except for the two stationary figures, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

One of them does move – a shake of his head, a wry smile – turning away. Everything he does screams his belief that he is seeing things, and he will not entertain it.

And the other – it is his turn, his move, and he takes the first step.

The first lifting and dropping of a foot, and then another, and another, before his shoes are clicking rapidly across the concrete, catching up, and a hand placed on a shoulder.

A whisper of a name – in disbelief, questioning, and the one who turned away first – he blinks slowly, as if waking from a dream.

A curious, wondrous smile lifts his lips, and he greets the other in a sighing cadence.

Hello.

viii. Catching up

They go back to his room, because it is smaller, quieter, more private.

Small pleasantries, an exchange of information – what they are doing on a small island, so far from their homeland, their jobs, their lives, what they have done since graduation and losing touch.

Neither of them speak about the golden band resting on the table, or the silver one hanging around a neck. It’s as if they recognise the pain in each other’s eyes, and there is a mutual understanding, though they have never agreed on much, before.

The hour is late when their mouths are dry, and one of them stands to leave. The other is just as quick to catch his sleeve, gently asking him to stay.

It’s late. I’ll lend you some clothes.

It is odd, but he has no reason to refuse, not when he doesn’t have to work the next day. And maybe…

Maybe he does need some form of companionship, if only in the form of someone he used to dislike so much.

Maybe, it would be alright to stay.

(Just for a bit.)

ix. Quiet moments

The bed is large enough for the two of them, and they lie on opposing sides, facing away from each other.

But sleep does not come easily, and in the midst of tossing and turning, they begin to bicker.

It’s almost nostalgic, the jibes and insults thrown, but neither let up, and they end up poking and kicking each other under the blanket as if they were still in high school.

Nobody knows who won, but lying there in the relative quiet, with the air-conditioning as white noise, it’s almost easy to pretend that they are both okay.

But silence is a tricky thing, like the molten glass that glassblowers mould.

Who are you engaged to?

Is that a promise ring?

They laugh at their overlapping words. They’ve always been too similar, in some ways.

x. Secrets

They argue over who would start first, until one caves.

It was Satori.

Was?

I don’t know, but I don’t think we are together any more. Not in that sense, at least.

A low hum, understanding, accepting.

Non-judgemental.

You’re right, you know.

What?

This. It’s sort of like a promise ring. He lets the ring fall from jointless fingers; it clinks against the chain, falling silent against the bed. But promises are always broken.

A beat of silence – he takes that as agreement, but then the other begins speaking again.

Not true. Promises are what you make them.

He snorts. Maybe so, but not this one. This was always in a limbo and ready to be broken.

Oh?

Yeah.

A lengthier silence, and he stares at the ceiling, waiting, waiting, for him to ask.

He doesn’t.

You’re not curious? He can’t help himself – he can’t imagine anyone not wanting to pry. About who the other ring belongs to?

You’d tell me, if you wanted. His voice is so trusting – it’s not fair.

(It’s plain to see who has matured more over the years.)

(He doesn’t like it.)

Tsutomu has the other ring.

It feels like an admission, a soft, whispered thing, yet also a loud, shouted thing – a gunshot in the darkness, a secret that he doesn’t want to bring to light.

And?

He huffs. I thought you weren’t going to pry.

I know you, and you want to tell me. You just need a push.

He gets a kick for his troubles, but hears a sigh, and eventually, the other starts talking.

xi. Moving on

The funny thing about people, is how they pretend they can survive alone, when really, they need support at least some of the time.

That is how humans work, as does the beautiful-ridiculous thing called companionship.

They talk through the night, till the sun peeks through the bottom of the curtains, and that is when they decide to sleep.

When they wake, another day is gone, but the burden on their hearts has eased.

It feels like they are going to go back to pretending they hate each other, go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.

But one of them makes a tiny offer, and the other accepts, and then they are wandering the mall until closing time, trading banter as they walk back along the bridge.

It’s almost friendly, and they trade numbers, a teasing parting of ways.

Call me.

You sound desperate.

I mean when you need to talk, brat.

Hmm, no.

You are ridiculous.

You are absurd.

Pain-in-the-ass.

Naggy.

I’m trying to be nice.

Don’t.

Fine.

They turn away, but glance back, and burst out laughing.

They are broken, and patched up, their repairs messy but feasible for the moment.

They are flightless birds, but they have learnt to walk, and maybe, run.

They smile at each other a last time and part ways, hearts lighter than they were before.

Romance is a lie, but you can find companionship in the oddest places.

#semi eita #shirabu kenjirou #semishira #past tensemi #past shiragoshi #my writing #well this isn't half as angsty as i thought it would be #i suppose that's good #haikyuu!!

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ravishankarsivasubramaniam · 5 years

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Can We Ever Make It Suntory Time Again?

Aaron Gilbreath | Longreads | October 2019 | 23 minutes (5,939 words)

Bic Camera looked like many of the other loud, brightly colored electronics stores I’d seen in Japan, just bigger. Mostly, it was a respite from the cold. The appliances and electronics that jammed its interior gave no indication of its dizzyingly good liquor selection, nor did the many inexpensive aged Japanese whiskies hint that affordable bottles were about to become a thing of the past, or that I’d nurture a profound remorse once they did. When I found Bic Camera’s wholly unexpected liquor department, I lifted two bottles of high-end Japanese whisky from the shelf, wandered the aisles studying the labels, had a baffling interaction with a clerk, and put the bottles back on the shelf. All I had to do was pay for them. I didn’t.

Commercial Japanese whisky has been around since at least 1929, so during my first trip to Japan (and at home in the U.S.), there was no reason to think that all the aged Japanese whiskies that were readily available in the early 2000s would soon achieve holy grail status. In 2007, there were $100 bottles of Yamazaki 18-year sitting forlornly on a shelf at my local BevMo. One bottle now sells for more than $400 at online auctions; some online stores sell them for $700.

Yoichi 10, Yoichi 12, Hibiki 17 and 21, Taketsuru 12 and 17 — in 2014, rare and discontinued bottles lined store shelves, reasonably priced compared to their current $300 to $600 price tags. Those were great years. I call them BTB — before the boom. Before the boom, a bottle of Yamazaki 12 cost $60. After the boom, a Seattle liquor store priced their last bottle of Yamazaki 12 at $225. Before the boom, Taketsuru 12 cost $20 in Japan and $70 in the States. After the boom, online auctions sell bottles for more than $220.

Before the boom, Karuizawa casks sat, dusty and abandoned, in shuttered distilleries. After the boom, a bottle of Karuizawa 1964 sold for $118,420, the most expensive Japanese whisky ever sold at auction, until a Yamazaki 50 sold for $129,186 the following year, then another went for $343,000 15 months later.

Before the boom, whisky tasted of rich red fruits and cereal grains. After the boom, it tasted of regret.

I’ve spent the past five years wishing I could do things over. I remember my trips to Japan fondly — the new friends, the food and record stores, the Kyoto temples and solitary hikes — except for the whisky, whose absence coats my mouth with the proverbial bitter taste. I replay the time I walked into a grocery store in Tokyo’s Ikebukuro neighborhood and found a shelf lined with Taketsuru 12, four bottles wide and four deep, at $20 apiece; it starts at $170 now. I look at the photos I took of Hibiki 12 for $34, Yoichi 12 for $69, Taketsuru 21 for $89. I tell friends how I’d visited the Isetan Department Store’s liquor department in Shinjuku, where they had a 12-year-old sherried Karuizawa bottled exclusively for Isetan for barely more than $100, alongside a blend of Hanyu and Kawaski grain whisky that famed distiller Ichiro Akuto did exclusively for the store. Staff wouldn’t let me photograph or touch anything, but I could have afforded both bottles. They now sell for $1,140 and $1,290, respectively. I torture myself by revisiting my unfortunate logic, how I squandered my limited funds: buying inexpensive bottles to drink during the trip, instead of a few big-ticket purchases to take home.

Aaron, I’ve thought more times that I could count, you are such a fucking idiot.

To time travel, I look at photos of old Japanese whisky bottles in Facebook groups, like they are some sort of beverage porn, and wonder: Who am I? What have I become? There’s enough incredible scotch available here at home. Why do I — and the others whose interest spiked prices and made the bottles we loved inaccessible — care so much about Japanese whisky?

* * *

After the notorious Commodore Perry landed on Japanese shores in 1853 to open the closed country to trade, he gifted the emperor a barrel and 70 gallons of American whiskey, a spirit not well-known in Japan. As whiskey tends to do, it softened the nations’ encounter; one tipsy samurai felt so good he even hugged Perry. At the time, domestic spirit production was limited to shōchū and an Okinawan drink called awamori, made from sweet potatoes and rice respectively. Japanese companies tried to recreate the brown spirits that American and European companies had started importing, but without a recipe, the imitations were rough. The earliest Japanese attempts were either cheaply made locally or imported from Europe and labeled Japanese. When two boatloads of American soldiers stopped in the port of Hakodate in 1918, en route to fight Bolsheviks in Siberia, they found bars filled with knock-off scotch, including one called Queen George. As Major Samuel L. Johnson wrote in a letter, “If you come across any, don’t touch it. … It must be 86 percent corrosive sublimate proof, because 3,500 enlisted men were stinko fifteen minutes after they got ashore.”

It was in this miasma of bad imitations that Suntory’s founder Shinjiro Torii recognized an opportunity. Winemaker Torii had been importing whiskies and bottling them as early as 1911. He called his brand Torys. As whisky found a toehold in Japan, he realized that slinging rotgut like the other frontier opportunists wasn’t the way to create a market; he needed to learn to distill an authentic, higher-quality whisky. The way Suntory’s marketing materials later presented it, Torii wanted to create a refined whisky that also reflected Japanese natural resources and Japanese tastes, which he perceived as more attuned to delicacy and nuance than the Scottish palate and that paired with Japanese cuisine rather than overpowering it — anything that tasted of corrosive sublimate would overwhelm your food. In 1923, he used his wine profits to build a distillery near Kyoto.

Elsewhere, in Osaka, Masataka Taketsuru, the son of a sake-maker, had been working for shōchū-maker Settsu Shuzo. The company, like Torii, wanted to make whisky, so in 1918 its president sent Taketsuru to study whisky-making in Scotland. Taketsuru was a 24-year-old chemist and took detailed notes when the Scottish distillers finally showed him their facilities and techniques. After two years learning the art of cask maturation, pot stills, and peat-smoking, Taketsuru returned to Japan to find that his employer’s enthusiasm for making real whisky had waned. So Taketsuru took his Scottish knowledge and enthusiasm to Torii, and the two men pooled their skills to build what became the Yamazaki Distillery, the country’s first commercial whisky producer. Sticking with Scottish tradition, they spelled it without the ‘e.’

It must be 86 percent corrosive sublimate proof, because 3,500 enlisted men were stinko fifteen minutes after they got ashore.

Suntory gets all the credit for distilling Japan’s first Scottish-style whisky, but Eigashima Shuzō, the company that now runs the White Oak Distillery, actually got the first license to produce whisky in Japan in 1919, five years before Yamazaki. Founder Kiichiro Iwai, who later founded the Mars Shinshu distillery and designed its equipment, had been Taketsuru’s mentor at Shuzo and is often called “the silent pioneer of Japanese whisky.” But Yamazaki started producing whisky sooner, so the rest, as they say, is history.

Suntory’s Yamazaki distillery launched Japan’s first true commercial whisky in 1929. Ninety years later, around a dozen companies distill whisky in Japan, depending on how you count them: Suntory and Nikka. Chichibu in Saitama Prefecture, White Oak in coastal Akashi. Kirin at the base of Mt. Fuji, Mars Shinshū in the village of Miyada in the Japanese Alps. Upstarts like Akkeshi in Hokkaido and the Shizuoka Distillery near Shizuoka. All produce stellar whisky.

Whisky experienced a huge boom in postwar Japan, coming to represent success, the West, masculinity, worldliness, and Japan’s increasing importance on the world stage. “If you were to choose a drink to symbolize the rapid economic growth in the four decades after the war,” Chris Bunting writes in Drinking Japan, “it would have to be whisky.” In journalist Lawrence Osborne’s words, whisky was “the salaryman’s drink, a symbol of Westernized manliness and sophistication.” Initially, distillers flooded the domestic marketplace with mediocre blended drams and single malts that appealed to hard-working businessmen. Then Suntory relaunched Torys to reach the working-class masses; the stuff was cheap and tasted it, with a cartoon businessman mascot that the target demographic could identify with. Nikka also began producing different lines to offer Japanese drinkers an affordable Western luxury product. During the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, there was Hi Nikka, Nikka Gold & Gold, Suntory Old Whisky, and Suntory Royal. Many of these these brands used the same affectations as Scottish and English products: crests, gold fonts, aged labels, faceted glass decanters with boldly shaped stoppers, the British spelling of flavour. The approach worked. Whisky went from a drink of the well-to-do businessman to a drink of the average citizen, and it became common for working-class Japanese men to keep bottles at home. Production boomed.

In the mid-1980s, consumer drinking habits shifted toward shōchū, whisky lost its allure, and some distillers from the postwar boom years closed. But Keizo Saji, the second son of Suntory founder Shinjiro Torii, saw an opportunity: premium whisky. In 1984, the year domestic whisky consumption dropped 15.6 percent, Saji launched Yamazaki 12, Japan’s first high-end mass-market single malt, transforming a downturn into a chance for the company to outdo itself with top-notch quaffs that would raise whisky’s domestic reputation and compete with scotches in the global marketplace. Nikka followed suit with their own single malt. Historians usually date the true start of Japanese whisky’s global ascendency to 2001, when 62 industry professionals did a blind taste test for British Whisky Magazine and named Nikka’s Yoichi 10 Single Cask the year’s best. “The whiskeys of Japan proved to be a real eye-opener for the majority of tasters,” the magazine wrote. As the Japan Times reported the following year, “Sales of Nikka’s award-winning 10-year-old single-cask whiskey, which has only been sold online at Nikka’s Web site, surged from about 20 bottles a month in 2000 to 1,200 in November after several Japanese newspapers carried an article about the taste-test events.”

For a long time, the majority of Japanese whisky was made following Scottish distilling methods: Japanese single malts were made from 100 percent malted barley (mostly imported from the U.K.) with local mountain and spring water, distilled in pot stills, and matured at least three years in oak. Japanese single malts moved to casks made from American or European oaks and that once held bourbon to age further and take on color and flavor, usually for 10 to 18 years. Like scotch, these single malts were rich, wooded, and highly aromatic. But Japanese innovation also created an astonishing diversity of flavors that tradition would never have allowed. Distillers age their whisky age in casks that once held sherry, bourbon, brandy, ume, and port, and, on a more limited basis, expensive casks made from Japan’s native mizunara oak. Every culture has masters and apprentices, but the Japanese have a particular respect for craftsmanship, and many people, from coffee roasters to cedarwood lunch box makers, dedicate their lives to a single specialty. Whisky writer Brian Ashcraft told Nippon that there’s a word for this: “In the Meiji period [1868–1912] there was a slogan, wakon-yōsai, or Japanese spirit and Western knowhow. So even if a product made in Japan is superficially the same as one made overseas, it’s going to be something Japanese because of differences in culture, language, food, climate. … This applies to anything from blue jeans to cameras, cars and trains. There are elements of the culture manifesting in the finished product.” Sakuma Tadashi, Nikka’s chief blender, told Ashcraft that by liberating themselves from tradition and embracing innovation and experimentation, the company can continue to improve its whisky. “At Nikka,” Tadashi said, “it’s ingrained into everyone that we need to make whisky that is better than scotch. That’s why if we change things, then we can make even more delicious whisky.”

* * *

Like whisky aging in barrels, Japanese whisky producers’ international reputation took years to develop, but gradually medals started weighing down their lapels. In 2001, the International Wine and Spirits Competition awarded Karuizawa Pure Malt 12 a gold medal. In 2003, the International Spirits Challenge gave Yamazaki 12 a gold award. Hibiki 30 won the International Spirits Challenge’s top prize in 2004, Yamazaki 18 won San Francisco World Spirits Competition’s Double Gold Medal in 2005, and Nikka’s Yoichi 20 was named World’s Best Single Malt Whisky in 2008. The World Whiskies Awards named Yamazaki 25 “World’s Best Single Malt” in 2012. Hibiki 21 was named the world’s best blended whisky in 2013. And on and on.

I’ve harbored an interest in Japanese culture and history since fifth grade. When I discovered the anime Robotech — one of the first Japanese animated shows adapted for mainstream American television — I sat for hours in my room, copying images of robots, missiles, and sparkly-eyed warrior women into my sketchbooks. As I moved away from anime and manga, I read more broadly about Japan and fell in love with Japanese literature, food, smart technology, and the Toyotas that never died, like the truck that took me from Arizona to British Columbia and back two times. Naturally, Bill Murray’s now-famous line in Lost in Translation “For relaxing times, make it Suntory time” made me want to taste what he was talking about. So I ordered a glass of 12-year Yamazaki at a bar.

Lively and bright with a medium body, the Yamazaki had layers of orange peel, honey, cinnamon, and brown sugar, along with a surprisingly earthy incense aroma, almost like cedar, which I later learned came from casks made from Japan’s mizunara oak — Mizunara imparts what distillers call “temple flavor.” I kept my nose in the glass, sniffing and smiling and sniffing, no matter what the other patrons thought of me. When Bill Murray raised his glass of Hibiki 17, Suntory’s Hibiki and Yamazaki lines were not widely distributed in the U.S. or Europe, and Western drinkers who knew them often considered them a novelty, or worse, a careful impersonation of the “real” Scottish malts. What I tasted could not be dismissed as a novelty. I knew that the people at Suntory who made this whisky had treated it as a work of art.

I loved it so much that I wondered what else was out there. There was little information in English: a single English-language book, Ulf Buxrud’s hard-to-find Japanese Whisky: Facts, Figures and Taste, which cost too much to order. Instead, I found a community of blogging gaijin who took Japanese spirits as seriously as the distillers did, sharing information, reviews, and whatever information they could find. Some of them lived in Japan. Others visited frequently and had Japanese connections who could translate details and source bottles. Clint A. of Whiskies R Us, Chris Bunting and Stefan Van Eycken at Nonjatta, Michio Hayashi at Japan Whisky Reviews. And Brian Love, aka Dramtastic, who ran the Japanese Whisky Review. They blogged about the domestic drams that you could only buy in Japan. They blogged about obscure drams from the decommissioned Kawasaki grain distillery; about something called owners casks and other limited bottlings made for Japanese department stores; and about what remained from the mothballed Karuizawa distillery, now one of the most fetishized whiskies in the world. They were my education.

At home, I searched for whiskies online and in bars and liquor stores and soon discovered my favorites: I preferred the smoky, rich coal-fired Yoichi to the woody, spicy Yamazaki. I liked the fruity depth of Hibiki a lot, but had an irrational prejudice against blended whisky, so I didn’t buy any bottles of Hibiki when they cost a mere $70. And I preferred the crisp, herbaceous forest flavors of 12-year-old Hakushu to them all; I still do. Even after I became moderately educated and increasingly opinionated, I kept buying $30 bottles of my beloved Elijah Craig 12-year instead of Yoichi or Hibiki. That’s the thing: The bloggers couldn’t teach me that the years when I discovered Japanese whisky turned out to be their best years, and that I needed to take advantage of my timing. They didn’t know. Nobody outside the whisky companies did, and nothing about their posts suggested that this world of abundant, affordable Japanese whiskies would come to an end around 2014.

The fan groups and bloggers praised Yamazaki and Karuizawa malts, driving worldwide interest and prices. By the time the influential Jim Murray’s Whisky Bible named the Yamazaki Single Malt Sherry Cask “World Whisky of the Year” in 2015 and San Francisco World Spirits Competition named Yamazaki 18 their 2015 Best in Class under the category “Other Whiskey,” U.S. and U.K. stores couldn’t keep Japanese whisky in stock. The student had overtaken the master. The $100 bottles of Yamazaki 18 no longer appeared on suburban BevMo shelves, and Hibiki 12 no longer cost $70. Everyone was asking stores for sherry cask, sherry cask, do you have the sherry cask? No, they did not. If you wanted a taste of Miyagikyo 12 in America, it would run you $30 to $50 a glass. The year 2015 was the first time Jim Murray named a Japanese malt the world’s best and the first time in the Whisky Bible’s 12-year history that no Scottish malt made the top five. Every drinker and their grandpa knew Johnnie Walker and Cutty Sark. Now they knew Suntory, too.

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In Japan, television fanned the flames further; a 2014 TV drama called Massan, based on the life of Nikka founder Masataka Taketsuru and his industrious Scottish wife Rita Cowan, helped the Japanese take renewed notice of their own products. Simultaneously, Suntory ran an aggressive ad domestic campaign to encourage younger Japanese to drink cheap highballs — whisky mixed with soda — fueling sales and depleting stock even more.

The buzz caught Suntory and Nikka off guard. After decades of patiently turning out top-notch single malts for a relatively indifferent domestic market, Nikka announced that their aged stock had run low, not just at retailers but inside their facilities. Unable to meet worldwide demand, they did what drinkers found unthinkable: They overhauled their lineup in 2015, replacing beloved aged whiskies with less expensive bottles of “no age statement” or “NAS” whiskies that blended young and old stock. Instead of Miyagikyo aged in barrels for 12 years, Nikka gave us plain Miyagikyo. Instead of Yoichi 10, 12, 15, and 20, there was straight-up Yoichi. Suntory had already added NAS versions of its age-statement Hibiki and Hakushu to conserve shrinking old stock and then went even further, banning company executives from drinking the older single malts to save product for customers. Yamazaki 12 still landed on American shelves, but in smaller quantities that sold out quickly, and Japanese buyers saw them less frequently back home.

Longtime fans greeted Suntory’s answer to the masses, called Toki, with skepticism and hostility. (In the words of one non-word-mincing Reddit poster: “Toki sucks. It’s fucking terrible.”) Time in wood gives whisky complexity. That’s how whisky works, but distillers didn’t have enough old whisky anymore, and they seemed to be rationing what remained in order to blend their core lines while they continued aging what they hoped to bottle again. They were victims of their own success, and they needed time to catch up. Nikka’s official press release put it this way: “With the current depletion, Yoichi and Miyagikyo malt whiskies, which are the base of most of our products, will be exhausted in the future and we will be unable to continue the business.”

On the open market, the news created a frenzy that fueled the resale business. Japanese citizens who previously bought few Nikka malts scavenged whatever bottles they could. Chinese investors flew to Japan to gather stock to mark up. Stores in Tokyo inflated prices to gouge tourists, selling $873 bottles of Hakushu 18 that retailed for $300 in Oregon. Secondhand liquor stores collected and resold unopened bottles, many of which came from the elderly or deceased, who had received them as omiyage gifts but didn’t drink whisky. Auction sites flourished. “We call this the ‘terminal aunt’ syndrome,” Van Eycken wrote, “you know, the aunt you never visit until she’s terminally ill.”

The boom times were over.

After the boom, foreign whisky fans took to the web to post about Japan’s shifting stock. Obsessive types like me — what the Japanese call ‘otaku — shared updates about which bottles they found where and which stores were picked clean. “The Japanese whiskys here are in short supply still, short of the cheap stuff,” said one visitor in Fukuoka. Another foreigner proclaimed “the glory days of $100 ‘zawa’s and easy to find single cask Hanyu’s are over.” Gaijin enthusiasts would search cities in their free time while in Japan on business; others drove out into inaka, the sticks, systematically searching for rare or underpriced bottles at mom-and-pop shops. “On the bright side,” the same commenter reported in 2016, “I went into the boonies and found a small liquor distributor who had 2 Yoichi 10’s and a bunch of dusties (Nikka Super 15, Suntory Royal 15, The Blend of Nikka 17 Maltbase, Once Upon a Time) all pretty cheap, between $18-$35 each. I know some of those dusties are not much more than mixer material, but it’s nice to have a piece of history.” Others found these searches pointless. “Well as a point of fact there is no point for any foreigner to come to Japan in search of Japanese whisky,” Dramtastic wrote in 2015. “You will in many countries almost certainly find a better offering at home and if not, one of the online retailers.” He titled his post “Buying Japanese Whisky In Japan — Nothing But Scorched Earth!”

It was right before the earth got scorched that I obliviously arrived in Japan.

* * *

When I finally got the money to travel overseas, there was only one real choice: Japan. For three weeks, I roamed Tokyo and Kyoto alone, where I shopped for my beloved canned sanma fish and green tea soy milk in grocery stores. I bought jazz CDs and Murakami books in Japanese I couldn’t read. I wrote about capsule hotels and old jazz bars. I photographed my ramen and eel dinners, and I photographed bottles of whisky on store shelves.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want them. I wanted them all: Yoichi 15, Hibiki 21, Miyagikyo 12. But as a traveler, practical considerations prevailed. I didn’t have much money. My luggage already held too much stuff, and anyway, the products would be there next time. I bought a few bottles of common whisky to drink during my trip and went about my business.

I unwittingly found the largest selection of Japanese whisky on my final night in Japan.

I was staying near the busy Ikebukuro train station and went out seeking curry. I wandered around in the cold, shivering and sad about leaving. As I passed ramen shops and busy izakayas, I spotted a cluttered electronics store. Music blared. The interior had a cramped, carnival atmosphere. Blinding white light spilled out the front door. Red lettering on the building’s reflective side said Bic Camera.

I didn’t know it then, but the Bic Camera chain had nearly 40 stores nationwide. The stores often stand seven or eight stories in busy areas near train stations where pedestrians abound. In 2008, the company was valued at $940 million, and its founder, Ryuji Arai, was the 31st richest person in Japan. When Arai opened his original Tokyo camera store in 1978, he sold $3.50 worth of merchandise the first day. Today, Bic Camera is an all-purpose mega-store that sells seemingly everything but cars and fresh produce.

Before the boom, Bic sold highly limited editions of whisky made exclusively for Bic, including an Ichiro 22-year and a Suntory blend. The stock is designed to compete with liquor stores that carry similar selections, though many Japanese shoppers come for the imported scotch and American bourbon. That night I couldn’t tell any of that. I couldn’t even tell if this was an upscale department store or a Japanese version of Walmart. In America, hip stories follow the “less is more” principle, with sparse displays that suggest they’re also selling negative space and apathy. Bic crammed everything in.

I rode the escalator up for no other reason than to see what was there. Cell phones, cameras, TVs — the escalator provided a nice view of each floor. When I spotted booze on 4F, I jumped off. They had an entire corner devoted to liquor and a wall displaying Japanese whisky. They had all the good ones I’d read about online but hadn’t been able to find and others I didn’t know. My luggage already contained so many CDs, clothes, and souvenirs that I’d have to mail some things home, but I grabbed two bottles anyway, I no longer remember which kind. I only remember gripping their cold glass necks like they were the last bottles on earth, desperate to bring just a bit more home, and I held them tightly as I wandered the aisles, studying the unreadable labels of aged whiskies and marveling at the business strategy of this mysterious store as I preemptively mourned my return to the States.

A clerk in a black vest approached me and said something politely that I couldn’t understand. With a smile, the man said something else and bowed, sorry, very sorry. He pointed to his watch. The store was closing, maybe it already had. He stood and stared. I looked at him and nodded. He stood nodding back. In that overwhelming corner, with indecipherable announcements blaring overhead, I considered my options and returned the bottles to the shelf, offering my apologies. Then I rode back down to the frigid street. The dark night felt darker away from Bic’s fluorescence, as did the winter air.

The high-end whiskies in a locked case. Tokyo grocery store 2014. Photo by Aaron Gilbreath

Like a good tourist — and like a dumbass — I photographed everything on that first trip, from tiny cars to bowls of udon to Japanese whisky displays. When I look at the photos of those rare bottles now, I see the last Tasmanian tiger slipping into the woods. The next season, it went extinct, and all I’d done was raise my camera at it. I had unwittingly visited the world’s greatest Japanese whisky city and I had nothing to show for it.

* * *

The trip ended. The regret lived on.

Partly, it was fed by money, or my lack thereof: Because I like having a few different styles of whisky at home, I wanted a range of Japanese styles, but I couldn’t afford $100 bottles of anything, which meant I’d never get to taste many of these whiskies.

Part of it was nostalgia: I wanted to keep the memory of my time in Japan alive, to prolong the trip, by keeping its bottles on display at home.

Mostly, it’s driven by something much more ethereal. When people ask why I like whisky, I tell them it’s the taste and smell. Scotch strikes a chord in me in a way that wine, bourbon, and cocktails do not. I spare them the more confusing truth, which even I struggle to articulate. Part of scotch’s appeal comes from scarcity and craftsmanship. Its spare ingredients include only barley, spring water, wood, and the chemical reactions that occur between them. And time: Aged spirits are old. For half of my 20s and all of my 30s — the time I was busting my ass after college, trying to build a career and learn to write well enough to tell a story like this — 18-year old Yamazaki whisky lay inside a barrel in a warehouse outside Osaka. That liquid and I lived our lives in parallel, steadily maturing, accruing character, until our paths finally crossed at a bar in Oregon.

That liquid and I lived our lives in parallel, steadily maturing, accruing character, until our paths finally crossed at a bar in Oregon.

But it’s more than age. Something magical happens in those barrels, where liquid interacts with wood in the dark, damp warehouses where barrels rest for decades. Aged whisky is a rare example of celebrating life moving at a slow, geological pace that is no longer the norm in our instant world. You can’t speed up this process, and that makes the liquid precious. When you’ve waited 12 years for a whisky to come out the cask, or 20 years — through wars and presidencies, political upheavals and ecological crises — that’s longer than many people have been alive. And in a sense, the whisky itself is alive. That potent life force is preserved in that bottle. The drops are by nature limited, measured in ounces and milliliters, and that limitation puts another value on it. When the cap comes off your 750-milliliter bottle, you count: sip, sip, uh oh, 600 mils left, then 400, then a level low enough that you reserve the bottle for special occasions.

The limited availability of certain whiskies adds another layer of scarcity value; when distilleries close, their whisky becomes irreplaceable. No more of those Hanyus or Karuizawas will ever get made. No more versions of the early 1990s Hibiki, since Suntory changed the formula. For distilleries that still operate, their whisky is irreplaceable, too. The exact combination of wood, temperature, and age will never produce the same flavor twice. Even when made according to a formula, whisky is a distinct expression of time and place. The weather, the blender, the barley, the proximity to the sea, and of course, the barrels — sherry, port, or bourbon? — all impart a particular flavor along with the way blenders mix them. For Yamazaki 18, 80 percent of the liquid gets aged in sherry casks, the remaining 20 percent in American oak and mizunara. That deliberation and precision come from human expertise that takes a lifetime to acquire, and expertise, like the whisky it produces, is singular and therefore valuable.

When you sip whisky, you don’t have to think about of any of this to enjoy it. You don’t even have to name the flavors you taste. You can just silently appreciate it; it doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.

For me, Japanese whisky became more complicated, because I also wanted it to give me something more than it could: a connection to a trip and a time that had passed.

In Japan, everything looked a certain way. The way stores displayed bottles. The way restaurants displayed food. The way businesses signs hung outside — Matsuya, Shinanoya, CoCo Curry House — and the way all of those images and colors and geometries combined in a raucous clutter of wires and Hiragana and Katakana to create urban Japan’s distinctive look. When I returned home, I kept picturing those streets. They appeared in dreams and projected themselves on shower curtain as I washed in the morning. To stave off my hunger, I frequently ate at local Japanese restaurants, but even the most exacting decorations or grilled yakitori skewers couldn’t fully give me what I wanted. So I fantasized about creating it myself, and then I did: my best replica of an underground Tokyo bar, in the corner of my basement, the bottles lined up just so.

When my wife, Rebekah, and I took our honeymoon to Japan in 2016, I hoped to make up for past errors. Instead, I found the scorched earth. Japanese liquor stores and grocers sold few of the rare bottles they did just two years earlier. The fancy department stores had no Karuizawa or Hanyu. And the aged whiskies I did find had price tags too big to afford. I bought none of them on that trip either. For the cost of a $130 Yoichi 12, I could buy three great bottles of regular hooch at home. After we returned, I kept scheming ways to return to Japan for just a few days. Since I couldn’t, I satisfied myself with my display of empty whisky, sake, and Japanese beer bottles, and I kept scheming ways to get more domestic booze. A friend brought me a bottle of Kakubin while visiting her family in Tokyo. I asked a few friends in Japan to mail me bottles, even though regulations prohibit Japanese citizens from doing that. (They said no.)

There was only one way to get more whisky, and I couldn’t afford the ticket.

Then in January an email about a discount flight to Tokyo landed in my inbox. Flights were crazy cheap. I had to go.

When I proposed this to Rebekah, she said, “Seriously?” She lay in bed, staring at me like I’d asked if she’d hop on a plane to Amsterdam in 10 minutes without packing. “Just hear me out,” I said, and outlined my impractical business plan for recouping expenses by throwing paid, tip-only whisky parties for booze no one could find anywhere else in Portland, where we live. “Think about it as a stock mission,” I said. “I’m buying inventory.” She stared at me unblinking. It’s Japan, I said. It’s right there, next to Oregon after all that water. We were basically neighbors! The quality of the whisky I’d buy would be lower than all the now-collectible bottles I passed up on my first trip, but at least I would do it right.

It’s Japan, I said. It’s right there, next to Oregon after all that water.

I pictured myself flying to Tokyo in spring. The train from Narita Airport to Bic Camera in Kashiwa would wobble along the tracks, its brakes squeaking as it stopped at countless suburban platforms, with their walls of apartments and scent of fried panko. A 6 o’clock, the setting sun would cast the sides of buildings the color of summer peaches, and what little I could see of the sky would glow a blinding radish yellow. My knees would hurt from sitting on that plane for 11 hours, so I’d stand by the train door to stretch them the way I had during my first Tokyo trip, watching the 7-Eleven signs and giant bike racks pass, and posing triumphantly over time and my own pigheadedness. I’d buy as many bottles of domestic Japanese whisky as my one piece of rolling luggage would hold without exceeding the airline’s 50-pound limit. In a life marked by stupid things, this would be one of the stupidest. I’d feel endlessly grateful. The bottles would keep me connected me to Japan, to that trip, date-stamped by its ephemerality, just like the numbers on the bottles of aged whisky: 10, 12, 15, 20 years.

I never bought the plane ticket. There was little there to buy anyway. In 2018, Suntory announced that it would severely limit the availability of Hibiki 17 and Hakushu 12 in most markets. Soon after, Kirin announced it would discontinue its beloved, inexpensive, domestic Fuki-Gotemba 50 blend. Stock had simply run out. I’d bought a few good bottles for low prices before the boom and they stood in our basement bar, where we drank them, not hoarded them for future resale. Drinking is what whisky is for. The bottles stood as reminders that I had done a few things right. And maybe we should think less about what we missed and more about what is yet to come. In 2013 and 2014, Suntory expanded its distilling operations to increase production. It, Nikka, Kirin, and many smaller companies have laid down a lot of whisky, and when all that whisky has sufficiently aged there will be a lot of 10-to-15-year-old whiskies on the market — maybe as early as 2020 or 2021. “I always tell people not to worry about not being able to drink certain older whiskies that are no longer available,” Osaka bar owner Teruhiko Yamamoto told writer Brian Ashcraft. “Scotch whisky has a long tradition, but right now it feels like Japanese whisky is entering a brand new chapter. We’re seeing whisky history right before our eyes.”

Still, sometimes I can’t help myself. I’ll wonder if any Suntory shipments arrived at local stores here in Portland. They rarely do. Suntory doled out their remaining aged whiskies very carefully to try to satisfy their international markets. But when I checked Oregon State’s liquor search website recently, I found that a few stores had bottles of the very rare Yamazaki 18 for $300 apiece. Compared to auction sites, that was a deal. I still couldn’t afford that, but I was curious how many other interested, obsessive types were scrambling to secure bottles. When I called one store, a man answered the phone with, “Troutdale Liquor. We’re all sold out of the Yamazaki.”

“Ha,” I said. “Okay, thanks. I hope the calls end soon.”

He said, “Me too!”

I hung up the phone and got back to work.

* * *

Aaron Gilbreath has written for Harper’s, Kenyon Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Dublin Review and Brick. He’s the author of the books This Is: Essays on Jazz and Everything We Don’t Know: Essays. He’s working on books about California’s rural San Joaquin Valley and about Japan.

Editor: Michelle Weber Fact checker: Sam Schuyler Copy editor: Jacob Z. Gross

#Longreads #Food #Ravishankar Sivasubramaniam #Aaron Gilbreath

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anotherlifefic · 5 years

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Chapter 14: The Wedding

A few months later, during which I had ceaselessly worked on my wedding dress, the day had finally come. Today was the day everyone I loved would gather at LonLon Ranch to witness Link and I being joined together as a married couple. Against my better judgement, I had also sent invitations to my parents, hoping that coming together at my wedding would mend our relationship. And now I stood in Malon's bedroom, already wearing my wedding dress, while Malon herself was braiding my hair so she could pin it up and stick the comb that held the veil into the updo. I had given the dress my all, and it was beautiful. The overlay which endet in the trail of the dress was white tulle, while the rest of the dress was the white linen with light green embroidery of leaves and vines on the bodice. The dress had trumpetsleeves that almost reached my ankles when I kept my hands at my sides. I did not wear any jewelry besides the wooden pendant my Grandpa had made for me. It made me feel like he was there with me, watching me get married. After all, it had been this very pendant that started my relationship with Link. A soft knock came from the door, and Malon opened it, only to find Princess Zelda standing on the other side, smiling at us. „May I enter?“ Both Malon and I curtsied before her. „Of course, Your Highness.“ The Princess came in an approached me, her armes outstretched for a hug. She smelled sweet, like spring flowers, and her embrace was warm and welcoming. When she let me go, she pulled a small flask out of a hidden pocket in her dress. „Here, this is my wedding gift to you.“ She opened it, and a sweet, luxurious smell spread through the room. She put some of the liquid on her finger and lightly dabbed it on my neck, right underneath my ears. It felt cool on my skin. Perfume. She pushed the flask in my hand before I could say anything and turned around. „I suppose I should go take my place among the guests. I will see you during the ceremony.“ Malon looked a bit baffled after the Princess had left. She turned to me. „I knew that you met the Princess, but since when are the two of you such good friends??“ „I honestly don't know“, I replied while I grabbed my bouqet from the nightstand. „Shall we? I don't want to keep Link waiting.“

Malon and Talon had repurposed the gate to the pasture as a wedding arch. Benches were set up to the left and right of it, and there sat our guests. Most of them were people of Hyrule City; my neighbours and other childhood-friends. A few of the Kokiri had come to witness Link's wedding; among them was Mido, who made an effort to look like the grumpy little boy I had met when visiting Kokiri Village. But when he felt like nobody was watching him, I caught him smiling to himself. Next to the Kokiri stood a group of Gorons who were obviously very happy for Link. Their grins were so wide that they barely fit on their faces. Link was standing under the arch, wearing the tunic I had made for him, and Talon led me down the aisle. As I passed the first row of benches, I saw that two spots were empty... the ones meant for my parents. I tried to ignore the stinging pain in my heart as I turned my head to Link again. I did not want to cry on my wedding day, and if I did, I should only cry tears of joy. As we arrived at the arch, Talon gave my hand a last encouraging pat before taking his place in the first row. A priest from Hyrule City had been kind enough to perform the ceremony for us. He smiled at both Link and me, before he started talking:„Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness this man and this woman being joined in holy matrimony, under the loving eyes of the Goddesses. Love, so they taught us, is a committment to each other, to be each other's power, wisdom and courage, and thus, in love, the Goddesses are among us. Love takes many forms, and to express that, the groom and bride have prepared their own vows. So please.“ Link cleared his throat. „Rebecca, I know all of this came pretty quickly. Our relationship, our wedding. And that might mean that our marriage will need a lot more work than it would normally. But I swear by the Triforce that I will do everything to make you happy. I swear to protect you, to keep you safe from anyone who might mean you harm.“ Now I really felt tears of happiness creep into my eyes. But I took a deep breath and steadied myself. „Link. Honestly, when I realized that I had fallen in love with you, I really did not expect anything to come from it. But then you told me that you felt the same, and in that moment, I felt like I could do anything. And now, I want to do the same for you. And I swear that I will. I would do anything for you. I swear to be your shelter on a rainy day, your safe harbour in the midst of a storm.“ The priest nodded. „Very well then. If anyone objects to this marriage, may they speak now or forever hold their peace.“ Just in this moment, I looked to the people gathered and saw my mother and father hurrying towards us. Our eyes met, and my heart skipped a beat. No. They wouldn't. Would they? But after just a second, my mother lowered her gaze, as if embarrassed, and dragged my father over to their seats. I heard Princess Zelda quietly voice her disapproval of the interruption, but then I turned back to the priest. „Link, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love, to cherish, in sickness and in health, in peace and in war, until death do you part?“ „I do“, Link said and smiled. „Rebecca, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love, to cherish, in sickness and in health, in peace and in war, until death do you part?“ „I do.“ My heart beat a little faster as I said that, almost overwhelmed with joy. „You may kiss your bride.“ Link pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly. I wrapped my arms around his warm body, wanting him closer to me. I heard our guests cheer, but I was so caught up in the moment that it seemed very far away. Our guests came in small groups to congratulate us. First came Link the Goron and Malon, our best man and maid of honor. They hugged us, and I smiled even though Link the Goron's hug would probably leave me with a few bruises. Then came the Kokiri and the other Gorons, shaking our hands, hugging us and giving us their best wishes. Group by group, we accepted their well-wishes, their handshakes and hugs, until only two people were left who hadn't congratulated us. My parents. Of course. „Looks like we'll have to meet them halfway“, I told Link. Link sighed. „Yes, let's.“ My father was the first one to talk when we approached them. „Rebecca. Congratulations. I'm so happy for you.“ I smiled, but it must have looked a bit forced, because my father looked off to the side. „I'm so sorry I wasn't there to walk you down the aisle.“ „Well... I'm glad you came, either way“, I said, trying to sound optimistic. Then I looked past him to my mother, who looked like she'd rather be anywhere but there with us. „What about you, mama?“ She sighed. „I... don't know what to say.“ Well that was new. My eloquent mother was at a loss for words. Or maybe it was because I hadn't called her 'mama' in years. „There are a lot of things to say right now.“ She looked at me, then at Link, before turning around, and I just caught a glimpse of her gaze hardening. „I hope you won't regret it.“ With that, she marched off. My father looked at me sadly. „Don't resent her for this, Rebecca. She fears that you made the same mistake she made when she was your age.“ He bit his lip, as if he had said too much. Then he smiled. „I for one wish the two of you the best. And may your marriage be happy and peaceful.“ After saying that, he turned around and followed my mother.

The reception was pretty small, but we hadn't intended for it to be a big party anyway. We all had supper together, and then we said our goodbyes as our guests started to go home. Link and I helped clean up the ranch and put the benches back to where they originally stood, before mounting our horses and returning to the city. The circumstances did not allow us to have a honeymoon, but I actually didn't mind too much. When we stood in front of the door to our home, Link opened it and lifted me into his arms again, carrying me over the threshhold. „You know, you technically already did that“, I said dryly as he set me down. „And I will do it many more times in the future. What can I say? I just like carrying you.“ He chuckled and kissed me. „Let's go upstairs.“

I had barely reached our bedroom, when I already felt Links arms around my waist. He pulled me close, kissing my hungrily while his hands wandered to the lacing of my dress. I sighed contently once he managed to undo it and let the tips of his fingers run down my now bare back, giving me goosebumps. While he was doing that, I opened his belt and tossed it aside, before pulling the tunic over his head. My dress soon fell to the floor, and Link led me over to the bed. I sat down on the edge, and started to pull down his trousers and undergarments. Then I hugged his mid-section, planting gentle butterfly-kisses on his stomach, causing him to chuckle. „Rebecca... that tickles.“ „Do you want me to stop?“ He grinned, then pushed me onto the bed and sank down on top of me. „Well... there's more interesting things to do.“ I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as my core grew hot. I had slept with Link several times during the past few months, and once the awkwardness had worn off, Link had turned out to be a great lover. Maybe it was because by now he knew all of my sensitive spots. I moaned as he kissed my neck, then wandered down my collarbone until he was slowly approaching my breast. But he wandered farther down, drawing a burning trail down to my crotch. I gasped when I felt his tongue on my most sensitive spot, caressing and playing with the small bundle of nerves until I had to bite into the pillow to keep myself from crying out. Just when I was about to reach my peak, he suddenly stopped. He was grinning when he lifted his head to meet my gaze, amused by my grumpy expression. „Not so fast, love.“ He sat up and spread my legs farther, taking his place between them. „Ready?“ I nodded, hazy with anticipation, and couldn't stop myself from moaning at the top of my lungs as he entered me, spasming with an intense orgasm. Link moaned as well when he felt my inner walls tightening around him. It did not take long for him to find his release after that, letting him sink down on the bed with me.

We celebrated our new marriage in our own way, through the entire night, until we fell asleep when morning was only an hour or two away. It was already past noon when Link woke me up. He was already dressed in his everyday-tunic. „I have to go to the castle. I'm sorry.“ „It's alright“, I mumbled. „I know that you need all the training you can get at the moment. I'll have a nice supper ready for you when you return.“ He kissed my forehead and left, while I was getting out of bed. There was some tidying up to do, and then I had to get started on the supper I had promised.

I was just done with cleaning up the kitchen when I heard a knock at our door. I opened, and found my mother on the other side, holding a book in her hands. I did not even question how she knew where I lived now. „Mother? Is there anything I can do for you?“ She basically thrust the book in my hands. „If you want to keep that fine husband of yours, I suggest you learn to cook properly. This book contains all of your father's favourite recipes. Chances are that there's at least one recipe your husband will like in this book. If you don't mess it up, of course.“ I pressed the book to my chest, and for the first time in years, I found myself smiling at my mother. In a very gruff, roundabout way, she could really be caring „Thank you.“ She made a dismissive noise and then left, while I retreated back into the house to see which dish I would try to make for Link this time. While I was browsing through the book, I realized that it did not only contain my father's favourite recipes, but also mine. And finally, I found the perfect one. Roast beef with potatoes; something my mother usually cooked for special occasions. And since this was my first day as a married woman, I decided that it qualified as a special occasion. While I was preparing the roast, I allowed myself to think of the future Link and I would have together. Maybe we would have children. There was an empty room upstairs, one that Link had locked off because he had no use for it as of yet. I thought about what our children would be like. Would they be brave and kind, like Link? Would they have his eyes? His smile? Either way, I just hoped that they would be healthy and able to grow up in a peaceful Hyrule.

#The Legend of Zelda #Another Life #fanfiction #OC

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