kestrelofink | Reading

one of my yearly goals is to journal & blog more, so we'll see how that goes... for now here's a graveyard of wips that won't ever be finished.

january has been a great month so far! life-wise i've gone back to teaching for the moment, primary kids are really sssssoooo cute. mental health's pretty high up in the sky, i'm eating well & sleeping well & going out alone and with friends :] also, unrelated, i've been loving bastille's wild world a crazy amount. it's the first album that's clicked so fast for me... lyric and theme-wise, all super inspiring too! highly recommend giving it a listen.

i had the vague desire to have, like, at least one fic posted for every month of this year. more than half of the loosest month gone: umm! yeah not looking too good... i've tried a multitude of times, duh, but i can't seem to flesh out anything of essence. trying not to force my own hand here... the rpf distribution system will bless me soon...

this post is meant to be a wip dump so i'll tttryyyy not to talk too much. mostly i have tripleS drabbles that aren't ever going to be finished. i will say my forever ult bias is yeonji, so while the yuri's calling to me, i don't consider myself an expert at any of the other members to really Write anything that's, like, sensational, but i don't really want to be too caught up in that sense. &team rpf-dom has enough pioneers that i'm super happy just reading and also with my anxiety screaming that i'll write something completely, stupidly, out-of-character. face that fear someday...

anyways. my point is half of these are tripleS, with the occasional other fandom brainworms. Yea

tripleS, 48, 1.6k

i appreciate all my 4rps-focused oomfs so much because i'm basically a characterization robber. this was meant to be for 48 oomf for new year's (but). word count 1.6k, a few hundred more that's been scrapped lol emoji

One hour before the new year, Yubin cracks a party popper straight into Hayeon’s face. By accident, she’s to claim. Hayeon splutters, coughs a few streamers out of her mouth, shoots Yubin a vengeful look and says something that she can’t hear over the noise. Yubin shrugs and arranges her expression into something she hopes is apologetic enough, then she slips away into the throng of girls in the living room before Hayeon can retaliate.

Not that there’s anywhere to go. Fitting all twenty-four of them into one apartment is a miracle in itself; she barely manages to squeeze to the other side of the room, onto the couch, to sit half on the armrest and half on Lynn’s lap. Lynn doesn’t even blink from where she’s talking to a drowsy Shion, only shifting into a more comfortable position.

Someone else slips a drink into her hands, lightning quick. Yubin sniffs it suspiciously, but it smells sweet enough, and there’s a label pasted on that says FOR THE KIDS!! in Seoyeon’s handwriting. She downs it in one big swig.

Jiwoo sidles up to her and replaces the glass. This one is obvious; still-bubbly champagne in what she recognizes to be Yeonji’s ceramic Crayon Shin-chan cup. It’s near barbaric. Yubin raises an eyebrow, but Jiwoo only grins back.

She says, loud enough to Yubin to hear, “You know, some of the kids would love to drink if they were in your position.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them to be doing it now.”

Jiwoo makes a scandalized noise, but her gaze follows Yubin’s to where Hyerin’s red-faced and leaning against the wall of the hallway, listening to an animated Soomin with a placid smile on her face. “Hyerin-ie? Really? That’s surprising.”

“Soomin probably coerced her. Surely that’s illegal.”

“It’ll be legal in,” They both look up at the clock. Mirrored motions. For a while, Jiwoo’s been the biggest constant in her life. “Forty-eight minutes. Cut them some slack.”

That’s a wild thought. Hyerin and Soomin were fifteen when Yubin met them; and that they’ll be, probably, for eternity in her mind. It’s getting harder to comprehend how fast time has been passing. Jiwoo makes a face at her and she looks the same as when she was thirteen.

“Soomin doesn’t look drunk, though,” Yubin responds; meaningless conversation. There are reasons she could come up with herself, if she thought just a little harder, but with Jiwoo, it’s always more about the back and forth rally. Yubin says the silly things off the top of her head and Jiwoo gives back silly answers and they're good together, like that.

“I think Seoyeon-unnie’s keeping an eye out. Apparently she trusts Hyerin more.”

“That’s turned out well,” Yubin says, and Jiwoo laughs, loud and unrestrained. She swoops closer to steer the cup that Yubin’s holding up to her lips, unrelenting until Yubin takes a sip. It’s crisp, and tastes vaguely like peach. Mindlessly, Yubin thinks of Chaeyeon.

“Are you gonna be the one to tell Yeonji why her cup smells like champagne tomorrow?”

“Nah, I’ll just ask Chaeyeon-unnie,” Jiwoo says, which, okay, maybe they really are spending too much time together. “She’s the one who poured it anyways.”

That’s—random. “Chaeyeon-unnie poured it for you?”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “For you.” She puts emphasis on the you like it’s supposed to mean something. The alcohol’s probably getting to her; Yubin feels her face heat up.

She laughs it off and takes another sip. It gets sweeter the more she drinks. “And she got you to bring it over instead? Typical.”

Jiwoo squints at her like what does that mean? and, honestly, Yubin’s not even sure either. Something about her mind gets muddled when it comes to things like this. But, whatever, it’s Jiwoo, she can say all the confusing things she wants and not care about giving an explanation. Maybe it’s similar for Chaeyeon too, Yubin thinks suddenly, with a sort of new clarity that makes her feel wise.

“You should finish that,” Jiwoo nods towards the cup. “It’s really high-end. Kaede stole the rest of the bottle, so you can’t get any more.”

Yubin had a conversation with Chaeyeon, once, about this. She’d been freshly nineteen and somehow the topic of drinking was brought up. The New Year’s Eve prior, Yubin had gone to a friend’s party for the countdown. Her first taste of alcohol—other than the few glasses her mother used to sneak her at bigger events—was of this cheap, shitty soju that tasted like artificial sour grape juice.

“No can do,” Chaeyeon said, apparently offended on her behalf. “You have to try some of the good stuff.”

The good stuff. She said it like she wasn’t almost exactly three months older than Yubin. But then again, the age gap between them has always felt more sporadic—appearing when it matters. Like that, then: Chaeyeon speaking with an extra year of experience under her belt.

Yubin had been sprawled like a starfish on Yeonji’s upper bunk. “You really sound like an unnie, now.”

“Yah, Gong Yubin. I'm always your unnie.”

“Barely!”

“I just let it slide because you’re cute,” Chaeyeon said. Yubin wished she could see her face, to tell whether the note of honesty in her voice was, well, genuine. It’s hard to tell when it’s Chaeyeon. “Don’t make me take it back.”

“I’m not worried. You can’t resist me.”

“Come down so I can hit you. Yeonji’s going to kill me if we break her bed.”

There’s a joke about breaking the bed sitting pretty on her tongue, but Yubin swallowed it back and climbed down the ladder instead. Chaeyeon was lying on her own bed, hair fanned out on the pillow, and she let out an oof when Yubin took a flying leap to plaster her body over Chaeyeon’s.

“Like, seriously, though. You have to try better alcohol than soju.”

“Where am I going to get the money?”

Chaeyeon eyed her incredulously. “You’re an idol, Yubin-ie.”

Yubin laughed. She curled closer to Chaeyeon, fitting her head into the space between her shoulder and jaw. In this position, skin-to-skin, she’s privy to the rhythm of Chaeyeon’s steady pulse. “Will unnie buy it for me?”

“Not in a million years,” Chaeyeon answered, and this time it’s pretty obvious that she’s lying. They played this game often. Denial of affection and whatnot. Chaeyeon combed her fingers into Yubin’s hair, through the tangled strands, a whiplash from her words. “Maybe if you had spent New Year’s with us. You should’ve watched Jiwoo drink, her face was so red.”

“And Kaede?”

“Halfway on the road to alcoholism,” Chaeyeon said very seriously. “Stop laughing, I’m serious! She drank even more than me. Almost as much as Sohyun-unnie. She wasn’t even that out of it after.”

“I can imagine,” Yubin said, and she turned to bury her face into Chaeyeon’s hair. She smelled the same as always; her fresh, fruity conditioner. Sometimes Yubin would borrow it to mess with her, but Chaeyeon never seemed to mind.

tripleS, 612, 0.8k

i just think they have a super interesting dynamic re: different upbringings and similar dispositions. not something i would personally ever post on ao3? it's more of, like, fleshing out everything i know about yeonji and the person slash idol that she is.

“Well,” Yeonji starts, in the split second in which Soomin pauses for breath, “Want to come with me to Gwangju?”

Soomin blinks. Says—unnecessarily, in hindsight, but that’s never been a problem with Yeonji—“Aren’t you going to see your family?”

“Yeah,” Yeonji says. She’s swirling her straw around her clear glass cup, eyes fixed to the surface, where the last dregs of powder float around. Not that she’d ever admit it, but Soomin had watched her, five minutes prior, take a sip and wrinkle her nose in that very Kwak Yeonji manner of hers. Recently, without warning or reason, Yeonji’s been honed in, obsessed—every synonym in the book—with the idea of growing up. In particular, following Chaeyeon-unnie around like a duckling; Chaeyeon-unnie drinks coffee, so she’s drinking coffee.

“I’m hardly one to leave you alone in the dorms, am I? Can’t leave my title of your favorite dongsaeng hanging.”

“You’re one of three. That can’t mean for much,” Soomin points out. “And I won’t be alone. Surely there are members staying behind.”

Yeonji frowns. “If you don’t want to go, just say that.”

Oops. Again, that accidental apathy that Seoyeon-unnie always tells her off for. She swears that it’s not deliberate—some part of her nature, a T in the most straightforward sense. Yeonji has been her best friend for almost three years now; they’re alike, as the members agree, fitting together like puzzle pieces, matching and drawing off each other’s energy. But then there’ll be moments like this. Maybe it’s part of her growing up regime, that Yeonji has been more sensitive recently. Or Soomin’s T-blindness is increasing. Either way, nowadays, it’s getting more destabilizing to be with Yeonji.

She goes with the habitual reaction. Drags out a “Nooooo,” and lunges at Yeonji, pulling her in and wrestling her onto the bed, until Yeonji’s laughing, helpless. The cup of coffee is knocked over at some point; it spills slowly onto the table, staining the papers atop.

“You idiot, that’s my homework.”

“You can’t go calling your unnie an idiot,” Soomin responds, in mock offense. It really is gratifying to be able to use that to her power; where she’s younger than most people at her side, there’s exactly three others that she can lord her age over. And one of them is in her arms right now, giggling.

Yeonji sits up. Under the shadows cast by the bunk bed, the white room light illuminates her from behind. If Soomin squints hard enough, she can catch the growing pink patches on Yeonji’s cheeks.

“So? Are you coming?”

And that’s that. Kim Soomin is going to Gwangju for Chuseok.

-

Mayu-unnie sees them off. It’s a sweet gesture, except that right as the train arrives, she kisses Yeonji’s cheek, ruffles Soomin’s hair, and coos, “Take care of Soominie, won’t you?”

She takes great offense in that. “I’m older than her!”

“Yeonji’s more mature than you,” Mayu just shrugs. She smiles a sunbeam smile, says, “Seriously, though, have fun together. I want to see Yeonji’s neighborhood too.”

“Maybe next time, unnie,” Yeonji replies. She runs her hand through her hair, letting her bangs drift over her forehead. Her hair’s freshly cut and dyed; a shade of green that Soomin still can’t quite pick out. She thinks turquoise, but Yeonji swears it’s teal. In any case, it suits her to an unfair degree—since debut, Yeonji has been playing around with the color of her hair, back and forth, and it’s fitting every time. Soomin’s—not quite jealous, she’s sure she could look good in different colors if she tried. Something close, though.

Yeonji turns away from Mayu, catches Soomin’s eye before she has the sense to stop staring. She grins and combs her hair behind her ear—another Chaeyeon-unnie habit—well, not specific to her, but Chaeyeon’s long mastered the art of her every motion looking effortlessly pretty, and Yeonji seems to be following along rather skillfully—before she hooks her arm with Soomin’s.

“Soomin-unnie’s been to Chowol-eup before, though. I’m sure she could find her own way around.”

What? Oh, right. She has to physically shake herself back to reality.

“That was one time, and our staff basically drove me straight to your school, anyways.”

“Sure,” Yeonji says. She still has that wide, brilliant grin on her face. It’s the same expression she carries onto stage all the time—looking out into the audience, looking at their members, looking at Soomin. Sweet and genuine.

Across the platform, the train whistles its first warning. Yeonji takes her hand; fits her fingers into the gaps between her own. They bid a final goodbye to Mayu, and then they’re off.

-

As much as she’d talked about being excited to spend more time with Soomin, Yeonji falls asleep on the train within ten minutes. She’s leaning her head against the window, fast asleep, mouth slightly open. It’s a hilariously cute sight, and Soomin snaps a few quick pictures on her phone to send to their group chat.

tripleS, 416, 0.6k

the true Koma Mayu's Kiss Complex ficlet. someday i'll flesh something similar out, i swear. my second bias is mayu, she's really so intriguing to me. also if i ever publish 416 i'll make a post about them, they're sooo freaking good as a pair...

Jeong Hayeon kisses Kim Chaeyeon during a fan-meeting. The fact of it is that Mayu learns of this later—not when it happened, though she’d been standing only a few feet away—but after: back in their dormitory, scrolling through her phone, she watches as the video opens onto her feed without her prompting.

Out loud, to nobody in particular, she asks, “Did you know that Hayeonie kissed Chaeyeon earlier?”

From her bed, Chaewon comes around to peer at her screen. “Oh, yeah. Hayeon was telling me about it earlier.”

“No, but, did you see it happen?” Mayu presses. Uncertain on why it means so much to her. It’s a new, unfounded feeling—the way the matter seems to shape in her chest, bubbling with its own pulse.

Chaewon shrugs, casual, uninhibited motion. “No? Even Soomin didn’t, and she was right next to them.” Curiosity settled, she slides back into bed, curling up easily. “Good night, unnie.”

“Good night,” Mayu echoes.

But she doesn't follow suit, like she should, what with their early-morning schedule tomorrow. Instead, almost unconsciously, she lets the video play over and over again, repeating in on itself, a cycle: Chaeyeon turns her head, Hayeon leans in, Hayeon kisses Chaeyeon, Chaeyeon jerks back, restart. What was she doing then? Zoning out, probably, or taking pictures with Yeonji. On screen: Chaeyeon jerks away again. Her expression is practiced, angled—she looks pretty, like she always does for a camera. Hayeon kisses her again.

Briefly Mayu thinks about it—settles herself into Hayeon’s position. Imagines herself leaning in, all the same, to kiss Chaeyeon. She’s never kissed a girl before.

It’s hard to imagine. She shuts off her phone, moves to switch off the lights, and resolves to ask Chaeyeon about it tomorrow.

-

A truth: both directly and not, Chaeyeon was where Mayu ultimately learned what it is to be an idol. Idolship was a concept entirely new to her—to Chaeyeon, decidedly not. And that in itself settled it, really: she trained herself in stride to fit into the already-formed sphere of tripleS, with Kim Chaeyeon as a standing model.

So, like everything else coagulated into the responsibility of being an idol, Mayu learned fanservice from Chaeyeon. The basics came easily—saying the right things, posing at the right moments; her persona on-screen is close enough that she can be genuine for this.

This is new. This is something from a distance. Kissing a member for fanservice? She’s thought about it, of course, the unavoidable aspect of a twenty-four member girl group in this century. If Chaeyeon does it, idol of a decade, there has to be some significance behind it.

The next day: after their photoshoot, she walks into Chaeyeon’s room as casually as she can intentionally be. Yeonji’s gone for a fansign, so it’s just Chaeyeon sitting on the floor, tapping onto her phone. She gives Mayu a cursory glance, raises her eyebrows.

“Unnie, do you need something?”

“No,” Mayu responds, more of reflex than anything. Sounds kind of weird, though, and she hurries to ask, “Can I sit in here for a bit?”

Chaeyeon’s looking at her strangely now. But she’s polite, as always, and says, “Of course.”

Give her a few moments: Mayu acts on impulse, far too much, and now she’s here. In Chaeyeon’s room, taking up space, only now thinking about what she wants to ask. The video plays in her head, again, frame-by-frame etched into her mind.

“Chaeyeon-ah,” she starts to say. She watches Chaeyeon switch off her phone like she’d been expecting it, turns to her with a tilt of her head. Even now, subconsciously—poised, graceful; genuine all the same. A little bit debilitating, if Mayu has to admit it.

She goes with what’s familiar. Tips her head onto Chaeyeon’s shoulder, blonde hair drifting over Chaeyeon’s neck; smiles an easy smile, and asks, “You kissed Hayeon yesterday, right?”

Here, if Mayu tilts her head at a certain angle, she can watch Chaeyeon’s face with only slight discomfort in her neck. Small price to pay; it's entertaining to watch Chaeyeon’s expression shift.

tws, haepjae, 1.3k

whatever man 😭 i do love their relationship and dynamic, this is just a whole lot of Nothing . i started this and dropped it within the span of a day because i realized i don't trust myself to know tws enough to write them properly. maybe next time! this is sparse paragraphs that i'll probably superimpose into other fics at some point.

Youngjae washes in with the rain, quite literally.

It’s mid-summer, cloud-darkened moonlight reflected on the ocean’s surface, when Jihoon feels the barest drops of rain on his too-warm skin. He revels in the feeling—one drop, two. Then with a sound of thunder it begins to pour.

The lovely thing about his lighthouse standing some miles away from the closest civilization is that there is no one to hear the unceremonious yelp he lets out. He scrambles to retreat back into shelter, back down into the house, shaking rain out of his hair with all the grace of a wet dog. Damn Kyungmin, who’d falsely informed him over the telephone just this morning that it wasn’t slated to rain any time soon, well, look how that’s turned out. The temperature in the house drops unbelievably fast, goosebumps erupting all over his skin, until he’s shivering, freezing, rushing to light the fireplace. Starting a fire mid-summer—some sort of mystical higher-up has to be messing with him.

There’s a flash of lightning that briefly illuminates the surroundings, and through the window, Jihoon catches a glimpse of the ocean—roiling waves, almost blurry through the rain thrashing at the glass. He’ll have to move back up later to turn on the lamps, pitying any sailor who has to brave the waters in this weather. For now, though, he finds a towel to bundle up in, wobbling towards the bathroom for a hot shower.

He wears his thickest pajamas—cotton-warm, latest birthday gift from Hanjin, heads up to the lantern room to let the lamp flicker on. The light is barely visible with the crashing rain. Maybe someone will find their way by it, anyways. He hopes.

Outside: another flash of lightning, muffled thunder that sounds through the walls and windows. Jihoon makes his way back into his house and curls back up in bed without a second thought.

-

There is a man unconscious on his shore.

Really, given his life’s work, he’d be likely to have experience in this sort of endeavor already. As is—when he wakes up in the morning, rubbing grit out of his eyes, sweating through his pajamas, he stops in his tracks. Jaw open. Frozen in shock—then, slowly, abject, dawning horror. Hell, a man on his shore. His father hadn’t had a guide on this when he had to painstakingly learn every mode of operation of this lighthouse himself—not everything, clearly, he can see that now. What to do about a man on his shore?

Jihoon comes back to himself too late. Blinks back into life. The man on the shore is face-down and unmoving—unconscious, yes, definitely—dead? Possibly. Even worse than having an unconscious man on his shore is having a dead man on his shore. In his head: Dohoon's voice screams at him, resounding, calling him an idiot—eventually, he manages to spur himself out of the daze. Jolts to action and runs out onto the beach. It’s still too hot, too-uncomfortable cottonwear clinging to his skin, sweat beading onto his temple.

Black hair sticks to the man’s nape, curling and unruly around his neck. He’s naked. Is that weird? No, the storm must have washed his clothes off somehow. It takes a frankly embarrassing amount of effort for Jihoon to redirect his attention from the nakedness to the rise and fall of his chest—back, really. Not dead. A relief.

(..)

Turns out that mermaids (merpeople?) are carnivores. Involuntarily, at least, is what Youngjae tells him. Raw seaweed and sea-grass: too tough to chew—and Youngjae looks horrifyingly appalled when Jihoon mentions coral so he dares not bring it up again. They mainly eat fish; the occasional whale that the hunters manage. Shark, which has the sweetest meat, on even rarer occasions.

“I’m not much of a good hunter, myself,” Youngjae says, cheeks dusted pink. “Blood makes me squeamish.”

Jihoon thinks about it. He proposes, “There's an orchard nearby.”

-

The trees are laden with oranges. They fill up their basket to carry back home. Jihoon manages, for the first time, to remove the peel in a continuous spiral. He shows Youngjae how, and Youngjae succeeds on the first try, unusually adept with his fingers.

Around a mouthful of orange flesh, Youngjae explains, “I used to be assigned to removing scales off of fish.” He swallows and Jihoon tries not to stare at the way his Adam’s apple bobs, or the length of his throat, or the droplet of juice trickling down from the corner of his lips. He ends up staring at Youngjae’s hands instead—quick, nimble motions working the flesh away from the pithy skin. “Horribly tedious. We had to pluck off individual scales one by one, you’ll never believe how small they are.

“Is that so,” Jihoon says, numbly.

“Yeah. Catch,” and he’s tossing the peeled orange at Jihoon, laughing as he scrambles to save it. Hops onto the kitchen counter and picks up another orange to work at. Youngjae’s peeling more than he’s eating, seeming to enjoy the process more than its taste. Jihoon splits his orange apart into sections, then pops it all into his mouth in one bite.

It's worth it to hear Youngjae laugh again, clear and bright and crystalline. His hair gleams under the sunlight crowding through glass windows. “You’re insane. And your mouth is crazy big.”

Jihoon dares to say, “I can show you how big it really is,” only because one, his words come out garbled from the sheer volume of flesh and juice obstructing his mouth, and two, Youngjae most likely wouldn't understand. True enough, he’s arching an eyebrow towards Jihoon, one part disgusted and three parts amused. A coward that Jihoon is.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, ew.”

“Prude,” Jihoon responds, but he does swallow the mouthful of orange down. In the middle of summer, the oranges are sun-soaked and ripened—almost sickeningly sweet. He watches as Youngjae brings an orange slice to his lips and sucks the juice out slowly. If he has as much confidence as he has the hunger carving a place between his ribs, near physical and sharp and stealing his breath away, he’d walk over and press his lips with Youngjae’s, lap the juice out of his mouth.

He wants so much. The desire threatens to swallow him whole. Peeled orange and widened maw.

“I don't think I’m quite a fan of oranges, though,” Youngjae says. He grins, sharklike, catching Jihoon’s gaze. “What’s next?”

(..)

He starts, unconsciously, “I’ve never,” before cutting himself off, before realizing how stupid he sounds, feeling warmth flood his cheeks. Beneath him Youngjae’s eyes sparkle with humor, and he wraps his arms around Jihoon’s neck, thumbing the mullet he’s unintentionally let himself grow.

“Well,” Youngjae sighs, pulling Jihoon impossibly close, breathing gently onto the line of Jihoon’s jaw, “You’re lucky I’ve never, either, aren't you?”

Despite, Youngjae opens up easily, maybe some unknown aspect of mermaid biology that Jihoon really shouldn’t be focusing on, not now, not when he has Youngjae sweet and pliant beneath him, making soft noises and spasming around his fingers, the summer warmth turning their skin tacky. A crook of his fingers: Youngjae lets out another drawn out whimper.

It’s almost unbearable; the feeling of possession that grows and grows to meet Jihoon’s chasm of hunger. He has the power. He can do anything. He can kiss Youngjae, slow and sticky and slightly salty with drool and sweat and memorize the sensation of Youngjae kissing back. He can ream the creeks of Youngjae’s body, spread his fingers apart and wide to hear Youngjae’s breath hitch. He can map out a voyage from sensitive spot to sensitive spot on Youngjae’s throat, he can bear his teeth down to bruise skin, he can mark Youngjae as his, he can, he can.

Avarice that Jihoon can barely keep from spilling over. A dizzying wild-animal sort of desire. Youngjae makes a sound, a half-hearted whine.

Jihoon leans back in to kiss him again. When they separate, Youngjae says, breathless, wanting in the same stark intensity, “Jihoon.”

kep1er, hihiz, 2.0k

wow... we're almost to 3 years of my being a kep1ian :,) hihiz are my bias + wrecker, they're such best friends and soulmates ohmigsoh. let's all get kepi rps AF. group full of lesbians. tbh i wrote this a long time ago - september, maybe? but it's not so bad now that i'm looking at it.

Getting hold of Hiyyih is harder than Hikaru had imagined. They’re always together on paper; attached at the hip, their own little duo: Hiyyih and Hikaru, one after another, and whenever she turns around Hiyyih is always there, expectant. But, well, recently—

It’s not that Hiyyih really disappears. She’s always there, long hair and bright smile, and when they’re burrowed deep in the middle of comeback season Hikaru sees the members at every waking moment. But it’s also like this: whenever she turns around, Hiyyih seems to slip away faster than Hikaru can register it.

Which feels kind of crazy. She does remember talking to Hiyyih, small talk here and there, the little anecdotes they always share. But when she tries to remember—

Xiaoting is her first go-to, because she’s least likely to laugh, which grants her the highest privileges almost immediately. The official operation begins, when Hikaru sprawls out onto Chaehyun’s bed, and asks, casually, “Unnie, have you talked to Hiyyih recently?”

On her bed opposite, Xiaoting looks up from her phone to give her a strange look. “We had dinner together half an hour ago.”

“I mean, like, actual talk. Not group dinner or music show waiting room conversation. Like, has she told you anything that’s been going on recently?”

“Um,” Xiaoting says, slowly, carefully, still looking at her like she’s grown an extra head. “She said she’d talked to her sister recently?”

Hikaru groans, flopping down onto Chaehyun’s bed with a force that sends a few plushies over the edge. Tough. “So you really have no clue? Anything that she’s been dealing with?”

“Karu, you’re her best friend. Wouldn’t you be the one to know?”

Unconsciously, Hikaru purses her lips. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Hiyyih is her Best Friend, capitalized initials and all, and part of this sense that there’s something wrong comes from her best friend intuition itself; they’ve known everything about each other, over the past four years, and now, when there’s something Hikaru can tell she doesn’t know—it’s more than a little bit debilitating. Pushes and overtakes her mind.

“Well,” she says, haltingly, strangely unwilling to express all of this out loud, “Yes, but—if there was something Hiyyih was, I don’t know, keeping from me, maybe. Hypothetically.”

“Huh,” Xiaoting says, sounding dubious, still. Hikaru opens her mouth, ready to defend herself, but then Xiaoting’s expression takes on a strange quality. Hikaru can almost see the understanding rippling through; her mouth opens in a small o, cheeks flushing slightly, eyebrows knitting together. “Oh,” she says.

“What?” Hikaru asks, and when Xiaoting doesn’t reply, “What?”

“I think,” Xiaoting says, eventually, and her lips curl into a small, knowing smile, her brows lifting, and Hikaru thinks, vaguely and grouchily, that she really is incredibly pretty, “You’ll have to ask Hiyyih that, herself.”

-

Well, thank you, Xiaoting unnie, easier said than done. Their schedule goes like this: music show, variety show, filming challenges left and right, group dinners sometimes, and at the end of it Hikaru can do nothing but collapse back onto her bed. The frustrating thing, though: she does talk to Hiyyih, quite a lot. Hears about her phone call with her sister; the necklace she almost bought; tripleS’ Nien, whom she’d met recently. And at the end of it, Hikaru still has nothing.

Not nothing, per se, just nothing of essence. Which is partially her fault; for all her ruminating over it, Hikaru can’t quite voice the question she wants to ask: What’s going on with you? (Too vague; easily evaded.) Have you been avoiding me? (The answer is objectively no, even if it seems so to her.) Why did you kiss me, that day?

In the end, her saving grace is Yeseo, who asks them both out to lunch on a day off. She hasn’t seen Yeseo in a while, so it’s lovely. They go out for sukiyaki, pay for Yeseo’s food in secret, watch Yeseo laugh with a bright delight

“Whydidyoukissmethatday,” Hikaru blurts out, all at once, fidgeting with the wool of her sleeve.

“Do we have to talk about it?” Hiyyih asks, and her hand moves to cup Hikaru’s cheek, and she shifts even closer, the scent of her perfume wreathing ribbons around them, and Hikaru is a weak, weak woman. She lets her eyelids slip shut, tastes the warmth in the air—jasmine, sandalwood, something else that escapes her—feels the brush of Hiyyih’s lips against her ear. “We can always just…”

Okay, Hikaru thinks, humiliatingly, okay.

-

So maybe she failed that time. It doesn’t matter—one time is nothing. They’re in this for the long run, the seven of them, and Hiyyih can’t avoid this forever. She’ll keep trying, and eventually she has to break.

The trajectory of her plan changes, though, and it becomes incredibly evident; after a week, every time Hikaru looks back, and Hiyyih—Hiyyih is everywhere.

In their room, on Yujin’s bed; on stage, sneaking her a quick, secret smile; sitting beside her in dark cars and fitting her head effortlessly in the crook of Hikaru’s neck; mouthing at Hikaru’s collarbones in a dark corner backstage; her most recent pastime: pressing Hikaru up against any available surface to kiss her breathless.

Hikaru may very well be going insane. Losing her mind. She spends all her time thinking about it—dancing TIPI-TAP, watching the flip of orange hair in the mirror; running on the treadmill, feeling the ghost of Hiyyih’s lips against hers—so on, until, ironically, the only time her mind empties is when Hiyyih’s body is against her own, chasing all stray thoughts from her head.

Before everything, when they were whole, Mashiro used to pinch her cheeks at times, and say, motherly tone and all, our Hikaru, so perfect at everything. And—well.

It’s some sort of paradox, now. XG was everything, once, and when it wasn’t, she put her focus on all else instead. Studied Korean like her life depended on it, relearned how to rap in the new language, practiced until her voice gave out or her body collapsed. Then Girls Planet, and perfect became success, and perfect became Hikaru, until she wasn’t sure herself if the idea was chasing her, or if she was running after it, anymore.

It’s the only constant she knows, anyways, so she consciously tries to latch onto it as much as possible. Ezaki Hikaru, Kep1er’s dancer and rapper. Yujin calls her their moodmaker. Hiyyih calls her: my solace.

She tries not to think about that last one too much, less she bursts into a bunch of sparks and burns herself out, dying star. It’s a wild source of pride, anyhow: Hiyyih, who’s had the most difficult idol journey of all of them, by far—her solace is Hikaru.

-

Chaehyun—second on the list, hearing it all—blinks, sits up with a jolt, and says, “Hiyyih kissed you?”

Hikaru pulls a face of offense at her incredulous tone. “Um, yeah. Keep up, unnie.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Chaehyun retorts. “You’re, arguably, the most stereotypical raging lesbian in this group. And your straight-passing best friend of four years kissed you?”

“Hiyyih’s not straight,” Hikaru objects weakly, which, theoretically, isn’t wrong, given newly discovered evidence. But it’s not like she has ever explicitly come out either, when Hikaru thinks about it, and is also not something she’s considered previously. So—okay, yeah, kind of weird.

“Yeah, I’d hope not,” Chaehyun says dryly. She runs a hand through her hair, newly brown and lustrous. Hikaru envies her, sometimes—two weeks ago she was pink, and red before that, and once black; she looks good, effortless, and her hair remains smooth as ever. Hikaru has always had to fight for everything that makes her—the length, the colors, and even now when she tries to comb out her hair she’s stopped by a hundred knots here and there. Painstaking effort into self autonomy.

“Yujin unnie is a bigger lesbian than me.”

“Yeah, probably,” Chaehyun agrees, easily. It’s kind of infuriating, the way she balances between provoking and amenable like it’s nothing. “Same same. The difference is that you two play it up to high heavens. Hiyyih has never even mentioned liking girls before, that I can remember. That fansign thing with Ting unnie—”

“Oh my god, right? It surprised me.”

Chaehyun shrugs. “I mean, there was the whole rumor issue before. I don’t blame her.”

Ah. Right.

They don’t talk about it anymore—which, truthfully, applies to a lot of things, starting with Kawaguchi Yurina and ending with Queendom—but even before Hikaru has met her, in that little time period when she knew Hiyyih as Huening Bahiyyih and not much else, there’d been this rumor going around. Common among survival shows, but this one in particular had caught Hikaru’s attention: Huening Bahiyyih was a lesbian.

Hikaru, seventeen, then, had watched her from afar. Nothing wrong with being curious about it; Huening Bahiyyih was a mystery. An idol for a sister, idol for a brother, but she seemed to keep herself in a small circle. So she’d watched, and used to imagine herself approaching her, saying I like girls, too. I kissed a girl. I like a girl right now.

But it’d died down, then, without Hiyyih saying a thing about it; denying, admitting, whatever. Maybe if she’d denied it, it would’ve been better—probably a selfish thought for Hikaru to have, but really.

“Hiyyih kissed you? She kissed you, and you didn’t initiate, or anything?”

Hikaru huffs. “Girls very much want to kiss me, unnie, thank you for the vote of confidence.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “I didn’t say that. Did you want her to kiss you, though?”

A pause. Chaehyun waits patiently in silence. “...Well. I’m not against it.”

“I’m sure,” Chaehyun arches her eyebrows pointedly. Hikaru doesn’t even need her Best Friend intuition for this to know that she’s hinting at something—a small fragment of her mind is nodding along, seemingly clued in, but the rest—okay, she has no idea.

“This conversation would go by so much faster if you could just say what you want to say, unnie.”

“You’re an idiot, Karu,” Chaehyun rolls her eyes. “She kissed you. You want her to kiss you. You’ve spent almost every waking moment of the past four years together. She’s your best friend, your person. You’re literally here because of some sense you have that something’s wrong about her. Oh my god, you want to kiss her.”

“I do not!” Hikaru says, on instinct, then she covers her mouth, horrified. For all that she is, a liar isn’t one of them, and she’s realizing—slowly, before, then all at once now—that she does want to kiss Hiyyih, more than anything—she wants the feeling of her lips, the scent of her perfume, Hiyyih crowding around her, towering over her, leaning down to kiss her—

“But,” she flounders for a response, “you and Dayeon unnie— you do that. All of it.”

“Dayeon and I,” Chaehyun says, slowly, every word drawn out like it’s almost painful, “have been dating for three years, Karu.”

Hikaru’s jaw is well and truly agape. She’s thinking about it but also not thinking about it and doesn’t quite want to think about it, but her cheeks are rapidly heating up against her control, and she puts her hands to them, lets the cold of her fingertips draw little shocks on her face.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “I’m in love with Hiyyih.”

Chaehyun sighs, contentedly, and pats her head in commiseration. Hikaru can’t even protest at that, because her mind is still reeling, her cheeks too warm, her hands freezing, she’s in love with Hiyyih?

-

And the fact of it, Hikaru had reasoned, is that it probably didn’t mean much. They’re bandmates, best friends, and if she’s heard anything from Kamimoto Kotone, bandmates kiss each other all the time. Rite of passage, four years in the industry, it should be expected. There was just something else—something strange, a little different, about Hiyyih, that she couldn’t quite figure out. So she had tried, as she always does, to see it through; only to have Hiyyih vanish around every corner when she did. And the rest is history.

But then Hiyyih had kissed her again, and again, and again, and then Chaehyun had said maybe you like her, and then she’d had her head in her hands, and thought, admitted, to herself, oh my god, I’m in love with Hiyyih, and then after that—

seventeen, vershua, 2.2k

an utter mess. i don't actually know what i was thinking. also i've never been interested in writing for svt unless it's hao ship so... 🫩.... this is explicit!

The prologue of Odyssey begins like this: O divine poesy…

“No, it doesn't,” Vernon interrupts, one raised eyebrow. He shifts his cap slightly to the right. “It isn't that complex. I would have remembered it.”

Joshua is sitting on his apartment’s couch, book open in one hand. The leather cover is buttery-smooth under his touch. Vernon stares at him from where he’s perched on a stool at the dining table.

“I'm reading it as is. Here,” and he tilts the book over for Vernon to squint at. It’s a rather funny sight: Vernon leaned forward, arms folded, face scrunched with that nonunderstanding pout. No matter how many times he's seen this, how long they've known each other, Vernon is inexorably amusing. Joshua snorts.

“You’re right,” Vernon says easily as he sits back. He’s never had the same barrier in admitting so. “But I’m right too. I’ve never read it like that, and I’ve read the prologue, like, twenty times, because I never got past it.”

“A translation thing, maybe. Google it,” Joshua reasons. There’s a short few-second interval where Vernon types and the search loads and he really has to fix the Wi-Fi in his apartment. But it shows up anyways. And, as it turns out, both of them were right after all. Ninety percent of other translations have it down as something different—Tell me, Muse—Sing to me—Sing, Goddess—etcetera. Vernon gets sick of reading them out after a while.

“What does poesy mean, anyways? Sounds like a disease.”

“No clue,” Joshua says casually. Vernon laughs. “I don't know, search it up, you literally have the app open.”

So he does, he Googles it and tilts his phone over and now Joshua’s the one having to lean over, craning his neck and squinting against the white glow of the screen. Vernon’s perfect face survives being lit from below. It’s maddening and almost distracting.

“Art and… composition… of poetry,” Joshua reads, still squinting. He'd forgone his contacts for comfort’s sake today. “That makes, like, zero sense.”

“Hey, look,” Joshua says minutes later, freshly manicured finger tapping at the pages, “That’s your name. Vernal dawn.”

Vernon looks mildly affronted. “That's nowhere close to my name.”

“Prefix. It’s close.”

Vernon hums. A quiet “Hmm,” and a split second later he slams Joshua against the closest wall in an almost hilariously drama-esque motion.

Joshua doesn’t squeak—he’d never live with himself, or at the very least admit it—but it’s a damn near thing; enclosed by Vernon’s arms, nowhere left to run, he’s met with the frightening urge to flee. “Whoa.” He shrinks back. Vernon comes closer. They’re eye-to-eye. Joshua averts his gaze. Panic claws around his organs, his stomach, the tendons of his muscles. His heart throbs around his ears. “What are you—”

“Shhh,” Vernon mutters, and Joshua snaps his mouth shut with a clattering of teeth. Whisper of a breath. Shhh. A wild feeling of fascination overtakes him. He purses his lips slightly and lets the air from his mouth, mimicking. Shhh. Under the sound, “—shua. Joshua.”

Yes. That's him. He has the vague sense that he should respond to his name. Between a thumping heartbeat and Vernon's emanating warmth, Joshua reconnects himself to physicality. He nods, slightly confused.

“I can help you,” Vernon says, plainly as ever. “Would you let me?”

A silly question. Joshua would— Joshua would do a lot of things. He would work all kinds of fanservice without batting an eye if it was requested of him. He would read out five hundred pages of translated Greek if Vernon asked. He would—will—shoot off a probably incomprehensible text to Jeonghan later when he’s alone. He would drop to his knees right now beneath the burn of Vernon’s gaze.

He doesn't say any of it. Or, if he did, maybe that last inconsolable desire’s escaped through his traitorously slack mouth; Vernon holds his shoulders and pushes him down to the ground. All at once: the hardwood floor, the cold air cinching to his exposed skin, Vernon’s calloused fingers brushing down his arms as he leans over. His eyelids flutter shut.

I can help you, Vernon had said. Somehow graciously, Vernon dips his fingers past Joshua’s waistband to take him in the hand. In the shadow of Vernon hovering over him, blocking out the light, Joshua throws his head back.

So they fuck, that first time, if that could be considered fucking. Vernon gets him off and cleans him up and washes his hands and sends him to bed with a sweet good night. He hadn't even— he hadn't gone anywhere close to touching himself, Joshua reflects with a sort of post-orgasm sleepy clarity. He’s slowly drifting off and rousing himself anew thinking about it: Vernon’s expression. Even with his hand wrapped around Joshua’s dick, he remained stoic and composed as ever. It’s honestly a little offending. Joshua’s the closest to falling asleep than he’s been over the past week, and he’s dreaming into the memory of Vernon jerking him off.

Jeonghan, the next day: “Maybe he’s celibate.”

Joshua considers it. “With that fuckboy face? I’d hope not.”

“You can’t just say that about our groupmate,” Jeonghan says demurely. He’s talking over background chatter, in what suspiciously sounds like a photo-shoot setting. Joshua can’t even hit him or flip him off through voice call. It’s the worst.

“You’ve said worse. And besides, doesn’t celibate usually mean he won’t partake in sexual acts? Fisting my dick feels like, I don’t know, a sexual act.”

“Self-celibate. Is that a term?”

Joshua’s pretty sure it isn't. He tells him as much.

He’s about to retort something sarcastic, but Jeonghan’s tone suddenly takes on a sweeter compliance. “Wait. Hang on. Yes, noona, I’ll be done in a while. I’m on call with Joshuji.”

Which, what the fuck. Joshua lowers his voice to a hiss. “Are you legitimately talking about this while getting your makeup done?”

“Yeseul-noona is my closest confidant. I don’t like your otherwise implication,” and there’s a wet sound of Jeonghan blowing a kiss, and Yeseul-noona’s barking laugh. To be fair, Joshua’s had worse conversations sitting in her chair, and they all know it.

“Okay, but, like, does discretion mean nothing to you.”

“No,” Jeonghan says.

“Sure, I expected that.” Joshua rolls his shoulders out with a sigh. The hours of restful sleep he’d gotten were immensely satisfying in relieving the tension that had built up over the past weeks, which is just irritating in principle. It’ll last him a few days, if he’s lucky. Then he’ll be all strung up again, and maybe—maybe Vernon would notice it again, and maybe he’ll—

“So you’re, what, fuckbuddies now?”

It’s lovely seeing how his efforts in learning the Korean dictionary front-to-back have culminated into this. “No. Maybe. I don’t know, it might have been a one-off thing. Oh God, what if it was?”

“Never use the name of your Lord in vain,” Jeonghan recites immediately. He’s been doing that for years. “Hansol-ie isn’t like that. He doesn’t seem like the fuckbuddy type either, though. Maybe he’s been secretly in love with you for the past eight years. Have you considered that?”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.” There's a clattering noise over the line. “Either that or—ow, noona, you’re poking into my eye—he’s just nice and does want to help you get some sleep. Have you considered that?”

“I'd rather he be in love with me,” Joshua says flatly.

Jeonghan snickers. “Yeah, I’d bet.”

Whatever that means. Joshua likes to think he’s not that transparent. He’s not, like, in love with Vernon, or anything. He knows the lines they have to toe as idols. Regardless of whatever homoerotic tensions flowering within their group, Joshua isn’t one to test the limits. Vernon’s smile is nice. His face is nice. His grip around Joshua’s dick, just as tight as he likes it, is also very nice. That isn’t love.

“Oh,” Something like horror dawns upon him. “What if I’m using him for sex? I’ll surely be a bad person then.”

“What? You aren't using him for sex. You haven't had sex.”

Joshua scowls down at his phone. “Technicalities. Sexual acts, if you want to be so uptight about it.”

“Vernon wouldn't let himself be used,” Jeonghan says placatingly. He pauses. “Well. Actually.”

It’s a damning contrast: Vernon, fully clothed, all around his naked skin. Vulnerability is ever so difficult; Joshua tries very hard not to shrink into himself. Vernon should be considerate enough to take his own clothes off, at the very least, to cut through some of the crawling humiliation coursing through his veins. Joshua leans forward.

“Let me,” Vernon’s hard, he can tell, the line of his cock defined in his sweatpants. It makes Joshua inhale, hard, his lungs squeezing. He extends a hand forward. There’s that ever-present hunger growling in his chest—except, now, he can, he can have—it’s within reach, it’s possible to—he can get what he wants—

Vernon’s grip is gentle when he reaches over to clasp Joshua’s wrist. His denial is gentle. His voice is gentle when he says, “No,” and he reaches down to hold Joshua’s shaking body. Chest-to-chest, Vernon’s fast but steady heartbeat asynchronous with Joshua’s own.

“Let me take care of you?” It lilts like a question.

“Please,” Joshua whispers. He’s not really sure what he’s asking for. What is it that he wants. He thinks that Vernon might not know either. Vernon mouths at his jaw and squeezes his cock and kisses him hot when Joshua flinches up into his embrace. Eyes closed, mouth dry, hunger clawing at the emptiness within him, Joshua exhales.

If anything, Vernon could be Joshua’s antithesis. He’s authentic and so outright genuine that it’s overwhelming. Joshua throws around little white lies that he doesn’t even think about until later. Now: Vernon’s asking, in that quietly unaffected voice, “That enough for you?”

Joshua is lying on his back. He blinks back black spots from his vision. Vernon’s brought him to the brink quick and easy, as always. Their fourth or fifth time sleeping together—if it could be considered that, sessions of Vernon getting him off and nicely rejecting Joshua’s continuous attempts to touch him in the same way—it’s become some sort of routine. Joshua’s limbs are loose and languid. Physically, it's been going great for him. Vernon’s question is new. A break from the regular formula.

“Yes,” Joshua answers. He stretches his back with a pop.

A frown materializes on Vernon’s face. “Are you lying?”

“What are you, a lie detector? I’m fine.”

“Hyung,” Vernon says. He never really calls him that; it's always Joshua, or Josh, or in the sweet occurrence when Joshua’s underneath him and out of his mind with pleasure, Shua. There’s no use for honorifics when they mostly speak in English anyways; but now Vernon switches to Korean so easily and effortlessly that Joshua’s sent off-kilter. “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Joshua answers, exasperatedly. “I’m fine, seriously.”

Vernon has this unrelenting determination that he’d probably picked up from Seungkwan or someone else. It's cute, most of the time, except instances like now when Vernon presses forward and traps him against the bed, expression much too earnest. Joshua tries very hard not to squirm. His cock twitches, which is really fucking mortifying and he’s kind of glad that Vernon’s eyes are fixed onto his face and not any lower.

“Hyung,” Vernon enunciates the syllable, dragging it out like hyuuuuung. “You know I’ll always give you what you need.”

This is stupid. This is so stupid, and Joshua’s about to say so when Vernon lowers his head and exhales a hot breath over Joshua’s nipples and—oh, that’s positively unfair, when Vernon’s still fully fucking clothed and Joshua has no way of retaliating. He's much too powerless in this scenario. Vernon bites down on one bud, a lightning-shock of pleasure-pain that echoes through Joshua’s body and all the way down to his cock.

Joshua grits his teeth against the sensation. “You’re so—unfair.”

“Is it asking too much of you to be honest?”

Yes, Joshua wants to say, because it’s the answer that most comes off as a retort, but it also edges too close to something true and bloody and deep within his ribs. Instead he rolls his eyes with as much irritation as he can muster. “Is it asking too much of you to equalize our playing field?”

“Stop being abstract.” Vernon’s hand drifts down to palm Joshua’s still-too-sensitive cock. Joshua whines, involuntarily, and twists away. It doesn't work—Vernon’s punishing touch follows him like a brand—but he hadn't really expected it to. Against his own will, he’s starting to get hard again.

“Come on, I’ll let you come again if you tell me.”

Joshua is floored. Maybe a bit impressed by his nerve. “Let me?”

Vernon just shrugs and tugs at his dick. Joshua’s back arches—away or closer, he can't really tell. The spike of arousal spikes his cortisol levels in turn. Or whatever hormone triggers his flight response. He twitches shallowly and makes a conscious effort to relax.

“Is this what you need?” Vernon's breath ghosts over his ear. “Do you need more? Do you want more? Do you want to come again? We can stay here forever until you’re satisfied.”

What the hell. Vernon’s never this talkative—if Joshua wasn't inching closer to fuck-dumb, he'd be worried. As is, Vernon’s words send firework bursts of arousal underneath his skin. He gasps wetly. The warmth around his cock borders on unbearable. He's going to come again.

my goodness that was a legitimate pain in the ass to format. sorry if anything about the formatting is weird i am not a html warrior. the word counts are pretty wildly inaccurate to what i actually have, because i'm the type to start with individual lines and build around that, but yes. logging this so i stop having to search through my google docs... may lightning god hit me with a better strike of inspiration soon amen

shyshyshiloh

( AKA witch hunt begone )

krever

Haewon/Sullyoon Injury Superheroes Canon Divergence Post-Disbandment 1.6k words, T

February is the shortest month and Haewon’s own. She kicks it off in open combat with some superpowered hostiles JYPe’s been tasked to take down, bullets whizzing by because a hollow point’s still deadly for these guys with their second- and third- rate powers. Not even Haewon’s teleportation can keep her head from getting blown off.

After two-thirds of the enemy agents have been dispatched, Haewon’s waiting for reinforcements against a crate in near pitch black. Her stamina’s so shot she can’t discern between her nerves and what might actually be—

—the ground dropping out from beneath her, literally, it feels, as someone lifts Haewon up from out-of-fucking-nowhere. She’s granted an instant concussion upon her homecoming to the floor.

The fuzzy, static pain is so familiar by now she grasps the nature of her injury before she can even remember where she is. Some mission—she’s representing JYPe—the tide has turned in their favor, but she is presently losing.

She wiggles her toes. Nothing broken, yet. There’s movement in the air again—she swings her lower body out of the way just as the tile near her legs cracks open with the attacker’s weight.

She has to get out of here. A distant part of her recognizes that the TV crews will arrive as soon as the final few enemy agents are dispatched, and that surge of panic is nearly enough to bring her to her feet. Except she only manages to pick her head up before the brunt of her condition crashes into her and she really has to get out of here.

Long-range teleportation back to base is her only option but fuck, she might actually blow her brains out with this effort. Two red splatters appear on the floor beneath her; her nose is bleeding like she’s a teething trainee again. And as she’s trying to drum up enough energy to not be on the receiving end of a second strike, somehow, the image that appears in her mind is of Sullyoon. The thought that this wouldn’t have happened to her. Sullyoon, who wrought light with her hands, who would've seen someone coming.

Haewon’s skin tingles as if briefly passed beneath a scalding hot shower—and she’s gone. Botched for sure, might’ve left a fingernail or two behind, but it’s indistinguishable from the overall smear of pain now that she’s landed somewhere safe, allowed to feel her injuries without adrenaline. She doesn’t know how she knows that she’s safe, just that Sullyoon’s hovering above her, her mouth moving quickly and without the appearance of panic, at once solid and trembling and aglow, as if lit from the inside.

Sullyoon catches Haewon mid-Irish exit from her apartment, pulling on socks and wearing the shirt Sullyoon had laid out for her. It’s inside out, the UNIQLO tag bending gently under the undulating breeze from the space heater.

She doesn’t look quite as awful as when Sullyoon’d come to investigate the thump downstairs and found Haewon staining her couch with flesh wounds festering a half-step quicker than her regenerative abilities could heal. Sullyoon did what she could with the paltry first aid supplies lying around and put her to sleep; that was that.

Still, there are two conspicuous tells that Haewon isn’t at full capacity. She hasn’t noticed Sullyoon’s presence after a full minute, and also, that she’s still here. Had she been well enough to teleport, they could have avoided the entire ordeal of encounter, but…

Sullyoon clears her throat. Haewon’s head snaps up so suddenly she winces after. “How’s cereal sound,” Sullyoon suggests; doesn’t wait for a response.

From the kitchen, Sullyoon hears Haewon slowly shuffle into a seating position. Spliced gibberish from the TV as she flips to the news channel. By the time Sullyoon’s set down two bowls of cereal on the coffee table, Haewon’s seemingly given up on escaping, wriggling bonelessly away from the rusty patch of dried blood on the cushions.

She doesn’t object as Sullyoon conducts a check of her head. Drowsy and compliant; definitely concussed. And still trying to sneak glances at the blue light of the TV screen.

The news anchors relay yesterday night’s chain of events as casually as a sports game. Heaps of praise and minimal casualties, though Sullyoon can bet Haewon herself isn’t included among the count of the injured. A few good years into her career now, Haewon being missing is more of a spectacle than it is concerning.

Haewon’s starting to put some force behind her attempts to swivel away, so Sullyoon lets go. “You must be proud of yourself,” she remarks dryly.

She’s not directly trying to scold Haewon. Nonetheless, Haewon heaps another soggy mouthful of cereal in lieu of responding. Sullyoon glances between Haewon’s headshot on the screen and the Haewon beside her and can hardly believe it.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Haewon mumbles eventually, licking the last of the milk whiskers off her upper lip. “Jiwoo, she…”

“She’s out on an assignment for a while.”

Haewon relaxes incrementally. “And she’s been doing alright?”

Sullyoon nods. Haewon nods too, squeezing her eyes shut. For a moment it seems like she might ask for details, but then she stands, taking her bowl towards the kitchen. The tap sputters open.

“Dishwasher,” Sullyoon calls out. Doesn’t seem like Haewon’s heard her, so she makes her way over. “Our dishwasher works now. You don’t have to.”

“Oh.” But she already has. “I didn’t notice.”

“It’s fine.” Sullyoon removes the bowl from Haewon’s grasp and loads it into the dishwasher. Bent at eye-level with Haewon’s waist, she watches Haewon’s arms fall limp to her side, her hand furling and unfurling the too-long material of Sullyoon’s shirt.

When she straightens up, Haewon’s glancing around the kitchen like she’s casing the place out. The table’s been swapped for dark wood. Jiwoo begged for a proper electrical system with switches for all the fixtures, since she couldn’t bring her own light at will. A rice cooker Sullyoon’s last ex gave her sits unplugged on the counter. Haewon’s searching gaze eventually revolves all the way around to Sullyoon, at which point she averts her eyes.

“I should head out,” Haewon states. Sullyoon trails her silently, but at the doorway, Haewon sways to the side; can’t even maneuver by with Sullyoon blocking half of the frame. She shouldn’t even be standing.

“Jiwoo’s out,” Sullyoon reminds her. “It’s just me until the end of the month.”

Haewon’s mouth hooks up in equal parts annoyance and amusement. The expression’s nearly amiable. “So, what. I sleep on your couch?”

“Buy me a new one, and sure.” Those blood stains aren’t coming out and Haewon’s got no shortage of money, or PTO.

Haewon squints at Sullyoon. Sullyoon shrugs. A beat, and Haewon pokes her shoulder. “Should’ve known you were after my card.”

Like she’s not the freeloader here. Sullyoon smacks Haewon’s back gently to herd her towards the living room, and somehow, she allows it. Once Sullyoon turns the TV off, she falls asleep almost instantly. She must’ve really been exhausted.

Sullyoon’s betting Haewon will be gone by the end of the day, but she’s at least taking her up on Tylenol and a nap. She is occupying the whole space in front of the TV though… Maybe Sullyoon will go game in her room. Her trigger finger’s still got some utility outside of literal combat.

But: she can’t get into it today. Her ELO’s definitely tanking and for once, she doesn’t even feel competitive after a loss. Still bored, Sullyoon logs off and takes out her phone to screw around on the Candy Crush reskin she’s spent an embarrassing amount of money on.

…Should she text Jiwoo about this? Bae, or someone. Haewon might try to kill Sullyoon if she brought it up to Lily out of the blue. The idea’s funny enough that Sullyoon almost considers it. But no. Haewon’s here, not with any of them. That’s what happens, how it is, whether it’s by accident, or something.

Haewon at her apartment, at any time of the day, always injured. It started a couple of months after Sullyoon left JYPe. She hadn’t learned to leave without a trace then and seemed altogether too unprepared for it to have been on purpose. To what end, even. They don’t have anything to do with each other anymore. Or something…

Ah. Sullyoon’s messed up the level. She’s not in the mood to sit through an ad for a second try, so she finally resigns herself to the fact that she’s preoccupied with thinking about this now.

Most recently was… Haewon popping into Sullyoon’s apartment in the middle of the day while she and Jiwoo were having lunch. It seemed like she’d been in the middle of a fight: looked around, went what the hell?, and disappeared again.

“Does that happen often?” Jiwoo asked. Not really, Sullyoon told her. But yeah. Just often enough, right when she’s about to forget.

Haewon apparently texted Jiwoo apologizing after. Sullyoon received no message of the sort. She’d been living alone all the times prior, so that was her sole hint that, at the very least, Jiwoo wasn’t expected to be used to Haewon’s random appearances.

Sullyoon had been trainees with Haewon; she knew a bit about how her teleportation worked, how during her individual training sessions, she’d sometimes snap into the gym where the rest of them were practicing. Wires crossed. Sullyoon didn’t probe, figuring that Haewon was ironing out some kinks with her power. Sure enough, her misfires became less frequent over the years.

But here she is again. Maybe Sullyoon is a little curious, mostly because it’s been a while. She’d ask Haewon why if she thought that she knew.

Yubin/Kotone College/University 1.7k words, T

After the performance Yubin is gone. Just like that, without a fuss—otherwise someone would’ve noticed. But half the crew members have already left for the afterparty by the time Seoyeon calls out, “we’re missing one.” Then half of the remaining follow to let them know, leaving a mere quarter to search.

Kotone knocks on custodial closets before she even thinks to check the changing room. All the performers passed through there together, so her idea is that it’d be a weird place to get caught up. Though that gut feeling has no bearing on its likelihood. Probably. Weird things tend to happen around Kotone, and so, this is how it turns out:

Kotone shouts, “Gong Yubin?” at the perimeter. The dance team borrowed the space from the athletic teams; it’s cavernous, overlarge. She’s not keen on searching the whole place through unless she gets a response.

Which she does, right as she’s about to swing the door shut. A slightly strangled, “Uh-huh.”

“There you are.” Yubin’s voice is so distinctive. “Everyone’s at the bar already, if you still wanna come along…”

“Okay.” …She sounds strange. A little congested. Kotone’s pretty sure that if she sprung upon Yubin suddenly she’d manage to make it all worse, but she still doesn’t feel right leaving without tightening the matter up.

“I’ll meet you there?”

A few beats pass—well, Kotone’s overstayed her welcome. The hinge creaks. Yubin says, “Wait.”

Kotone waits. “I kinda.” Shaky exhale, echoing against the walls. “I can’t get the zipper unstuck. I’m in the third row of lockers—”

A request for help, as indirect as it gets. “Sure, hold on,” Kotone answers. Idly registers that Yubin must’ve missed the chance to ask when everyone was changing a half hour ago. Bad luck or bad timing.

Yubin turns away when Kotone gets there. Kotone doesn’t try to take in her face. She goes straight to work on the zipper. Balances firmness with finesse, bunches the fabric to not tear, pinch-and-inches the zipper’s head: a series of small tricks she had to learn by herself. Yubin is in roughly the same situation but Kotone is here, helping her out, because this is her teammate and she wants to, and because Yubin’s the kind of person that has no issue soaking up love.

The zipper finally glides and the teeth separate downwards. Yubin gets stiff, flinches when Kotone’s curled pinky brushes against the divot of her lower back. Kotone wonders if it’s because it’s her here that Yubin’s having this reaction. She’s so easy with physical affection with the others, usually, so what even gives…

The dress was tailored and the fabric is nice. Kotone tries to catch it as it falls and hand it over smoothly. Yubin holds it with the rest of her clothes against her chest. She doesn’t turn back around or try to change.

They’ve all changed together a million times. “Seriously, are you—”

“Didn’t you say you’d meet me there?”

Throaty, faltering, all-bark. Rationally, Kotone can surmise that Yubin doesn’t mean it, but maybe it’s because she’s frustrated too, she can’t emotionally align her response. “Is there a problem?”

“What?” Yubin’s sincerely caught off-guard. “No, why would— I literally just spaced out for a sec, why would you think that.”

“Honestly?“

“Okay, well. It’s just, like. What do you want me to say, I know you saw it too.” The defiant set of her mouth clicks. Kotone recognizes it as the face she used to make. Telling herself, I’m not gonna cry. “Onstage, my center part, right?” Sure, Yubin’d flubbed, but it wasn’t humiliating, only… clearly… very far from the best she could do. “So, you don’t have to keep me company. Really, go enjoy yourself.”

“Are you meeting me there?” Dot dot dot. “How are you getting home?”

“…I don’t know,” Yubin states, lost. “Uber?”

Before Kotone transferred, she’d been in the audience for one of the crew’s unit performances. Yubin held a plastic gun prop that spouted infinite paper money. This is not that reality. “We both dorm, so we can go back to campus together. Go wash up, and I’ll tell the others that…” Kotone hasn’t had the need for this for a while, but for better or for worse, it wouldn’t be marked as too out of character: “…I wasn’t feeling well, and you had to take care of me.”

Mistrustfully, but realizing that this is her best offer—Yubin threads her way towards the mirrors. “Thanks.”

Their shoulders brush. Kotone hears the sink start to pour. Yubin’s splashing her face, probably having one of those ego-death moments after a really shitty performance, like, who the hell are you. Yeah, Kotone’s familiar, but she hasn’t been in actual proximity to Yubin for long enough to pretend they have anything in common. She feels like she shouldn’t be in earshot, witnessing this.

The tap turns off. Kotone finishes updating the groupchat. A few moments longer. “Yubin?” she asks, and almost immediately comes Yubin, “Uh-huh.”

Kotone has to lean half her body weight on the bar and push for the front double doors to open. Yubin pauses past her. “I can seriously call an Uber, like. For us.”

“It’s a nice night. I don’t mind.” One of the first spring-feeling evenings, even overwarm without wind. Yubin doesn’t object after that.

For a little while they walk side by side, too tired to talk. Yubin’s walk-cycle implies a slight limp; Kotone’d been bothered enough by how their footsteps smacked the concrete slightly out of phase to notice. How Yubin landed on her ankle during Black Soul Dress had looked kind of awkward. Kotone’d offer an ankle brace from when she had the same issue a year or two ago, but. She doesn’t want to rub it in. She can understand how Yubin’s feeling. Stiil, at least she had the center part.

“I wasn’t crying,” Yubin announces, apropos of nothing, once they get on the bus. Kotone turns her cheek to the side. She’s leaning her head against the bus window. “I really don’t cry. It makes my face puff up.”

Kotone doesn’t offer a response, because it doesn’t seem like Yubin is waiting for one. Watching the low beams of cars streak by on the other side of the road. She puts in her earbuds until they reach their stop.

Kotone is farther out, but maybe it’s not the time to leave Yubin yet—she’s hasn’t made a move in the direction of her dorm. “Where are you heading?”

“You’re coming with?”

“I mean. Unless this is you trying to get rid of me.”

“No, what.” Yubin rubs her face, hard, exhale muffled by her palms. “Just, like, why.”

“You’re my friend. I’m worried about you?”

Yubin squints from the corner of her eye. They’re on the same dance team, and, “I’m not that weak.”

“It’s fine,” Kotone responds, through a stroke of mild irritation. “Crying once or twice doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

Not that Kotone’d been trying to call Yubin out, exactly, but Yubin hunches her shoulders up like she is preparing for a blow. “Well, I’m not so comfortable showing my weakness like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Yubin speeds up a little. Kotone matches pace. “I’m just saying. The pressure isn’t the same.”

“It’s up to the center to handle the pressure, which you…” Crap. Kotone needs to shut her mouth before she shoves her foot in there any farther. She pinches herself through her jeans. “Sorry, I don’t—”

But Yubin’s already begin to apologize, “Look, I’m really tired…”

Silence. And at the foot of Yubin’s dorm, a peace offering. “I can blow up an air mattress,” Yubin offers.

Kotone’s phone is almost out of battery. “Sure… You don’t have roommates?”

“Nah. Lucked out with a single.”

“Me too. Well, it’s a dingle.”

“Dingle.”

“Double-single. My roommate is studying abroad.”

“Ohh. You should throw sometime.”

Kotone makes a face. Yubin has to pull her arm for her to enter the dorm building before the lock resets, then she doesn’t let go. “A party at my place?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you at parties. You’re fun.” Kotone doesn’t really recall seeing Yubin at parties. Or being fun. “Hey, why are you surprised? I go to more than you, so like, rectangles and squares. Or whatever. Don’t correct me.”

“I’m pretty sure you used the analogy right,” but Yubin doesn’t look appeased until Kotone acquiesces, “I can be fun, sure.”

“Woow.” Yubin stabs the up button on the elevator panel and swivels her torso towards Kotone. “Convincing.”

Yubin’s hand is still clenching onto Kotone’s forearm. With the force of each emphatic gesture, Kotone’s gotten reeled closer. There’s… something in the air, that Kotone’s not so inexperienced to be unable to recognize, but why would it be here, between them? And not just now; the whole evening Kotone’s been getting whiffs of it. Brushed it off as annoyance, misinterpretation, or whatever. Yubin’s so straight.

So straight she tells Kotone, “You know, I’m glad the dance team is all girls. A guy would’ve tried to make a move on me by now.”

“I’m not a guy.” Because hello, reality check.

“Then I didn’t mean you, but like… how guys don’t care about the context if you’ve just got a pretty face.”

“Sure,” Kotone agrees blandly. As if she’d have any clue. “You are pretty.” Because that’s what Yubin wants to hear. Because it’s the truth. And because she’s curious.

“…Thanks.”

“I’m not hitting on you,” Kotone clarifies, starting get a bit anxious about this whole thing.

But Yubin makes up for the differential with her forward momentum. “No?”

Yubin tugs. Kotone lurches. She has to lower her voice, or it’d be excessive for how little distance remains between them. “I said, I’m not a guy.”

“I know that.”

The elevator doors slide open. Yubin lets go of Kotone and pushes her back, into the metal unit. Kotone hits the railing and barely has time to rebound before Yubin is in front of her, bracing her in. She has about two seconds to decide if she wants to make a move on Yubin or let Yubin make a move on her, considering responsibility and fear, before taking a real good look at Yubin’s wide eyes and realizing they’re both scared. And then Yubin’s mouth is on hers. Hot and squirmy; it feels like a first kiss. For Yubin, it probably is.

Chaeyeon/Yubin Injury Superpowers Athlete/Trainer 0.6k words, M

The win moves Yubin a rung closer to the championships. After major matches, two weeks are carved out for cooldown practices. Chaeyeon’s in-person shifts dwindle to a couple hours a day in case Yubin suffers an injury bad enough to require her urgent attention. She keeps herself busy with a part time job and volunteer hours in the meanwhile.

At night, Yubin knocks on Chaeyeon’s door. Sterility is not an issue alongside magic, so technically, the dorms are valid work spaces. That means getting paid. Chaeyeon had been expecting her. She cleared off the mattress in anticipation.

Yubin immediately sits on the edge of Chaeyeon’s bed, picking at the fuzzy comforter. Chaeyeon crosses her arms. “Let’s see it, then?”

Yubin rolls up her sleeve. A rope burn lashes a trail from the spoke of her ulnar bone to her elbow. It’s really not that bad, though when Chaeyeon told Yubin that before, she let herself get roughed up for a while as if to prove a point. A juvenile feint on Yubin’s part, and not one Chaeyeon’s keen on repeating. She keeps her mouth shut.

“I’m gonna just,” Yubin calls out, tossing her jacket and her shirt into the corner. Her sports bra joins the pile with little hesitation. “Ready?”

Best practice is the less surface area obscured the better. Pants might be excessive here, but it’s entirely clinical, in any case. Chaeyeon mentally rewards herself for not looking away.

Yubin clears her throat. “Hey, don’t space out on me.”

“Patient as ever, our Gong Yubin,” Chaeyeon croons. She kneels in front of Yubin, ignoring her muttered rebuttal, and takes her forearm. Their veins pulse bright together as Yubin becomes fragile as anyone under Chaeyeon’s hands.

Yubin tries to trap sound behind her teeth at the start. She’s never successful. Chaeyeon’s a good fixer to take the edge off the pain of renewing skin, but there’s still the exchange of tension begging a release. Her hairline beads with sweat as she groans.

“…I can see you smiling,” Yubin grits out. “In the, like…”

She’s too winded to say mirror. Chaeyeon glances at the ovular ringlight at the bedside table; from her angle it reflects more of Yubin’s torso, lean and strained. She pokes Yubin’s stomach to watch her muscles jump. Yubin’s breath escapes in a choppy series of hiccups.

The year after Chaeyeon graduated, she worked at the ICU to get in more credit-hours. That was definitely more strenuous than being a pro fixer. Each volunteer shift reminds her that her life now is much nicer. Full of creature comforts—she languishes in that turn of phrase, so defined by domestication. Like she’s a pet at Yubin’s beck and call. But Yubin, leaning into her touch, is the one who needs her, who can’t walk away.

Yubin’s slow to retrieve her clothes. She hugs them against her stomach and lingers. Chaeyeon goes to the bathroom, washes off her hands, and comes back. Yubin’s still sitting there.

 “I thought you were just gonna leave me like this,” she accuses. She’s tossed her clothes into Chaeyeon’s laundry hamper.

“Leave you? You’re in my room,” Chaeyeon points out.

“Ugh, no…” Yubin tugs at the hem of Chaeyeon’s shirt the moment she’s within range. It’s awkward and Chaeyeon stumbles, catching herself on Yubin’s shoulder. “Like, come on.”

Well. Chaeyeon had been expecting this. She straddles Yubin’s lap. Pushes her back, barely. Yubin, steady, gives with the angle but keeps her spine straight.

“Ask nicely.”

Yubin flutters her lashes. “Please,” she simpers. Laughs when Chaeyeon rolls her eyes, smiling. Whatever, good enough.

Chaeyeon stretches out as she pulls off her shirt, pleased by Yubin’s near-instant cessation of breath. Her hands skim quick and shivery up Chaeyeon’s back. Chaeyeon shifts her weight forward, discarding her shirt behind Yubin, and Yubin squirms.

Does Yubin have any idea how she’s looking at Chaeyeon right now? Would she recognize it if Chaeyeon showed her a mirror? Willing to do anything.

Yubin bares her teeth and cranes her neck, then slumps back down. “You’re too tall,” she complains. Not, kiss me. Chaeyeon gives her what she wants anyway.

Bae/Haewon Sport Climbing 1.6k words, T

“So, how did you two become friends?” Lily asks. A few drinks in, all of them are coming out of their shells for the first time since the start of the pre-season training camp: Sullyoon quiet but at attention, Jiwoo an affectionate puddle in her lap, as Kyujin walks over from the mini fridge impossibly trapping six beers between her hands, and Bae…

Bae, Haewon can sense the smile of without needing to turn her head. “You wanna go or should I?”

“You got it.” Haewon leans back and accepts the drink Kyujin gives her. By the time she’s unsealed the bottlecap, Bae’s somewhere around their junior year of high school, just before they broke into national qualifiers.

“…then I realized she was climbing just like me,” says Bae. This is the part everyone usually has a reaction to. Free soloing, cool, like Alex Honnold, the documentary legend. “We started climbing together outside of practice after that.”

“All because she was too nervous to ask for a belay partner,” Haewon chimes in. Also like Alex Honnold, the documentary legend. Bae offers her a fist bump before sliding back into the rhythm of their shared backstory. Haewon drinks.

This is the sort of thing that makes Haewon feel like she’s in college. Actual college, not virtual university at CU Boulder while she competes at various international tournaments. The further she away she gets from eighteen the more pressure there is to pull in results. Everyone here is feeling it: herself, Bae, the Australian and Korean athletes as well.

Once Bae’s caught up to the present day and the attention has shifted away from them, Haewon leans closer and whispers what she’d been thinking. “I feel like a college student.”

“We are,” Bae responds, drunk… er than Haewon? Maybe, maybe not, but enough to sag onto her, rely on her, like how she used to.

“Yeah, Zoom college. Not that I have regrets,” Haewon states. Just to be clear.

Bae squints. “Nooo, of course not. Not you.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Hm… Let’s get some water,” Bae suggests. Haewon stands, wobbly, ignoring Bae’s outstretched hand. She takes her wrist and leads them towards the cooler. Doesn’t work anymore at revealing Bae’s implication, because, yeah. Haewon grew up in the sport. Bae had not. That’s all.

The room has begun to reshuffle. It’s probably past midnight and they have practice in the morning, but Haewon doesn’t want to leave so soon.

Lily notices her at the cooler and smiles without her earlier nervousness. “The hotel here’s nice,” she comments in English.

Uh? Haewon has to recalibrate. “Yeah. Yes,” she replies. She thumps on the cooler with her knuckles. “We are so in the big leagues now. Do you think Janja Garnbret will sign my chalk bag?”

As Lily laughs Haewon gets the impression, that it would be very difficult for anyone not to like her. Drawn by the sound, Kyujin approaches, a little blurry-eyed from the late hour. Haewon’d guess it’s past her bedtime, having seen her expertly hit REM at no later than 11pm every night for the past couple of days, and she’s a little touched that Kyujin’s even still around. “What are we talking about?”

Haewon looks between Kyujin and Lily and makes a decision. “About if Lily can open this,” reaching into the mini fridge, “beer bottle with her teeth. Teach her, yeah?”

“What?” Lily squawks. Kyujin replaces Haewon as she departs to mill around the hotel room herself.

It only takes Haewon a few moments to recognize why the place feels too empty. Bae’s not there. Jiwoo isn’t, either. And Sullyoon, who she thought had been asleep by now, is sitting upright against the wall, looking at her. Unmoored, all of a sudden, Haewon parks herself next to Sullyoon to lay ownership to the strangeness.

Sullyoon doesn’t seem to mind. She offers her beer and Haewon takes a sip. “Bae and Jiwoo ran off on us?”

Sullyoon shrugs. “I think,” she articulates, “they went back to Jiwoo’s room.”

“Aren’t you her roommate?”

Sullyoon shrugs again. Repeats: “They went back to our room.”

Haewon takes a longer pull from the bottle. Considering. The past week that she’s known these people; Bae and Jiwoo’s coy magnetism.

In all honesty, Haewon isn’t surprised. Since they matriculated to college, since Bae cut her hair, since the Olympics started looking like a possibility—well, she and Bae have become adults, is the gist. Haewon’s had her fair share of hookups with other climbers and as Bae’s oft-sexiled roommate, it’s not like she’s oblivious to the other half of that. Still, she’s caught off-guard. She thought Sullyoon and Jiwoo had something.

She tells Sullyoon so. Too drunk to care, to make her face amiable. A beat of silence, then:

Sullyoon wonders rhetorically, but too pointedly to be random, “Like what you and Bae have?”

“Probably not like that. We’re not,” Haewon decides, “like that.” Unsure how to respond. Anyway, what? “Guess I was wrong.”

There’s nothing left in this conversation; they go still and observe Kyujin and Lily’s unintentional comedy performance for a while. “What it is like to free solo,” Sullyoon attempts eventually. Haewon jumps at the change of topic with relief.

It’s been a while since Haewon’s hit the cliffs, actually. Indoor climbing has just been her life lately. She’s grateful to be sponsored, it’s the only way she’s able to go overseas with other elite international climbers now, but she does miss the—adrenaline? Palm-sweat in the face of controlled danger is nothing like the palm-sweat at a competition.

“We should bring you sometime,” Haewon decides, can’t think of words up to the task. “It’s an experience.”

“Okay.” It sounds like they both mean it. Camaraderie is easy here, with the expectation that its continuation is contingent on their success. Another source of motivation. “Jiwoo might be scared at first.”

Again the bottle passes to Sullyoon. Haewon purses her lips and avoids thoughts of Jiwoo, Bae; the wall she’s on the other side of. Quicker than she’d anticipated, the bottle comes back, warm from the heat of their palms.

Haewon had been scared, too. But it’s supposed to feel that way. Without rope, weightless.

There’s not much liquid left. Haewon thinks she finishes it off. Her head swirls with vertigo intensifying like air circling at a peak. Sooner or later she hears the hotel door click; Bae’s returned.

Her shirt, Haewon notices, is inside-out. Short hair tousled as if the wind itself had asked her to dance.

…

Unsurprisingly, everyone’s hungover at the next morning practice. Haewon doesn’t remember how she made her way back to her room in one piece. She doesn’t remember much at all, except she’s fonder of these people for some reason, and at some point Bae had left.

“My headdd,” Jiwoo moans. She’s draped over Sullyoon’s back. Haewon grimaces sympathetically. On the other side of her, Bae’s also rubbing her temples.

“Who told you to drink so much?” Haewon rags.

“I’ll still beat you to the mat.” And Bae does—stamina isn’t Haewon’s strength, okay; her strength is her strength.

She falls back onto the mat dramatically. Bae hovers over her, genuinely worried, before Haewon yanks her down.

“Ow,” Bae mutters. Haewon pinches her bicep and sits up.

“I’m sore,” she complains. Bae begins to massage her shoulders. But it’s more difficult than usual for Haewon to lean into her yielding, unyielding, touch.

Whether Bae or Haewon tell the story, they start at high school, because that’s when they became friends. But they knew each other before that.

During Haewon’s last year of middle school, she’d been debating dropping secondary education for climbing: it was that serious for her. Enter Bae, a transfer from—someone had said, California? Big city girl, huh, who cried herself to sleep every night for the week they trained at a sleepaway camp in Utah.

Haewon tried inviting her into a game with herself and some other climbers once, playing route-setter pick-and-choosing holds from the new problems the gym put up. Bae caked her palms with chalk so thick she could have left handprints. Haewon thought it must’ve been a mistimed joke, but her climbing form was solid, if striated by a lack of confidence.

“Everyone else was so good. I just thought, it might help with my grip strength,” Bae confessed the time Haewon brought it up in their final year of high school. She’d bleached her hair but hadn’t cut it yet, and the flyaways from her bun held the same brittle quality of chalk.

“But now you know. We’re the best.” In the muddy dark of their hotel room, Haewon didn’t care how she sounded. They’d qualified for, and won, a host of U17, U19, championships. From open competitions to team trials. The next year, Team USA said, congrats.

Haewon got the chance to try on her jersey privately before the camera lenses. Her hair was short in the aftermath of a running joke-turned-pact about aerodynamics Bae would later adopt as her permanent aesthetic.

It wasn’t for Haewon. She didn’t really look like herself, even if she tied the loose, shaggy ends away from her face in emulation of competition form. So she turned away from the mirror and doomscrolled through a rotation of apps like there was a pot of gold waiting at the bottom of one of them.

Here was a restlessness similar to insomnia. At least Haewon’s condition wasn’t discriminatory: it didn’t matter if she was alone or with a partner, in a familiar or unfamiliar place. When she and Bae graduated from sleepaway camps to random hotel rooms in whichever city was hosting the next climbing event, it hadn’t made a difference. Haewon would be awake for at least a few hours past everyone else’s bedtime.

At night, the unembellished air made it easy to distinguish the rhythm of Bae’s breaths, each stirring closer to the dawn. It had been so still, so subtle. Haewon couldn’t have known they were already in motion.

Not included above as I might still finish them: Haewon/Sullyoon Buzzfeed AU, Sullyoon/Jiwoo sport climbing AU, Yubin/Chaeyeon A/B/O AU. Last semester I definitely didn't have the time I would've wanted to write, especially after I got into a whole new group all of a sudden. It's been fun and exhausting trying to find my rhythm with reading and writing again... Back to school in less than a week, but fingers crossed I'll drum up something to post soon? And of course Happy New Year!

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