Mists Of Celeste 43

mists of celeste ➻ 43

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 8.1k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act six ➻ part two

​ ​ ​

You’re still nursing your bruised wrist when the ship finds its landing place in a mountain port on Rathmos. Even though it’s the middle of the night when you land, you can’t find it in you to be even the slightest bit tired after the nightmare you lived through earlier in the day. Jisung had told you to prepare to leave the ship, leaving only a change of clothes on the couch before he left the room. That’s where he finds you when he returns too — seated on that same couch in the same clothes you arrived in, with his spare change still untouched and off to the side.

“Come on, don’t you wanna get those cleaned at least?” he offers, motioning towards your body. You almost take his expression for one of genuine concern, but that feeling fades as quickly as it comes. You regard the man with a firm stare and silence. “I see. In any case, we’re here, so let’s head out. Two of my men are coming along with us, so don’t get any funny ideas about running off.”

Keep reading

mists of celeste ➻ 40

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 22.8k (this will crash ur phone so pls read on desktop) ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: violence, blood/injury, choking, brief depiction of a panic attack ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part seven

The stench in the air is some cross between smoke and rotting food. It’s enough to make your nose wrinkle in disgust, something you’ve done several times over the past twenty minutes since getting here, but Hongjoong is still sitting beside you and tinkering with his wristband in the same position he’s been in since arriving. A chain-link fence and a row of boxes are all that separate you from your target — the military complex in the Upper Echelon just as Jisung detailed to Hongjoong the day before. It’s closer to the thickest parts of the Smokehouses in the lower area, which is no doubt what’s causing the smell and, in turn, your misery.

“The outside security is a combination of motion sensors, cameras, and guards,” Hongjoong notes, not looking up from his forearm. “Keep monitoring the guards’ patterns for now while we wait. My techie here in Lynder is working on hacking their surveillance systems remotely.”

Keep reading

---

mists of celeste ➻ 36

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ Word Count: 17.2k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, chapter specific warnings: talks of torture, psychological torture, mentions injuries/infections, mentions of past abuse ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧  act five ➻ part three

​​​​

“I need to talk to Jisung. I… I have some questions about my past.”

“I’ll go with you then,” Yeosang offers without missing a beat, and he steps into your space. “That Spectre can’t be trusted enough to be alone with you. It’s bad enough that he’s being left alone right now.”

“Just yesterday you were talking about how much you hate me,” you scoff, turning away from the door to stare him in the eye. “Now you’re wanting to protect my every movement?” A huff of air passes through the man’s lips. For a moment, he refuses to look at you, and you think he’s going to choose to ignore you rather than respond to the question.

Keep reading

---

The Play of You and I | bc

❝𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝…❞

↳ There is nothing time leaves untouched. It changes all, as it changed you and him, and though those sepia days of childhood seem so far now, you cling to them fondly. When sudden grief tears the man you know - the boy - from himself, it falls to you to bring him back. It was nice to play pretend for a while.

↳ Bang Chan x female reader

↳ Childhood friends to lovers romance trope. Angst and hurt/comfort, budding romance and yearning, grief and loss, referenced drug use and severe addiction/withdrawal the consequences therein, slow burn.

! Mature content, adult themes, 10.2k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」 「main contents list」 「© February 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

Twenty-eight years

There once was a boy.

He wasn’t a remarkable boy. Wouldn't be recorded in the annals of history for any great feat of bravery or wonder of strength. He wouldn’t change the world or its archaic institutions. He wouldn’t break records or revolutionise or rally or do much of anything other than live his quiet, small life, because he was just a boy. A perfectly ordinary boy. And you liked him that way.

You liked his dimples and his mop of ochre brown curls and his Australian twang. You liked the games he invented and the ‘let’s pretend’ that would excitedly precede every occasion of play. Most of all, you liked the hour just after school where, from your childhood bedroom window, you would watch him trot across the sunlit street to knock on your door and steal you away to the treehouse his father had constructed in the very nearby woods, whereupon you lived in a world of carefree creation and make-believe.

It had always been just him and his father; a sad fact that as a child both confounded you and compelled you to quiz:

“But where is your mummy? You don’t have one? Why? My mummy says everyone has a mummy. She says I came from her tummy. Where did you come from?”

Chan only ever shrugged and ran off to play, as complacent of your questioning as ever he would be. As childhood faded and adolescence rolled in with all the gentile of a marching brass band, you learned that his mother had passed when he was a mere six weeks old. He told you that he was glad he’d never known her. He thought it spared him the pain of loss. You rather disagreed, and told him as much; wasn’t it better to have loved and lost?

“No way,” he had said. “I’d rather spend my whole life alone than lose everyone I love.”

“But you’re not alone. You have me and your dad,” you had argued.

Chan shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette— a habit you detested. “That’s different. I’ll never lose you two.”

Rain cascaded from the rim of your black umbrella, soaking the turfed and trimmed grass. Your heels sank to the softening ground the longer you stood.

“O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light—”

The ache in your calves threatened cramp, but you found no real complaint in it.

“— Grant your servant Jaehyun Bang to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom.”

Physical pain took something away from the distress which you tried with utmost composure to conceal. He needed you today, of all days.

“Almighty God, we entrust all who are dear to us to your never-failing care and love, for this life and the life to come, knowing that you are doing for them better things than we can desire or pray for—”

To break down would be to fail him.

“— through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.”

Through tear strewn eyes you watched the boy you’d grown up with—now a man, tall and beautiful—step forward. Concealed by his own umbrella, he stooped to gather a handful of the moist, freshly dug earth, and tossed it atop the wet casket as it sank ever lower into the ground. The lump in your throat solidified. It seemed too cruel. Too cold. Too lonely. Jae deserved a better end than this. Chan deserved better.

And with a final blessing on the few gathered, it was all over. So many weeks of pain all amounted to this: walking with your childhood friend in a cold and quiet cemetery. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle and Chan had abandoned his umbrella. His fair brown curls were haloed with the frizz of humidity, his expression drawn vacant and haggard. He’d lost weight since Jae’s admittance. Even more since the terminal diagnosis. To think about it too much was to fall sick with worry. You’d already fallen once. A second time would make a fool of you.

“Shit day for it,” he sighed, hands in his cheap suit pockets.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Chan tutted, and from his inner jacket pocket pulled a mangled, half-empty carton of cigarettes. Shoving one between his dry lips, he then offered the packet to you.

“When have I ever taken you up on that?” You laughed gently; as much as one may ever laugh after saying such a goodbye.

He shrugged. “Worth a try. Special occasion and all.” He lit the cigarette with a few preliminary puffs, the smoke disappearing behind his teeth. “I’m allowed to smoke in a graveyard, right?”

“I don’t think anyone will object.”

“No? Not even you?”

You shook your head. “Not today.”

Chan hummed, took a deep drag, the smoke seeping from his lips. Gravel crunched softly beneath your feet, the sky a great gathering of grey so lifeless it seemed to drain the very colour from the flower arrangements marking the headstones— peach roses gone dull, sweet freesias withered. Tributes to ‘MUM’, ‘DAD’, and ‘SON’ meant something to someone once upon a time; how sorely they’d surely upset to see them all so neglected.

“It was a nice service,” you said quietly.

Chan scoffed. “He would have hated it.”

“What? Why?”

“He wanted to be set out to sea,” Chan said, and then in a shockingly accurate impression of his father, “‘Shove me in a box and let the whales have me’.”

“He was never serious about that, Chan.”

He glared at you.

“Alright, maybe he was, but public health might have had a thing or two to say about us rolling a corpse out across the beach.”

Chan flinched; the briefest and only moment of vulnerability you had seen in him since this whole thing began. He hadn’t shed a tear. Hadn’t even choked back a sob. Almost as if it hadn’t been happening for him. Realisation of your blunder hit with the force of a bus. You stopped, reached for his arm.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Chan shrugged you off. “No. Don’t be. That’s what he is now, right?”

He walked ahead and with the wisp of cigarette smoke curling around him like a comforting arm.

No doubt it was of more comfort than you.  

*

Sunday nights were reserved for the ritual of film, as they had been since you both were old enough to understand the attractive taboo of an ‘R’ rating.

B-movie horrors and predictably lacklustre ghost tales filled the late hours, as did a takeaway of Thai or Chinese. Never once had Sunday’s sanctity been interfered with; never a cancellation, never a back out. No matter how horridly busy the working week had been, so malicious as to keep you apart, Sunday night could be relied upon to reunite you.

Seven o’clock came and went.

Eight o’clock ticked by.

Nine o’clock approached, and sick with anxiety you could no longer wait. You texted him first:

<< everything okay? it's sunday

Thirty minutes with no response, and so you called him. It rang through to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. Are you— You’re coming over, right? I’m waiting for you. Call me.”

And a further ten minutes passed with no sign. You video called him, startled by the image of your stressed reflection in the camera; you promptly turned it off. It rang and rang, each one a heftier weight on your worry, until the static of connectivity and flickering video announced him.

“Chan?”

The incoming video was dark, the indecipherable din so blaringly loud you grimaced to turn down the volume.

“Chan! Where are you?” you called, but to no more response than the phone tilting and shaking in his apparent grip, the video catching only thin streams of coloured light and anonymous silhouettes. You would get no sense from this, you knew. No sense other than the gut instinct that occasioned to tell you Chan wasn’t coming over tonight. Chan was otherwise occupied. Chan had defiled the sanctity of Sunday.

And that was merely the beginning.

*

Eight years

“Come on, quick!”

“Wait for me! Wait!”

Chan sprinted ahead, his trainers thumping the well-trekked earthen path that wound deep into the woods; not that you ever followed it that far.

The treehouse lived a few hundred yards beyond the woods threshold, nestled in a great beech tree with weeping branches that hung around and embraced the little structure in a leafy veil of green and brown. From the platform proper, you could see straight through the clearing of trees to Chan’s house: when the porch light flicked on, it was time to come home.

“The ladder!” You shouted up to the treehouse when you reached it; Chan always got there first. “Channie!”

A head popped out from over the deck, curls bobbing about. “What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Nope!” He giggled.

“Pretty please?”

“Nope!”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Nope!”

“Channie!”

“It’s a magic word!” He cackled. “You have to say it magically.”

You racked your brain, then said, “Abracadabra?”

Chan clapped and dropped down the ladder, the ropes and planks swinging wildly until you settled them. Climbing up was never easy; it never kept still, and so you strained and grunted your way up until close enough for Chan to grab. He took your hand and pulled you the rest of the way, dragging you into the warm, wood shelter. It was modestly decorated with blankets and old cushions donated by Chan’s dad, crayons and felt-tip pens with the lids off, magazines and crumpled newspapers and colouring books and toys and props and everything a child may want in their personal kingdom to allow for a litany of games and adventures.

Chan yanked a yellow plastic sword from the stack of cushions it was buried in— his very own Excalibur.

“Let’s pretend I'm a knight!” He beamed.

“Okay!”

“You can be the princess,” he said, running to a box chest and rifling inside. He pulled out a silky red cape (it once made him a superhero) and threw it at you.

“Can I have a sword?” you asked.

“No! Princesses don’t have swords.”

“Why not?”

“Because knights have swords.”

You pouted and put on the cape, buttoning it around your neck. “That’s dumb.”

“It’s a knight’s job to save princesses.”

“From what?”

“From—” He looked around, frowning as he walked to the window whereupon his face lit up. He hopped back to you and took your hand, dragged you to where he stood before. He pointed alongside your head. “See there?”

You followed his direction, squinting through the trees. “What?”

“There!” He emphasised, pointing harder. “On the hill!”

“It’s just a—”

“A dragon lives there,” he whispered. “A big, red scaly dragon that breathes fire and eats princesses!”

You gasped and stared at the quiet, distant hill, barely visible above the tree line. Chan’s descriptions brought to life a huge, red dragon, its scales glinting in the sunlight as it reared its long neck and puffed smoke from its gaping nostrils.

“I don’t want to be eaten!” You declared, but on turning to Chan, realised he was gone. “Channie?”

“Don’t be scared princess!” You heard him call. You ran out of the shelter and to the deck, looking down at the forest floor where Chan stood poised with his sword drawn towards the hill.

“I will kill the dragon!” He cried, hopping from one foot to the other. “It’s coming! It’s coming, princess!”

“Save me, knight!”

With a great cry of bravery, Chan leapt towards a nearby tree, thwacking and chopping his sword against the thick trunk. He dodged and rolled around it, picking up a pinecone and throwing it at the snarling beast.

“Look out princess! It’s coming for you!”

You shrieked in horror and ran back into the shelter, rifling through the chest and under pillows to find a weapon. Chan continued his assault, hacking and slashing at trunks as he ran after the beasts’ legs. “My sword isn’t strong enough!” He shouted. “I need something else!”

“Here!”

Over the decking you threw to him what you’d found: a plastic bow and arrow that to your mind, was the key. Chan cried out with joy, “Thank you, princess!” And threw his sword to the earth, dashing to collect the toy. He clumsily drew an arrow back on the string; it bounced harmlessly from the dragon’s back and dropped into a thicket, never to be retrieved. Chan huffed, but persevered. He ran about the treehouse for a better angle, and the second arrow he fired pierced its chest and elicited a thunderous roar from the creature: it reared and puffed plumes of smoke, its scaly body glowing a deep, threatening orange.

“I hurt it!” Chan yelled.

“You made it mad!”

“Hide, princess!”

He darted behind a blackberry bush just in time to spare himself from the molten heat of dragon’s fire: the monster bellowed and shook the earth as its destructive flames singed the forest and razed the soil, the residual heat scalding the very air. When it had passed, you shouted down, “Shoot him again!”

Chan scrambled out from the bush and clambered to his knees, frantically drawing an arrow and with a final yell of victory, shot the beast straight through the heart. It groaned and with its last breath, puffed thin wisps of flame that soon diminished. It fell to the ground with a terrible thud, alive no more.

Chan jumped for joy and laughed and ran to the treehouse, calling up, “Throw me the ladder, princess! It’s safe now!”

You quickly did so, watching in awe as your rescuer climbed up, his bow on his back.

“Thank you, knight,” you beamed, clapping. “You saved my life.”

“You need to give me a reward.”

“A what?”

“A prize. For killing the dragon.”

“Oh! Okay. Like what?”

Chan shrugged and looked at the floor. “Some princesses give their knights a kiss.”

“A what?”

“A kiss.” He tapped his cheek. “Here.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Do I have to?”

Chan shrugged again. “No.” He yanked his bow off and tossed it, glancing out of the small shelter window. “The porch light’s on,” he said. “We have to go back.”

“But your prize—”

“I don’t want it.”

He rushed out to the deck and stooped to the ladder, securing his feet on the first plank.

“Channie—”

“Dad’s making egg rolls for dinner. Bye!”

*

Twenty-eight years

He reeked of sickly-sweet fruit.

Each whiff you caught of it made your head hurt. It grated on your temperament like an incessantly dripping tap in total silence: much more and you’d be tempted to rip it from the basin.

Uncaring—or perhaps simply oblivious—Chan relaxed on the leather suite, legs kicked to the coffee table. Sporadically he would whistle a soft tune that further stirred your awful mood, as did his occasional chuckles. You watched him from the kitchen, as your open plan apartment allowed, and mindlessly bodged the simmering stir fry vegetables around the wok with tongs. You had no appetite. Just needed to keep yourself occupied.

“You can put limiters on those apps, you know,” you said flatly.

Chan frowned, glued to his phone. “What?”

“Time limiters. So you can only use them for, like, an hour a day or whatever.”

“Okay? And?”

You shrugged. “Just saying.”

Chan huffed, locked his phone, tossed it to his side where it landed with a plop. He rose from the sofa, stretched out his long arms and legs, the wide sleeves of his thin, black vest gaping to reveal the pale expanse of rib and lean muscle. You drew your eyes away, heat spoiling your nape.

“Smells good,” he mumbled as he approached and leaned over the counter. Even through the salty soy and tang of chow mein, he stank of it. Sickeningly sweet perfume.

“You can have it,” you said, knocking the tongs on the wok and setting them aside. You turned from him to open the fridge, glad of the subsequent embracing chill.

“You don’t want it?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then why cook?”

“Habit.” You closed the fridge, having retrieved nothing. “You have a few of those yourself, so you’d know.”

Unable to meet his discerning gaze you fussed about the sink, rearranging nothing other than the discomfort that wracked you from head to heart.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re being weird.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve done nothing but passively aggressively criticise me since I walked through the door.” He rounded the counter and leaned against the fridge with arms folded. “Did something happen today?”

You turned to him, meeting his defensive stance. “Why don’t you tell me what you did today, Chan?”

Witnessing in person the moment the colour drains from one’s face is as profound an experience as it is melancholy. Chan blinked as his complexion greyed, his tightened jaw loosening.

“I—” he began, then fumbled. “I told you what I did today.”

“Mhm. You visited the cemetery? Then picked up groceries?”

“Yes.”

“And did you stop by the women’s perfume aisle when you were at the store?”

Chan swallowed. His eyes morphed from the uncertainty of doubt to the surety of guilt, dark browns glistening. Such a small thing that only years of intimate acquaintance could tell of. That only a soulmate could tell of, by his estimation. Your heart sank to dismal depths.

“Didn’t think so,” you muttered, unfolding your arms and moving to the wok that sputtered erratically. You took it off the heat and set it to a cold ring, where it steadied and settled. With no more energy to quiz him or think of it any longer, you turned thoughts to fonder things.

“Did you talk to your dad?” you asked, yet before the question settled, warm arms encircled you tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, breath warm on your nape.

A flurry of want so expertly tucked and buried surfaced in a burst of heat; to be held by him was to let yourself imagine a plethora of impossibilities, not one of them becoming of the decade long friendship. Yours was not an easy battle, but a successful one. You’d conquered the love. Squashed the desire. You had.

“I just...” he hesitated. “I was lonely.”

He came to you in a gale of sickly sweetness: a tell that he had never been yours, and never would be. He owed you no such romantic allegiance.

“Don’t. Don’t explain,” you said, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It wasn’t my place to—”

He turned you in his arms, the counter a brace behind, his strong frame in front. Surely awestruck in any other circumstance but instead overpowered by the nauseating fruity concoction that lingered on him, you grimaced and shook your head. “Chan—”

“Are you jealous?”

“What?”

“She meant nothing. She was just a Tinder hook-up. I needed something to distract me.”

Your heart throbbed. “God, stop. I don’t want to know.”

“You do, though. I know you do. I know you.”

You shoved against his chest. It was too strong. Too sweet. Too sick. “Give me some space, Chan—”

He stepped back, some colour having returned to his blushed cheeks. His chest rose heavier on the next breath, and with a puff of what seemed like exasperation, he announced, “I should go.”

“Yeah.”

He turned on a step, raked his hands through his curls, then turned back swiftly. “You know, you could just—” He gesticulated wildly, then sighed. “Whatever. Call me when you salvage your head from your ass.”

Not moments after he’d left were you dumping and scraping the cooling contents of the wok into the bin, frustrated and on the brink of inexplicable tears. The apartment stunk of it for hours.

Better that than your childhood friend’s conquests.

*

Twelve years

“Let’s pretend we’re hunting for treasure.”

“We’ve played that game,” you complained.

“We’re playing again!” Chan exclaimed excitedly, darting across the treehouse shelter to the chest his dad had gifted him for his eleventh birthday, new and improved and twice the size of the old. Crammed with the all the old toys and fresh additions, Chan shoved through them until he retrieved a sturdy hardwood ship wheel polished to a fine shine, the rounded spokes inlaid with brass. One of his dad’s finer feats of craftsmanship, and his new favourite toy. Affixing it to a perfectly shaped and sanded branch that stretched out over the treehouse decking and through the shelter window (another feat of Bang senior), he gave it one great spin and watched with delight as the spokes blurred and melted into a rapid, satisfying flurry.

“Where’s my first mate!?” He cried.

Prior complaint forgotten, you hopped to your feet and into a salute. “Captain!”

“There you are!” He marched across the shelter and from the wall dedicated to crafts plucked a pinned pirate hat fashioned from folded newspaper, sporting a raggedy skull and crossbones drawn in black crayon. He unfolded the base and shook from it an eyepatch—also fashioned from coloured-in newspaper and string—which he tossed to you. He put the pirate hat on and with a gruff clearing of his throat, said, “I hear there be treasure here!”

“Arrr,” you replied, laughing. “So do I!”

“Shall we find it?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Aye, aye Captain!”

Chan burst into laughter and sang, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?”

“Spongebob Squarepants!”

A fit of giggles interrupted the play, and after a moment, when ribs ached and cheeks were sore, Chan went back to his wheel. “Okay, okay— Pirates, remember.”

“Yes, Captain.” You saluted.

He spun the wheel again, squinting against the broken beams of afternoon sun as he looked out through the forest.

“The sea be choppy today!”

“Choppy, Captain?”

“Aye!”

“What does that mean, Captain?”

“I, uh—” Chan shrugged. “I don’t know. I just heard it.”

You shrugged in return, then ran to the window, leaning over the wood and pointing to the ground. “There’s something shiny down there, Captain!”

“That’s the treasure!” He stilled the wheel and ran out of the shelter. “Let’s go! Bring the spades!”

As he clambered down the rope ladder you quickly threw the net sack of plastic buckets and spades over your shoulder and followed him. At the bottom, he took the sack from you, hastily emptying the contents.

“Here.” He gave you the pink set, took the blue for himself. “Remember; ‘X’ marks the spot.”

You crept a few paces behind him as you carefully scoured the forest floor. Through thin twigs and stray berries, conifer needles and pinecones you wandered, the sun beating down on your backs through the leafy canopies. The beech leaves had warmed from green to orange and yellow, the occasional one drifting quietly from the weeping branches to the ground on a strong gust of wind. One such landed on Chan’s shoulder as he hunted; you plucked it from him, blew it off your palm, watching as it glided lazily to the floor, whereupon it landed daintily over a formation of (more or less) crossed twigs, then tumbled away.

“Captain!” You called. “Look!”

Chan bounded over and on sight of your discovery, broke into a wide smile. “Well done, first mate!”

Both crouched beside the fated spot, you began to dig, burying your plastic spades into the earth that easily crumbled and gave way to your efforts. Some minutes of this revealed nothing much more than wriggly worms; Chan sighed.

“Maybe ‘X’ doesn’t mark the spot.”

“No, wait.” You dug your small spade into the soil, forcing it down and retrieving what had caught your eye; your brought it up on the tool and held it to Chan’s face.

“A lump of gold!” He whispered in awe, taking the unearthed acorn in his palm and clutching it tightly. “There must be more!”

With frantic delight he began digging again, discovering more and more acorns to add to the impressive collection you soon amassed. The spades were eventually abandoned and the search site widened until the immediate area surrounding the treehouse was littered with holes and small piles. How much time passed couldn’t be known, but with hands and nails encrusted with dirt, you counted your precious treasure in the treehouse shelter.

“One for you,” Chan gave you an acorn. “One for me.” And took one for himself. “One for you,” he continued. “One for me. One for you, one for me. One for you—”

“We’re rich, Captain!” you said.

“We can buy a new boat!” Chan laughed.

“New hats!”

“New eyepatches!”

“Aye!”

“Aye!” you giggled.

Over your shoulder, something seemed to catch Chan’s attention, his smile dampening. You followed his glance, and your heart sunk. Had it been that long already?

“Porch light’s on,” he mumbled.

“I don’t want to go home yet.”

“It’s okay,” Chan said. “We can play again tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow is so far.”

“Dad says if you go to bed early, tomorrow comes faster.”

“Really?”

Chan nodded.

“Alright,” you huffed, then hopped up, dragging your mucky hands over your shirt. “Let’s go straight to bed!”

You made a start for the decking, stopping just shy of the ladder.

“Can we play pirates again tomorrow?” you asked.

A streak of waning sunlight caught Chan’s irreverent grin in an amber glow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can be Captain.”

*

Twenty-eight years

And the conquests became so many that it hardly felt apt to refer to them so. A full-scale occupation would have been more proper, and in truth, it offered you some amusement to think of it that way, albeit short-lived.

Less frequent his visits had become, Sunday nights and every other night that might have occasioned even a fleeting visit spent in dimly lit solitude. For all your lecturing as to Chan’s habitual Instagram addiction, you sheepishly took to the platform as a means of monitoring him: his feed had morphed from beautifully crafted reels of nature, music and pluviophile aesthetics to a dark and debauched affair. Selfies with strangers and drinks in hand, each one a deterioration of state that pained you to look at. Your texts went rejected and calls ignored, and on the precipice of sinking into debilitating fear, you recalled the most obvious, most basic of things.

Before the feelings or the murky boundaries or the longing or anything else, Chan was your friend. So intricately had he woven himself into your life, his presence made up part of the very basic fabric. Without him you’d be something less than whole, as would any who suffered a major loss. Chan had suffered a major loss. Chan was less than whole. He could feign togetherness, keep his eyes dry and his expression calm, but you knew better. Was it not your obligation as his friend and your want as his confidant to bring him back from the treacherous cliff side he teetered on? Would he not do the same for you? Do soulmates not go above and beyond for each other?

A shrill notification pinged your phone: Chan had updated his story. With a deep breath you tapped the pink circle, the seconds-long video loading with a torrent of bassline that brought you to cringe. A purple neon sign flashed bright: ‘Eden’. The bold white caption read: ‘#bestlife’. If ever there was a redder flag, you couldn’t have imagined it.

Resolved to action, you swept into the bedroom and changed into the most passable nightlife attire you possessed: a pair of black denim shorts and satin spaghetti strap top. Paired with heeled boots and finished with a dusting of makeup, you supposed that, at the very least, you’d not be turned away at the door.

You hoped.

*

Eden felt to you to be far from any sort of acclaimed paradise.

The weight of smoke both from cigarette and stage machine and the stale tang of alcohol overwhelmed what fraying nerves you had left, courtesy of the uncomfortably prolonged taxi ride. Bodies writhed on the elevated dance floor, an anonymous and unsettling orgy of sweaty movement that not a single part of you anticipated joining: you wished only to find Chan.

The garishly lit bar too packed to reasonably consider asking the tender if they had ‘seen this man’, you took to a sweep of the floor, navigating through the inebriated and keeping a keen eye out for a familiar head of curls; a familiar anything. Eden was deceivingly larger than the exterior suggested. It stretched far, far back and over three floors of height, each one boasting a unique theme. The ground floor appeared to be what most associate with a typical nightclub of sorts: strobe lighting, loud EDM, no inhibitions. The second—while equally lacking in inhibitions—eased on the strobe lighting in favour of a soft and constant pink hue. It retained an almost dreamlike quality with its binaural beats, those that occupied the booth seats engaged in chatter or rather more exhibitionist activity from which you quickly drew your eyes. None of it was him. Nothing beyond that mattered. On the third floor the music picked back up; not of electronica but a rather grungier scrape that oddly did something to comfort you. It inspired memories of teenage angst and nineties rock culture; a time in which both you and Chan happily thrived in black. Regardless, he wasn’t here, and so your search continued. If not inside, he must be outside. Following the signs for the smoking area led you up to the roof, where high chain link fences had been erected. Warmed by the glow of orange heat lamps at their backs, people huddled amidst great swathes of cigarette smoke and thought you of no more consequence than a passing fly as you walked among them.

Oh, Chan and his habits. You’d have smiled if not so burdened with cold dread. At the rear of the smoking area, your childhood friend sat on the rusted crimson metal of fire exit stairs. A black button-down buttoned down to his navel hung open on his svelte, trim physique, the smear of makeup not belonging to him glittered his cheeks and lips. On his lap was perched a girl, her dress so short it revealed dainty lace. She ran her claw-like nails through his curls, and he offered her a bleary-eyed smile around a burnt-down cigarette. He smiled at you that way when he was tired; when he’d been fed and watered and was content. Jealousy, hot and unashamed, wound around you to squeeze dignity from your person like warm toothpaste from a tube. Single-mindedly you stormed towards him, vitriol surging up your oesophagus—

If only your eyes hadn’t met. If only through the smog his soft browns, so eroded by pain of loss, had not been so clear. The cigarette fell from his lips and the girl was shoved unceremoniously to stand. “Clear off,” you heard him say, her compliance not without complaint. When close enough to address, he did just that.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came for you.”

“For— What?”

“I can’t watch you self-destruct anymore. Enough is enough.”

He laughed, dry and scratchy. “Self-destruct? Clubbing is self-destructive now?”

“It's not the clubbing, Chan.” You spat it like a dirty word. “You can dance and drink and fuck strangers all you want; it was never about the clubbing. It’s about you and me. You’re distancing yourself. I feel you slipping through my fingers. None of this—” you gesture around vaguely, “— is you. You’re not this person.”

“What would you know about the kind of person I am?” he hissed, stumbling forward. He steadied himself on the adjacent chain link, the height he had on you seeming more so with the hostility rolling from him. “You think you’ve got some— some special fucking connection to me just because we’ve known each other forever? Because we’re soulmates?” He drawled the word, stretched it, made it mean. “What a load of bullshit.”

Wounded, you drew your gaze from him. What pain had been in his eyes had warped to a defensive rage.

“You’re lashing out,” you said, voice thick. “You’re angry. You’re in pain. That’s normal. I get it.”

“You don't get it. How could you possibly get it?”

“Chan—”

“Go home,” he huffed, turning into the chain with both hands, his forehead pressed to it.

“Come with me.”

“Is that invitation?”

You swallowed, hesitated.

“Of course it isn’t,” he scoffed. “God forbid you ever tell me how you really fucking feel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it fucking means. We’ve danced around this bullshit since we were sixteen.”

This bullshit.

“It’s like if either of us ever acknowledged that we— That there’s— That we’re not just—” He took a deep, frustrated breath, closed his eyes. “It’s like the world will end or something.”

“Chan...”

“At this point, I wouldn’t even give a fuck if it did.”

“Don't say things like that. We were... We were kids, Chan. Back then. We didn’t know—”

“Do not tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew damn well what I wanted. You’re the one that wanted to pretend nothing ever happened.”

“It wasn’t like that, Chan.”

“No? Then what was it like?”

“You were going through a lot. You know that. You and Jae started fighting so much, you were getting into trouble at school, you stopped coming by the treehouse. You just— You changed, almost overnight. It didn’t feel right to try to talk to you about... what we did. I didn’t feel like I could.”

“Right.” He shoved off the chain link, ran a hand through his curls. “So, it’s my fault we’re stuck like this.”

“That’s not what I said—”

“Go home. And don’t ask me to come with you again. Not unless you mean it.”

With that, he drew himself up and strode off into the smoke, leaving you to dissect that which he apparently knew to be true.

A shiver of chill took you, a sudden gale sweeping over the roof. You wrapped your arms around yourself and sank into the sadness.

A special connection indeed.

*

Sixteen years

The woods had shrunk since you were a child.

You walked the muddy, winding path with your hood drawn close, the patter of winter rain dampening your shoulders. A wild breeze picked up through the trees, a shiver of chill that pinched your cheeks and urged you to jog.

The great beech tree defied such elements as it always did, its bare branches a skeletal cage around the treehouse shelter. The rope ladder swung gently, knocking against the trunk; you grabbed and steadied it, bracing your foot on the lowest rung so as to test its strength. Confident that it should probably hold, you began a slow and unsteady climb to the top. Pulling yourself over the soaked decking and stooping to enter the shelter, you were glad of the protection from the rain, such as it was and despite the gaps of erosion that had worn the wood. Moth-eaten blankets and sodden cushions, forest debris and the musk of damp spoiled what had once been a childhood kingdom: so age infected all things.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

Chan sat beneath the window, his long legs stretched out, an unlit cigarette tucked between his fingers. His damp, brown curls were drying out at the ends, his black hoodie concealed just how soaked he was.

You glared at him. “I said I would.”

Chan shrugged, popped the cigarette between his lips. From his jeans pocket he retrieved a lighter you recognised as belonging to his dad.

“Do you have to do that in here?” you complained.

“Relax,” he said around the cigarette as he lit it and took several puffs. “Second-hand smoke is a myth.”

“It isn't, but okay. I actually meant that you just shouldn’t smoke in our treehouse.”

“The wood’s wet. It won’t catch.”

“That’s not what I—” You sighed. “Whatever.” And sat at the opposite side where the toy chest once lived, its rectangular outline forever having marked the wood it rested on.

“We could have hung out at your place,” you eventually said, bringing your knees to your chest.

Chan shook his head. “Nah. Dad’s being a fucking asshole.”

“What happened?”

“He found my stash.”

You shot him a quizzical look, to which he tapped the cigarette in indication.

“Oh,” you muttered.

“I told him I’ll just quit when I get bored of it,” he said, wisps of smoke drifting from his lips. “He doesn’t get it.”

You said nothing, supposing he wouldn’t want to hear which side of things you landed on, because it wasn’t his. Watching Chan smoke was one of many new things you found yourself adjusting to since adolescence—awareness—had come around: the details of most everything about him you’d committed to perfect memory, and in your admiration, had come to quietly understand. You were in love with him.

“You sat by yourself at lunch today.”

You shrugged, drew your knees to your chest, wrapped your arms around them. “So?”

“So, where was your friend?”

“Sam.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “Where was Sam?”

“He was sick.”

“Oh yeah? What’s wrong with him?”

“He said it was a twenty-four-hour bug. He’ll be fine.”

Chan hummed, took another drag of his cigarette. “You should have sat with us,” he said after a while.

You scoffed. “With you and your merry band of minions? No thanks.”

“Rude. They’re not minions.”

“If you were so concerned you could have come to me.”

Chan blinked.

“But the minions wouldn’t have liked that, right?”

“Maybe they’re scared of you.”

“Scared?”

He shrugged. “You’re not the easiest to approach.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers slowly. “You can be intimidating.”

“It’s called a resting bitch face. You have it too, Chan.”

“Right. I know.”

“So tell them that.”

“Thought you didn’t want anything to do with my merry band?”

“I don’t. I have Sam.”

Chan grimaced.

“What? You don’t like him?” you snapped.

“He’s not who I'd have chosen to be friends with.”

“We choose our friends?”

“I did,” he shrugged.

“Right. You did. You’re the one that went off and found new friends the minute we started high school. So don’t blame me for doing the same fucking thing, because I had no choice. Sam is there for me all the time. You’re only there when nobody else is watching.”

With that, you climbed to your feet and stormed out of the shelter, to where the rain poured relentlessly. A grip on your wrist dragged you out of the torrent and back inside, into Chan’s waiting arms. Not wishing to fight the embrace, you simply stood there, face buried to his cold, damp hoodie, reeking of cigarette smoke, heart yearning for that which it would never be allowed.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about it,” he said after a moment. “You should have told me.”

“Couldn’t,” you mumbled into his clothes.

“Don’t be stupid. You can tell me anything.” A hand soothed your hair, he dipped his head to speak in your ear. “I just figured that we see each other all the time, at home and after school. New friends couldn’t hurt. It’s not like they’d come between us. Not us. We’re soulmates.”

Your chest clenched. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be more present at school.”

“Don’t force it. If you don’t want to—”

He pulled back, hands on your shoulders, brown eyes sincere as they searched your face. “I do want to. I want to be with you all the time.”

“Your minions might have something to say about that,” you laughed softly.

“They can say what they want. You mean more to me than anything they can even fathom.”

Oh.

You swallowed firmly; he was so close. Close enough to map out the pores on his nose. To trace the dry lines in his lips. To see the sparks of hazel in the chocolate irises.

“Sam is...” He hesitated, then asked, “You two are just friends?”

Confused, you nodded. “Of course.”

“Just friends.”

“Just friends,” you repeated, bemused. “Why do you—”

“I just wanted to be sure. That’s all.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The hands on your shoulders wandered down to upper arms, to elbow, to forearms, to your hands, where chilly fingers locked and held. Over the pounding of your heart you hardly heard the crack of branches succumbing to the stormy gust beyond the shelter, the downpour of torrential rain that whipped and lashed at all in its wake. Chan blinked softly, the pale of his cheeks warming with blush. A flick of gaze from your eyes to lips, then back again, an unconscious lean that you met with your own and in the next unthinkable moment: a brushing of lips so soft it hardly constituted a first kiss. Good thing that the second, after a wary moment of comprehension in which he searched your face, felt to be a truer account— a firm bracing as he caught you in his arms while the world outside raged war against the elements.

“Chan!”

A deep, worried voice carried through the trees, over the hiss of wind to let the world back in. Immediately, Chan released and stepped from you, his features hardening.

“Chan, are you up there!?”

He made no move to reply or give sign of presence, and so gathering yourself as best as possible, you offered him a small smile, hoping he saw the apology. Out of the shelter and over the decking you waved down to the wet ground, where Jaehyun Bang stood with a yellow umbrella.

“Hi, Mr Bang!”

What concern had been etched to Jae’s brow melted away. “Oh! Hi honey! Chan’s up there with you?”

“Yeah, he’s here. He’ll be right down.”

You turned back to Chan; he’d pulled his hood up, lit another cigarette. Without a word he stalked out of the shelter and stooped to the rope ladder, cigarette between his lips. Catching only the briefest glimpse of the storm that clouded him as he began his descent, a sharp kick of worry drove you to the edge, where you reached over and down to grab his sleeve.

He stilled on the ladder, gaze fixed downwards.

“You’re my soulmate, Channie.”

He looked up. You plucked the cigarette from his lips, and in an uncharacteristic bout of bravery no doubt encouraged by earlier heroics, kissed his cheek.

“Please be good for your dad.”

Chan’s eyes narrowed, his lips still parted in what you presumed to be annoyance at your thwarting of his habit. His cheeks warmed and he looked as though to say something, when—

“Chan! Come down here!”

His jaw clenched, and he merely nodded, climbing off down the ladder and out of your reach. On the ground you watched as Chan sheepishly approached his dad, who took him under his umbrella with an arm about his shoulders.

“Don’t be late getting home, kid! It’s about to storm!” Jae called to you.

“I won’t! Promise!”

The two started off down the path, until you could no longer see the yellow through the trees. Alone in the shelter, a weight began to encumber you. A cold melancholy too unnatural to be a child of winter churned your stomach and unsettled your feet with anxiety, and in a bid to shake it you began to pace, slow and controlled, the old boards creaking at their weakest joints.

On one such circuit from under a dirty, woven blanket, peeked something small and black. Bending down to inspect, you realised it to be a crayon: a smile came to you. Your inner child clapped with glee. You began to scribble on the wood: Chan had been right. It was too wet. And so you felt around the small structure with your palms until you happened upon a dry patch in the leftmost corner, protected from the elemental onslaught by a particularly hefty branch above. Pleased when the melty crayon stuck, you drew what your inner child, what your high school child, what every woman in love has thought of when the daydreams marinate in their mindless, warm content: your initials and his, ensconced in a heart.

“Let’s pretend I’m a knight!”

“Let’s pretend we’re hunting for treasure!”

You were skilled at pretending.

Perhaps you wouldn’t need to anymore.

*

Twenty-nine years

When next you saw Chan, it was entirely by accident.

For however much had changed since Jae’s passing, it seemed that even a year later, Chan remained a creature of habit, and so the shock that initially came upon you when you saw him in the quietest patch of the bookstore passed quickly.

Above him read the sign for ‘graphic novels’, its vibrant shelves and eclectic gathering of Mangas and comic books a stark backdrop to his all-black façade. He held a comic book open in his right hand and turned the page slowly with his left. His hood was drawn up tightly, his cheeks puffed with a faint smile. His tired eyes scanned the images and bolded words. His clothes draped him, and so deceived as to his welfare. From what you could glean, he looked entirely at peace: like he was far from the confines of the musty bookstore and in another place that occasioned to take him on one adventure after another, as he had so always loved. It was kinder to let him stay there; so you tried.

Confound your clumsiness, then, when your backwards step into a display pile of sale books sent them tumbling with some weight to the ground, disturbing all who perused nearby. Chan looked up and towards the ruckus: how his face fell on the sight of your apologetic scrambling. He pushed the comic into its slot on the shelf and approached.

“Need a hand?”

“Hey!” You hastily replaced the last book and gathered yourself. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Chan stared at the messy display, his hood concealing much of his face.

“How— How are you?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Better than ever.” And kept his gaze fixed elsewhere.

“Do you... What you have been up to? It’s been a— I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You?”

“Oh, same. You know.”

He nodded. Every part of you yearned to wrap him in your arms.

“Would you maybe want to grab a coffee? Or something to eat? There’s a place nearby that—”

“Sure.”

*

Chan bodged the now cold sausage around his plate with a fork.

His hood served a purpose beyond simple comfort, you realised, as did his pointed avoidance of eye contact. What glimpses you had managed to catch of his features roused in you the sort of dreaded alarm you’d only felt on one other occasion, in a hospital room with consultants throwing around eight-letter words and percentages. Chan’s eyes were pink and polluted, so severely bloodshot it was a wonder he could see. Sunken into their sockets and decorated with brown, bruised bags, they were an accoutrement to the gauntness of his cheeks and the sallow, sickly, utterly deficient complexion of his skin, almost translucent when the light kissed it, and he only shied from that. Even his hands took to a tremble as he tried to eat, and what little he managed seemed to sit uncomfortably. Several times he excused himself to the bathroom, which only left you with time to wonder what could have caused such extreme deterioration. Had he done nothing but neglect himself for a year?

On his return you pasted back the smile, swallowed down the concern, bit back the welling emotion. Yet that was only until Chan returned to the table with his sleeves rolled up to elbow: he looked down and startled, hurriedly began dragging them down. Frantic enough was he as to draw your eye to where he fussed: to the scars and sore pinpricks that marked his once flawless forearms.

Bile rose in your throat. You reached over the table and snatched at his thin arm, extending it much to his protest, but too weak was he to physically withdraw. Disbelief sour on your tongue and hot, raging tears in your eyes, you breathed, “No.” You looked at him. He had closed his eyes, his head hung low.

“Tell me this isn’t—” You caught on a sob. “It’s not what I— what I think it is. It’s not.”

“Let me go.”

“Why?” Your heart throbbed, panic becoming you. “Why would you ever do something so—”

He snatched his arm back. Rolled his sleeve down. Sunk into his chair. “Because it’s easier this way.”

“Chan, fuck, no—”

“It takes me somewhere else. Somewhere I can see my dad.”

Incapable even of another word, you rose and moved to him, winding your arms around his neck and pulling the frail, cold figure against you.

“It’s fine,” you whispered against tamed hysteria.

“Everything is going to be fine.”

*

Here you slogged through what was easily the most trying six months of your life.

The issues ran deeper than you had ever speculated, but soon came to discover. What modest inheritance had been left to him from his father, Chan had spent with abandon. Tracking the online statement from the funeral to the present detailed a sad but sure spiral into destruction. Bar tabs and lavish venue bills, splurging on vanity, partying expenses in the thousands. Cash withdrawals grew in value and frequency until essential direct debits went unsatisfied, and so Chan had been quickly rendered homeless, evicted from his much-loved apartment to surf sofas and wander streets. It pained you to suppose that’s where the habit started; something to warm him on the chill nights, offered to him by an opportunistic hand that saw his vulnerability. Why did he not come to you? Was he so bent on destroying himself? The state of his mind and body attested to the truth all too clearly: his father’s death had broken him, and he had not the first on how to put himself back together.

And so it fell to you to. Under your roof and watchful gaze you nursed the man; sat at his bedside and held his hand tightly as for the first months, the violent sickness and cool sweat of withdrawal wracked his body with such implacable agony as you’d never seen; his screams and pleas for death would haunt you for years to come. He would threaten you and lash out at you, wail bloody murder for the torture you dared to impose upon him: “Just give me one hit, one fucking hit and I’ll be fine! Please, please! Make it stop! Make it fucking stop!” And never once did you seek to tell him it was for his own good. That he was healing. That he’d soon be free of the poison and would be able to walk without hunching, talk without stammering, eat without nausea. You would tell yourself, indeed. But not him. He heard nothing beyond what the demons of his plight whispered.

Two weeks ago, Chan had moved from the bed to the living room. He could do most things without assistance, though so used to being in his shadow you found it rather difficult to let go in that respect. For as horrid as it had all been, it felt nice to be close to him again. To be needed. Colour had returned to him with the nutritious, easily digested diet you kept him to, and the healthy swell of weight had begun to emerge around his face and through his middle. Not so much as to consider him fully healed, but enough to be content with. His hair regained a lustrous shine and curl, his smile—though rare—was familiar. Most gratefully, it was his eyes that gave the firmest embrace of relief. No longer bloodshot and sunken but clear and soft brown, they relaxed on the television as you prepared the evening’s dinner of soup and crusty bread. The hearty scent of simmering vegetables and stock filled the apartment, the mumble of the television a lull of background noise.

Throat dry and with an urge for the sweetness of white zinfandel, you reached into the topmost cabinet and retrieved the bottle you’d stashed away: better to keep it out of sight. Just in case. Winding off the cap and pouring yourself a glass, the first sip bathed your tongue with the refreshing, crisp notes of grape, and just like that, what tension perched on your shoulders began to thaw.

“Smells good.”

The soft voice from behind you startled; you turned to see Chan on the other side of the counter, arms folded as he peered into the boiling pot.

“It’s vegetable,” you said, approaching and lifting the lid for swathes of steam to escape and plume up. Chan hummed, looked at you through the steam, then at your wine glass, blinking slowly.

“Sorry.” You put the glass down. “I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine. Drink if you want to.”

“But I—”

“It’s fine.” He rounded the counter and opened the cupboard, pulling out another glass. He held it out expectantly.

You shook your head. “Chan—”

“I was a drug addict, not an alcoholic.”

“I—” You hesitated. “I know. I just... Will you be okay?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “It’ll take the edge off. Just a little. I’ll be okay.”

Loath to press it, you tentatively poured him two fingers of wine, heart pounding as he brought it to his lips. He sniffed firstly, a deep inhalation. Eyes slipping closed he tipped the glass back and the first drops touched his tongue. A contented sigh and slight smile saw him relax: he opened his eyes again.

“Thank you.”

You cleared your throat. “Sure.”

Chan blinked.

“Go sit down, dinner won’t be long.”

 He set his glass down on the counter, took yours from you to do the same.

“What are you—”

And in the next moment he wound his arms around your middle, curling over you to hold you in the warmest hug he’d offered since you were but children. His chin in the crook of your neck and curls tickling your cheek, he kept you firmly locked, the strong thrum of his presence, his heart, his being, surrounding you.

“Thank you,” he said again.

So overwhelming was the surge of emotion that, immediately, tears pricked. Silently they rolled from your eyes as your chest caved under the weight of half a year of indefatigable perseverance and the belief that, no matter how he swore or kicked or screamed, it would be worth it in the end. A moment would come where he would smile and say ‘thank you’.

This moment would come.

You weakened in his arms and felt it all. The strength of joy and the ice of despair, the hopelessness and the endless, endless worry. The guilt for allowing him to slide so far, so quickly. The rage at his refusal to seek solace. The love you nursed for him so warmly and in silence. The desperate wish only for him to be happy as he once was, when everything was whole and well.

“Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else,” he said quietly. “At a posh hotel near the sea, but it’s just us. We have the best room. The nicest view. When we look out the window, we can see nothing but clear, blue ocean that glitters and goes on forever.”

He held you still. Gently. Your tears alleviated slowly.

“It’s just a few minutes before sunset, and the sky is streaked with orange and pink. Our room glows like it’s on fire. We’re getting ready for dinner. You’re wearing a dress that brings out your eyes. I dig out my old suit, but don’t hold a candle next to you.”

The ache of yearning pained you; you clutched him tightly.

“We go to a fancy restaurant on the nearby pier,” he continued. “We sit by the window overlooking the sea; it’s dark now, but the streetlights make it so we can still see how deep it goes when we look down. We joke that maybe fish-men will trudge out of it when we’re sleeping. You have the sea bass. I order the ribeye, medium-rare. We share a bottle of white zinfandel and a hot fudge brownie for dessert and stay until they’re turning chairs onto the tables and flicking on the lights.

“When we get back to the hotel, we order another bottle of wine. We sit on the deck; the night is warm. The air smells like sea salt. The sea doesn’t glitter anymore, but the waves that lap the shore turn an endless reflection of stars. We talk for hours. We talk about my dad. We talk about our treehouse and the dragons we slayed and the treasure we found. We toast to him and you... you tell me he’d be proud.” His voice broke sharply. “You tell me he’s looking down on us, raising his own glass. You can feel it. I tell you wish I could, too.

“In the small hours of the morning, we go to bed. You wish me goodnight and kiss my cheek. Just like you did when we were young. You smell like—” He breathed slowly. “Wine and chocolate. My second-hand smoke.”

He pulled back, his eyes wet and wide. He brought your hand to his cool cheek, lids fluttering against the touch. “My cheek is warm where you kissed it. I take it to bed with me, but I can’t sleep. I keep touching my cheek, tossing and turning. Just like I did when we were young.”

“Chan...”

“I think about how you smelled. I think about how beautiful you looked tonight.”

Your heart pounded painfully, chest heaving with shortness of breath.

“Eventually, I can’t take any more,” he whispered. “I get out of bed and cross the suite to your room. At your door, I raise my fist to knock, but...” He swallowed. “Something stops me. Fear. I know what I want and for how long I've wanted it, but I've never been sure of your feelings. Sometimes I... Sometimes I’ve thought that you felt the same way. Other times I've convinced myself it’s impossible. It’s crossing a line. It could destroy everything. We grew up together. There’s nobody so connected to me as you. We’re soulmates. Can I risk that?”

He searched your face, seeking his answer, and continued.

“As I'm hesitating, the door opens. You’re standing there. You’re right in front of me in sweats and moonlight and you’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You look confused at first. I tell you I’m sorry, that I couldn’t sleep. You ask if I want to come in. I tell you that I can’t— I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” He licked his lips. “I turn away and you grab me; just my wrist. You’re warm. Every part of me aches and I know this is it. I don’t have the power to resist.” He cupped your face with both hands. “I take you in my arms; you were always supposed to fit there.”

You could hardly breathe.

“I wait for you to tell me to stop.”

Immobilized. Captivated.

“But you don’t. You just stare at me, and in your endless eyes I see the reflection of a man so riddled with yearning I have no choice but to take pity on him. All he’s ever wanted is for someone to take pity on him.” He drew his thumb over your cheek. “What happens next?”

On a shaky breath you merely whispered:

“Let’s pretend they kiss.”

With a rush of wanting the man pressed his lips to yours, such a violent release of decade-long yearning that the only response was but to weep in his kiss. A maelstrom of heat and desire beneath what was a rapidly crumbling pretence had been allowed to fester for so long, it was only ever going to be painful. Only ever going to destroy you. Fortitude abandoned and allowed to finally, finally imagine that this could truly be, you wound your arms around his neck and felt the gentle brace as he turned you into the counter. Parting from you to catch his breath, Chan’s tear-streaked cheeks were in perfect symmetry to yours. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he breathed, his voice a pitch broken.

“So am I.” You cupped his cheeks and kissed him again; cheek, forehead, lips. “So am I, Channie.”

“I— I miss him.”

Warm tears rolled anew. “So do I.”

He choked a sob. “Please don’t give up on me.”

“Never.”

And he fell into an embrace, head buried to your neck. “Is he looking down on us?”

“Of course.”

He gathered himself, straightened and held your hands. A glance upwards and a deep breath, his teary eyes found their focus. As did his mind.

As did his heart.

“I love you. I have always loved you. And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

---

mists of celeste ➻ 32

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 8.7k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act four ➻ part seven

​​​

“Captain won’t hurt him.”

You don’t need to turn to see who has just stepped in, but you do nonetheless at least for the smallest semblance of confirmation. It doesn’t make it any easier to see who stands at the edge of the tunnel, bright light cascading around his tall form and casting crude shadows across the floor as he walks closer to the group. You swallow around nothing in anticipation although nothing could prepare you for what Mingi says next.

“Because I’m the one going in there, not Jongho.”

“Absolutely not!” Yunho blurts without a breath of hesitation, hand jerking down by his side in a fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles go white.

Keep reading

---

mists of celeste ➻ 35

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ Word Count: 13.0k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: mentions of past abuse, violence, anxiety    ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part two

​​​​

It is nearing nightfall by the time you all return to the ship. Yunho has already gotten Hongjoong settled in the medbay with Jongho’s help, as well as set him up with an oxygen mask and an IV, and to be frank, the sight of the infamous pirate captain splayed out so helplessly was hard to see. Whatever you were feeling must have been increased tenfold for the man who stood at your side during the whole process because you could feel the panic oozing off his bones, a nagging sensation that fell on you as well. As much as he tried to help, Yunho asked him to let him and Jongho take care of it, and Seonghwa caved with a surprising amount of haste. For better or worse, you don’t have to stay long there before Seonghwa is pulling you out to head up to the main airlock. It can only be worse because of who is waiting for you there: none other than Han Jisung come to join the crew for inexplicable reasons unbeknownst to you right now. And that is why you shift to look at Seonghwa’s sharp side profile as the two of you walk to join Yeosang in waiting by the airlock.

Keep reading

---