Hyunjin Fic Recs - Tumblr Posts
"better, now."
words・749 / pairing・hyunjin x gn!stylist!reader / includes・fluff, established relationship, alcohol consumption / note・an extremely self-indulgent kinda emo take on hyunjin @ vfw. takes place in the crying lightning universe.
Hyunjin is gone.
He stopped walking and started floating about five drinks ago, bode farewell to coherent sentences and his eyesight not too long after. Simply kept plucking flutes of champagne off trays carried around by kindred waiters and let himself bask in the glorious evening.
When his stylist shows up in front of him, he mistakes them for the moon.
Gentle hands push strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, then move to cup his cheeks fondly, protectively, as if imprinting final touches into a snow angel. He watches your lips form his name from mere centimeters away, but the sound of it seems to travel underwater.
“Hyunjin,” you repeat, more audibly this time, a lick of crisp night air cutting through the afterparty’s steamy throng.
He proceeds to melt into you in ways he cannot currently control, sliding a hand over the one you have on the side of his face, fingertips dipping in the slots between yours. Bringing you close enough to him that your chest moulds right against his. Grinning at you with a sickening sweetness that he can taste on his own mouth.
“Hi,” he replies.
“You okay? How are you?” You inquire. “Do you need anything?”
“Hi,” he says again, because he can’t really think of anything else, and that seems to be answer enough.
Before he knows it, he’s walking somewhere, guided only by the arm that he has slung over your shoulders and your silhouette, just barely discernible in the dim venue, which he would follow to the ends of the earth.
An indeterminate amount of time later, he’s standing in the doorway of an unoccupied lounge. The tables of polished mahogany and gold foil have become graveyards of empty wine glasses, but the couch in the middle of the room has been left pristine.
Only after he sits down does the lightheadedness hit, and it hits hard, hard enough to shut his eyes and furrow his brow. His brain swings around the inside of his skull like a pendulum.
There is a delicate brush of your finger against his chin, your quiet request for him to lift it up, and then something hard and cold comes to rest on his lower lip. Water surrounds his tonsils and slips down his throat. A few stray rivulets escape down the side of his neck, then disappear into the napkin that you have pressed upon the skin.
By the time he’s downed the whole glass, he can feel his wits beginning to return—with them, the rest of his senses. His eyes crack open again.
“Hot,” he whispers. “It’s hot.”
You move your hands to his shoulders. Moments later, his jacket is a leather mass over the back of the couch, and he feels his dizziness subside, his oxygen return.
“Better?”
With the music so far away, he hears the concern in your tone with crystalline clarity. He leans over to press his lips to the underside of your jaw, conveying a silent message: better, now.
He didn’t have plans to spend the night backstage, but the premise seems riveting where he comes to lie. His head nestled in the plush of your lap, the rest of him stretched across the sofa, your hand carding through his hair with the soporific lull of a mellow tide.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles suddenly, and you look down at him, confused.
“For?”
“Getting so drunk.”
If your hand is the tide, your laugh is the sand, warm and ubiquitous and all-consuming. “You had a good time, yeah?”
A good time. What an understatement for the maelstrom of feeling still raging on within him, the happiness and disbelief and pride and gratitude to himself, to you. To us.
“The best,” he answers.
“That’s all that matters, then,” you hum, your thumb dusting over his hairline. “You deserve to celebrate.”
He’s still too drunk to really think, but he doesn’t have to think when it comes to you—just knows in the very wellsprings of his soul all the love you’ve woven into the thing you’re about to say, by the infinitesimal softening of your eyes alone.
“You deserve everything, baby.”
He lifts your wrist to his lips, presses a kiss to your pulse. Above him, your features blur, then come back into focus. His answer is so soft that he almost can’t hear it over the warble of his heartbeat and the descent of his tears.
“I’ve got it right here.”
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