#also heartbroken by the end of it is just neat... the layers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 4 years

Text

pairing: jungkook x (gender neutral) reader / word count: 20k / genre: fluff (author!reader, florist!jungkook)

summary: “You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.” or: the story of how you meet a pretty florist with soft hands and warm eyes, how he mends your broken heart, and how he helps you realise some other things along the way.

warnings: use of a few curse words, reader is self-deprecating and suffering from heartache towards the beginning (v mildly angsty ig? but dw it passes), but otherwise this is a Very Soft fic!

“It’s time to get up.”

“It absolutely is not.” Your voice is muffled under a layer of pillows and blankets, material pressing down on your body and head, covering you. A protective cocoon. “I’ve become one with my duvet and we shall never be parted.”

You yelp when the blanket is ruthlessly ripped from you. Your curtains have been thrown open and you can feel how the sun is streaming in through your windows, warming your skin, even if you can’t see it; there’s a particularly fluffy pillow smothering your face right now to keep the world outside at bay.

“This has to be against the Geneva convention,” you whine as your collection of pillows is similarly stripped from the bed, leaving you entirely bereft from their comfort and protection. You curl into a tight ball around your Pusheen cushion and try to protect her from Jimin’s grasping fingers— your final bastion of defence against him. “No! Not Pusheen! Please! Take me instead!”

Jimin rolls his eyes before stealing Pusheen right from your arms, ignoring your dramatic sob as she’s pulled from your desperate hands. He tucks the plush grey cat under his arm before fixing you with a stern gaze. “I said it’s time to get up,” he repeats, ignoring the chaos of pillows and blankets and toys now littered around him. “You know the drill, Y/n.”

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs with air before letting out a long, weary sigh. All your theatrics disappear with your escaping breath, strength seeping out of you. “A week of wallowing,” you say in a small voice, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You don’t have to look up at Jimin to know what expression is on his face right now. You feel the mattress dip and then soft fingers are gently stroking the hair out of your face. “A week and then we get up.” His voice is soft as he repeats the mantra.

Your cheek drags across the cotton of your sheets as you open your eyes and turn your head into the hand that Jimin’s still drawing down your face. “You’ve always been better at getting back on your feet than me,” you say, and Jimin affectionately pats your cheek.

“You’re being melodramatic,” he says kindly. “You’ve seen me at my worst and you know that’s not true. I’m only good at getting back on my feet because I have you to lift me up, and I’m here for you too.”

“Can I have Pusheen back?” You sound hopeful as you pout at him, pushing your bottom lip out.

“You can have her back once you’ve showered and had breakfast,” Jimin says.

Your limbs are leaden weights as you drag yourself out of bed. The cold water of your shower shocks some life back into them, and you’re almost back to your regular self once you pull yourself from the bathroom, thoroughly scrubbed and refreshed. Jimin greets you with a fruit smoothie bowl, the most wholesome meal you’ve had in the past week; it’s infinitely healthier than the ice cream and snacks and junk food you’ve been shovelling into your mouth.

“I didn’t realise I had half this stuff in the fridge.” You use your spoon to swirl the oats and fruit into the yoghurt, muddying the pretty rippled effect Jimin had created with it. “I’m guessing you brought it with you?”

Jimin is eating eagerly from his own bowl and swallows down a spoonful of banana and berries before he responds. “No, it was already in there, actually,” he says.

“Oh, yeah.” Your free hand goes down to Pusheen, who’s safely in your lap, and you dig your fingers into her soft velvet skin. “Of course.”

Your face is twisted into a wince as you look down and continue to knead the cushion on your knees. Seokjin loves fresh produce, taking you to the farmer’s market for organic strawberries and blueberries and raspberries, lifting them up for you to breathe in their bright scent before laughing at how you go cross eyed at how close he brings them to your face. Your fridge must still be full of these reminders of him, food you’d bought for him, things he’d made for you.

“Well!” Jimin’s voice is loud and bright, cutting through your thoughts with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. “You better finish up— we’re going out soon and you’ll need all the energy for today!”

You’re immediately on guard, eyes narrowing at him. “Going out where?”

“Shopping, duh,” he says, raising his eyebrows at you. “You said you’d come with me and Namjoon to pick out stuff for our new apartment, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” It’s only been a week and it’s like you’ve forgotten that the world is still moving on around you, taking no notice of how your own world has been upheaved and irreparably fragmented. You know Jimin is being cheery and upbeat in an attempt to distract you from this, and it’s working, but it’s also highlighting exactly how much you’ve been wallowing. You normally never would have forgotten. “Alright, let me finish up and get my shit together and then we can go.”

Getting your shit together takes longer than it should. You have to wade through the piles of blankets on the floor to get to your wardrobe, and the desk in your office is in similar disarray, notes and stationery strewn across its surface from your week long stint of wallowing and writing about said wallowing.

You’d never planned on the romance in a novel about magic in the modern world to be so depressing, but hey. They always say write what you know and all you know right now is heartbreak.

(“I’m sorry. I just… don’t feel the same.” Jaerim’s voice is soft and gentle, even now, even as he’s breaking Lily’s heart, so tender as it falls apart in his hands. “You’ll always be my best friend, Lily, but nothing more.”

Lily’s smile is pained. “I know,” she says, her own voice small and weak. “I know. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I— I had to tell you or I felt like it was going to burst out of me. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll always love you, Lily.” Jaerim sounds sorrowful. “But not the way you want.”

Why had she ever expected anything different?)

You’ve been feeding all of your sadness and heartbreak into your most recent heroine, using your latest novel as a way of catharsis, but the problem is that your stories always have happy endings. Right now Lily may be heartbroken after a failed confession, but at the end of the story she’s going to be happy. You, however, will still be sad and lonely once the book is finished and for all that you project your hopes and wishes onto your main characters, you know your own story will never go so smoothly— real life is never as neat as that.

You pause when you catch sight of one of the Polaroids scattered on your keyboard. Seokjin’s beautiful skin is washed out and there's a glint of red in his eyes from the bright flash of your camera; it's a terrible photo and the focus is all wrong, but he still looks radiant as he smiles at you, ever beautiful.

The heroes you write are soft and kind and lovely; fierce and strong and admirable; talented and smart and impressive. You, however, are clownish and sarcastic and nonsensical. Just an absolute mess of rough edges and endlessly tangled thoughts. Unwanted. Undesirable. Unlovable.

(No wonder Jin— bright, brilliant, beautiful Jin— doesn’t love you back.)

You swallow and steel yourself before opening the top drawer of your desk to sweep all the littered bits and pieces of your life into it before slamming it shut, trying to ignore how metaphorically fitting it is, and then grab what you came here for in the first place: your camera. You loop the strap of the Polaroid around your neck so that you’re ready for the day ahead.

You know that Jimin thinks you should just stick to using your phone, considering the piles of film you get through, but there’s something about the whole instant photo process that just works for you. Maybe it’s just a writer/artist thing. Maybe it’s just a you thing. Either way, you like to take your camera everywhere so that you can take photos of things that inspire you and incorporate them into scenes of your stories.

(You have so many photos of Seokjin, and he’s reflected in so many parts of your books— from the jokes that characters tell, to things they eat, to hobbies they have. You may not have ever been so transparent as to project him directly onto the love interests of your main characters before now, but he’s ever present in other ways. There's a part of him in every thing you’ve ever written, even before you fell for him.)

(Your love for him must have been obvious from the start, and yet he’d never mentioned it at all.)

(What made you think it would be a good idea to confess?)

“Y/n?”

You look up from where you’ve been staring at the same bowl for the past three minutes, the leaf pattern stamped into its edge blurring together into eyes that are staring back at you. “Huh? Yeah? What?”

Over Jimin’s shoulder you can see Namjoon trailing around the small store, staring at some pretty wall-hangings with appreciative eyes. For all that Jimin had claimed to be concerned about his boyfriend’s taste in decor, they’ve asked for very little input from you, so you’ve been left alone to zone out for most of the morning and afternoon.

“I was saying Joonie has a suit fitting he needs to get to, so we were going to get that done before lunch,” Jimin says. “You’re welcome to come along as well if you want?”

“So I can watch someone ask your boyfriend which side his penis hangs down so they can tailor his slacks accordingly? I think I’m good.”

You sound almost like your usual self which is why you think Jimin lets this pass without comment— you’re very happy being independent but it’s true that you’re somewhat more delicate than usual so you understand Jimin’s worry.

“I’ll drop you a message when we’re done.” Jimin smiles at you. Behind him, Namjoon picks up a large ceramic crab, only to immediately drop it onto an incredibly fluffy shag carpet— which fortunately saves it from breaking. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Eh, take your time.” You keep hold of Jimin’s attention as Namjoon sheepishly attempts to pick up the crab, only to immediately drop it back onto the rug. “I haven’t been out for a while so I could do with a walk in the fresh air and sunshine. I’m sort of like a dog. Or a plant, I guess. Just with slightly more complex emotions.”

Namjoon has just put the crab back into place by the time Jimin turns around, though his hand lingers on it. “Baby, can we—?”

“You’ve already filled the quota when it comes to crab-themed decorations, Joonie,” Jimin interrupts.

When Namjoon looks at you with imploring eyes, you raise both your hands and step backwards. “Don’t involve me, I’m just an innocent bystander,” you say, before escaping so that Namjoon can (unsuccessfully) try to persuade Jimin to up the amount of sea-life themed decor allowed in their new home.

This part of the city isn’t one you get to often, but it’s really beautiful. You know Namjoon likes it around here, near the river, because there are a lot more offbeat and avant-garde shops than you’d find more centrally, a warren of curiosities and pretty places around each corner. You pass by shops selling antiques, fabric, jewellery; you pause to take photos of the eye-catching doorways into each of the shops, the mismatched bunting fluttering overhead, the utterly eclectic nature of it all.

You pass by a tiny baking shop and pause in your tracks, peering into the window at a collection of rolling pins— the wood is embossed with different designs that get pressed into the pastry when it’s rolled out, all sorts of pretty patterns on display.

Jin would love these, you think, and then you tear your eyes away.

Stupid.

You continue to wander through the maze of shops but now you’ve sunk into your own thoughts. Kim Seokjin. A close friend whom you’d been harbouring feelings for, for so long now; it had been getting so hard to try and keep that love at bay, to try and shove it down inside you, keep it hidden and safe. But it had been bleeding out of you at every turn, in the way you moved and spoke and wrote, every sharp edge of you softened by your tenderness for him, impossible to ignore.

And so you’d finally let go. You’d let it out into the world, spoken the words you’d been holding onto for so long— and for a moment, just a moment, you’d had hope. Jin is bright and kind and lovely to everyone, but surely what the two of you had was a little more, a little different; all those hours spent together, the friendship you’d built, the language you’d created with each other of jokes and references that other people didn't understand. You’d thought it was something more.

You’d thought that maybe you could get your storybook ending. That maybe, for once, rather than having to imagine a mutual love and pouring that quiet desire into your books, it could be real— that the cheesy, embarrassing daydreams you’d always kept to yourself and only expressed through your writing could finally come true.

But no. Jin only loves you as a friend. You know he still considers you a friend, even now, for all that you’ve ruined things by opening your big dumb stupid idiot mouth; you’ve spent a week wallowing after his gentle rejection but you know he’ll still be waiting for you once you come back to yourself.

You’re just not sure how long that’ll take.

You’re finally pulled out of your reverie when a burst of colour catches your eye. There’s a soft blue bicycle which has been adorned with flowers and trailing leaves, part of a display in the front of a store that’s brimming with blooms, buckets set up in a cascading rainbow of colours. The windows are similarly full of plants, all enjoying the sunshine of the afternoon. Your eyes trail across the flourishing bouquets and then up to the sign, lovely and pretty, in what seems to be a hand-painted cursive: Spring Day.

You have a single, tiny cactus in your office— the only thing you trust yourself to keep alive— but screw it. You’re itching to buy something for yourself and everything seems so pretty in here. You might just buy yourself a fuck-off huge arrangement of flowers, as a sort of metaphor for the death of the hope you’d held in your chest, that your love for Seokjin might be returned.

That ship has sailed. You’ve cast it off from the shore and set it ablaze. You’re not sure they had bouquets at Viking burials, but it’s the 21st century now. You think you’re allowed to mix it up a bit.

A bell lets out a tiny, crystalline tinkle as you swing the door open, announcing your presence to anyone inside. The front counter is covered in plants, some larger, some smaller, with a few pots of flowers that you would be hard-pressed to name; there’s a glass bowl of water, too, that has unlit rose shaped candles floating in it. Cute.

You peer behind the large leaves of a ficus plant to see if there’s anyone behind the counter but it looks deserted. The only evidence that someone has been here is the book that’s open and resting face down on the wicker chair there— The Language of Flowers, okay, that makes sense, you guess. You take a sneaky photo of the set-up, something about it resonating in your chest; although there’s no one here right now their presence is still undeniable. It’s poetic, in a way. You love visual poetry.

You wave the photo about in the air to help it develop as you make your way towards the back of the shop. Spring Day seems surprisingly big, extending back farther than you had initially thought. It’s hard to gauge the actual size, with displays of flowers and plants everywhere and even hanging from the ceiling above. You meander through the store and pause to touch a hanging glass planter, which slowly spins and scatters light across you. It’s like every spare inch inside is covered, but somehow it doesn’t feel chaotic. It’s so pretty and peaceful here.

There’s clearly some sort of order to things even if you can’t tell what it is. Each display is labelled with the names of the plants and how to look after them, but just as you’re leaning forwards to read one, a noise catches your attention. You pause and tilt your head. Drifting closer to the source of the sound, you realise that it’s someone singing, a soft melody that you don’t recognise. You find that you step lightly, almost enraptured, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment with heavy footfall as you step into a greenhouse; you round the corner to find who’s singing and stop in your tracks.

There’s a pretty doe-eyed boy bent over a selection of blooms that he’s watering, white and yellow and purple and pink flowers softly trembling at the touch of the drizzle that runs over them, and it almost seems like they’ve turned towards the lilting tones that slip from his lips. You watch as he draws the watering can in a sweeping arc, the motion causing his earrings to move, catching your attention when the sunlight cascading in through the glass of the greenhouse shines off the glinting silver; his hair hangs a little in his eyes, eyelashes fanned across his cheek as he keeps his attention cast downwards, smiling at the flowers on display near his feet.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and you can see the definition of his arms, the flex of his muscles under a tattoo as he moves the heavy watering can without effort— and yet he looks like he belongs here, surrounded by flowers and plants and sunlight, soft and neat in his loose shirt, narrow waist cinched in by the ties of his apron. He turns the watering can a little further and you can see that the tattoo looks like a lily, petals unfurled over the soft skin of his inner arm.

You love visual poetry. And this man is poetry in motion.

It seems like he’s finished watering the flowers because he straightens up with a smile, song finally coming to an end. “All done,” he says to them in a quiet voice, and then he finally looks up.

He immediately startles when he sees you, water sloshing audibly in the watering can in his hands. You jump too, surprised at his surprise, the two of you like startled rabbits when you spot each other. Skittering around and trying to recatch your balance.

“Sorry, sorry!” You lift your hands in apology, holding them in front of your face as you wince. “I didn’t want to interrupt, you seemed really focused!”

The florist is blushing. He looks absolutely mortified, a pink flush stealing across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, betraying his embarrassment. “I, uh. It’s fine!” He stammers. “I wasn’t busy. Um. Can I help you?”

Your hands fall back to your sides, your heart immediately going out to this poor boy, who looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up. “I was just looking around, actually, when I heard you singing,” you say. “I didn’t mean to be like— a sort of weird voyeur, I guess? Sorry. Your voice is lovely, by the way.”

The flush has crawled down his neck. “Um, thank you?” You get the feeling he’s only saying this because you’re a customer, and if this were any other circumstance, he would have turned tail and bolted by now. Unfortunately he’s trapped by the fact he works in a retail job and he can’t escape. He shuffles a little from foot to foot as he resolutely avoids your gaze.

You take pity on him. What can you ask to change the topic? Hm. “Can you give me some advice about plants, actually?”

This seems to be the right thing to say. He carefully sets the watering can down, fingers plucking at the ties of his apron as he readjusts them, but he seems a bit more comfortable now that you’ve moved away from complimenting him and onto work related talk. “Sure,” he says. “What would you like to know?”

“I was wondering what sort of plant would be good for someone who’s only good with cactuses. I mean cacti,” you correct yourself. “I’d like something different, but I’m worried about killing it if I forget to water it. You know, the bane of every novice gardener’s existence— their own forgetfulness and ignorance. Of which I have a lot. I am spectacularly ignorant.”

The florist blinks but then he gives you a little smile, finally glancing at you. His eyes are so lovely and deep, sunshine refracting from the greenhouse reflected in his eyes, points of brightness against that endless, warm brown. “I think everyone is guilty of under-watering plants,” he says, apparently unperturbed by how unsuitable you are to be a plant parent. “I think a peace lily might suit you. Would you like to come have a look and see if you’d like one?”

A peace lily. Lily. The name of your most recent novel’s heroine. How weirdly apt. “Sure, I’d love to see the lilies.”

As you follow him you notice that there’s still a little tinge of pink on the back of his neck, evidence of how he must feel embarrassed at being caught singing and talking to plants. You find it endearing, actually, but you’re not about to say this to a stranger, especially as he clearly wants this entire interaction over and done with as quickly as possible.

The peace lily turns out to be a pretty white flower, emerald green foliage curling out from the simple unglazed pot the florist hands over to you with an infinite amount of care. He holds it delicately— it looks so small in his careful hands— and makes sure you’re fully supporting its weight before he finally lets it go. Your fingers brush his as he does and you notice how he draws back immediately, shy.

“You don’t have to water her regularly, you can just touch the soil to see if it’s moist and give it a little top up if it’s not. Even if you forget, as long as you water her when she starts to droop a little she’ll be fine. Just make sure she gets a little sunlight and you wipe down her leaves once or twice a year so dust doesn’t stop her from getting enough light, and you’re good to go.” He’s smiling, but you notice he’s still looking away from you, resolutely staring at the plant in your hands instead. “Peace lilies are incredibly forgiving.”

“Oh, that’s good, I’ll probably be asking for a lot of forgiveness,” you say. “I can guarantee I’ll forget to water her so it’s good to know she can take it.”

When you refer to the plant as ‘her’ and ‘she’— just like the florist has been— it seems like he only just notices that he’s been doing that. He looks a little embarrassed, yet again. “She’ll be— I mean, it’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he says.

“I promise I’ll do my best to look after her.” You tighten your grip protectively around your newly adopted plant. “I’d take a bullet for her.”

The florist lets out a little laugh, revealing a slip of his white teeth before his mouth clicks shut. He looks almost surprised at the fact he’d let out a chuckle and tries to cover it up with a cough. “Hopefully you won’t have to.”

You watch as he draws a ribbon around the pot, looping it against the patterned, unglazed ceramic before tying it into a neat bow. His hands are sure and his motions are practiced, fingers deft as he finishes the knot and tucks a business card into the bag alongside your plant. You can’t help but watch him, magnetised— he’s absolutely fascinating. Cute and soft, but with an undeniable strength to him, underlying each of his movements, almost hidden under the clothes that envelop him.

“Is there anything else I could help you with today?”

He’s blinking at you with those large, pretty eyes. His mouth is still a little open and you can’t help but reminded of—

“What song were you singing earlier? It was so lovely, but I didn’t recognise it.” You want to find that song immediately and keep it close forever, listen to it on a loop, even if it won’t be the same if it’s not being sung in the dulcet tones of this pretty florist. It’s such a beautiful song, whatever it is.

His mouth snaps shut again and the blush returns full force. “Nothing,” he squeaks. “It’s nothing.”

You squint at him. “Is ‘Nothing’ the name of the song?”

“No! It’s. Um. I mean, it doesn’t have a name yet.” His voice is so high right now. You pause before you light up, eyes widening.

“Wait, are you saying it’s your own song? You wrote it? Oh, wow! That’s so cool,” you say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I didn’t know. My bad. Totally understand wanting to keep your work private.” You quirk a smile at him. He doesn't know that you're a writer, one who publishes under a pseudonym for privacy; only your close friends know the truth. You totally get it. “Guess you probably want me to pay so I can get out of your hair now, huh?”

“N-no, it’s fine,” the florist stammers. He’s still so polite, even when he’s obviously flustered.

“Ah, you don’t have to be polite just because I’m a paying customer.” You wave your hand dismissively. Before taking off as an author you’d worked back-to-back retail jobs and it had sucked. “I’m being a pain, I know. How much do I owe you?”

He stays silent as you give him money and he hands over the change, dropping the coins into your outstretched hand. You give him one last smile before lifting your bag from the counter and turning to go, finally leaving this poor man in peace. He must be glad to see the back of you.

But then.

“Magic Shop.” His voice is quiet from behind you.

“Hm?” You pause and glance over your shoulder, confused. “Pardon?”

The handsome florist is looking down at the counter, wrapping an offcut of ribbon around one of his fingers, staring down at it as he does. “Magic Shop,” he repeats, a little louder. He tightens the loop of ribbon around his finger. “The song. I was thinking of calling it that.”

“Oh.” You continue to look at him for a few moments longer before a wide smile crosses over your face. “That’s a really beautiful name for a really beautiful song.”

He glances up from where he’s been staring at the end of his finger flush deep red, almost purple; the ribbon goes lax in his loosening hold and blood rushes back into his fingertip. “Thank you,” he says, bashful as he smiles back at you. “I’m glad you liked it.”

The peace lily takes pride of place on your desk once you’ve cleared it of the crap you’ve let pile up over the past week. She watches as you bend over your keyboard and mutter to yourself, pruning back a lot of the raw hopelessness of your most recently written passages before starting a new chapter.

Lily’s escaped to the neighbouring city to get away from Jaerim and her broken heart. She gets lost as she’s wandering through this new, mysterious place, trapped in a maze of alleyways before she stumbles across a mysterious building with roses climbing up the trellis by the door. The front garden is full of flowers and tended by the prettiest woman she’s ever seen, eyes wide and dark as she startles at Lily’s sudden appearance over the small stone wall. Lily might not know it now but she’s just met someone important and special, a future friend: Yunhee, a witch who can speak to plants and sells dried bundles of herbs and flowers and spells to anyone who finds her.

It’s cheesy and cliché and you know it.

“It’s cheesy and cliché but it’s cute!” Your agent, Hoseok, is as upbeat as always, and he seems genuinely onboard with the snippet you’ve just sent him. “Especially after how sad the chapters were before this one. I think it’s a nice change of pace, considering how heavy your last novel was too.”

“Haha, yeah,” you say.

Hoseok has no idea about your botched confession to Seokjin and how it had fuelled the subsequent heartbreak you’d put Lily through; you’d put your heroine through the wringer to let all your feelings out, because if you have to suffer, she does too. Especially if she’s going to get a happy ending after all of it. Lucky her.

“Your fans will love it.” Hoseok continues, oblivious. “Where did the inspiration suddenly come from, though? I thought you said you were struggling with where to go with this one.”

“I don’t know really.” You sound absent as you stare at the neatly tied ribbon that’s still affixed around your lily’s pot, Spring Day’s business card still nestled into it. “It just came to me, I guess.”

You have to resist the instinct to take a photo of the peace lily to ask Seokjin what he’d name her. (He’s always so good with names.)

You know you’ll have to see him eventually. That’s the problem when all your friends are friends with each other; it might still be a while off but once Jimin and Namjoon have moved into their apartment and decorated it, they’ll hold a housewarming party and everyone will be invited. You can’t avoid Jin forever. You don’t want to, either, but right now you still feel like your heart is an open wound, and you need to give it time. Seeing him right now will just peel back the bandage you’ve tried to lay across your weeping heart to try and hold it together until it heals.

And you still feel awkward as fuck, too. Rejection hurts but it’s also embarrassing. Struggling through ten layers of repression to be sincere with someone and open yourself to pain, only to be let down? Ugh. Awful. Terrible. Never again. You’re gonna stick with repression from now on and just live vicariously through the stories you write. It might be lonely but at least you can keep your heart safe. (Not that anyone wants your heart, anyway.)

You start to play music to your plants. You can’t sing as well as the florist, but at least your lily and cactus can benefit from the sound of music, even if you’re probably off-key when you sing along to the soft songs you choose for them.

(“Plants grow better when they’re spoken to.”

“What? Really?”

“Really,” Yunhee says with a small smile, fingers curling tenderly around the petals of the deep red tulip. “They respond to love and affection just like we do.”

Lily stares at the bloom and watches how the witch touches it so gently— with so much love and affection— and for a second she wishes was a flower, too.)

You have very little faith in your abilities to keep a plant alive, but your peace lily seems to flourish under your care. It’s only one plant but alongside your cactus it seems to bring light and life to your office, and there’s a bubbling sense of satisfaction in your chest each time you see them, still alive despite your ineptitude. It’s a brief distraction from the lingering sadness that still dogs your heels, opening up each time you find yourself thinking of Seokjin before having to quiet those thoughts.

The lily and cactus are fine but it doesn’t take long before you find yourself wanting to add more members to your green coterie. Plus, you never did buy that fuck-off huge bouquet, so maybe you’ll treat yourself to one this time around.

When you step into Spring Day you’re greeted by the sight of someone actually behind the counter today, barely visible behind the large leaves of the ficus plant; when the bell rings they pop up and it’s the same florist as before, eyes wide as he peeps over the counter and only growing wider when he spots who it is.

“Hi,” he says. He’s not as squeaky as he was last time but he still seems a little flustered at your appearance, fumbling with The Language of Flowers as he drops the book onto the chair and stands up straight; his hoop earrings have small chains today and they’re jostled by the motion. He looks away from you to brush his apron down. He’s wearing a loose button-up underneath it, sleeves rolled up like before, revealing the thin bracelets he has on each wrist. “You’re back.”

“I am.” You smile widely, surprised he's remembered you and weirdly happy at the sight of him. You’d half expected to see someone else; there’s no way this guy is the only person who works here, but you’re glad it’s him. “I was worried my lily would get lonely so I thought I’d get her a friend. Can I pick your brain for another recommendation?”

He takes you to the succulents. There’s a menagerie of terrariums to choose from, bursting with different shapes and sizes of plants, bright greens and soft teals and muted browns.

“I think you’ll like this one,” he says, lifting up a dodecahedron of glass, each geometric plane trimmed with metal. He holds it up for you as you peer inside, small succulents nestled in a scattering of pebbles and soil. “They like bright light, but keep them out of direct sunlight because the glass can magnify it and burn them. And water them really sparingly, because there’s no drainage.” He taps the base of the terrarium. “It’s really easy to over-water succulents.”

He’s always so careful when he handles things, even if he lifts them like they’re weightless. No wonder the plants and flowers bloom so prettily here. They know they’re loved and looked after.

“They’re so cute.” You smile at the collection of contrasting plants that somehow live harmoniously together in such a small space. “And there’s more than one! So my lily will have plenty of friends.”

You’re too busy looking down to painstakingly accept the terrarium to notice the small, shy smile that flits across the man’s face as he watches you, your hands so cautious and protective as you accept more members into your growing family. “You’re right,” he says. “She won’t be lonely.”

You have the glass ball hugged against your chest as you trail behind the man, but then you come to a stand still by a selection of floral arrangements and realise that there’s no way you’ll be able to carry both the terrarium and a bouquet; at least, not one the size you’d been planning for. The florist notices the sound of your footsteps disappearing and stops to look over his shoulder. He seems concerned.

“Sorry,” you apologise, staring at one particularly large collection of flowers and foliage all gathered together in brown paper, soft pastel colours surrounded by greenery and smaller pale blooms. “I was just thinking about how nice your bouquets are. They’re so pretty.”

“Would you like one?”

“Of course, but I only have so many hands.” You laugh as you glance down at the terrarium you’re clutching onto. “I wouldn’t trust myself to hold a bunch of flowers at the same time as this. That would be a disaster waiting to happen, honestly.”

The florist pauses. “How about if I make you a boutonniere to pin on your shirt?”

You look up from the terrarium, blinking. There’s that tinge of pink stealing over his cheeks again and you find the sight surprisingly endearing. “You can do that?”

“If you’d like.” He’s looking away from you again, staring intently at a bucket of sunflowers. “So at least you have some flowers to take home.”

Something twinges, deep down in your chest, right at the bottom of your ribcage. Something you can’t put a name to. “That sounds nice. Yes, please? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

You carefully put your succulents down on the counter and lean against it as you watch him select flowers for the corsage, pausing before he chooses each one; he keeps his gaze averted from you the whole time but you think it’s because he feels awkward about the attention you’re giving him. You’re not pretending like you’re not watching him intently, wanting to take everything in, intrigued. He keeps his eyes cast down as he starts to bring everything together but there’s still a flush on his cheeks. It’s… adorable. He’s adorable.

“Feel free to say no, but can I take a photo?” You point at the camera you have looped around your neck. “Not of you! Well. Not all of you. Just… your hands as you make the corsage? I swear I don’t have a hand fetish, I just like to take photos of things I think are cool. Totally get if you don’t want me to, I—”

“Sure.”

He’s staring down at the tiny floral arrangement in his hands as he interrupts you, but he seems resolute despite the blush on his face. You pause for a second and then smile. You lift the Polaroid camera up to peer through the viewfinder and take the shot, but before you have the chance to take a proper look it seems like the florist is finished.

He only looks up at you now that he’s done and holds his work shyly up for you to inspect, as if it’s not the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s framed a soft purple rose with small blooms of lilac and white baby’s breath, offset by a burst of greenery, delicate and perfectly balanced.

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” you breathe. You reach out to touch it with reverent fingers, lavender petals of the rose so soft against your skin. “You did that so quickly, too! How did you choose everything? Did you just go for things you thought would match?”

“Um.” The florist has turned red. “Yes?”

You decide not to press further, even if you wonder what it is that has him so embarrassed right now. Probably because you complimented him on his floristry skills. “You have a really good eye,” you say, smiling. “It’s so lovely.”

He somehow flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet when you struggle to pin the boutonniere on and ask for his help; he’s so careful as he secures it in place, staring at his hands as he settles the flowers gently against your chest.

“Perfect.” You beam at him and feel triumphant when he gives you a small smile in return despite how shy he seems, but then he seems to realise that he’s still got his hands resting against the fabric of your clothing and rips them away like they’re on fire.

“Um.” He has his head turned away from you but there’s a wide smile on his face, teeth on show as he looks down at the ground. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

You’ve just finished paying when you realise— “I don’t think you’ve charged me for the boutonniere ?”

The florist seems like a rabbit caught in headlights. “It’s a, uh, promotional thing. An incentive to come back and buy a full bouquet or arrangement. You… uh, you actually get a discount on your first bouquet if you get a boutonniere or corsage first. I just— I need your name to make sure you get the discount. Next time you come. If you come back,” the man says in a rush, before sucking his lips in and looking away from you. “If that’s okay?”

Of course you’re going to come back. “Oh! Sure! It’s Y/n,” you say.

“Y/n,” he repeats. He’s staring at you, lips parted, soft around the shape of your name. You wait for a beat, looking back at him, before one of eyebrows rises.

“Um… do you have a book to write it down in? Or do you just memorise all of your customer’s names straight off the bat?”

The florist blinks and then his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush again. “A book! Of course, um.” He scrabbles around behind the counter, flustered, but seems to come up empty-handed. You watch as he grabs the only book he can find— The Language of Flowers— and cracks it open to the title page to scribble your name down in pencil before shoving the book under the counter and out of sight.

“I feel bad that you’ve just, uh, defaced a book because of me,” you say. “You didn’t have to write it down, I was just kidding? I know not everyone is as forgetful as me.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he says. “It’s my book. I can write what I want in it. The, um, the logbook seems to have gone missing,” he continues, staring at his hands as he scratches his palm. “Yoongi-hyung must have moved it. I’ll, uh, write your name when he comes back with it. Yeah.”

“Yoongi? Is that your boss?”

“Hyung? Sort of. He owns Spring Day but he basically treats me like a co-owner, I guess.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds so cool, even if it must be a lot of responsibility.” You smile softly at the florist. “He must really trust you.”

He glances up from his hands, eyes warm when he spots the expression on your face. “Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I owe Yoongi-hyung a lot.”

“Oh!” Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag, terrarium safely encased inside. “You know my name, and now I know Yoongi’s name, but I don’t know your name…?”

He flushes again, imperceptibly, the tiniest spread of pink on the apples of his cheeks. “I’m Jungkook,” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook,” you repeat. His eyes flicker and he looks away from you. You’ll have to work on that shyness— but you’ve always been good at coaxing people out of their shells. You’re unapologetically yourself, and that helps other people feel comfortable being unapologetically themselves, too. “Alright, Jungkook, thank you for the help again today. And the beautiful boutonniere.” You wiggle your shoulder so the flowers affixed to your chest shift a little. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” He sounds a little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

Once you get home the terrarium is carefully unpacked and placed on your desk with your other plants; you’ve had to relocate some of your general filing clutter to another table to make space (the plants make you feel better than staring at a rose-gold in tray with letters that you need to get to, so whatever). You finally have a chance to look at that photo you'd taken earlier and fish it out of your pocket.

The background is a little blurry, not the focus of the shot, but you can see the neat pile of offcuts on the table, a small scattering of equipment. Jungkook’s hands, however, are in perfect focus. He has such lovely hands, from the pronounced knuckles to the subtle flex of his tendons to the pale blue veins that are visible as he holds the tiny bunch of flowers together and wraps them in ribbon. You stare at the picture for a little longer than you probably should before resting it against the peace lily’s pot, in eyeline as you begin to write.

(Lily watches, enraptured, as Yunhee prepares the sprigs of herbs and flowers that she hangs from the kitchen’s low ceiling. Her pretty hands are so fast as they bring the dried flora together, encircling each bunch with twine, quick and delicate. Careful. Reverent.

“Would you like a go?” Yunhee has seen her watching and holds up a spray of dried lavender rosemary, colours muted from their usual brightness, but no less pretty. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Lily smiles. “I would love that.”)

“What do I want in my bouquet? Hmm… that’s a tough one. What’s your favourite flower?”

You’re back at Spring Day the day after buying your terrarium, and once again, Jungkook is there. You’d caught a brief glimpse of another man on your way in, his hair a bleached-blond mess, but he seems to have disappeared— although his apron has been cast haphazardly over the back of the wicker chair behind the counter so you don’t think he’ll be gone too long.

Jungkook pauses. “I don’t know if I could choose just one,” he says. “But if I had to, I’d say the tiger lily.”

“Oh!” You point at his arm. His t-shirt today seems to be as baggy as the rest of his clothing choices but it leaves his lower arms visible. “Is that the tattoo you have?”

Jungkook turns his arm towards you so you can see it properly, the delicate lines of the lily blooming across his skin, and you can see the scratched lines of some words silhouetted behind it, ones you hadn’t spotted before. “Yeah.” He’s smiling. “It’s my birth flower.”

“That’s so pretty,” you say, awed. “What do the words say?”

Jungkook’s been less shy today, but when you ask this, he seems bashful. “Please love me.” He traces the words with his finger, the letters hidden behind the large petals of the flower. “It’s what the tiger lily means.”

He keeps his gaze averted from you, staring at the black and grey lines that bloom across his skin. You’ve barely scratched the surface of Jungkook, but there’s something so… so fascinating about him. Undeniably powerful and masculine, yet still so soft and considerate. Romantic.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, truthfully. “Both the tattoo and its meaning.”

Jungkook smiles shyly. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you like it. I, um, drew it, actually.”

You’ve been staring at his arm but when he says this, you reel back. “You designed that tattoo? Jungkook. Are you telling me you can sing and draw?” When he doesn’t respond, still shy, you giggle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know the truth.”

“So what would you like in your bouquet?” Jungkook’s clearly trying to change the subject and you laugh.

“I have no idea. I’m a dunce and you’re the expert, so I’ll let you do the heavy lifting,” you say. “How about something with some tiger lilies?”

The tiger lilies are beautiful, vivid oranges flecked with brown; Jungkook lets you select the ones you want, accepting the flowers from you carefully as you pluck them from the buckets and then laughing at yourself when you end up with water spattered over your shoes, dripping down the long stems. After that you let him take over and he chooses the other flowers to bulk out your arrangement, mulling over each decision before he seems content with his choices.

“I can recognise the roses and lilies, but what are the others?” You ask, intrigued.

“Roses, hypericum berries, tiger lilies, orange lilies, goldenrods, and some greening for filler.” He lifts each flower up as he lists them off for you, a cascading gradient of red to cerise to orange to yellow. “Do you want me to change them?”

“No.” Your voice is gentle. “It’s perfect. It’s just like a sunrise. I love them.”

Jungkook’s responding smile is wide enough to show his teeth and squeeze his eyes.

There’s something soothing about watching him work. His eyes are entirely focused as he puts everything in its place, uncompromising when it comes to his perfectionism; things will look fine to you but he’ll seem to think differently and shift things around until it passes his rigorous standards. You want to take a photo. Not just of his hands, but of all of him— the little furrow of his brows, the intense look in his eyes, the tiniest pout on his lips; the softness of his hands, the tenderness of his fingers, the relaxation of his shoulders. Someone who’s intent on perfecting his craft but finds joy in its practiced motions.

You're just considering risking it all to ask him if you can take a photo when you're (thankfully) interrupted.

“That’s a pretty bouquet,” someone drawls. “What’s the occasion?”

The other man has appeared out of the back room. His eyes are fox-like but his mouth is soft and his fluffy white jumper seems even softer, fuzzy against the dark apron that he loops back over his head.

“Hi, Yoongi-hyung. Um.” Jungkook glances up at you. “Is it… for… a partner? Or someone else?”

“Nope, just thought I’d treat myself. Is that weird?”

Yoongi looks at you consideringly, clearly thinking something, before he shrugs. “Nah. You should tell your partner to step up their game, though. You shouldn’t have to buy yourself flowers.”

You laugh, trying to cover up your sudden awkwardness as Seokjin’s face flashes in your mind. Partner? You? Haha. “I’m single, so this is the only way I’ll be getting flowers, I’m afraid.”

Jungkook drops a handful of goldenrods. Yoongi’s eyes flicker over to him, watching as the younger man scrabbles to pick the yellow flowers back up. “Huh,” Yoongi says. “I see. Well, as long as you’re paying, I’m not complaining.”

You already like Yoongi, as forthright and blunt as he is, an utter juxtaposition to Jungkook’s unassuming shyness; he plops himself down and watches Jungkook finish putting the arrangement together, arms crossed as he leans back in the wicker chair. He looks a little lazy and a little sleepy. A cat reclining in the sun.

Jungkook finishes the bouquet by wrapping it in layers of brown and white paper, layering orange and yellow and white ribbons around the stems, pulling the sunrise of plants together with more bursts of bright colour.

“It’s so beautiful,” you say.

Yoongi makes a small grunting noise of agreement. “Good work, Kookie.”

Jungkook seems almost overwhelmed by the praise and holds a hand over his face, a shy curve of his fingers over his nose and mouth as he coughs and pretends he’s fine. “It’s alright, I guess,” he says. “Do you want anything else?”

“No, that’s everything for today, thanks.” You beam at Jungkook, who smiles back; he’s so cute. “How much is that?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens but Jungkook speaks over him to tell you the price, which is lower than you thought, but— “That must be from the boutonniere discount, right?”

Yoongi squints at you. “Boutonniere discount?”

“You know, hyung, the boutonniere discount.” Jungkook’s voice is a little high. “The promotion.”

Yoongi stares at him. Jungkook stares back. You think Jungkook’s about to break in the face of Yoongi’s blank pokerface, but then he nods. “Oh, yeah, that one,” Yoongi says, slowly. “I forgot. The boutonniere discount. Absolutely.”

Yoongi lapses into silence during the rest of the transaction, and though he looks sleepy, his eyes are sharp as he watches the two of you. Not that you notice, too busy carefully accepting the flowers from Jungkook and hefting the huge bouquet in your arms, mindful not to jostle them too much.

“Thank you so much, Jungkook!” You tilt your head forward to breathe in the soft floral scent, smiling. “It’s so lovely. And it was nice to meet you, Yoongi.”

“Likewise,” Yoongi says. “We’ll see you again?”

“Of course!” On your way out you go to take a hand off the bouquet to give them a jaunty wave, but unlike Jungkook you can’t keep the whole thing steady with just one hand and settle with giving them a nod instead. “I’ll see you again!”

As the door settles shut behind you, bell tinkling as you go, Yoongi raises an eyebrow at Jungkook. “Boutonniere discount?”

“Shut up, hyung,” Jungkook mutters, embarrassed.

Once you get home you unearth the vase Namjoon made you in his last ceramics class, unwrapping the bouquet and easing it into the water. You watch as the flowers come a little loose from the tight presentation and jostle lightly against each other as they settle into the vase. It’s a bright burst of colour on your breakfast bar, eye-catching and beautiful.

These flowers should last longer than the corsage from yesterday, which had already started to wilt; you know practically nothing about preserving flowers but you’ve sandwiched the purple rose and lilac and baby’s breath between layers of tissue and squashed them between some books on advice from the internet, wanting to press them and keep them close. (Maybe you’ll frame them or something. That would be cute.)

You pause. You pluck out a tiger lily, disrupting the careful balance Jungkook had strived to create, spinning the flower slowly between your fingers. Your friends send you congratulatory flowers after each new book publication, but this is the first bouquet that’s ever been made specifically for you— not the you that’s hidden behind a pseudonym. You. Even if you’d asked for this yourself, Jungkook had been the one to choose everything for you. He'd been the one to put the thought and time and effort into it.

You stare at the tiger lily for a few moments longer before slipping it back into the arrangement, turning it so it rests just as it had before you’d pulled it out.

(Spring is turning to summer and everything is starting to bloom, the garden alive with a riot of colour, full of the buzzing of bees and other insects— drawn here just as Lily had been. But Yunhee finds Lily in the greenhouse, away from the noise and activity, quiet and contemplative as she stares around her.

“What are they?” Lily points at a plot of flowers that have yet to bloom. The yellow and orange buds are long and heavy, weighted towards the ground.

“Tiger lilies.” Yunhee squats down and touches one of the furled flowers. “They’re shy to start with, but once they start to blossom, they’ll be some of the prettiest things here. Yes, that means you,” Yunhee laughs as the plant in her fingers seems to twitch. “They’re always so bold once they’re in full bloom. You just have to wait until you can coax them out.”)

“You seem to be doing better.” Jimin puts his coffee down. “Have you spoken to Jin yet?”

“Good god, Jimin,” you laugh. “Straight in there, aren’t you?”

Jimin fixes you with a stern gaze and you wince a little.

“Sheesh. No, not yet.” You fiddle with your napkin, curling it around the end of your teaspoon. “I’m starting to feel… like… kind of okay about it, I guess, but I’m worried that it’s going to be weird when I see Jin again.”

It’s been over a month since your confession, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to Jin since you’ve met him. It’s… weird. You miss him so much. But you don’t know if it’s too soon to try and reintroduce him into your life, even if Jimin clearly disagrees.

“It’s only going to get weirder the longer you go without talking to him,” Jimin says, and you hate that you know he’s right. “You keep asking how he is, and he keeps asking how you are, and it’s obvious you both miss each other. I’m not saying you have to jump back to how things were straight away, but you can ease back into it, you know?”

You sigh. “I know,” you say. “It’s just hard, Minnie.”

Jimin, your oldest friend, had been the first person you’d called after your failed confession. You’d been tearful and honest when you’d said that it felt like you were going to hurt forever. But it’s weird how quickly that’s ebbed away, even if you still regret opening your mouth in the first place; most of the hurt you feel right now is from missing Jin, not from lingering pain about unreciprocated feelings. You miss your-friend-Jin, not your-crush-Jin.

“You seem to be doing okay, though.” Jimin raises his eyebrows at you over his latte. “Anything to do with whoever’s sending you those pretty bouquets that’re all over your apartment, hmm?”

You splutter into your coffee. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous, I’m buying those for myself,” you say once you’ve wiped the coffee off your chin. “Me? Getting sent bouquets? Pfft.”

You never planned on becoming some sort of manic flower hoarder, but Jimin isn’t exaggerating when he says that they’re all over your apartment. You’ve even had to buy extra vases to hold all the bouquets and arrangements you have, every hue and shape and size of flora imaginable on almost every flat surface— only your desk remains untouched, sacred ground for your potted plants. You’d bought a rubber plant a few days ago, but beyond that, nothing new has been set on your desk recently.

It’s just… whenever you’re in Spring Day it’s like there’s no space in your brain or heart to think about Seokjin. It’s a place of respite for you, now. Somewhere you can go that’s untouched by the outside world. Somewhere you can go to be surrounded by beauty and life. Somewhere you can go to talk to Jungkook, the sweet, soft florist who’s slowly opening up to you, a blossoming flower, petals unfurling further with each visit.

He’s not always there. Sometimes it’s just Yoongi, and you like Yoongi and enjoy his company, but… it’s different with Jungkook. He’s growing bolder, less shy, and every conversation with him is so riveting; you eagerly gobble up every tidbit of information he feeds you. He sings. He draws. He paints. He takes photos. He dances. Everything he finds interesting, he tries, and everything he tries, he tries voraciously— he never settles for anything less than 100%. He puts himself entirely into everything he does.

He’s incredible.

Anyway. You can’t come away from Spring Day empty-handed, hence all the flowers that are filling your apartment. Even though Jungkook says it’s okay for you not to buy things, you’d be a supremely awful customer if you just distracted him by talking and then leaving again, so you always make sure to buy something. Even if it’s just a tiny flower themed bookmark that you don't need.

“I’m all for retail therapy, but why not buy stuff for yourself that doesn’t eventually die and wilt?” Jimin seems mystified. “That many flowers can’t be cheap.”

“I’m a relatively successful author, I can afford to blow money on flowers if I want.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Besides, my latest novel involves a lot of flower and plant related stuff, so I’m basically investing in my writing. I’m killing two birds with one stone: research for my novel, as well as filling the gaping hole in my chest by buying flowers for myself because I’m destined to die alone and no one else is ever going to buy them for me.” You finish brightly.

Jimin looks equal parts frustrated and sad. “You know that’s not true, Y/n. Just because Jin—”

“It’s fine, Jimin, I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” you insist. “The reason I’ve been single for the past billion years is because I’m just too much of a catch and people find it intimidating, I know.”

You’ve used fake, inflated narcissism and mocking self-deprecation as ways of protection for years. Most people take your confidence at face value. However, Jimin knows you too well to be fooled by it; not to mention he’s one of the few people who knows about your books and has read every single one so he’s well aware of all the schmoopy daydreams you keep close to your chest.

Ugh. This is why you write under a pseudonym. Autumn Lovett is allowed to enjoy clichés and have unrealistic and dumb romantic fantasies. A lot of their platform is built around it. Meanwhile the real version of you tries to pretend that you’re not obsessed with the idea of true love and yearn for it almost every waking moment despite how utterly impossible it is that you’ll ever find it. Because it’s embarrassing.

“I’m going to kick you,” Jimin says lovingly. “Right in the shins.”

“God, please don’t.” Jimin’s kicks are lethal. “If I say I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll, will you promise not to hurt me?”

Jimin takes longer to think about his answer than you’d like. “Okay,” he says eventually. “You have to really mean it.”

“Alright, I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll. I just haven’t met the right person yet.” Your words seem to pacify Jimin, even if they ring a little hollow in your own ears.

The truth is that, on a deep level, you do feel unlovable. It’s maybe a bit self-pitying, because you have friends who adore you and you know you’re worthy of love, but… it’s kind of hard to really believe that when you have yet to have your feelings genuinely reciprocated. There have been a few moments in the past, a few brief, fleeting connections, but never anything wholesome and real. You feel like you’ve been waiting for something that’s never going to happen.

Besides, if it does happen, it’s never going to be as soft and loving as the relationships you write into your books, right? You’re a sucker for clichés. You love the idea of someone bringing you flowers, watching the sunset with you, dancing together in your kitchen to a song on the radio— every overdone and overused formula that’s shoved into every romantic film ever. You want all of it. (You’ve never been on a ferris wheel but god do you want to have a date that involves one.)

Maybe you’re still alone because you’ve been asking for too much. Not everyone is as lucky as Jimin and Namjoon; you doubt you’d ever be so fortunate to find someone who loves you as much as they love each other and express that love, too.

You’re still brooding over these feelings when you visit Spring Day later. Jungkook’s singing again, something smooth and lovely and mellow, and when he sees you he brightens— he cuts himself off, but not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s happy to see you.

Something inside you goes soft and warm at the sight. He’s so nice.

Still, despite Jungkook’s soothing presence you’re far more distracted than you usually are and he seems to notice this; you end up sitting cross legged on the floor of the greenhouse under the leaves of a monstera while Jungkook keeps flicking you looks between watering plants.

A few weeks ago, he would be too timid to say anything, but by now he’s grown far more bold. You’ve been encouraging him to speak his mind. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” You’ve had your head tilted back to watch the fluttering leaves of the monstera plant but you look down to turn your attention to Jungkook. He’s wearing a dark plaid shirt today, loose sleeves rolled up past his elbow as he hefts his blue watering can; he looks soft and approachable, eyes warm with concern. “Yeah, I just have some stuff on my mind, I guess. Sorry. I’m not exactly a great conversational partner at the best of times, so I’m being even worse right now.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.” Jungkook hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You let out a light chuckle. “Ah, you don’t want to hear about the nonsense I’ve got in my brain, but thank you. It’s very sweet of you to offer.”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is surprisingly firm and you internally startle. “If there’s something on your mind, it’s not nonsense. I’m not saying you have to tell me if you don’t want to, but— please don’t think I don’t want to listen to you.”

You blink. He’s not looking away from you like he normally does— there’s a hard set to the line of his mouth, like he really, really means what he says and he wants you to know that.

“Oh.” For once you’re the one who breaks eye contact, glancing down at your lap. You’d found a lone daisy on the floor and you’ve been cradling it in your hands, rolling the stem between your fingers, and you watch as the petals fan out and shiver at the motion. “Okay. Thanks, Jungkook.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. His voice is gentle. You keep your eyes fixed on the daisy, and you can hear the slosh and drizzle of the watering can as he goes back to the plants. You take in a deep breath.

“What’s your opinion on romance, Jungkook?”

There’s a splashing noise as Jungkook fumbles with the can and drops it. Luckily it stays upright and doesn’t spill over the floor. “I, um, what?”

You look away from your daisy and stare at him earnestly, as embarrassingly open and raw as you feel right now. “What’s your opinion on romance? You know, love and all that.”

Jungkook pauses.

“I know it’s a weird question.” You wince. “You don’t have to answer it. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

Jungkook stares at the watering can by his feet before he stoops over and picks it back up. He’s not looking at you. “How come?” His voice is a little strained, but you don’t notice.

“Ah, I don’t know,” you sigh. “I think about it a lot, honestly. Sometimes I just wonder if it’s realistic? Like, of all the people in the world, what’s the likelihood you’re going to meet someone that you really… really resonate with? And they’re going to feel the same for you? Part of me has always believed in fate, or like… serendipity, I suppose. Bumping into someone that turns out to be so much more important than either of you could imagine. A soulmate? In a way? But as time goes on I… I guess I’m worried I’ll never actually find that and it’s all a ridiculous pipe dream.”

You feel small and defenceless after admitting this. You might be a loudmouthed sarcastic clown, but underneath all your theatrical buffoonery and snark, the truth is that you’re an utterly hopeless romantic. It’s the world’s worst kept secret, sure, but you’ve never laid it out so plainly to anyone before.

The longer Jungkook stays silent, the more awkward you feel, and you desperately need to break the tension.

“Bweh.” You make a little noise. “I get nauseous whenever I express real emotions. I didn’t mean to word vomit all of that at you, sorry—”

“I believe in soulmates.” Jungkook’s back is to you as he stands in front of a collection of osteospermums, but he’s stopped watering them. “And romance. And true love. I don’t think it’s always going to be easy, and it might hurt along the way, but… I think there’s love and happiness waiting for us at the end of it. Yoongi-hyung always calls me a hopeless romantic.” He laughs a little and glances over his shoulder at you, his expression warm and sincere. “I always cry at sad scenes in romantic films and books and he likes to tease me about it.”

He doesn’t seem ashamed about being open and vulnerable with you. It’s terrifying and yet Jungkook seems unafraid. Honestly, you admire it. “Me too,” you admit, your voice a quiet hush. “Everyone keeps arguing about if Rose could have let Jack onto the door with her but I’m always too busy crying to pay attention to how big the piece of wood is.”

Jungkook lets out a breath of laughter, nose scrunching as he smiles at you. He’s not judging your sappiness at all. “Titanic is such a sad film,” he says. “It makes my heart ache every time I watch it.”

You hit your knee with a fist. “I know! Why couldn’t they just be happy? Ouch,” you say. “Wow. I punched myself harder than I thought. I just get very passionate about happy endings. Sad endings— well, they make me sad, especially if the rest of the story has been sad too. What was it Guy Fieri said? I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

Jungkook blinks. “Guy Fieri said that?”

“Now that I think about it, I think it was actually Haruki Murakami.” You rub a soothing hand over your knee. “But yeah. I’m not saying sad endings don’t have a place, and sometimes it’s right for the story that’s being told, but… I’m more of a happy ending person. If I were James Cameron I’d have to let Rose and Jack end up together. I’d be too soft to write the ending he did, even if it was appropriate. You know?”

Jungkook turns away from the osteospermums, his eyes as soft as he looks at you. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “I think everyone deserves a happy ending.”

The monstera plant above you patiently listens as you and Jungkook have a long, quiet conversation about love and romance, and it’s… weird. You never thought you could have a conversation like that without wanting to cringe so hard you collapsed in on yourself and imploded into a black hole. Submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known is usually a lot more… well… mortifying, but somehow with Jungkook, it isn’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s so open himself. Maybe it’s because you can tell he’s not judging you at all. He doesn’t think your desperate yearning for love and romance is anything to be embarrassed about— and he clearly feels the same yearning. You find it baffling that someone as lovely as Jungkook doesn’t have someone special in his life, though. Wild.

“Monsteras are actually nicknamed Swiss cheese plants,” Jungkook informs you, running a hand over one of the leaves and trailing a finger over one of the holes in it. You're adding it to your steadily growing plant collection. “Because of these. They look like the holes you find in Swiss cheese.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s so cute! I love that.”

Jungkook smiles. “I knew you would.”

He’s just finished tying a ribbon around the plant’s pot when he pauses. “Oh,” he says. “If you like happy endings, can I recommend something?”

He stoops down to get something from behind the counter and you can tell when he’s found what he’s looking for by how his face lights up. You’re hyped to see what it is, what’s gotten Jungkook so excited— but then he flips the book over to hand to you and you nearly choke on your own spit.

Jamais Vu. Your most recent novel.

“I really love this author,” he says as you try to swallow down your coughs, eyes watering with the effort. Luckily he’s looking down at the book and doesn’t seem to notice. “No matter how difficult things get, or how awful things seem, the endings are always happy. Or at worst, bittersweet. They’re never completely sad? Watch out for the plot twist in the middle, though, that’s a rough one.”

“Hahahaha, alright, I will!” It was the first time you’d incorporated a murder mystery in one of your books, but damn, it had gone over really well with the critics. And Jungkook too, apparently, judging from the excited look in his eyes. “This looks, um. Interesting.”

He beams at you. “If you like it, I have the rest of their books at home. You can borrow those as well. I, uh, I've been reading them from the very beginning,” he admits, with a tiny, shy laugh. “The earlier books are skewed mainly towards romance, but the plots are always good too. If, um, you like that sort of thing.”

You feel faint. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Jungkook.”

Once you get home, you very carefully and delicately place the monstera on your desk, turning it a few times until you’re entirely happy with the position of it.

Then you lie face down on your bed.

Your breaths are fuggy against your pillow but you keep your face buried in it, even if it’s getting progressively harder to breathe. Jungkook reads your books. Jungkook reads all of your books. Jungkook is apparently an avid fan of your books— the copy of Jamais Vu he’s lent you is a hardback copy and the design on it is one you recognise as a pre-order exclusive.

Oh, shit. Is it a signed copy?

You scramble out of bed to grab the book and flip to the title page. There it is, staring up at you: your own signature. Well, Autumn Lovett’s signature, complete with a tiny scribbled leaf.

To Jungkook, you’d written. Thank you so much for all your support! you’d written. Autumn Lovett, you’d written.

You muffle a scream into your hands.

Even if Jungkook doesn’t know who Autumn really is, there’s no way he’s going to read your next book and not realise the truth. The tiger lilies. Yunhee’s dark eyes and dark hair and swift hands. Her strength and softness. Lily, magnetised by her, drawn in by her gravity.

(You haven't realised until now just how much meeting Jungkook has changed the development of your novel. Why?)

You’re at a loss for words. You honestly don’t know what to feel. Part of you feels flattered that Jungkook loves your writing so much. Another part of you feels like you’ve been lying to him the whole time you’ve been talking— pretending to be someone you’re not. Somehow. Autumn has lied to him by not being real, and you’ve lied to him by not letting him know the truth. Sure, you’ve only found out today, but.

The one person you’d talk to— the one person who’d help you muddle through your emotions on something as complex as this, as flippant and blasé as he might seem to people who don’t know him like you do— is someone you haven’t spoken to in over a month.

Your eyes slide over to your phone. After your conversation with Jimin earlier you’d genuinely been planning on messaging Seokjin tonight; nothing major or big, just a dipping of your toe back into the waters of your friendship. But you need to hear his voice. You’re not going to offload on him, of course. You’re not going to make the first conversation you have after your confession to be all about you. But you just need that familiarity right now.

He picks up after one ring.

“Hi, Y/n,” he says, and you feel like you could fold in two.

“Hi, Jin.” The sound of his voice fills you with warmth and tender affection, and you love him so, so much— but you know in an instant that it’s platonic. This cresting wave of tenderness crashing through you and making your knees want to buckle is for one of your best friends, Kim Seokjin. Your friend. “Hey. I hope you’re doing okay. Been up to anything interesting?”

You end up curled in your computer chair as you talk, your hand resting on the book that Jungkook has entrusted you with. It’s funny how talking to Seokjin comes so naturally; a month feels so long, especially after such a huge revelation from you to him, but it’s also like no time has passed at all. You think maybe you could go years without talking but the moment you came back together again, it would feel the same way.

It’s like you exist on the same level. Like there’s some sort of unbreakable, connective membrane between the two of you. It’s why you’d fallen in love with him. It’s only now that you realise that you’d mistaken that closeness for romantic love, when it isn’t really, at all. It’s just different to your other friendships; deeply and emotionally intimate, but not romantic.

“It sounds like you’ve been doing well,” Jin says. There’s the sound of sizzling in the background and you glance at the clock; he’ll be cooking dinner. He always cooks around now. “How’s the novel coming along?” Are you still in love with me? Are you writing about me?

You pause. Your flip Jungkook’s book open again, staring at his name written in your handwriting— months before you’d known who he was. Some tenuous, inexplicable connection before you’d even met.

“It’s good,” you say, truthfully. “It’s not what I’d been planning, but it’s really good.” I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I’m writing, but not about you. Not really.

“I’m glad.” Jin’s voice is so warm. “You’ll have to send me what you've got so far at some point.”

“So you can point out all the inconsistencies whenever characters are cooking or baking anything? No thanks, already fallen into that trap too many times,” you say, and Jin laughs.

“If you’re going to write a character who’s a baker, you need to do your research batter,” he says, and you laugh in return.

“Did you say batter instead of better? That’s terrible. I love it, even if I wasn’t bready for it.”

“Your puns are so crumby,” Jin replies.

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

You both end up dissolving into laughter at your increasingly nonsensical and awful baking puns. The puns are weak and not even good in a bad way (as in, so bad that they’re good), but they don’t need to be. Jin takes longer to finish laughing than you. His squeaky wiper noises are a familiar sound through your phone speaker and you’re still smiling once it eventually trails off.

“I missed you,” you say suddenly. “I’m sorry. Not sorry about the confession, but— sorry it took me so long to come back around afterwards. I was just worried it would be weird.”

“I understand. It’s okay. I missed you too. You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too. Not romantically. Don’t get it twisted. I realise now that I’m way out of your league, anyway, so it’s a good thing you turned me down.”

“It was for your own good,” Jin says. “As the two most beautiful human beings alive we’d been too powerful if we were together, so it’s for the good of humanity.”

“We’re just so altruistic,” you sigh dramatically, and then you both giggle. “Can the world’s two most beautiful human beings get together for lunch? That wouldn’t cause a vortex in the space time continuum, right?”

“I think the fabric of the universe can handle it.” You hear the sound of Jin taking his pan off the stove, the clunk of metal. “Let me check when I’m free, sweetheart.”

(“You seem happy.” Jaerim’s smile is a soft, hesitant thing, but Lily’s responding smile is bright and wide.

“I am,” she says. Pinned to her breast pocket is a corsage of sweet pea, soft purple and pink and white, its gentle fragrance filling her senses. A reminder of Yunhee even when she’s not here. “I’m really, really happy. But I’m always happier when I can share things with you.”

Jaerim reaches out for her hands. His touch is familiar and warm, and Lily feels as loved as she always has— the way she loves him, too.

As a friend.)

“You know, at this point I’m pretty sure you’re bankrolling the entire shop,” Yoongi says, and you laugh.

“I can always go somewhere else if you’d like?”

“Please.” Yoongi snorts. “I’m not complaining. Besides, Jungkook would be heartbroken if his favourite customer stopped coming.”

The way Yoongi assembles bouquets is different to Jungkook. He’s no less skilled and lavishes the same amount of attention on each one, but his arrangements always seem a little wilder, freer— not in a bad way, just different. He’s surrounded by an increasing collection of carnations and dusty miller, the silver leaves curling around the immaculately white blooms; simple and elegant arrangements for a small bridal shower.

“That’s good to know,” you say, ignoring the warm flush that spreads through your chest at the idea of being Jungkook’s favourite customer. Sometimes you worry that you’re overbearing, actually, with how often you visit, even if Jungkook never seems to mind. “I do buy a lot, though, so that’s probably why I’m his favourite.”

Yoongi’s just finished tying a trail of silver and white ribbon around the collection of flowers in his hands, eyes flicking up at you as he eases it into a small vase. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep throwing money at this place,” he says. “You’re welcome to come whenever you like. Without needing to buy something.”

You feel weirdly chastened. “Um, okay.” You laugh lightly. “Kind of a weird business you’ve got running if you’re not telling customers to buy things, though?”

Yoongi snorts again. “You’ve spent more money in the past few months than most customers might spend in a year.” He reaches for another bunch of carnations. “I think we’re good.”

The bell tinkles above the door. You glance over your shoulder to see who it is and your face lights up when you see it’s Jungkook, clutching a small cardboard tray of coffees. He looks boyish and cute today, his hair is a little windswept from the breeze outside, and there’s a smile on his face that only grows wider when he spots you. You smile back. You’re always so happy to see him.

“Is that my coffee?” Yoongi says, without looking up from the bundle of flowers he's holding. “Bring it here.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and you stifle a laugh behind your hand. Any shyness Jungkook might have had originally seems entirely gone now, and he’s unabashed when he pretends to disrespect his hyung, even if you know there’s a lot of love there.

Jungkook puts the cardboard cup out of the way of Yoongi’s work so there’s no chance it might accidentally get knocked over. “Here’s the decaf caramel cappuccino with extra sweetener and whipped cream that you asked for, hyung.” Jungkook gives you a conspiring smile and you stifle another laugh at the expression that flits across Yoongi’s face at the word decaf.

“Die,” Yoongi says mildly, before taking a sip of his bitter and untouched black coffee. “Perfect. Now, shoo, I’m busy. Go check on the herb display, I think they could do with some fertiliser.”

You keep hold of Jungkook’s cup as he mists the herbs, a tiny spritzer in his hands that he carefully aims at the stem of each plant. Unlike Yoongi’s black coffee, Jungkook’s opted for something iced, a creamy yellow blend with shavings of chocolate on top.

“If I’d known you were here, I would have gotten you something as well,” he says. You glance up to see Jungkook’s paused in his motions, hands engulfed in bright green basil leaves. It seems like he’s noticed you peering at the drink.

“Don’t be silly, I don’t expect you to buy me coffee! I’m just trying to work out what this is. It looks really tasty.”

“It’s a banana frappe. You can try some, if you want?”

You beam. “Can I?” You take a sip before Jungkook changes his mind, pursing your lips around the straw as the coldness hits your tongue and nearly gives you brain freeze— but then you register the sweetness on your tongue, the flavour of banana and vanilla and honey, delicious. “Oh, this is so good,” you breathe. “Where did you get this? I need this in my life.” You take another cheeky sip, eyes on Jungkook’s reaction, but he seems unfazed at the fact that you’re greedily slurping up his drink before he’s even had a chance to have any.

“There’s a small café a few streets away from here,” he says. “I, um.” He looks away from you, back towards the basil, before he pulls his hands out of the leaves and starts to mist the soil of the mint plants. “I could take you there, if you’d like.”

You haven’t seen him blush for a while, but that familiar tinge of pink is starting to steal over his cheeks as he looks away from you. Something churns low in your stomach, something almost like butterflies; a shifting of their wings, ready to take flight. “Oh,” you say. “That would, um. That would be nice.”

For the first time since you’ve stepped foot into Spring Day, you leave without buying anything. Instead, you leave with a day and time, hastily typed into your phone so you don’t forget. (Not that you would. How could you forget anything about Jungkook?)

You still haven’t told Jungkook who you are. Well— who Autumn is. He’d been so excited when you’d ‘finished’ Jamais Vu and had accepted another book from him, wanting eagerly to hear your opinion on it; it’s hard to not blurt out the truth to him, but you don’t know how to broach that topic. You’re worried that it’ll change this friendship you’ve built up with him and you don’t want to lose Jungkook. Even if you haven’t known him that long, he’s already so, so important to you, and you don’t want to let go of that.

But if you’re starting to become real friends, the kind of friends who get coffee together, who spend time together outside of Jungkook’s work— he deserves to know, right? You just need to find the right time to tell him.

When the day rolls around, you’re early. You’re always early for things. You skulk around the front of Spring Day, where you’d agreed to meet; you make sure to keep just out of Yoongi's eye line, ducking out of sight when it seems like he might spot you through the front window. You’re staring at a bucket of coral-coloured blooms when you hear Jungkook calling your name and you glance up, lifting your hand in a wave.

You almost choke on a breath. You’ve never seen Jungkook out of uniform, his plethora of loose, oversized shirts under a dark apron, nondescript trousers and plain shoes.

“Hi, Y/n.” The smile on his face is bright and wide, eyes squeezing into crescents. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

He’s in such a simple outfit, but it’s devastating. His hair is arranged neatly under a cap, a leather jacket over the dark, tight shirt tucked into his jeans, blue denim nipped in by a plain black belt; there’s large rips at the knees, flashes of skin visible as he walks forwards, feet steady in black boots. It’s undeniably Jungkook, but it’s so different from the version of him you’ve gotten used to over the past two months, catching you completely off guard.

“Y/n?” He repeats, concerned at your silence, and you snap to attention.

“Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about, uh,” you glance at the flowers you’d been looking at, “peonies. No, I haven’t been waiting long at all, don’t worry. You, um, look really nice today,” you add lamely, unsure what else to say.

“You do too.” Jungkook sounds like he genuinely means it, even if you’re just wearing a pretty regular outfit, similar to the sort of thing you usually wear when you visit him at work. “Peonies only flower for about a week, actually, if you wanted to get some?”

“No, no, that’s fine! Today’s not about flowers, today is about coffee,” you say. Your heart is hammering in your chest for some reason. A single butterfly lifts off in your stomach, taking flight with a flutter of its wings, flitting to and fro. “Take me to the coffee?”

He takes you to the coffee. He leads you confidently through the maze of alleyways, past more places you haven’t seen; he waits patiently whenever you ask to stop and take photos, watching as you stare in awe at an arch built out of precariously balanced tomes that leads into an old bookshop.

“It’s just so pretty around here,” you say, flapping your hand about to try and speed up the development process of a photo. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long.”

“It’s okay.” Jungkook’s voice is soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

He’s not just saying that to be nice, either. At one point, after you’ve apologised yet again, he steals your Polaroid from you and runs; you laugh at him when he refuses to give it back, taking shots of you while he dances just out of your reach, a cascade of photos that somehow turn out distinct and unblurred. Curse his photography abilities.

You slap him lightly on the arm when he eventually surrenders the camera back to you and he just chuckles. It’s a long, looping detour on your way to the café, but you’re having so much fun that you don’t mind— in fact you end up having to be the one to get you back on track, tugging Jungkook’s elbow when it seems like he’s about to take you down another alleyway and towards the river, which you know is the wrong direction for the café.

“Coffee, Jungkook.” You try to sound stern but you end up dissolving into giggles when he pouts at you. “Okay, how about a compromise? We can get coffee to go and then come back this way so you can show me that market you were talking about.”

He brightens. “Okay,” he says. “We can do that.”

You almost regret saying this when you eventually turn up at the café; it’s actually a few stories up a building, a narrow set of rickety steps that opens into a light, airy room, naked lightbulbs hanging in constellations overhead, the entire wall behind the counter a massive chalkboard that’s covered in art of different styles and designs. The wall facing out onto the road outside is glass— the perfect place to unwind and people watch.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe. “Jungkook, this is so cool.”

“I know,” he says, smug and cheeky, and he laughs when you huff out a little breath at him. “The drinks are good, too.”

He’s not lying. He opts for another banana frappe, and after much deliberation, you decide to try the iced honeycomb latte. He refuses to let you pay and hands his card over to the barista before you even get a chance to reach for your bag, which has you narrowing your eyes at him.

“I feel like you prepared that in advance,” you say.

“Not telling.” He taps the side of his nose, which is scrunched from his smile. Inside you another handful of butterflies take flight.

More and more take wing as the afternoon goes on, each time Jungkook laughs or smiles or looks at you; he leads you through the market and shows you his favourite stalls, excited each time he gets to show you something he likes and enjoys, stealing sips of your drink when you’re distracted— but you laugh in his face and do the same to him, so it’s okay.

Time flows by as easy as quicksilver, liquid and bright, and before you know it it’s turned from afternoon to evening, sky softening in deepening shades of blue and purple, the smattering of clouds a pastel palette of pink; you come to a stop by the edge of the river, Jungkook a few steps ahead of you by the time he realises you’re not walking beside him. He smiles at you as you lift your camera and take a shot of him surrounded by the sunset.

“I didn’t realise how late it was getting,” you say, and Jungkook blinks. It’s like he’s coming around to himself, like he didn’t realise either; he glances around and notices the shade of the sky before he pulls his sleeve back to look at the watch on his wrist.

“Wow, me neither.” He sounds surprised, and then he looks guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you busy for so long.”

“Oh my gosh, Jungkook, don’t apologise.” You tuck your latest photo into your pocket to look at later. “I’m having so much fun, I just didn’t notice the time go by. It’s not like you’re forcing me to be here,” you laugh. “I like spending time with you.”

The lampposts have yet to turn on and it’s hard to make out Jungkook’s features when he’s turned away from the soft light of the sunset like this. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “Me too,” he says. “I’m really glad you found Spring Day.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest. Jungkook looks towards the river just as the first lights switch on, finally dark enough that the streetlights come to life; there're trailing bulbs between each lamppost that flicker on moments after, points of brightness that flood the path below them. Jungkook’s face is shaded by the brim of his cap but he takes it off and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair now that it’s freed. Another breath catches in your throat at how utterly mesmerising he is.

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your trance. “I was wondering,” he says, staring at the rippling mirror of lights on the water, the fading colours of the sky overhead cast in undulating reflections that shift from moment to moment. “You like photography, right?”

“I do,” you say. “Even if I’m not that great at it myself.”

“I have a friend who’s a photographer and some of his work’s been accepted in a local gallery.” Jungkook’s running his fingers over the hard brim of his cap, running them along its edge. “The opening night is in a few days, and, um. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me?”

He finally turns away from the river to look at you. Jungkook’s eyes are so big and dark. For once you’re the deer caught in headlights, and you don’t even know why; it’s like this simple, innocuous question has reached inside you and stolen all the air out of your lungs.

Even so, your answer is immediate. “I’d really, really love that,” you answer honestly, and Jungkook’s responding smile is so, so wide.

You forget about that final photo until you get home. It falls out of your pocket as you shrug your coat off to hang it up, and you stoop down to pick it up, fingers stuttering and going still against its white edges as you take it in.

Jungkook’s silhouetted by the evening sky behind him, in stark contrast to the gentle colours and yet just as soft. The shadows are a little blurred, and the colours are a little muted— but Jungkook’s face is clear, his eyes warm and his smile gentle as he looks at you.

No one’s ever looked at you like that before.

At last the final butterfly flaps its wings and joins the others, your stomach full of fluttering.

Your friendship with Jin has miraculously gone back to normal. If anything, it’s even better than it was before your confession— you don’t feel the need to think twice about your actions, like you’re tiptoeing around him, desperate to keep your love a secret. It’s as easy as it used to be and you’re glad.

But you still remember how much it hurt when he’d looked at you and turned you down. You’ve moved past it, sure, but it had just cemented something you’ve known your whole life: how utterly unlovable you are. How wrong you’d been at reading signs, how you’d been in over your head. How every crush you’ve ever had has come to nothing.

You’ve kept that picture of Jungkook resting against your peace lily. His lovely eyes watch as you struggle at your computer, hours of typing stilted words and phrases that you read back and furiously delete. You bury your head in your hands, frustrated.

Why can’t you write?

By the time Friday night rolls around, you’ve added a grand total of one (1) sentence to your novel. But right now you have more important things to worry about; it’s almost time for you to meet Jungkook at the gallery downtown and the maps app on your phone has been playing up. It’s not that you’re going to be late— you don’t actually live that far away— but you’re not going to be early, and you hate that.

You can see the small groups of people trickling into the gallery, the lights shining out by the entrance cutting across them as they step inside, but your eyes are immediately drawn to Jungkook. He’s been looking down at his phone but as soon as you start to approach it’s like he can sense that you’re there, eyes rising from his screen and zoning in on you immediately.

You stop in your tracks. His face lifts and splits into a wide smile and you smile helplessly back. He’d said the dress code for tonight was smart-casual, and he looks so good dressed like this. You love his turtleneck jumper.

“Hi,” he says. “Wow, you look good.”

“Hi,” you respond, breathless. You feel winded from his compliment and from the blush that’s rising on his face, even if he’s keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You do too.”

You stare at each other for what feels like eons when someone brushes past you and it snaps the two of you out of the moment, and Jungkook coughs. “Um. Should we go in?”

It’s busier inside than you thought. The gallery isn’t exactly small but the layout isn’t entirely straightforward and people keep clustering in certain areas and getting in the way, distracted by the photos on display. You have to wade through one particularly large group of people to get back to Jungkook, who’s been waiting for you on the other side; he looks concerned on your behalf, and when someone makes a move to walk between the two of you he reaches out for your hand, cutting off their path. Your hand feels so small in his, so warm in his grasp.

“I didn’t realise there’d be so many people here,” he mutters, looking around. You entwine your fingers with his and he startles, glancing at where your hands are joined, like he hadn’t noticed that he’d reached out for you.

You abruptly feel embarrassed and you’re about to let go when Jungkook squeezes your hand. You glance up and he’s looking away from you, back of his neck red, but he’s not letting go.

“I think Tae’s stuff is a bit further in,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You trail after Jungkook, who keeps his pace matched to yours. It’s a little quieter back here so it’s easy to find who you’re looking for; when you spot a man with bright blue hair he waves wildly in your direction and Jungkook brightens.

“Kookie! Hi!”

Jungkook lets go of your hand when he’s swept into a hug, and before you can introduce yourself, you’re swept into a hug, too.

“I’m Vante,” the blue-haired man says once he lets you go. “But you can call me Taehyung. Vante is my photographer name. I think it sounds cooler. Don’t you?”

“I think Taehyung is a lovely name,” you say, unphased by how full on Taehyung seems to be. “But Vante sounds really cool, too.”

Taehyung beams at you. “I like you,” he announces. “Y/n, right? Jungkook mentioned you.”

You cough into your palm, trying to act like you’re not supremely flustered right now; when you’re not looking, Jungkook hits Taehyung on the shoulder. “Yeah, that’s right,” you say, looking up. Both boys have innocent expressions on their faces. “Can I have a look at your photos?”

Taehyung is an incredibly talented photographer. You don’t need to be an expert to know that. He has a series of scenic and nature shots, some in colour, some in black and white; he enthusiastically answers your questions about each one, about the background of them and why he takes photos of what he does. Jungkook walks quietly behind you and is content to watch as the two of you talk, chest warmed by how well you’re getting on with each other.

You round a corner to another wall, and Taehyung gestures dramatically at the collection lined across it. “And these are my portrait photos,” he says. “There’s even one of Kookie up here, even if he gets embarrassed whenever I mention it.”

Sure enough, Jungkook is blushing.

“Take me to it,” you say firmly, and Taehyung laughs out loud before he does just that. It’s a black and white shot, Jungkook in profile as he looks towards the camera, endless ocean waves and sky behind him. “Jungkook, you’re such a good model,” you say, smiling softly at it.

Jungkook’s gone bright red, and you’ve honestly missed this sight, even if you’re glad that he’s not shy with you any more. “Taehyung’s just good at taking photos,” he says, voice high with embarrassment.

“I have a lot more photos of Jungkookie that aren’t on display,” Taehyung pipes up, and Jungkook looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. “You’ll have to visit my studio some time so I can show them to you.”

You have Taehyung’s business card carefully stowed away in your bag as you walk home, arms swinging by your sides; you unintentionally brush your hand against Jungkook’s, but before you can say sorry he’s taken it as an invitation to hold your hand again. The apology dies on your lips as he slots his fingers between yours and you smile at him instead.

“Taehyung is so cool,” you say. “And talented, too. I love his photos.”

“I’m glad you both get on so well,” Jungkook says. “Sometimes people seem to think Taehyung is… I don’t know. He can come on a bit strong, I guess.”

“He’s great.” You frown. “I’m going to fistfight anyone who’s mean to him.”

Jungkook laughs and squeezes your hand.

He insists on walking you up to your door, keeping hold of your hand as he follows you inside your apartment building. You feel somewhat abashed at how wide his eyes go at how nice it is inside here. You’re not on the same level as, say, Stephen King or George R.R. Martin, but you make a pretty decent amount of money from your books and it shows.

Jungkook doesn’t actually know what you do. You’ve vaguely alluded to the fact that you’re a writer, but that could mean any number of things; for all he knows you could pen the agony aunt column in a magazine (you imagine that would be pretty fun, actually). You keep waiting for the right opportunity to come clean about your pseudonym but nothing’s presented itself yet.

“Do you want to come in? My friend Seokjin makes killer brownies and I’ve got a box of them still in the fridge,” you say. “He always makes way more than I can eat myself.”

Jungkook seems torn. He wants to see inside your apartment, you can tell, but he also probably doesn’t want to seem intrusive— even if you’re offering.

“I hate wasting food so you’d be doing me a real favour,” you add, and Jungkook relents.

“Alright,” he says, and you smile to yourself as you unlock your door.

You’ve been giving flowers to other people, too— Seokjin and Jimin and Namjoon and even Hoseok have been receiving the gifts of your bounty— but only the premade bouquets. The ones that Jungkook puts together are ones that you keep for yourself. It’s far less overwhelming now than it had been a while ago, only a few floral arrangements here and there, but it’s obvious from Jungkook’s expression that he recognises each bouquet.

He ends up sitting at your breakfast bar as you dig the brownies out of your fridge, and he smiles in delight as you warm up some milk. It’s getting late, and you know Jungkook doesn’t like coffee, anyway.

(You’ve learned a lot about Jungkook in the past few months.)

“Which one is Seokjin?” He asks around a mouthful of brownie. You’ve retired to your living room and Jungkook is peering at the strings of fairy lights you have on the wall, Polaroids of your friends and family clipped along its wire. “This one?”

“No, that’s Namjoon,” you say. You stand up from the couch and scooch next to Jungkook so you can point. “He’s Jimin’s boyfriend— which is this guy here. That’s Seokjin,” you point. “All my favourite people. Ah, don’t look at this one, it’s me and Jimin when we were back in school. We look like such dorks. Look at our hair.”

“You look cute,” Jungkook says, and you try not to blush. “Wait, is that me?”

Your collection of Jungkook photos has been growing exponentially over time. The one he’s looking at is a picture of himself in Spring Day, bent over a bucket of roses, fingers cupping the pink flowers as he smiles at them; he’s said he’s okay with you taking photos, but maybe he meant when he was actually aware of you taking them.

“Um, yeah,” you say. You feel weirdly embarrassed. “I can take it down if you want? Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook’s staring at the glowing light next to the photo, avoiding your eyes. “I just didn’t think I’d be on the wall with the rest of your, uh, favourite people.”

Your mouth falls open. You don’t know what to say. Normally you’d scoff at him and say duh, of course you are, but for some reason you can’t summon the courage right now. The words catch in your throat.

Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice another photo. “Oh, is that from your school prom? Wait. Are you on crutches?”

You laugh, glad for the distraction. “Oh, yeah! Jimin persuaded me to sneak out of my house a few weeks before that because I was under curfew but there was a party we were both desperate to go to. Needless to say, climbing out of my window didn’t go so well. I was on crutches for ages after that. It wasn’t so bad, honestly. People felt sorry that I couldn’t dance so they kept sitting with me and feeding me cupcakes out of pity. They were delicious,” you say with a smile. “Never did get to do that end of school dance I’d planned with Jimin, though. That’s the only thing that was bad about it.”

Jungkook’s face twists. You’re too busy looking at the photo and reminiscing to notice, but you do notice when he steps back. You turn, confused as Jungkook holds his hand out and looks at you expectantly.

“What?”

“I know it’s a bit late, and I’m not Jimin, but you can have that end of school dance.” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You giggle, but you can feel a blush threatening to fight its way onto your cheeks. There’s a storm of butterflies in your stomach. “But there’s no music,” you say. “How can we dance without music?”

Jungkook shrugs. “I’ll sing for us,” he says. He steps forward, hand still proffered, and you slide your hand into his, unable to deny him.

It’s been years since Jimin’s taught you the basic waltz, and you’re a little stiff because of it, but your body seems to remember the steps as Jungkook slowly leads you. You’re staring at your feet while Jungkook hums, but once you have the rhythm down he opens his mouth and starts to sing; you look up from the floor, your eyes helplessly drawn to his.

His voice is soft and honeyed, words sweet as they hang in the air. You’re so entranced by the deep, warm brown of his eyes that it takes you longer than it should to recognise the lyrics of the song: 10,000 hours, transformed by Jungkook’s mellifluous voice.

He leads you into a turn, and when you come back together it’s a little clumsy and you giggle. Jungkook smiles at you as he continues to sing. The laughter leaves you feeling light and sparkling, like there’s a fountain bubbling inside you, and all the stiffness finally falls away from your limbs. The waltz becomes more of a swaying dance as you let your arms drop, Jungkook’s arm sliding around your waist as you step closer to him, and you end up turning in small circles in the middle of your living room as Jungkook murmurs a love song into your ear.

You suddenly realise that you’ve never been happier than you are right now: dancing in your living room in the circle of Jungkook’s arms as he sings to you, a romantic cliché that’s somehow become true for you. For you. With someone as incredible as Jungkook.

You’re never happier than when you’re with Jungkook.

Holy shit.

You’re in love with Jungkook.

The final note of the song lingers in the air as he comes to an end, the resonance of a bell that slowly fades. He smiles at you as you slowly come to a stop, still nestled in each other’s embrace as your feet finally become still.

“I’m so glad I broke my leg,” you say suddenly, and Jungkook laughs outright, face squeezing up in the way that you love so much.

You’re in love with him.

You watch as he slips his shoes back on. You feel helpless and untethered in a lot of ways, but at the same time, you’ve never felt more sure about anything. When he flashes you a smile, you can’t help but smile back— but that’s always been the case, hasn’t it?

“Hey,” you say suddenly, just after Jungkook’s finished shrugging his coat on. “I know you’ve just, um, gotten ready to go and everything, but can I quickly show you something?” Your heart is thudding in your chest.

Jungkook blinks. “Sure.”

You give him a jerky nod before turning on your heel and walking down the corridor to swing the door open to your office. Jungkook follows behind you, waiting in the doorway as you flick the light on; he makes a noise when he notices the frame hanging on your wall, the flowers of the corsage that you’d dried and pressed safe behind the glass.

You don’t respond. You’re too busy taking a moment to suck in a deep breath and steel yourself before you open your filing cabinet to pull out a stack of papers, sheaves of writing that are stapled together— the very first, unedited drafts of each of your novels, kept for posterity.

“I, um, don’t really know how to say this.” You stare at your hands as you shuffle through the booklets. “I haven’t told anyone new in a long time, so I guess I’m out of practice, but, uh.” You’re so nervous that you’re light-headed. “Autumn Lovett is actually my pen name. These are drafts of my novels if you think I’m lying,” you say, shoving the paper at Jungkook’s chest; he grabs them before they fall to the ground. “Um. So. Yeah. Taa-daa?”

You feel like you’ve run a marathon. Your heart is racing and your lungs are struggling to take in air. You can’t look at Jungkook. You’re staring at the ceiling instead, dreading his reaction.

When he makes a noise, however, your head snaps down. He’s crouched in the middle of your office with your drafts held over his face.

“Jungkook?” You say, panicked, and he makes the same noise again.

“Oh my God,” he whines, muffled behind the paper. You squat down to grip his hands and pull them away from his face, worried; when it’s finally revealed he’s bright red and he looks mortified. “I can’t believe I recommended your own books to you,” he all but wails. “And I gushed like a fanboy in front of you about them too. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t mean to but you laugh. Jungkook tries to hide his face again but you pull the drafts out of his hands and send them scattering to the floor. “Oh, Jungkook,” you say, overflowing with affection. “You don’t have to apologise. I found it flattering, actually.”

He doesn’t seem bothered that you hadn’t told him sooner. He doesn’t care that you’ve been keeping it a secret. He’s just embarrassed. He stays embarrassed as he helps you gather up the papers, and he stays embarrassed as you return your own book that he’d let you borrow, and he stays embarrassed as he heads towards your front door for the second time that night.

“I do, um, really like your work,” he says, shy as he fiddles with your door handle. “I’m really looking forward to your next novel. I’m not just saying that to be nice because I know who you are now.” His eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “I mean it.”

Your heart feels full to the brim with fondness. “I know,” you say. “I believe you. I— you can have a read through it before it’s published, actually, as long as you promise not to leak it.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen even further before he holds his hand out. “Pinky promise.”

You giggle as you hook your finger with his. “Pinky promise.”

Once Jungkook’s left you immediately sit down at your computer and write and write and write— it’s like the words just won’t stop. They come pouring out of you, and endless torrent that you don’t try to rein in. You write for so long you end up crashing at your desk, face smooshed against your keyboard as you drool in your sleep.

(“I don’t know how to dance,” Yunhee says, and Lily just smiles.

“Me neither,” she says. “We can learn together.”

They keep stepping on each other’s feet. It’s clumsy and messy and they keep dissolving into laughter between apologies to each other, but it’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee.

It’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee, with Lily: because it’s them, together.)

“I’ve finished my novel,” you announce, and all the men at the table sit up.

“Wow.” Namjoon blinks at you. “I thought you weren’t due to publish for, what, another six months?”

“What can I say? I’ve been inspired.” You smile down into your glass before taking a drink of your orange juice.

Seokjin stares at you before he leans back in his chair. He’s always been able to read you through and through, and that perceptiveness doesn’t leave him now. “Ah,” he says. “You’re in love.”

You’re in the middle of swallowing your juice and nearly choke, spluttering. Namjoon pats your back with concern while his boyfriend looks askance.

“You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.”

“I wasn’t lying,” you wheeze, finally coughing the last remnants of orange juice out of your windpipe. “Well, I guess it was kind of a half lie? I was buying them, but, uh, he made them.” You fiddle with the napkin in your lap as Seokjin coos at you.

“You fell in love with a florist,” he says. “You’re literally living in an AO3 fanfic. That’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, and Jin just laughs when you try to kick him under the table and nearly hit Namjoon instead.

“It sounds romantic,” Namjoon agrees, apparently unphased by how close he was to getting nailed in the shins.

Jimin slaps his small hand against the table. “You haven’t answered any of my questions, snake. I know what you’re like, Y/n— get the Polaroid out of your bag. We need to judge your new beau.”

Jimin’s right. He knows exactly what you’re like, the helpless romantic that you are; the three men shuffle their heads together to peer at the photo of Jungkook, the one where he’s surrounded by the sunset.

“He’s fucking cute,” Jimin decides immediately. “I’m almost offended you haven’t introduced him to us yet. You should invite him to our house-warming party. Namjoon agrees.”

You look at Namjoon, who nods despite not being consulted. “You’re so whipped,” you mutter at him. He just shrugs. “Anyway,” you continue, raising your voice over Jimin’s and Jin’s muttered conversation as they continue to stare at your photo of Jungkook. “I’m going to hold fire on the house-warming party invitation for now, because, um, I haven’t actually said anything to him yet.”

Your eyes are cast down as you say this, affixed to the sight of your hands in your lap. You’ve still been visiting Spring Day, of course, and you’ve started to see Jungkook more and more outside of work as well; each time you meet him you fall a little bit more in love. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to fall for him.

“Y/n.” Jimin’s voice is sober and you glance up from your lap to take in the worried look on his face. “I know it must be scary—”

“Oh gosh, Minnie, I love you, but it’s okay, you don’t need to give me a pep-talk on how I’m a 10/10 and anyone would be blessed to have me,” you interrupt. “I haven’t been putting off confessing because I think he’s going to pull a Jin and turn me down—”

“Hey,” Jin says mildly. He knows you’re joking. You got over that ages ago.

“—but I, um, emailed him my book yesterday, actually,” you finish. “What he does once he’s finished reading it is up to him.”

Jimin is right. It is scary. But Jungkook is worth the potential pain and heartache. He is. He’s always so lovely to you, always so considerate; he sings for you and dances with you and he’s even painted for you, a small canvas covered in favourite flowers, ones that won’t die. Last week when he’d dropped you off at your apartment, he’d brushed his lips across your cheek before practically sprinting away, and your heart had exploded in your chest.

You have no idea how someone as amazing as Jungkook sees something worthwhile in you, so it's hard to come to grips with, but there’s no way you’re reading this wrong. There’s no way.

The table goes quiet and then Jin leans forward and takes your hands in his. “I can’t believe you’re confessing to him with your book,” he says. “This really is an AO3 fanfic. Hashtag slow burn.”

This time, when you kick him, you don’t miss.

You spend the rest of the day with your coterie of doofuses and by the time you get home you’re ready to relax. You’ve just finished getting into your pyjamas, flopping down onto your sofa when there’s suddenly a hammering at your door. You sit up, startled at the noise. The knocking doesn’t let up as you approach the door and you’re wary, but once you look through the peephole you immediately swing it open.

“Jungkook? Are you okay?”

He’s wild-eyed and windswept and his chest is heaving as he sucks in air. You stare at him with concern as he catches his breath.

“Yoongi let me have the day off,” he says. You blink at him.

“Okay? Did you want to go out somewhere? Now? You’ll have to let me change, though, my pyjamas aren’t exactly great evening wear.”

“I’ve spent the whole day reading your book,” Jungkook says, and your heart goes still in your chest before it starts beating at double time.

“Oh,” you say. “Um. What, uh. What did you think?”

Jungkook’s face has taken on an expression that you’ve become intimately familiar with, a similar look to the one he’d been giving you that night by the river, soft and open and warm and— you can see it now, as time has gone by— full of love. He cups your face in his hands and rests his forehead against yours, dark eyes drinking you in, the smile on his lips so lovely and sweet. Just for you.

“I love you,” he says, and then he kisses you.

He keeps cradling your face in his hands, his lips moving against yours in a way that’s so tender that it makes you want to cry; you’ve never felt so wrapped up in someone’s touch like this, like you can feel exactly how precious you are to him just from the touch of his lips against yours. You know it’s a cliché to say that it feels like fireworks going off in your chest, but it does, every single one of the butterflies that have been nestled in your ribcage exploding into flames and brightness, sparkling heat that shines out of you every second Jungkook keeps kissing and kissing and kissing you.

Kissing Jungkook feels like every romantic fantasy you’ve ever written into your books is coming true all at once. You’re not unwanted, undesirable, unlovable: he wants you, he desires you, he loves you.

(He loves you.)

It feels like every flower he’s ever given you is flushing to full bloom all at once, spilling out of your chest, brightness and colour and life curling around your heart. All those years spent quietly hoping, culminating in this moment: Jeon Jungkook pressing his lips against yours, keeping you steady as you lean into him, and you feel like all that waiting and yearning and wanting was worth it if you got to meet him at the end of it all. You’ve finally got your storybook ending.

No, actually— it’s just the beginning.

You’re still standing in your doorway when you part, Jungkook’s hands splayed across your jaw as you give him a smile so wide it almost hurts.

“I love you too,” you say. “If that wasn’t already obvious.”

Jungkook chuckles and you can’t help but lean into the sound, eyes slipping shut as you turn your head and rest your forehead against his jaw. “I had to reread some parts because I didn’t think I was reading it right,” he admits, and you keep smiling. “I thought there was no way it could be real.”

How could Jungkook ever have any doubts? How could Jungkook think that there was no way that you could love him? Does he not realise how amazing he is? How wildly lucky you feel that somehow— with all your flaws and blemishes and imperfections— he loves you back?

“What made you come around?”

“Yoongi-hyung took one look at the last page and threw a roll of ribbon at my head,” Jungkook says, and you laugh, and Jungkook laughs, and the two of you are laughing and laughing and laughing. You feel like you could float away, buoyant with happiness; only Jungkook’s presence is keeping your feet on the ground. “I hope you don’t mind that I let him read it.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head back to look at Jungkook. He’s staring at you like you’re the sun and he’s turning towards you, a fierce and beautiful tiger lily blooming in your light. “I wouldn’t mind if you sent free copies of the book to everyone in the world if it meant I’d have you at the end of it.”

Jungkook smiles at you. It’s bright and wide and his eyes are crescents as his nose scrunches and he flashes his teeth, and you love him. “Purple rose, lilac, baby’s breath,” he says, and you recognise the flowers of the corsage he’d given you, all those months ago. “Love at first sight, first love, everlasting love.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Shut up,” you breathe. He'd seen you as worth loving, even then? “Shut up. You did not— you did not confess that you had a crush on me with flowers? After we’d only met twice?”

“Maybe I did.” Jungkook’s smile turns cheeky and you love him.

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe me. You were literally reading a book about flower language, how did I not— god. I love you,” you say helplessly, and he laughs before he kisses you again.

(“I love you.”

Yunhee freezes in place and looks up at Lily with wide eyes. Lily is terrified of being hurt again, terrified of Yunhee not returning all this endless love that she has in her heart— but Yunhee is worth that terror. She’s worth that pain. Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she needs to know how loved she is. How brilliant and lovely and wonderful she is, her Yunhee, her love.

Yunhee opens her mouth to reply, and says:

How this story ends is up to you, Jungkook. I’ll be waiting. - Y/n)

#jungkook fluff #bts fluff #jungkook oneshot #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenario #bts oneshot #joy.masterlist

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fanmoose12 · 3 years

Text

catch me if you can

Сharacters: Hange Zoe, Levi, Erwin Smith, Kenny Ackerman

Genres: Mystery / Romance

Summary: The Ackerman duo. Just the mention of this name filled Hange with so many feelings. Mostly, when she reread the files of their cases over and over, until her eyes watered, she felt pricking annoyance. Sometimes, when she stared at the dead bodies of those scarce unfortunates who stumbled upon their crimes, she was filled with hatred and a pushing need for revenge. Hange couldn’t deny, however, there were times when she marveled at the impudence of their crimes. And, when she was investigating the Ackerman’s cases and saw just how meticulously planned they all were, she couldn’t help but feel something close to fascination.No one knew who they were. No one had seen their faces, no one knew their true names. Almost everyone knew of their crimes.Hange was determined to unravel every last one of their secrets. She will put an end to their crimes and then she will get the elusive Ackermans behind bars.

Chapter 8/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Hange hated it.

She hated it all – the today’s cold early morning, the yesterday’s long, sleepless night, the shitty, overpriced coffee from the airport cafe. She hated the weather that was too cold not to wear a coat and a scarf, but now made her sweat in all the layers of clothing. She hated the uncomfortable chair she was sitting at, hated waiting for so long just to see the needed flight appear on screen. She hated her new case and the sense of urgency it brought along. She hated that she had to work with him to find that missing young girl.

And more than all of that, she hated that sleazy bastard, that Ackerman.

She hated that morning in the hospital, when she found a note and recognized that it was written by the same hand that used to mock her every failure. Everything clicked right there and then, and Hange hated that she felt sad about it. Not angry, not betrayed, but sad. She was hurt, she was miserable, so much so that she actually shed a few tears, feeling like she lost someone she never actually had.

She should have known better, should have not let that happen. She shouldn’t have trusted him, not after just a couple of dates, after a few silly jokes and endearing gestures. But Ackerman, that damned thief, managed to sneak through all of her defenses, he made her think that there was something there, some connection between them. Perhaps, even something special.

Then everything turned out to be a lie, and it left her broken, wondering what she did wrong, when did she become so naive. She threw herself into her work, finding a short respite in it. For long two months that seemed more like a few days, she almost felt at piece, almost managed to convince herself – and everyone else – that she ceased thinking about Ackermans, their case and the man who might or might not even be called Levi. And now she had to work with him.

Hange hated her job sometimes.

She also hated her heart most of the time, especially right now, when it squeezed painfully at the sight of Ackerman’s dark, sullen and so unfairly handsome face.

Despite the large crowd and long corridor that separated them, their eyes still met each other.

Her treacherous heart skipped another beat.

Hange gripped the paper coffee cup as tight as it allowed, forcing herself to school her expression in something more appropriate – cold, detached. Not so heartbroken.

At least, Ackerman had the decency to look ashamed. He lowered his gaze as soon as he saw her, and it gave Hange the time to look over his entire form.

He changed. Ever so slightly, but still noticeable enough for Hange’s keen eyes.

He was more tanned now, not nearly as sickly pale as he was before. The circles under his eyes didn’t disappear though, and so didn’t his stiff posture. There was another change, however - a small cut on his left cheek. It sparked a quick flash of anger for the person responsible. Hange hated herself for that, too.

She shouldn’t care about that, shouldn’t wonder about the person who hurt Levi, shouldn’t wish to hurt them back. These feelings, they irritated Hange. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make them disappear.

“It’s just you here?” Ackerman approached her slowly, his hand gripping the strap of his travelling bag just as tightly as Hange held her coffee cup. She stood up too, straightening to her full height. Ackerman stopped, just a few steps away from her. “I thought you would bring the entire police department to arrest me.”

Hange scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’re not that important.”

And there was also that tiny little thing about her not actually having the power to arrest him. Technically, the Ackermans’ case was closed. Technically, Hange had no definitive piece of evidence that she could have used to lock him up.

Technically, Ackerman wasn’t even supposed to be here. And neither was she.

Back at the precinct, no one actually knew about that venture of hers. And they wouldn’t find out about it, not if Hange did everything right.

There were lots of reasons why Hange had to keep Ackerman’s involvement a secret. There was this thing about him being a notorious criminal who escaped justice, but more importantly, there was this little thing about her going on a date with the said criminal. Hange knew that Erwin knew about Levi and his true identity, he never told her that specifically, but when Hange demanded to take her off Ackerman’s case, he didn’t even bat an eye. He also didn’t ask a single question. The absence of his reaction made her wonder just how much he actually knew, and for how long he had that knowledge. Had he known since the beginning? Had he kept quiet just to see where it would lead? And whether she would realize the truth or not?

Hange didn’t have the guts to ask Erwin about that directly, didn’t wish to open that can of worms right now, preferred that it would stay closed for good. They both ignored that mistake of hers, both didn’t dare to bring up Levi or her previous case. And Hange would have liked for it to stay this way forever.

But if Erwin found out that Hange made Ackerman come out of hiding, so he would help her to find the missing Krista Lenz, well… Erwin probably wouldn’t chew her head off, but he definitely would give her a strict, and extremely long verbal reprimanding.

And he would take her off the case, and that… well, Hange already had a case she failed at spectacularly, she didn’t wish for that to become a pattern.

She also wished to find Krista Lenz and save her from whatever peril she found herself in. Hange didn’t know her, had only seen the photos, but that bright smile and those kind blue eyes kept pushing her forward, gave her a reason to not just solve the case, but bring that girl home.

And if she had to work with the damned Ackerman to achieve it, so be it.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” she promptly turned away from him, starting a brisk pace and heading to the exit of the airport. She hoped the Ackerman would follow. He did, surprisingly obedient. “Let’s eat before we start.”

***

The diner was nice.

Small but cozy, the interior was made up entirely of combination of blue and white. The tables were clean and adorned with neat, soft tablecloth, the booth he was sitting at was spacious and comfortable, the food was delicious and tea was made just as he liked it, even the music didn’t bother him, a pleasant, quiet melody was playing, adding to the atmosphere.

The diner was nice. His company, however, was not. Levi never thought that someone could eat breakfast so angrily. But every time his and Hange’s gazes met, he was quick to look away, her icy cold stare practically boring into his soul.

Thankfully, while Hange was busy devouring her omelet, she didn’t glance at him even once. She had mentioned that she was starving, and, knowing her work etiquette and seeing that her cheekbones became slightly more pronounced, Levi was inclined to think that her backhanded remark wasn’t just a figure of speech.

Watching her eat made Levi wonder what would happen if he ordered her a desert. Would Hange punch him or simply annihilate him with her glare?

Honestly, Levi was surprised she hadn’t punched him the moment she had seen him in the airport. He was also immensely surprised that he was having breakfast in a diner and not on his way to the prison.

During the phone call, Hange said that she wasn’t going to arrest him, but still, he would have liked to ask more about it. However, breaching that subject with Hange looking so furious didn’t seem like a great idea. He was walking on a thin ice as it was.

But even so, the tense silence was swiftly becoming unbearable, and Levi raked his brain for a topic of conversation, something safe and unassuming, the kind of talk that wouldn’t earn him a kick to his face.

“So how did you find me?”

Not the best way to start, Levi realized that as soon as the question tumbled out of his mouth. He cringed, thinking if he should just take his words back. But it was already too late.

Hange put the fork down and looked at him. With her eyebrows furrowed like that, she looked too much like her Captain, that annoying Erwin Smith. She wasn’t nearly as annoying, though. And, in Levi’s humble opinion, she was much handsomer than her mentor.

“It wasn’t that hard,” Hange said, as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. Some gravy remained at the side of her lips, but Levi wasn’t sure if he should point that out. He would have liked to wipe it out himself, he remembered doing exactly that during one of their dates, which felt like it had happened a lifetime ago. He would have liked to repeat that simple gesture. Then again, Hange probably wouldn’t have liked if he did that. “I guessed that you left the city on the night when…” something in her expression shifted, her face became less guarded. But Hange blinked and it was gone, the same stone mask returning. She cleared her throat and continued, “when we spoke for the last time. Since I knew when you left, it was only a matter of looking at the camera recording from the airport and finding which flight you took. Then I requested some security viewings from the city you were hiding at, and… here you are.”

Hange made it sound so simple, Levi almost believed that it actually was. Her exhausted face told another story, though. Levi could only imagine how long it took her to find him. She must be at her wit’s end, if she went through all of this just to get his help.

“What do you need me for then?”

Hange reached to her bag, opening and rummaging through it. When she was finished, she took out the case file and handed it to him.

“This is Krista Lenz, a college student who had disappeared a week ago,” Levi opened the case file, young blonde girl with impossibly bright eyes stared at him from the first page. “Do you recognize her?”

Levi looked at the photo for another second, just to be sure. But the girl on the photo stirred nothing in him. No vague memory, no sort of recollection. The name didn’t sound familiar, and if he had ever met the girl, it could only be in passing, as both of them, perhaps, walked beside each other on the same sidewalk. But that was the extent of it. Whoever this girl was, Levi did not know her.

He said the very thing to Hange, as he closed and pushed the case file back to her.

Hange pushed it back to him. “Well, too bad that you don’t know her. Because your uncle is the one who kidnapped her.”

Levi was very grateful for his extreme talent at keeping his face straight, because mentally his jaw was somewhere near the fucking floor. Externally, however, he didn’t let a single muscle on his face twitch.

With more self-restraint that he thought was capable of, he lifted an eyebrow, and asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve heard me,” Hange opened the case file for him and flicked through a couple of pages. “We searched Krista’s room and found a few letters, written by some Kenny the Reaper. Sounds familiar to you?”

More familiar than Hange thought. Of course, Levi knew Kenny the Reaper, back when he was a brat, his uncle used to tell tales of the Reaper, scary, blood-curling stories about the tall man in a long dusty black coat, who lived across the tracks. Kenny said the man’s hands were constantly covered in red and he always smelled of metal and copper. Kenny said the Reaper would come and take him, if Levi continued acting like a pathetic, whiny brat. Stories about the Reaper used to terrify the shit out of him, especially during the nights, when Kenny turned off the lights and storm was raging outside.

After his mother died, and Levi was spending his days in bed, crying himself to sleep, the stories about Kenny the Reaper reached their peak.

Kenny the Reaper would whisk you away at night if you don’t eat the soup, Kenny the Reaper would stand above your bed during the night if you don’t go to sleep, Kenny the Reaper would bath you in your own blood, if you don’t change your dirty clothes, Kenny the Reaper would come and eat your heart in front of you, if you don’t stop crying.

During those horrible, grief-filled days, only the fear of Kenny the Reaper was able to stop Levi from wallowing in his own misery.

Kenny wasn’t the best parent, wasn’t truly made for it, but, surprisingly, some of his methods, as cruel as they were, actually worked on Levi.

But he stopped with the silly stories once Levi became a teenager and they ceased having an effect on him.

Then why did Kenny the Reaper return? Why did he write letters to a young girl, who had disappeared? Could it really be that his uncle was the culprit?

Levi looked down at the case file, where a picture of the Reaper’s note was attached. All doubts disappeared from his mind. It was Kenny’s handwriting, the same messy, barely incomprehensible scribblings. But how did they appear inside the missing girl’s room? And why did Kenny write them in the first place?

He looked at note more closely, squinting to read it.

I have something you might want to look at it, little Missy. Come to the tracks tonight, or Kenny the Ripper will take you away by force.

Levi stared at the note for another moment, struggling to comprehend. It looked like… utter gibberish.

“So?” Hange lifted the cup to her lips, watching him over its rim. “Was my hunch correct? Is it really your uncle’s doing?”

It was just a hunch, but Hange had him located and brought back into the city simply to check if she was right? Either she was that confident in her theory, or… she was that desperate.

“It’s his handwriting,” he told her. “This note was definitely written by him.”

But did Kenny kidnap some girl? Levi didn’t know if that was possible. Why would his uncle even do that? What shitty trouble was he involved in this time? What was going on in the city during the two months that he was away? What Kenny was up to during that time? What was he up to right now?

It seemed like Levi certainly had missed a lot. He had to catch up to it all, and quickly. Perhaps, Hange would be able to help him.

“I don’t think Kenny had taken that girl,” Levi wasn’t sure if his uncle was even capable of that. Sure, he did some nasty things, but always for a reason. And what possible reason could he have to kidnap a young girl? “Did you receive a ransom after her disappearance?”

“No. There is utter silence after Krista went missing. I thought about your uncle only because I’ve remembered you mentioning that his name was Kenny. Decided this theory was worth pursuing.”

Levi didn’t even know he said it, but Hange remembered it? This small detail probably shouldn’t have made him feel so warm inside.

She’s a detective, it’s her job to pick up and remember stuff, he told himself. His heart refused to listen.

“I’m willing to help you find him,” he said to Hange, shaking his head to get rid of useless thoughts. He had a more pressing matter right now. For example, why the fuck his uncle decided to kidnap someone. Finding an answer to this question was his priority. Levi just had to remember that.

“Oh,” Hange waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t really have a choice in that. I need you to help me, Ackerman. And since your apartment was abandoned a little over a week ago, just as Krista went missing, I think it’s a good place to start our investigation.”

Hange knew where his apartment was located? This was hardly surprising, considering that she managed to find him in another city, but still… Her detective skills were brilliant.

Hange waved over the waitress, asking for a bill. As soon as she paid, she stood up. Levi quickly followed her suit.

“My apartment is on the other side of town,” he began, as he fell into step with Hange. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to escape?”

“Want me to handcuff you, Ackerman? Didn’t know you were so kinky,” surprisingly, Hange grinned. But the merry expression didn’t stay for long. The serious detective face returned almost immediately. “If you really think about escaping, my advice to you – don’t. I found you in another city on the other side of the world. How long do you think it would take me to find you here?”

Well, point was certainly taken. No more jokes and attempts at flirting. Hange was definitely not in the mood for this. Levi would have liked to blame it on her case, but he wasn’t that naïve and he was never that good at fooling himself. Hange hated him now, and there was nothing surprising about it. He knew it was going to come to this. He thought he was prepared.

But the bitter taste in his mouth, the giant, crushing weight in his chest – that he wasn’t ready for.

“It’ll be easier to get to my apartment by the subway,” he said, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Come on, I’ll lead the way.”

He wanted Hange to throw some stupid joke or a lame one-liner, say at least something. Instead, she followed after him without a single word.

Levi's disappointment was unmeasurable.

***

Hange didn’t know how exactly she pictured the apartment of two notorious thieves to look like, but she certainly didn’t expect the Ackermans’ den to look so… normal.

No secret traps, no hidden treasures, no weaponry hanging on the wall, there was nothing that could even hint at the possibility that the two men that were living there were criminals.

The apartment was relatively small, with only two bedrooms and a kitchen. It also wasn’t as spartan as Hange would have imagined it to be. There were pictures – but not photos – hanging on the walls, house plants that stood on windowsills, a bookshelf filled with books, curtains that fluttered from the wind coming from the open windows.

All of it was so mundane and cozy… Hange didn’t quite know what to make of it.

However, she had to admit, she was not only surprised, but a little disappointed too. She didn’t know what to expect from Ackermans’ apartment, but she had her ideas of what Levi’s apartment would look like. She pictured a neat, pristine place with spotless floors and shining cutlery.

But in reality, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, the kitchen was filled with empty pizza boxes and bottles of beer, clothes were lying in the piles on the floor, dust was flying in the air.

Did the great clean freak Levi really live there? Or was that side of Levi’s persona just another lie?

“Fucking Kenny,” Ackerman mumbled under his breath, his scowl as fierce as ever. “I was gone for two months and he already turned into a pig.”

Oh. So that wasn’t part of an act? Hange was actually relieved to hear it. Enough to chuckle and say, “The obsession with cleanliness doesn’t run in the family?”

Ackerman turned from glaring at the dark stain on the kitchen table to look at her. His mouth twitched, as their eyes met. “Kenny is just a horrible exception.”

And there it was. For no longer than a single moment, but something had ignited, some sort of connection, recognition deep within her, the feeling of belonging. It was the same feeling she had whenever she was with Levi before.

But it wasn’t Levi, she reminded herself strictly. It wasn’t Levi, the awkward, endearing man she stumbled upon one evening. It was Ackerman, a thief who consciously played with her feelings, who lied to her and fooled her into believing he was someone else.

But Hange knew who he was now. She wouldn’t let him fool her anymore.

She looked away from him, her expression turning sourer. Possibly sensing her foul mood, Ackerman turned away too, his frown deepening.

“What exactly you expect to find here?” he asked. “I thought you guys had already searched our house.”

“No. I didn’t want to bother with getting a search warrant.”

She didn’t want to, and she couldn’t. If she came to Erwin, asking for a search warrant for the Ackermans’ apartment, because she suspected that one of Ackermans was involved in her new case, Erwin would call off the case right that instant. He’d say that she was too emotionally compromised, that she couldn’t think straight and had an unhealthy obsession with Ackermans’ case.

Erwin wouldn’t have listened to her theory, wouldn’t have let her continue working. And Hange couldn’t let go of this case, couldn't allow someone from Nile’s team to start searching for the missing Krista Lenz. After all, there was a reason why Erwin gave that case specifically to her. She was driven, endlessly dedicated to her work, Erwin knew she wouldn’t stop before Krista Lenz was found and safely returned to her old life.

And Hange couldn’t let Krista’s safety be compromised, because of some search warrant she didn’t even need. She came here with the owner of the apartment, right? Technically, she got inside without breaking any laws. Except she was working with a criminal, but then again, no one could prove that Ackerman was a criminal. Hange would have to work on that after she brought Krista home.

“So what is it that you hope to find here?” Ackerman repeated his question. “I doubt your missing girl is hidden inside my closet.”

Hange rolled her eyes at the obvious sarcasm. Ackerman didn’t believe her, but she didn’t really need him to. He could believe that his uncle was innocent, that it was some big misunderstanding or whatever lie he created for himself. She didn’t need Ackerman to share her suspicions, she just needed him to help her find Kenny Ackerman.

That was the primary and only reason for his involvement.

“Let’s start with his room then,” Hange said. “Even if Krista isn’t there, perhaps, we’ll be able to find something of use anyway.”

“Well, you’re the boss here,” Ackerman scoffed.

With hands shoved deep into his pockets, Ackerman led her out of the kitchen and into a short hallway. As they walked, they passed a room that had a slightly ajar door. Curious, Hange popped her head inside. In contrast to the rest of the house, that room was tidy. It didn’t take a detective to realize that it was Levi’s room. On a wardrobe beside the bed, there was a blue shirt hanging. Hange recognize it as the same shirt Levi wore to their so-called first date. The shirt was nice, she remembered thinking that it brought Levi’s eyes.

Hange wanted to rip it into pieces.

She kicked the door closed with her foot, ignoring Ackerman’s wide-eyed stare. “Let’s just get it over with,” she grumbled, beyond frustrated.

Thankfully, Ackerman didn’t comment and silently led her to his uncle’s room.

Inside, it was even messier than in the rest of the apartment. Papers were scattered around, empty glasses and plates were littering the floor, the bed was unmade, the blanket and pillow missing from it. The state of the room was even worse than the mess inside Hange’s apartment, even during her bad days. It was dark too, the heavy brown curtains blocking the sunlight from outside entirely.

Honestly, it looked a little too creepy for Hange’s taste. Like the room of a madman. A madman who had kidnapped a young girl. A madman, who without hesitation had killed an innocent man and had almost killed her. Hange felt a shiver ran through her spine at that thought.

“Are you sure that your guys didn’t search the house?” Ackerman’s gruff voice brought her to the present.

“You think that someone broke in?”

“Possibly,” Ackerman nodded. “Either someone broke in, or Kenny just lost his mind.”

“And which one is more probable?”

Ackerman shrugged. “I’d say fifty-fifty.”

“Cool,” she rubbed her temples, feeling a migraine coming. “Amazing. Just awesome.” So she wasn’t only looking for a cruel criminal, but apparently he could be crazy as well. And she thought this case couldn’t get any worse. “Let’s start looking for clues then. Before your uncle arrives and decapitates me or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ackerman chided. “He won’t decapitate you. Just slash your throat.”

His dry delivery and his deadpan face made it hard for Hange to understand whether he was joking or not. She hoped he was. She liked her throat, and didn’t want it to be slashed.

“I’ll take the left part of the room,” she announced to Ackerman, immediately getting to work. The sooner they finish here, the lesser were chances of having her throat slashed. Probably.

As Hange kneeled on the floor, looking through papers scattered there, she couldn’t help but look around the room. And as she took a good look at it, she couldn’t help but wonder…

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Ackerman.

He threw her a dark look. “By this you mean…”

“Why do you keep doing this?” she gestured around, “Stealing things, being criminals. You have enough as it is. Why not start doing honest work?”

“We’re stealing from rich assholes. You can hardly call it a crime.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Hange rolled her eyes. “Once a thief forever a thief, right?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Ackerman said curtly.

“And why not? Because I’m a cop?”

“Because you’re a cop, dressed in a coat that no cop should be able to afford.”

Affronted, Hange scowled at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you grew up rich. That you don’t know what poverty or need is. That you have no idea that sometimes,” his eyes flashed, a deep-seated anger coming to surface. Hange wondered if all of it was directed on her alone. “Honest work isn’t enough.”

Logically, Hange knew it was her cue to back away. But she was riled up already, she was exhausted and frustrated. She was also annoyed that Ackerman had figured her out so easily. So instead of shutting up like she should have to, she kept challenging him. “And when exactly honest work isn’t enough?”

“When your mother dies because you can’t pay her medical bills.”

Ackerman spoke quietly, calmly. His tone wasn’t angry or accusing. He didn’t even sound hurt. But Hange felt like the most disgusting piece of shit. Shame cursed through her, as she struggled to find her words, to apologize or— do something rathan than stare helplessly at him.

“Let’s get back to work,” he said, ending the heavy silence.

Hange nodded numbly, scooping a bunch of papers in her hands. She briefly glanced at them, but nothing seemed to hold any importance. There were some bills, checks, half-finished plans, written so messily Hange could barely decipher most of the words. There was nothing that could link Kenny Ackerman to the disappearance of Krista Lenz. Still, Hange persisted, forcing her thoughts to focus on the case, and not on the argument that had transpired moments ago.

It seemed stupid, ridiculous, she was so angry with Ackerman, but now she felt ashamed of her careless words. She was ashamed of being so naïve, so privileged. She knew she was lucky, luckier than most to be born in a wealthy family and have access to everything she needed or wanted. Not everyone was as fortunate as her, and some of people ended up just as Ackermans – driven to the life of crime by poverty and desperation. After all, most of the criminals didn’t choose this way of living, but Hange had forgotten about that. She let her single-minded determination cloud her perception and abandon her principals and initial reason for joining the force.

So fixed on catching criminals, she had forgotten that she wanted to help people, including those, who were lost or didn’t know better.

Hange felt the need to apologize to Ackerman. He was an asshole in his own right, but her cruelty and prejudice was uncalled for. She was better than this. At least, she hoped so.

So lost in her own thoughts, Hange missed the moment when Ackerman had moved from his kneeling position on the floor. Now he stood next to a long desk, gazing at it skeptically.

“If there is something worthy in this pile of shit, it’s gotta be here,” he explained to the confused Hange.

Still sitting on a floor, she watched how Ackerman opened the lowest drawer of the desk, throwing everything that was inside on the floor. More papers fell out. Once the drawer was empty, Ackerman pressed on something inside and revealed a hidden bottom drawer.

A secret compartment! Hange jumped to his side.

He was already shifting through the documents he found inside, his face as bored as ever. “Shit, I think there is nothing important her—”

“Wait!” Hange yelled, yanking a photo from between his fingers. Her eyes wide and mouth open, she stared at it. She knew that face, that face was staring accusingly at her for a whole week now, pushing Hange to find its owner. Linked to that photo was a birth certificate, and it bewildered Hange even more.

“What is it?” Ackerman rose on tiptoes, looking over her shoulder. “Did you find something?”

“I guess I did,” Hange slowly nodded, her eyes still glued to the photo and the document. “It appears we’ve been wrong. We aren’t looking for Krista Lenz. We’re searching for Historia.”

#i'll let you on a little secret: i'm so excited for the next chapter! one of the best snk characters is going to make an appearance!#and no it's not moblit #(sorry moblit ilysm)#levihan

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ohnopoe · 3 years

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Alone, Together | Din Djarin

Ship: Din Djarin x Reader Summary: Sometimes it’s the strongest people who just need someone to be strong for them. Word Count: 2.2k+ Warnings: Spoilers for the season 2 finale!! Angst. Author’s Note: This was meant to be hurt/comfort... I failed miserably... enjoy your angst and heartache! I also have not proof read this in the slightest... I am lazy and sorry

The silence echoed through the command centre, holding a weight upon your chest that felt akin to drowning. It seemed as though time itself was standing still as you stood there, engulfed in what had just happened, in the anguish that was threatening to creep in.

Of course, you had half expected something like this from the very beginning, it was the plan, after all. Grogu was with his kind now, with a jedi who could train and protect him so much better than you and Din ever could. You’d spent so long trying to convince yourself not to get attached, to enjoy the moments you shared with the curious child with a safe protective layer between you, but that was never really going to work, now, was it?

From the moment you had joined the Mandalorian on the Razor Crest, the duo had captured your heart, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to truly feel apart of the odd little crew. With such a stoic being as Din leading the charge, and a fifty year old child enamoured by his every shiny movement, you had thought it would simply be a job, just another in a long line of careers you had dabbled in throughout the galaxy. But it was so much more.

Looking after Grogu had been so much more than a job, it had been a delight, even in when he was determined to throw a tantrum when you all desperately needed sleep. It wasn’t long before the child became something akin to a friend, albeit a small, incoherent, gnawing on anything that shouldn’t go anywhere near a mouth, friend, but a friend nonetheless.

And somewhere along the line, the Mandalorian followed.

It was in the soft utterances that were barely heard, the gentle actions that weren’t necessary, but were always welcomed with a beaming smile. He wasn’t one for words, but he would show how he cared day by day.

A fruit you enjoyed on a random planet just so happened to be amongst the groceries after you exclaimed your joy upon tasting it. A new pillow was sitting on your bed a few days after he noticed you rubbing your stiff neck in the mornings. And when he found you nervous to be left alone on the Crest on a particularly dangerous planet? Well, suddenly there was time to take a day off to make sure you were comfortable with not only the weapons to defend yourself, but the controls of the Crest should you need to get yourself and the child out of there.

Yes, somewhere along the line, you had forged something of a friendship with the very same man who had unintentionally frightened you silent upon your first meeting. And if at some point your feelings for him had started to slip to something less platonic, well, that was neither here nor there.

Especially now, as you stood by his side in that same pained silence that still echoed through the Imperial ship.

Now, he needed a friend.

His helmet had been removed for the child, he had destroyed his creed, and, as tempting as it might have been, you had kept your gaze firmly on the ground the entire time, determined to respect his beliefs right down to the end.

The pain and anguish you felt at the sight of those gigantic sad eyes as Grogu had left was incomparable, but, even in your pain, you knew it was nothing compared to the hurt the Mandalorian at your side must be feeling.

There were too many in the room, battle hardened warriors each one of them, and you knew words of comfort or sympathy would do little at such a time, so you did the only thing you could think of.

With your gaze still firmly fixated on the floor, you pushed the pain aside, something to be addressed later, when you were alone, when you didn’t have to be the rock for the same man who had unknowingly been the same for you time after time in his own resilient manner.

Your hand barely moved, slow and subtle as you reached across the small distance to him. Unhurried, gentle, as if trying not to scare a wild animal, your fingers found his, curling into his hold in a silent show of camaraderie that had the heartbroken man turning his head towards you.

With your gaze still focused on the floor at your feet, you didn’t see the way those deep brown eyes took you in, savouring the sight, awed by the way you remained diligently refusing to glance his way. You didn’t see the years of pain and heartbreak that swam in that tear stung gaze, didn’t see the anguish that flittered there, fighting against an unwavering affection for you that seemed to have made its home there long ago.

But you did feel the way his hand clasped around yours, large and warm, even through the leather of his gloves. It practically engulfed your own hand, and yet, the desperate hold almost made it seem small, uncertain, as if this one action, your hand in his, was the only thing keeping him together as his world fell apart once more.

Time that had moved so slowly seemed to suddenly fly into overdrive. Boba was back to pick up Fennec, Bo was, begrudgingly, focusing on what could be salvaged from the Imperial ship, Cara was setting off with Gideon, and, while you certainly seemed to be taking in whatever was thrown your way, it still felt a world away.

A decision had to be made, and before you knew it you were walking behind Cara and her new prisoner, still hand in hand with the Mandalorian who hadn’t dared let go of your hand since the moment you had offered it.

Somewhere along the way you had made it clear that you would remain with the Mandalorian, no matter what was to come, although you weren’t entirely certain the words had ever actually been spoken aloud. But any alternative was practically laughable. How could you possibly leave him now? How could you ever?

And then you were on the ship, when had that happened? And Gideon had been silenced once more with a hasty gag that was a desperate plea for what little sanity your little trio had left to not run astray (and possibly to keep Cara from killing him before she could make it to the New Republic). And then? Well, then was now wasn’t it? Alone in the cramped personal quarters of the shuttle, truly alone for the first time in weeks.

There was a time when being alone felt rejuvenating, refreshing even. The quiet solitude a haven from the chaos of so many busy planets, of so many people. When had that changed?

With a sad smile, you almost scoffed at the question the moment it flittered into your mind. You knew damn well when.

Silence had never lasted all that long on the Crest, no matter how tired you and Din might have been, the little green eared monster was determined to run amok, causing a clamouring of sounds in his wake. It was so easy to find it irritating when you were woken from only two hours of blissful sleep after days of being forced awake. It was easy to sigh and grapple with the playful child and remind him that this was sleep time, not play time, and if he wasn’t going to get some rest he had to at least let you get some.

But now, in the eerie silence of the Imperial shuttle you had commandeered in an effort to save the frog eating little bugger, you longed for those sounds. The chaos and cacophony of Grogu was a part of what had become your home, and now, yet another part of it was gone forever.

You couldn’t say when the tears had begun, or when they had slipped from silent streams to harsh sobs that wrecked their way through your body. But, curled up on the militantly neat bunk bed you had claimed as your own, you couldn’t have cared less.

Finally, you were alone, after hours of planning and debating, hours of being the solid rock for the man you had come to care so deeply for. Now was your chance to grieve everything you had lost, in the solitude of the clinically white cube someone had deigned appropriate to be a bedroom.

Visions of green ears and large eyes swam through your mind, memories entangled with daydreams as you thought about what had been, and what was to come for the small child you had grown to love.

But he was gone now, along with the Razor Crest that had become your home, although, thankfully, in a much less dramatic fashion.

Would that just be the way for all the things you loved? Would the same soon follow for Din?

A sound, far harsher than a sob, rattled its way from your chest at the thought. Surely he would be the next to leave, returning to his old life or helping rebuild Mandalore… either way, he no longer had a need for you now, did he? What use would he have for a glorified babysitter with no baby?

The sound of your tears would have been harrowing, were it not for the safety of those Imperial walls that surrounded you. Sobs and groans slipped from one to another as your tears soaked the stark white pillow beneath you. Curled up into the smallest ball you could manage, you let go.

That pain you’d pushed away earlier? Well, it was back, tenfold.

This was why you had never meant to get attached, this, right here, the aching hole that wanted to consume you, yet seemed to echo out from your very chest. It was a pain like no other, grief mixed with fear, sorrow mixed with a loneliness you could never put into words. A profound war of emotions that had your body shaken, and your mind so lost in its anguish, that you didn’t even hear the way the doors slid open, or the heartbroken sigh that followed.

Din was used to being alone. Even with you and Grogu aboard the Razor Crest with him, he would often find himself focused on a job while you distracted the little womp rat in the hull. It was just a part of life, until it wasn’t. Until he found himself working down there alongside you, until he found himself seeking out the joyful sounds of you playing with the child who was somehow older than either of you.

But even still, he was used to your absence, no matter how desperately he wished he weren’t.

So, as much as he desperately wanted to follow you when you claimed to need some rest, no matter how much he wanted to cling to your hand, to the intense amount of comfort such a small gesture had given him, he had let you go.

But that was nearly an hour ago now, and he couldn’t bare it any longer, and a small part of him hoped beyond all things that maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t either.

As the door slid open, and the broken sound of your tears perforated the air, a small sliver of what was left of his heart broke.

You had been so strong, had remained diligent and determined, had been the support he could never ask for, but desperately needed in his dark hour, and here you were, breaking apart alone.

It wasn’t until the harsh mattress beneath you shifted that you even realised you were no longer alone. Turning quickly, panicked and wide eyed, you gazed through blurry eyes at the foreign site before you.

Din still had all his armour in place, his helmet having returned to his head long ago, but his very being looked so different. It was in the way he stooped forwards, his elbows balanced on his knees as if the weight of the world was quite literally weighing him down. It was in the way his head hung low, but still faced you determinedly, as though he couldn’t decide what was worse, watching your broken wails, or turning away from them.

A harsh intake of breath. A desperate rub of your sleeve against your eyes in some plea that it might somehow make you look somewhat put together. You couldn’t meet his gaze, even behind the wall of his visor, but you would do what you had to in order to try and appear composed.

But he was shaking his head, slowly, reassuringly. You couldn’t be certain he was even aware of his actions as his hand found your leg, squeezing gently.

“Don’t,” his voice sounded harsher than usual, as if it had been filtered through sandpaper on its way through his helmet, and the rough sound had him pausing once more, as if startled to hear his own voice.

But he persisted nonetheless, pushing past the way his throat felt dry, past the ache each word brought forward.

“It’s ok to cry,” his voice was quieter now, an attempt at softness even through the pain he felt. “You don’t need to hold it in, not for me, not for anyone.”

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #my fic

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hiccanna-tidbits · 3 years

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5, 6, 7 & 8 for OTP asks with Hiccanna!!

HELL YEAH BRO

Soulmate AU: Who is eager to meet their soulmate? Who absolutely does not want to meet their soulmate?

Anna, hopeless romantic and “true love” fanatic that she is, is incredibly down to meet her soulmate. One of her biggest fears is being inherently unlovable and that no one will ever love her for who she is (parents dying and sister shunning you has to leave some abandonment issues babyyyy), so she takes a lot of comfort in the idea of a soulmate--at least one person is basically certain to love her, right?

Hiccup, meanwhile, is apathetic at best and annoyed by the idea of a higher power dictating who his girlfriend is at worst. Unlike Anna, he doesn’t really fear no one will ever really love him for who he is--rather, he just accepts it as fact. Growing up with no friends and an emotionally-distant father, Hiccup came to believe that he was never going to feel the kind of deep, boundless love he’d seen between other people--and he made his peace with it. Being a more introverted scientist and inventor-type, Hiccup tends to spend a lot of time alone anyways and believes (maybe not fully accurately) that he prefers it that way. Besides, the logician in him thinks the whole “magic cosmic soulmate” thing is probably bullshit, and he just can’t figure out how something like soulmates could ever be backed or supported by modern science. Ultimately, Hiccup figures he’s going to date who he’s going to date (if he can even find any girls who are interested, that is), and he really couldn’t care less what the stars have to say about it.

When Hiccup and Anna do finally meet, and eventually start dating (knowing how shy and awkward they’d both be about confessing, it would take months to years after them meeting to actually get together, even in a goddamn soulmate AU), it isn’t revealed that they’re soulmates right away. Maybe it’s revealed by their hearts glowing a certain color when they first realize they’re in love with the other person? Idk.

When Anna finds out they’re soulmates, she’s absolutely stoked. Like the girl probably runs around their home for a solid 15 minutes planning a soulmate reveal party or something. Hiccup, meanwhile, is just kind of like “Oh! Neat!” and then immediately goes back to whatever he was doing XD

Anna is a bit hurt that Hiccup is so, ah...unconcerned about them being literally destined to be together. She’s mainly worried that it means that he doesn’t like...cherish their connection enough and whatnot. After he picks up on the fact that she’s kind of upset about his definitive lack of a strong reaction to the whole thing, he explains to her that he didn’t really care because he’d 100% date Anna whether or not she was his soulmate. Saying their souls were deeply connected was basically just putting a formal title on what he already knew.

And Anna has to take a minute, because honestly? Hiccup confidently saying he’d be with her in any reality, even one where he risks angering cosmic forces to do so, is actually much more romantic than them being supposedly “fated for each other” since the beginning.

Single parent AU: Which one is the single parent? (Alt. if they’re both single parents: Which one is open to starting a new relationship from the start? Which one is never planning on finding love again… Until they meet the other and are instantly smitten?)

I think I’ll have Zephyr and Nuffink be the single parent kids because I Just Think They’re Neat! That, and I honestly can’t bear to make lovechildren for Anna with anyone but Hiccup XD (those of you who know me will know making Krist/anna lovechildren in any context is RIGHT OUT).

So in this AU things didn’t work out with Astrid and Hiccup is pretty heartbroken over it :( I imagine she ultimately left him because she wasn’t really feeling the spark anymore, and they have joint custody of the kids. Meanwhile, Hiccup and Anna were neighbors growing up, and were pretty close friends as kids until Anna moved away and they lost touch. She eventually comes back to their hometown as an adult, and she and Hiccup reconnect. They’re also both like “ah shit, my old buddy got HOT” XD

I actually think Anna and Zephyr would really hit it off, mainly because Anna sees a lot of what she loves the most about Hiccup in Zephyr. Zephyr has Hiccup’s anxiety, cynicism, inventive streak, overall social awkwardness--and because Anna knows Hiccup so well and knows how to best accommodate all of his quirks and oddities, it’s not hard for her to extrapolate how best to befriend a younger version of him XD Zephyr, meanwhile, has had trouble befriending kids her age due to her bluntness and general “nerdiness,” so she’s always happy to find someone who accepts her unconditionally and takes a genuine interest in her wacky inventions--even if it’s her dad’s new girlfriend, who by all accounts should be a weird person for her to get close to XD Zephyr also devours science books like they’re going out of style, and is very pleased that Anna is more than happy to listen to her ramble on and on about random science trivia. Zeph still loves her biological mom, for sure, but she starts thinking of Anna as a second mom. She brags to all the kids at school that she has two moms, which leaves them very confused and wondering if Astrid ended up marrying another woman after she divorced Hiccup (which, to be fair, wouldn’t be entirely out of character).

Nuffink, meanwhile, is a little more unsure about the whole situation, if mainly because I headcanon him as a bit of a mama’s boy. He doesn’t dislike Anna so much as he’s just...wary of her, and doesn’t know how to feel about his dad falling in love with someone who isn’t his mom. He also can’t help but feel out-of-place when he, Zephyr, Hiccup, and Anna go out on “family outings” because he kind of looks like he doesn’t belong. With her reddish-brown hair, her blue eyes, her aundance of freckles, and her fondness for wearing twin braids, Zephyr could definitely pass as Anna’s daughter (I’ve even seen Anna used as an older version of Zephyr in video edits, which is hilariously ironic). Although Nuffink has his dad’s eyes, he very much has his biological mom’s hair and doesn’t look like he’s related to Anna at all.

I think what helps them finally bond is that they both have a love of combat! Nuffink definitely does some kind of martial arts or fencing training if he can access it, and Anna is more than happy to teach him some swordplay and spar with him if he wants! Because Sword Anna is best Anna, fight me. Nuffink is also open-minded enough that hey, if his cool big sister likes someone that much, she can’t be that bad. Hiccup is just...continually super impressed with how much Anna knows about fighting--and it makes him fall all the more in love with her, because he loves that in a woman XD Once Nuffink warms up to Anna, he’s constantly trying to impress her ith how tough he is--mostly shown by him ramming his head into walls. Poor Anna worries about Nuffink a lot XD

I imagine there’s a little bit of tension between Anna and Astrid in this AU. Not really because Astrid resents Hiccup moving on--she’s actually pretty happy for Hiccup that he found someone better suited for him than her--but more because she worries Anna is trying to replace her as the kids’ “true mom” XD Anna, meanwhile, can’t help but resent Astrid a little for breaking Hiccup’s heart and doesn’t get why they kids can’t just have two moms! The more people who love them, the better, right???

I don’t imagine Anna and Hiccup having any biological kids in this AU, because I think two stepkids would be plenty for Anna! Of course, since Zephyr and Nuffink are Hiccup’s, she loves them with all her being and tries to be the best stepmom she can be. But I think having more than two kids would stress Anna’s ADHD ass the fuck out, and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would feel a need to have biological kids with Hiccup if she already had Nuffink and Zephyr to parent. Our girl is perfectly happy adopting!

Doctor AU: Which one is the longsuffering doctor? Which one is the patient?

Hiccup is the long-suffering doctor, although not entirely by choice. Often he wonders if being a doctor is actually what he wanted, but his dad was like “WELL SON! YOU’RE SMART, SO YOU GOTTA BE A DOCTOR SO YOU MAKE BIG BUCKS!” (I’m headcanoning in this AU Stoick is a professional athlete of some kind, and has made BANK since he was young. He can’t really conceive of his son NOT pursuing a well-paid profession). Hiccup doesn’t really want to disappoint his rather intimidating dad, so he goes along with it.

It’s not that he dislikes it, when all is said and done. He does care about people and wants to help them, although he hides it underneath about 10 layers of snark. Still, it’s stressful and thankless work, and often he worries about whether he took the right path. Too late to pursue something else now, he supposes.

Then he meets Anna, rushed to the ICU with a collection of third-degree electrical burns. She tried to plug all of her Christmas light strings into the same power strip, and uh...it did not go well. Hiccup is there monitoring her vitals when she wakes up, and she just kind of wearily sighs and admits to him that living on her own wasn’t nearly as fun or exciting as she thought it would be. As it turned out, Anna had insisted she could be trusted with putting up her apartment’s holiday decorations, and she very much should not have been.

Anna ends up having to stay a couple weeks. She needs a small skin graft (yeah, she fucked herself up THAT bad), and then needs a bit of time for the surgery wounds to heal. Hiccup is assigned to do checkups on her regularly, and starts to look forward to it. Her perky disposition (despite being stuck in the hospital with burn wounds) is contagious, and she never fails to make him laugh after a long, draining shift. As stressful as his job is, Anna becomes his one respite.

He has to admit, it’s nice to have at least one thing to look forward to.

Hiccup is a little sad to see Anna go. Of course, bumbling, socially awkward foot-in-mouth fool that he is, he doesn’t have the courage to ask for her number so they can keep in touch. That would, uh...probably be unprofessional or something. Besides, it would probably crush his heart and soul if she was weirded out by his soft spot for her so like...maybe best not to even open himself up to the possibility.

Then, not two weeks later, Anna shows up at the hospital again--this time having broken three bones in a hiking accident. Apparently she got too excited about a particularly nice view, and toppled right off the top of a very steep bluff. He, once again, takes on her care, and is delighted (albeit guiltily) to have her back. He, once again, has something to make work not suck as much!

Oddly enough, this turns out to be the first of many hiking accidents. Anna comes in next month claiming to have nearly burned her arm off in a rogue campfire, and then again the next month claiming to have been mauled by a bear (although Hiccup is pretty sure those bleeding gashes were just left by a very big dog, and Anna is too embarrassed to admit it). Odder still, Hiccup distinctly remembers talking to Anna during her first hospital stay about how much he loved hiking and the outdoors, and now all of her new string of injuries just happen to be hiking-related. He can’t help but be baffled about how her insurance even covers all of this, but apparently having a family lineage distantly related to Norwegian royalty has its perks.

On roughly her 7th hospital stay, Hiccup finally gathers up the courage to ask Anna for her number, if only because he figures it would be nice for them to see each other without Anna having to nearly get herself killed first every time XD

Bodyguard AU: Who is the bodyguard? Who are they protecting? Which one is secretly pining for the other?

OMIGOD SO

I HAD AN IDEA FOR THIS

What if Anna was sent to bodyguard Hiccup in an AU where Arendelle is a lot more militaristic???

Basically what I'm thinking is that this is in an alternate timeline, Hiccup didn't injure Toothless's tail when he shot him down. The beginning of HTTYD plays out the same, but Toothless can still fly and just yeets off after Hiccup frees him, supposedly never to be seen again. However, this still leads Hiccup to believe he may not be dragon-fighting material after all. The poor boy still yearns to find a way to prove his worth to Berk, though.

As Hiccup gets older, his strength doesn't really improve, and it becomes clear to Stoick that he's always going to be pretty scrawny. Because of this, he's hesitant to put Hiccup in dragon training for the sake of his son's own safety--and hey, Hiccup seems to have lost interest in dragon-fighting anyhow, so it's not like Hiccup will fight him on it. Nonetheless, the dragon raids are getting worse, and Stoick worries about Hiccup being able to protect himself at all. Knowing most of the older villagers are busy with dragon-fighting and other jobs, and honestly doubting any of the village's teenagers would protect Hiccup if push came to shove, Stoick sends out an appeal of sorts to neighboring villages and kingdoms requesting a bodyguard for his skinny disaster of a son.

Back in Arendelle, shut-in princess Anna is surprised yet intrigued when a messenger from the Viking village of Berk shows up at Elsa's coronation. In a timeline where Hans and Anna don’t have their chance encounter, Hans sets his wooing sights on the newly-crowned Queen Elsa (and fails), and no push ends up being strong enough to make Elsa lose control of her powers at the ceremony. Anna, however, still feels hurt by her sister’s seemingly reasonless rebuke earlier in the evening and finds herself aching to explore the world outside her castle and be close with someone--anyone--again.

When the Viking messenger requests a bodyguard for the Chief of Berk’s son, Anna is quick to volunteer. The messenger scoffs at first, but to his surprise, the soft-looking princess isn’t entirely unqualified. She filled many of her long, empty childhood hours training with the Arendelle guard, and her swordplay is admirable. To prove her worth, Anna faces off with one of the Berkian warriors in a duel--and holds her own shockingly well. While Queen Elsa is hesitant to let her sister run off to a faraway nation, Anna vehemently insists that Arendelle doesn’t need two monarchs, and this will be great for diplomatic relations in the long run. Of course, she also longs to explore and get away from the place she’s been trapped her entire life, but Elsa doesn’t need to know that part.

When Anna arrives in Arendelle, Hiccup has absolutely no idea what to make of his new bodyguard. On the one hand, a girl who’s good with a sword is hot, and he’s long since given up on Astrid anyways. On the other hand, Hiccup is definitely irked that his dad sees him as so weak and incapable that he’s the only Viking in the village who needs a full-on bodyguard, and he hates feeling like he’s being babied and coddled (not that this is Anna’s fault). Still, his bodyguard is essentially the only person who’s ever seemed to actually want to be friends with him in...well, his whole life, and honestly? He’ll take it.

Anna, meanwhile, still aching for love and connections of really any kind, is nigh-instantly smitten. His brains, his creativity, his constant snide jokes, his snark-coated good heart, his weird, messy hairdo--all of it has an 18-year-old Anna completely over the moon. Hiccup, feeling hopeless in the world of romance after being rejected by Astrid, is honestly just relieved to finally have a friend--to the point that it doesn’t even occur to him that Anna’s a girlfriend option.

Not long after she arrives in Berk, Anna is put into dragon training to prepare for raids. She does a bit of training of her own with Hiccup, teaching him some swordplay to try and boost his confidence. It’s not hard to tell that he has mixed feelings about having to have a protector, and Anna hopes that by teaching him some basic fighting skills he can at least feel a little better if he’s ever in a situation where she isn’t there to defend him.

As she gets deeper into her dragon training, Anna asks Hiccup why he never gave dragon training a go. Granted, him being as physically small as he is would be a disadvantage, but he could still learn to hold his own decently well using speed and stealth. It would help him be able to protect himself, if nothing else. Hiccup seems very reluctant to talk about the whole subject, but he says Anna needs to trust that he knows he can’t kill dragons. He tends to give the shortest answers possible to her questions, and nigh-instantly changes the subject. When Anna presses too much, he gets snippy.

As they get closer, Hiccup finally opens up to Anna about the time he shot down a Night Fury and couldn’t bring himself to make the final kill. He admits to cutting the creature free, and how the dragon nearly killed him--only to spare Hiccup just as Hiccup had spared him. “I saw more than just a ruthless killer when I looked into that dragon’s eye,” Hiccup tells her. “I saw myself. I think there’s so much more to them than anyone knows, but...you’re the only person I feel like would actually give me the benefit of the doubt on that.”

During the next raid, Anna pays closer attention to the dragons than before. She watches how they interact with the villagers, and notice that they never seem to go out of their way to go after people. They only fight Vikings when Vikings initiate, and the dragons’ main concern always seems to be taking sheep and fish. Left to their own devices, they don’t seem to want to hurt anyone.

Unfortunately, Anna standing off to the side and trying to watch what all the dragons are doing leaves her distracted--and vulnerable. She’s not prepared for a camouflaged changewing to melt out of the wall behind her, whipping around and backing her into a corner. Anna grabs for her sword but can hardly move, frozen in terror as the massive dragon stares her down.

She holds up an arm, bracing herself for a wall of fire, but none comes. There’s a swish of wings and a gust of wind blows her back. When she looks up, the dragon is gone.

It would’ve been beyond easy for the dragon to kill her. The creature clearly saw her--could have taken advantage in her moment of frozen stupor and burned her to a crisp. And yet...the dragon spared her. Just like the Night Fury had spared Hiccup.

Anna realizes Hiccup might be onto something.

Together, Hiccup and Anna decide they’re going to get to the bottom of what dragons are really like--and why they’re stealing the village’s food. While claiming to go out for “battle practice,” Hiccup and Anna track down dragons and study them in secret--observing them, writing about them, seeing how they behave and how they interact with one another. They’re surprised by what they see: left to their own devices, dragons are good-natured and compassionate, and they take care of their own. Strangely, they never seem to feed the stolen food to their young. Hiccup predicts they’re not actually keeping it for themselves, and taking it somewhere nigh unreachable for humans. For what actual purpose is anyone’s guess.

Anna starts using the info she gathers observing dragons with Hiccup in dragon-training. She finds ways to sooth them and calm them down in the ring by using things they seem to enjoy in the wild. Scented grass, bits of fish, soft touches, slow, gentle movements. The village marvels at her newfound skills, and can’t help but wonder where she developed such a knack for controlling dragons despite spending basically all her time around “Stoick’s little runt.” She couldn’t be training with him, of all people...could she? Astrid, for one, is definitely none too pleased about her spot at the top of the class being threatened.

Meanwhile, Anna and Hiccup can’t help but grow fond of the dragons they watch. They start becoming more bold, and leaving snacks of trout and mutton for the scaled creatures. Anna is delighted when the food ends up attracting none other than what she’s pretty sure is the same changewing who spared her, as well as a curious snaptrapper. She’s never gotten to see a snaptrapper up close before, and is completely undeterred by the triple-jawed four heads. Rather, she is far more preoccupied with coming up with the perfect name for each head.

“Omigod, he’s so PRETTY! And he smells like CHOCOLATE!”

“...you know they probably emit that scent to lure in prey so they can slice it in three, right?”

“CHOCOLATE, HICCUP!!!”

With each new meal, the local dragons grow more and more comfortable with Hiccup and Anna. After a while, the changewing and the snaptrapper even let Anna touch their noses. Anna falls in love with watching the changewing seem to melt around the forest as she camouflages, and rolling in the mud with the snaptrapper after a summer storm. Hiccup starts catching what seems to be glimpses of the Night Fury he freed, and it appears that the curious creature has come back to investigate him.

The Night Fury appears more and more, drawn in by Hiccup’s trout feast. Hiccup notices the dragon’s wing is injured, likely shot by someone from the village. Although he’s not completely helpless, he’s having trouble. Hiccup sets to work on his most daring project yet--making a “brace” of sorts that can mend the ripped wing.

When Hiccup and Anna attempt to distract the Night Fury long enough to climb up and put the wing brace on, something unexpected happens. The dragon shoots up to the sky, both unwitting passengers clinging onto his tail for dear life.

Once they get their bearings and clamber up to his back, the Night Fury (who Hiccup has nicknamed “Toothless” for his retractable teeth) takes them on a flight through the clouds. Unable to help herself, Anna laces her arms around Hiccup’s waist--if only so she can supposedly “hold on better.”

Hiccup, of course, still doesn’t get it.

The flight takes a sinister turn when Toothless takes them to the dragon nest, and Hiccup finally gets his answer about where all of the villages food has been going--to their queen. Unsure what to do or how to free their new friends from the Red Death, Hiccup and Anna promise each other one thing or sure--none of the rest of Berk can know about the dragon nest. If they attack it, it spells disaster for both dragons and Vikings--not to mention the question of how they got there is sure to dig up their secret dragon-related activities as of late.

With each dragon raid, Anna finds herself more and more reluctant to fight dragons--especially now that she knows what’s actually going on. She only does the bare minimum to protect the food and the village, never going out of her way to attack a dragon or landing a killing blow (although by this point, she’d definitely be skilled enough to). During one particularly intense raid, Anna is finding it harder and harder to fend dragons off without doing lethal damage. While driving out a particularly tenacious monstrous nightmare, Anna happens upon the same changewing she’s befriended in the forest, limping to safety.

It would be incredibly easy to finish the dragon off, but Anna refuses. The dragon knows she’s beat, and so Anna lets her leave without so much as a swing of the princess’s sword.

Unfortunately, Astrid sees.

After the raid, Astrid storms up to Anna and chews her out in front of the whole village, yelling about how weak she was to not go for a dragon kill when she had the chance. It turns out Astrid’s also been noticing Anna going intentionally easy on the dragons, and how much the Arendelle princess seems to hold back when fighting him. Astrid knows it’s not physical incompetence, or a lack of skill--she’s seen Anna subdue plenty of dragons in training.

No, it seems to be the princess’s heart that’s weak. Her kingdom must be nothing but a bunch of bleeding-hearted morons, and she’ll never be tough enough to really belong in Berk.

As he watches Astrid yell and the Berkians all turn to sneer at the scene, Hiccup feels a sudden rush of protectiveness for his friend. Tears are starting to form in the corners of her eyes, and something gives in him seeing her subjected to the very ostracization that left him completely alone for so many years.

He walks up beside Anna, and suddenly he’s shouting like he’s never quite had the courage to before.

“You’re wrong, Astrid! You’re all wrong!”

Before long, he’s spilling everything--how dragons are intelligent and caring creatures, how they’re only stealing food to feed a ruthless queen, how he’s sure humans have killed far more dragons than vice versa. The village stares, horrified. When Stoick storms forward, Hiccup and Anna know it’s nothing good.

Stoick is disgusted. The very bodyguard he had brought all the way out to Berk to give his son strength did nothing but fill Hiccup’s head with softness and dangerous lies. He banishes Anna, warning her never to set foot in Berk or speak to his son again.

Hiccup will not have it. He says if Anna’s leaving, he’s coming with her. He’s made his choice, and he’s standing by the only person who ever really treated him with unconditional love and kindness.

“Fine,” Stoick says simply. “We’ll be rid of two traitors, then.”

Cast out from Berk, Hiccup and Anna find themselves with a new mission: Find the nest before the rest of Berk does, and take out the Red Death once and for all.

With the help of Toothless, the Changewing (who Anna has nicknamed “Flicker”), and the Snaptrapper (whose heads Anna have very creatively named Leafy, Greeny, Spiky, and Badbreath. It’s beyond Hiccup how she tells all of them apart, but she’s very adamant about which is which.), they find the dragon hive again, and attempt the impossible--attacking the queen. It seems hopeless at first, but once more and more malcontented dragons see what they’re doing, they join in and rebel.

It’s a tough fight, but the two humans and the revolting dragons come out on top. Not before the Red Death has one last hurrah, though--letting out a final, massive blast of fire that knocks Hiccup askew and sends him tumbling down into the flames. Toothless, Flicker, Anna, and the Snaptrapper dive after, and are quickly engulfed in red and orange.

Meanwhile, the Berkians have sent out ships following Hiccup, Anna, and their dragons, guessing the nest is where they were headed. By the time they get there, the fight is over--and Stoick and Gobber just manage to catch a glimpse of Hiccup plummeting into the flames.

Anna screams Hiccup’s name until the smoke burns her throat so much she can’t anymore. She remembers swooping underneath him and just managing to grab hold of his limp body before everything goes dark.

When she comes to later, it’s still dark--but she feels something soft and warm in her arms, and feels scales pressed against her back. Her arm is searing with pain, but she barely notices it as her eyes adjust to the darkness. Hiccup is curled up against her--groaning, but alive.

Not sure she’ll ever get another chance, she puts a hand on his cheek and finally tells him the truth. “I love you.”

He opens his eyes and looks, gaze shocked until a slow realization washes over him. He smiles. “I love you, too.”

They both pass out, still wrapped up in each other.

When the flames clear, Stoick sees what looks like a pile of dragons, all pressed together with their wings folded in. Slowly, they lift their wings to reveal two humans--charred in places, but alive.

Wracked with guilt, Stoick realizes he was wrong. Hiccup’s new bodyguard helped his son become stronger and braver than the chief of Berk ever imagined.

It turns out taking down the queen saved the dragons and the humans, and thanks to Hiccup, Anna, and their dragon friends, Berk will never have to worry about dragon raids again.

It turns out Hiccup’s leg and Anna’s arm didn’t quite make it out of the fire. Luckily, Gobber has always been handy at prosthetics--and Hiccup manages to make a fairly dextrous and functional metal hand for Anna. Anna is utterly delighted with how cool it looks.

After the whole Red Death incident, it’s decided that Hiccup is probably competent enough that he doesn’t need his own bodyguard anymore. Nonetheless, Anna is welcome to stay in Berk as long as she likes. And with new dragon friends and an incredibly cute new boyfriend, she’s not going anywhere anytime soon!

***

This is in reference to this post! I’ve already done these questions for Moanida. Theoretically still willing to do any questions I haven’t yet for Hiccanna and Moanida, although these were exhausting to write out so I might not give as long of answers XD

#hiccanna #hiccup x anna #anna x hiccup #hiccup #anna #otp questions #hiccup haddock #princess anna #hiccupxanna #annaxhiccup #rotbtd #rotbtfd #httyd #frozen #crossover

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