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hwaightme · 1 year

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In memoriam

THIS IS 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI FOR STAR'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut) (masterlist) (join taglist)

⚪ pairing: seonghwa x afab!reader ⚪ genre: angst (sorry seonghwa), smut, time leaping, magical realism ⚪ summary: what would you do to get your life back? what would you do, if you found out that you could turn back time? park seonghwa knows his answer, and does not care for the price he has to pay. ⚪ wordcount: 8.3k ⚪ warnings/tags: husband!hwa, language, implied major death, crying, time leaping, barista!san, magical cafe, turning back time, grieving, discussion of habits, a whole lot of coffee, hope, love, loss, lmk if anything else ⚪ taglist: @doom-fics @legohwas @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @hoshischeekss @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld ⚪ a/n: after severe ult bias wreck, I have been in a -state-, and after listening to suggested songs (under cut) + me generally loving the film The Girl Who Leapt Through Time and the book series Before The Coffee Gets Cold... this happened. Hope you enjoy, much love, all reblogs, comments thoughts and notes welcome~

⚪ nsfw tags: no protection, cum inside, praise, seonghwa being very soft, everything is very vanilla tbh, slow sex, slight overstim, focus on feeling of closeness

⚪ playlist: suffering for love by eden (a/n:what sparked this), somewhere by o3ohn, dancing with your ghost by sasha alexa sloan, holo by leehi, stay here by gaho, i wanna cry by seori, not too late by ateez

The ticking of the clock, giving rhythm to his trepidation, the second hand measuring out the beating of his heart devise a believable steadiness. In two minutes and three seconds, you were going to brush strands of your hair behind your right ear, sighing at the necessity for the repeated motion. You were curled up the impromptu reading nook that you had crafted out of an array of pillows and a throw – items that Seonghwa had meticulously picked out to fit the interior of your shared apartment, now a creative installation with you as its centrepiece.

He was exactly where he had been, and where he would be should he wish to relive this moment again: leaning against the dining table, hands pressed into the edge of the lacquered wood, coolness spreading to his trembling fingertips, stuck in a permanent dilemma. He studied you as though you were a heavenly mirage, admiring every inch of your form as faint fragments of the sun streamed through the window and graced your delicate skin. Seonghwa was never sure whether the glow that enveloped you, that blissful haze so innate, so intricate, was from the mellow rays or from the boundless light that you possessed, so strong that it permeated through you, and yet too precious for this mortal world. So, he had settled, even then, for the only explanation that seemed logical, no matter how irrational the concept seemed to someone who had not had the chance to know you.

“Angel, are you sure you don’t want me to get you anything?”

There it was, the brush of the hair, that dazzling smile, heart-melting expression as you turned your head towards him, placing a finger down on the cream-coloured page to mark your line of immersion.

“Yes, Hwa I’m good. Though actually, if you could grab some more gochujang paste, that would be great. I promised your mom a recipe exchange so not running low on ingredients is probably a good start.”

He beamed, though the incessant ticking induced a heaviness in his chest. That was right, in a week’s time his mother would be visiting the two of you with a crate of goods from home, and you would spend the day cooking together, constantly shooing Seonghwa out of the kitchen so that he ‘would not interfere with the production line’. And then, they would not let him leave until he tried every dish.

“One of these days my mom will kidnap you, I swear.” He responded, running a hand through his hair to mask his agitation.

“Well, I am already dressed like her kid, and I do like naps.”

“Now for humour…”

“… I know, I know, much better than you so she’ll figure the switch out straight away.” You winked, and before Seonghwa could respond, returned to the novel, your attention drifting from the conversation in a matter of seconds. How could he not love you?

That morning you had been cheeky enough to steal one of his shirts, parading in it and uttering phrases in dialect, in as low a voice as you could muster, eliciting amused laughter from Seonghwa. The light blue and white striped linen suited you more than it did him, he had decided. At least, it suited the joy that you experienced when he, faking vexation from your antics, had wrapped you in his arms, peppering you with soft reminders of his adoration on your cheeks, nose, lips.

In thirty seconds, he was to push himself away from the table, amble towards you, and plant a kiss on the top of your head, resting his forehead against you before bidding you farewell. As he diligently completed the actions, you reached out to grasp his wrist, and pulled him closer. In nine seconds, you let go. In three, he mumbled he would be right back. And just as the clock showed three twenty-seven in the afternoon, he leaned down to put a pair of sneakers on in the entryway, and pushed the front door open to reveal a stunning, infinite expanse of white. Without fear, he stepped in, and was consumed by the pure, cleansing hue. The ironic embodiment of you.

It was overwhelming the first time. The migraine that had persisted then almost detracted him from the process, however as the number of attempts had grown into a routine, or rather, a habit, so did his resilience. Now, as he woke up from the trance, blinking away the blur that had occupied his vision, barely any physical trace of his venture remained. All except the dull ache. But that was a given, the torment was an old guest to his weary soul.

He was back. Back in the same café, sat at the table in the far corner, away from curious eyes, right by a living wall of ferns and succulents, so carefully tended to that Seonghwa had never once seen a single leaf be wilted; he would not put it beyond this place achieving a floral immortality – it was either that, or they were meticulously replaced to give the illusion of continuity. Even so, what would Seonghwa not give for that oblivious paradise? An easy listening instrumental track filled the air with semi-acoustic guitar and gentle waves of metal brushes on the drums. The rumbles and short hisses emanated from behind the counter, guiding Seonghwa’s gaze to the owner and main barista of the café, who was languidly cleaning a metal beaker while keeping an eye out for any new customers. Even though he knew full well that while the remnants of the time shift were still suspended in the air, the space, completed in white and wooden tones, disappeared from the consciousness and vision of a passer-by.

Gradually, feeling returned to Seonghwa’s hands and feet, and he stretched his hands out in front of him, scrutinising the digits. Was it really the dark chestnut table that he touched? Was it really your hair that he caressed and your voice that entranced him so? The disentanglement from what had been and what could be was always the most agonising aspect of his commitment. But for the sake of keeping you in the present, this was the least he could sacrifice. As he blinked away the last of his emotion, steeling himself for the day ahead, Seonghwa turned to the large shop window to peer at the metropolitan commotion. The forlorn palette of greys that guided his interpretation was reflected in every building, every cloud that threatened catastrophic storms, every scowl on a stranger and in the cold concrete. Nothing new. Just a setting to let time pass by him.

As his heart beat to the pitter-patter of seconds, washing over him, Seonghwa hesitantly trudged to the counter and fished out the black leather wallet you had gifted him for your three year anniversary, stopping to brush his thumb over your picture that he inserted into the transparent compartment. A candid shot of you under the magnolias, a light squint of the eyes and scrunch of the nose as you had tilted your head to greet the sunshine that streamed through the brilliant white canopy. After the photo was taken, you had found a branch that had been snapped by the wind, and took it home, tending to the young blossoms that were protected by proud leaves, leaping into the air excitedly as they unfurled to reveal their apex of beauty. That time, you had admonished Seonghwa for not even sparing a glance at the flowers while complimenting them, but he was sure in his decision to not take his gaze off you.

“That’ll be three thousand won.” The barista sighed, a concerned smile on his lips as he studied the dark-haired man before him. The regular floated in a torpid melancholy, though his amiable expression and impressively polite discourse, be it with him or with another customer, had never let what he had seen on the first visit slip and shatter.

“Here you are. Thank you, San.” Seonghwa answered absent-mindedly as he handed the owner three glossy paper bills.

“Not a problem.” The barista and owner of the café Memento added the amount to the cash register with practiced motions, hands moving on their own accord.

Fluid, intrinsic, skilled. A repetition that served to mark the end of Seonghwa’s weekly visit. Except here, there was no way to guess what San would choose to do next, even though his uniform, his environment were all the same – there was no comfort in awareness of the future, and while that was a reminder that Seonghwa had successfully returned, the notion had recently begun to induce a subtle hum of distress within him. At least he was lucky enough to have found a temporary aid to the predicament.

“Back so soon?”

It was not Thursday, that much Seonghwa knew. For the past couple of months he visited strictly on Thursday mornings, and would be able to sustain himself and hold out until the next unscheduled visit, but one cemented in his routine. But the last few days had unfolded as though the universe itself was against him, proving that calamity was always lying in wait for the first sign of tranquility. He was distressed, on the verge of tearing himself and everyone around him apart - had he the power of Atropos, the floor would be decorated with abstract snippets of existence, grotesque and grim, but at least the act was committed at his own volition. Some fragment of control still remaining, albeit in his fantasies. This was why his feet led him here, to café Memento, through the heavy downpour outside which he had to experience in full force due to the ill-timed breaking of his umbrella. Seonghwa’s coat clung to him in a drowning desperation, giving him a sullen, forlorn appearance of a lost man. With haphazard motions he attempted to slick his hair back so that the accumulated raindrops would cease to run down his face, though that did little comically little.

Fumbling in the entrance of the café, the young man watched as the barista, turned passive confidante, stepped out from behind the counter, raising his index finger into the air as a sign to wait before disappearing behind the staff door. In his absence, Seonghwa attempted to peel the trench coat off, discovering that, for the most part, his shirt had been protected well by the waterproof material. So, it was almost like that evening he had been replaying in his mind the last three days, but not close enough. It was late June then. He was wearing a light cotton t-shirt, jeans, and converses, enveloped in the monsoon’s sudden attack while he had been circling the apartment complex where you lived, cursing himself. He had been more rain than man then. But the personal likeness did not matter, so long as he could get the coffee and take his practically assigned seat in the corner.

“Here, a towel, your collar’s getting damp, and let me hang the coat to dry… you absorbed a whole raincloud, didn’t you?” San had reappeared, and made a beeline for his friend, who was still standing at the door, water dripping onto the welcome mat, blending with the invisible chains of grief that were his loyal followers. A small, yet dazzling smile in thanks was shot in the barista’s direction as the dishevelled man accepted the towel, commencing to dry off his hair and neck.

“Certainly felt like it. And thank you. Sorry for barging in like this, I really don’t know what-”

“You want the usual, right?” the interjection cut right to the truth. Of course, what was Seonghwa thinking? After so many weeks of asking for coffee that he, in fact, despised, sitting in the same place and leaving the present to see visions of you, it would take someone who knew nothing at all to assume Seonghwa wanted anything else. Even the most distant acquaintance would probably make the rights guess. It was obvious that he was here to see you. He needed to, or his frustrations would eat him whole.

“Right.” Unintentionally curt, Seonghwa muttered his response while wiping down the droplets from his feverish skin. Concerned preoccupied him as he wondered if illness would prevent him from seeing you. No, he could not get ill. He still had so much material to cover.

“Figured. Life’s got you down?” either happily disinterested, or deciding to ignore Seonghwa’s shift in attitude, San continued in the same level tone as he finished hanging up the trench coat on the rack that stood in a corner by the door, obscured by an overgrown potted palm tree. Stretched over a couple of hooks, it looked every bit like a damp scarecrow, eliciting a sharp exhale through the nose from its owner.

“You could say that.”

“So down, that you walked here, in the rain?” using his beige apron to dry off his hands, the broad-shouldered man asked. Truth be told, it was not confirmation of his friend’s troubles that he was after. It was the cry, the realisation that he was going too far.

But much to the café owner’s dismay, Seonghwa saw no evil in his choices, instead choosing to rationalise them, supress the abysmal distress each one would inevitably bring by considering everything except the future. To this man, who obediently followed San to the counter, and waited for him to walk back around and take his usual spot, the suffering that came with each veering of the path was a divine, cleansing punishment that, at the end of it all, still brought him joy.

“Well, metro, then the walking in the rain.” Seonghwa stated as-a-matter-of-factly, draping the towel over his neck after gesturing to San whether it would be fine if he could keep it for the time being, and with a quick nod from him, gave a quiet word of gratitude and wiped a stray droplet that was threatening to roll down his forehead with the corner of the white fabric.

“Nonetheless, aren’t there… other ways?”

Seonghwa stared at the large coffee machine as though it was a beast, in slumber until the next press of a button, to avoid making eye contact. His mind had been far too hazy since early morning, and the myriad of repetitive work meetings had exhausted his ability to keep up appearances. He was toeing a line, a couple of phrases away from completely snapping, and studying the tiny coffee splatter stuck to steel decal at the top of the machine took off some of the edge, forcing him to refocus on the desire to wipe the damn spot away.

“Nothing like a nice hot americano to save the day.” He mumbled, glancing at San, only to be met with a questioning eyebrow and pursed lips.

“You literally do not even like coffee.”

“And you own a café, but drink decaf.”

“Touché. Alright then, the usual it is…” the battle was short-lived, overtaken by a tense quiet, subsequently filled by the ambient rumbling, shuffling and clinking – the sonorous colours of any ordinary coffee shop. It was clear enough that there was too much left unsaid, only to dissolve in the drink like a sugar cube turned sour. What was there to admonish? Love? Devotion? Never before had San seen such dedication in a customer when it came to the specially prepared beverage, he concluded as he murmured the incantations, concentrating on making the coffee bloom to its fullest. In situations such as this, he pondered what his life would be like had he not inherited this café, and along with it, the power to control time.

The torrential downpour outside was not letting up, and the droplets that accumulated on the shopfront’s awning were hammering down onto the pavement, spilling over and composing a cacophony. Seonghwa observed the enchantment, attempting to mentally follow the steps for the pourover, but ultimately failing even though San had gone through them, diligently, on the first three visits. As the grounds, with the beans freshly roasted and the final product all made in-house, were being wetted by the hot water pouring from the long spout of a black gooseneck kettle, cradled in the barista’s steady hands, the morose bystander imagined the city to be one big coffee cup, with the solemn concrete jungle resembling the rise and falls of the grounds’ dunes, taking and taking more of the rainwater and leaving behind exhausted, breathless shells called citizens. From far away, there was a unity, a name for the powder-like substance turned to a paste, but look closer, and each grain was lonely in its own special way, only there to dissolute, and diffuse into a bitter potion.

“Here.” As soon as the last of the substance was extracted and joined forces with the fluid in the cup, San set it on a white plate with a black rim, and carefully positioned the beverage onto an elevated portion of the counterspace, right above the display of baked goods and desserts, almost empty – reasonable, considering the late hour after a busy day.

“Thank you-” just as he reached out to grab the cup, excited to finally flee to his safe haven, the barista stopped him on his tracks.

“Seonghwa, hate to be that guy, but are you sure you do not need any other help at all?” the apprehension in his voice made the taller man’s stomach churn. Did he have to raise this point now, of all times? When Seonghwa wanted nothing more but to curl up in your arms and sink into a divinity only you two could share? He was not in the headspace to even mention the existence of alternatives. In his view, there was only one right path to follow, and it was one mapped out in scars on his heart.

“What are you insinuating?” he narrowed his eyes, hinting at an undercurrent of hostility.

“Nothing! Just, you know… This is meant to be temporary. There are only so many times you can bend time to your will before it snaps you.” Already anticipating a complete disregard for his warnings, San explained his worries much like he would explain the menu to a newcomer.

“But it’s all fine-” he gripped the plate tighter in his hands, lifting the ceramic off the counter and watching the liquid lap at the edges, a deep mahogany ocean. As he caught the glint of the lamplight reflected in its ripples, he could not help but search for the glimmer that was always in your eyes.

“Until it won’t be. Seonghwa, I know what this means to you, and I can see how you change after each leap but… I am worried.”

“Well… don’t, seriously. It’s fine. I just… I just need this. Okay?” he was met by a shake of the head, and a lean forward – San took the towel by its edge, and slipped it off Seonghwa’s neck, leaving it exposed to an unfamiliar chill. In a strive to supress the shiver, the exasperated man continued, choking out the words through a well-mannered filter: “And don’t I look like I am simply asleep when I am out there?”

“True that. Head down like the table is a pillow.” The barista responded, seemingly unperturbed as he flung the towel into a basket hidden under the workspace and wiped his hands on his apron. When he did not make any further attempts to prolong the fruitless discussion, Seonghwa’s feet moved on their own accord, spinning his body around, ready to dive into his long-awaited oasis.

“Alright then… catch you… later?” he threw out over his shoulder, casting San one final glance before striding towards the table, area dimly lit, but so cosy, promising the echoes of his real home.

“Mhm. I’ll be where I usually am. Not that you need me, but still. I’ll keep watch.”

“I appreciate it.” Words thrown out only to be swept away by the air conditioning, meaningless in the sense of emotion. Mentally, he was already in transit.

As Seonghwa settled into the chair, he felt lighter. As if the mere anticipation of seeing you once again was already capable of lifting some of his ache. He concentrated on the cup before him. A simple number, with the only decoration being those black lines, reminiscent of lines of misfortune that occupied an individual’s life. Ironic how this was to be his fated cup. The contemporary chalice that gave him the power to enjoy the moments he had mourned. As he did in every iteration of his new ‘always’, he pictured you, sat in front of him, in this very café, drinking the bitter black coffee, breaking out into a grin as you slipped into a child-like enjoyment. This black and white cup was the one you had held in your hands, commenting on how you and Seonghwa should try and find a similar set. To this day, he could not fulfil this little dream of yours. Maybe they were not being made anymore, and nothing merely similar would be up to standard.

Your figure became clearer and clearer before his eyes, until he could not distinguish between what should be, and what indeed was. This stage was the trickiest, for with every fibre of his being Seonghwa wanted to reach out to you, place his hand over yours and whisper just how much he missed you, how afraid he was that you were gone, not for good, not for evil, simply gone. It took training, resilience, and patience with himself to go further back, rewind the time until he hit the desired mark, and as the image was comparable to reality before him, he shut his eyes, and took a tentative sip of the coffee.

A flash. Pure white, drumming of the rain turning into deafening tick, tock, tick, tock. Sensation that felt like his body was turning inside out, collapsing and regrowing as he felt the ground beneath him, and the sky’s tears beating down on him, streaming down his face. With this, he regained his balance and sense of direction, and pressing a hand right above his brows to shield his vision from the rain, peeked at the scene. Just as he had expected, it was the little square, the pagoda with no proper roof to shield him, the paths, lit by weak yellowish streetlights. He was ready to go back home. To see you. To play the scene out and devote himself to you once more. There was a limit to what far removed, isolated worship could do.

He pushed himself off the soaked wooden seating that framed the inside of the pagoda, and stumbled out, still dizzy from the leap. Massaging his temples with the hand he had used as a visor, he tried to soothe at least some of the stinging, until it turned into a dull ache that was easier to handle, more customary. Before long, it melted into the buzz, the anticipation for what was to happen next.

He commenced a countdown in the form of footsteps as he stalked toward the complex, fully aware of you watching him from the windows. That was what you were going to say… later, but you were going to say it. You were going to reveal to him just how worried you had been, how you wanted him to come back as soon as he shut the door, and how his action had torn you apart. It really had been over nothing at all, but much like in the present, his week had gotten to him, but now there was no escape, except to break his routine, and sink into the feeling of you. Your voice, your caresses, your love. The world was moving slowly as he strode up the stairs to the entrance doors, fingers automatically finding the passcode although he could not consciously recall it. One step, two, and he was at the staircase that wound around the elevator, choosing the former to alleviate some of the tension.

To no avail. Instead, the adrenaline pumped with more vigour, causing his rationality to grow blurry and pulse to go haywire as he spurred himself on. Only a few more steps. And there would be you. Thirty seconds. Fifteen. He was at the door to the apartment. Seonghwa stilled himself, glancing back to take note of the trail of moisture that he had left, mentally apologising to the cleaners that would have to handle the mess the next day – he would hear them chiding ‘whoever this person was’ in the tomorrow of the past at precisely six thirty-eight in the morning.

He had only returned to this scene once before. A while back. And had promised himself to not do it again because of the toll it had taken on him. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And he desperately needed you. The familiar flicker of the lightbulb at the end of the hallway, footsteps that he could make out from behind the door as you approached were setting him ablaze. There you were. You. No one else. Not a replacement, but really you. It was your fingers that pinched the door chain and slid it out of position, your hand that took the door handle and pulled it in, it was you who was standing before him, teary-eyed, but obviously relieved to see him.

You were about to approach him and wrap your hands around his torso when you noticed just how soaked he was from facing the elements after his stress-induced outburst. He had chosen to exit the apartment instead of uttering as much as a single word aside from the command to not follow, leaving you disconcerted and peering out of the window into the starless night. It was a simple, common domestic argument that had set him off. Something or other about the arrangement of cutlery in the drawer, that then moved to the discussion of plates in the cupboards, and eventually grew into a back and forth about interior design. Any other day, Seonghwa probably would had stayed and talked it out, but this outburst which now served to be a perfect anchor for his travels, was the result of pent up emotion. It was odd, but he was grateful for having let his feelings overflow that day, otherwise this previous moment, this ethereal intimacy would not have been so prominent in his mind.

Seonghwa’s gaze burned into you as you hugged your own form, highlighting the curves hidden under the oversized t-shirt dress that you were wearing, the argument having taken place right before bed. Hair loose and slightly dishevelled, you look to have been playing with it – something you did when you were nervous. You would inspect the ends, twirl the strange, arrange and rearrange… and then when he would place a hand on your thigh, or take your hand in his, you would become aware of your state, start counting under your breath, resuming a shared tranquility. While he could not imagine the distress that you experienced internally, it was reassuring that even if for a fraction of a second, he could bring you peace from your loud mind.

Your eyes were reddened – likely from being rubbed to convince yourself that you were not about to cry over simple things. A light tremble of your lower lip as you took in his form, with Seonghwa exuding abandonment, regret, loss… a rocking from heel to toe as you propelled yourself towards him, reaching out to cup his face while ushering him inside. Who was he kidding when he thought that this would be easy to re-enact? He was guilty as charged. This was his doing. How could he possibly enjoy seeing you in pain? The preceding events objectively amounted to nothing, but your sadness was real, how you gasped and said his name was real. This was real.

Tears sprung to his eyes as you cooed and ran your fingers through his wet hair, forgetting about your own clothing as you approached to comfort him. Seonghwa was bewildered – no, he should be the one comforting you! How was this in any way appropriate, he should be strong, he should- he was struggling to form a single coherent thought as all prior resolve evaporated like snow on a hot summer day, and he crumbled under your touch. Your thumbs brushed over his cheers, carrying away tears that he did not know he was spilling, as you called out to him.

“Hwa, my love please… if you cry, I cry…I’m sorry-”

“I’m sorry Y/N! My angel! Please… forgive me… I’m sorry… I’m so… so sorry…” Seonghwa wailed as his knees buckled under him, and barely having made it past the door frame, with you having just shut the door with a light kick of the foot, he slowly descended to the ground, with you promptly following.

“What? This was… this was just a plate, Hwa… both of us had a stressful week and-” you attempted to rationalise, failing to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat at the sight of your husband falling apart, words sounding choked out. You forced him to keep his attention on you as you searched for any kind of explanation in his widened eyes glossed over with sorrow.

“So sorry… I am so sorry I couldn’t do anything… Please I should have… I should have not let you go… I am so…” he slipped. He lost the plot, the phrases bursting out of him before he could do anything to stop them. It was no longer clear what it was that he was apologising for. He gripped the soaked denim, right above his knees, though the sensation of his fingers digging into his thighs did nothing to curb his disillusionment.

“What are you saying baby, I’m right here…” you whispered, one hand moving to pat his shoulder, gliding over the muscle and soon your arm was pulling the man closer and closer to you. He hesitated, afraid to soak your dress, though knowing that it was going to happen anyway.

“Y/N!”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m sorry too. Come here.” Without any further waiting, he threw his arms around you. There you were. Your warmth against him as you rubbed his back, not caring for his blubbering, for his sniffling against the crook of your neck. He kept on mumbling apologies and your name, over, and over, and over again, as though those were the only words he knew, and his native tongue had otherwise departed from his consciousness.

“What has gotten into you, huh? It really wasn’t that big of a deal. I’ll even accept that I was wrong for putting the mug in that drawer.” You attempted to change the tone, adopting a more upbeat, lighthearted attitude while you wiggled to sit more comfortably. Your husband followed your every move, and soon enough you found yourselves sitting in a tight embrace right at the step that marked the difference between the entrance, and the apartment’s corridor.

“I’m sorry…”

“Okay, I get that, but what for? For being human and having a temper sometimes? We’ve been living together for two years, Hwa. Two. And you are here acting like we haven’t argued before.”

Two years. Two years, three months, and seven days, if he were to be exact. He had your history together memorised, and as he kept on leaping, the accuracy turned from weeks, to days, to hours, to minutes, and for some events, down to the second. In three, two, one – you kissed the top of his head, just like he had done to you many times.

“I am so selfish, Y/N…” he whispered, hoarse.

“Aren’t we all?”

“Not like me.”

“No one is like you, and I mean that in the best sense. What kind of selfish are you even talking about Seonghwa?”

“I exhaust you. I repeat the same things, again, and again, tire you out and take you for granted.” He tried to explain himself, but his haze was refusing to let him abide by the regular scenario, instead letting him go off script and improvise.

You tapped him, signalling for Seonghwa to lean back and look at you. When his half-lidded eyes met yours, you muttered for him to sit down properly. Obediently, he twisted his body, and did what he was told. You remained by his side, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as you guided yourself to take a seat on his lap, effectively straddling him. One leg on either side, you pushed yourself closer, until your nose was against his, and you were peering into his pupils.

“I could repeat every moment with you forever, Hwa, never get tired, and always, do you hear me? Always, feel loved.” He took your words as gospel, as a clairvoyant portrayal that he would follow.

“I’m sorry.”

“How sorry?” you blurted, not thinking straight as you breathed against his lips, almost touching. Your arms draped around him, while he positioned his cool hands on your hips, more than aware of the proximity.

“Very.”

“Prove it.”

“Let me love you.”

“Now that’s something you should repeat more often, darling.”

You were supposed to kiss. You were supposed to sink into one another and blend into a loving embrace. Where were you? Why couldn’t he see you? A panic set into Seonghwa’s chest as his eyes shot open, and no matter where he looked, no matter how hard he twisted his neck, he was only met with the vast expanse of white. But his hands-

No longer holding onto you, they reached for thin air, only to fall, defeated, disappearing into a thick cloud-like fog. He yelled out your name, but was only met with a searing, piercing tone as though from an explosion blasting right into his ears, and no sign of his voice. He tried again, rushing to cover his ears on instinct as the high-pitched screech returned, though that did next to nothing, except proving that the colourless infinity was more merciless than nature itself. Slowly understanding the rule of not disturbing the soundlessness, Seonghwa blindly felt for the ground on which he was sitting. What if you were lost in this expanse with him? Where could you have gone? His best attempt would be to try feeling for any vibrations, and send some of his own. You must be in the minimalist hellscape with him, he convinced himself and knocked on what he had decided was the ground but was met with nothing.

His fist, then arm then the rest of the body fell through a chasm and in a split second, the white was cleared from his vision as suddenly as it had appeared. Perplexed and terrified, Seonghwa looked around, only to feel that he was stark naked, in the bedroom, with you under him. Slowly he turned his head to look downwards, and was greeted by your face, contorted in pleasure as you let out sultry moans, hands gripping the pillow that was supporting your head. You looked so beautiful, angelic as you whimpered his name, while he continued to thrust into you.

The sudden transition had thrown Seonghwa off kilter, and he inadvertently slowed down, hissing as he felt your walls contract around his throbbing member. The intensity of the intimate act had returned the senses to his body at an unprecedented speed, making him dizzy. Struggling to support himself with his outstretched arms, he lowered his body until it was flush against yours, and he was on his elbows. Every micromovement was a challenge while his cock was still inside you, though counterbalanced by the fear of this divinity being replaced by the white abyss once more.

“Hwa… ah… why’d you… why’d you stop?” you asked, breathless as your eyelids barely lifted to peek at him. Some stray strands of hair were stuck to your forehead, caught in a sheen of sweat that made you look ethereal in the light that had crept into the bedroom through the window, as the storm outside had calmed to reveal a timid moon, peering from behind the heavy clouds that lethargically moved across the sky. Your lips, rosy and plump, evidently from having been against his for long enough, were slightly parted as you panted shallowly. Seonghwa further lowered himself until he was hovering right above you, unable to stop himself from giving you a soft kiss, and whispering:

“I want to love you. Slowly.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” You quipped, a ghost of a smirk taunting him, earning a chuckle.

“Sorry, you know what you do to me.”

“No more ‘sorry’, darling, just give me all of you.” You moved so your hands were clasped around your husband’s neck, and sighed as he pushed himself up and bottomed out, the fullness making you see stars.

“I love you Y/N.”

“I love you ah- too… Hwa.”

As promised, following his return from nothingness, he took things slow. With every thrust into your aroused core, he worshipped you, whispering praise after praise in your ear about how well you took him, and just how good you made him feel. Finely attuned to every change in your body, he adjusted his angle, his rhythm, until you were, once again, a whining goddess being brought to a magnificent ruin. Only this time, he was going to remember every picosecond. He noted how your eyes rolled to the back of your head underneath your lids, how your tongue flicked to the corner of your mouth, for just a split second, but enough to demand Seonghwa’s attention. In one sensual motion, he moved his cock deeper, and gave himself access for another, longer expression of his love. His tongue gingerly parted your lips, and you readily accepted him, appreciative of the caution and affection in his gesture. As you ascended in the adoring expression, Seonghwa decided that this was true timelessness. And the only one he ever needed. Only you and him, with only love between you.

Seonghwa had a habit of looking at you as though you were the only precious thing in his universe with those gorgeous brown orbs. And while you otherwise would glow at the realisation, tonight, there was something different. First, it was him apologising for ‘letting you go’, then it was him nearly completely switching character and nearly making you lose all sense of self as he pounded into you with a carnal desire, and now, it was a slow, sensual unravelling. The light pecks on your cheeks, trailing down to your neck, and the loving gaze as Seonghwa confessed his love to you as if this was the first and last time, were too much for you to take. There was an omniscience about him, otherworldly knowledge, like he was somewhere else entirely, aware of every nuance of your inner world and capable of changing your very fate. Your precious Seonghwa, your future.

Your high came suddenly and violently from the sustained length of each movement that made you concentrate on every detail, from the way in which Seonghwa had teased you by stimulating your clit with his leaking cock, to how he silenced you with a kiss, inhaling your uncontrollable moans. As though you were a fragile doll, he embraced you as best as he could without collapsing on your chest, while he searched for the opportunity to chase his own release.

His movements began to falter as his own orgasm inched closer and closer, the knot in his stomach becoming nearly unbearable. The steady pace was broken into stutters as he rolled his hips, directing his member fully into your still-pulsating sex, the lewd melody emanating from him slapping against you only driving him further into his small death. The overstimulation was making you squirm, but you held on, and the way in which your nails dug into his back, and how you mumbled, barely audible, a soft and innocent ‘Seonghwa’ had sent him over the edge. Throwing his head back he groaned into his climax, euphoric while the viscous webs of cum painted your walls and labia as he pulled out in an attempt to control the trembling of his muscles. Rivulets of cum continued to pour from him, mixing with your sweet nectar, running down your smooth thighs. Unable to hold out much longer, he uttered your name, and in your blissful state, you responded by pulling him towards you, towards a comforting darkness.

The rise and fall, the pulse, the hum, your hand running through his hair, which was now mostly dry: all signs of you being real, being with him and sharing time and space. Seonghwa was home, everything was how it was supposed to be. You were excitedly talking about your work trip - a major design commission for a client abroad, and the post-coital somnolence was blocking his immediate awareness of this fact, until you addressed him directly.

“Mm… Hwa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think the magnolias will be blooming once I’m back?”

“Yes, angel.”

They were a day too late.

"You have to let go, Seonghwa! You can't do this to yourself forever! You are not living!" San’s voice resounded through the café as he glowered at the man before him.

"I know you understand that I live when I am there!"

Clearly, for the state in which he had appeared in the establishment left nothing but exasperation. Pallid, his shirt crumpled, dark circles having grown even more prominent than before, the look was so uncharacteristic of Seonghwa that San needed to spend a couple minutes simply observing the customer in order to recognise him. But the stupefaction was rapidly dispelled as soon as he heard a familiar, low and dulcet voice order ‘the usual’. However, this time, this meant a ‘special offer’ from the owner himself.

“You only have so many leaps left. You know this whole thing is unstable. What if you don’t come back?” while he was aware that what he was doing was horrifically unacceptable, regardless of their so-called friendship status, San yelled across the room, only to be met with a matching boom.

“What would change?”

“Oh, you damn well know what would change, don’t do this to me.” San dismissed his customer’s challenge, slamming his hand onto the counter to control his rage.

“Look. San. I appreciate you trying to intervene, but I think that I can handle it.” The phrase, uttered by a poor soul, clearly addicted, induced a threatening scowl. After a painful minute of silence, with the two men standing, ready for a verbal duel, San fired first, promising Seonghwa’s worst nightmare.

“I can just not serve you the coffee.”

“And I can just… no, you wouldn’t do this to me.” Seonghwa had gotten used to the white flashes while he spent time with you. It was almost comforting, and had turned to be a device that brought him back to his senses so that he would not get too attached. Nevertheless, every time that he did slip into the realm, a new hope joined, that of the possibility of you escaping with him. Finding yourself in the white landscape, and promptly departing the past, following the ticking of the clock until it stopped, letting you enter the café, and return into Seonghwa’s life. San could not take this hope away-

“I will. The café is closed for business today. Because I said so. Seonghwa, get a grip. She is-” he began but was promptly shut down with a wrathful roar.

“No. She is not. Whatever you are about to say she is not.”

“Seonghwa you are not okay. Please. Please, just… please live for yourself for a second and stop looking back-”

He did not want to hear it. He did not want to hear what should have stopped him long before, prior to when he had the chance to experience the instant cure to his madness. So in a fit of indignation, he strode out of the café, not bothering to shut the door behind him. It was only a matter of time before he would be back. New day, same old scars on his heart, with each passing tick, tock, tick, tock, tearing at the amateur stitching until the wounds returned, infected by solitary lamentation, festering with cognizance of the colourless cosmos he had to battle, alone in a city of millions.

A month passed. Two. Without a word uttered about you. In silent melancholy he kept the memory of you alive, each detail in his routine turning into a memento mori, a subconscious devotion. From the chrome silver earring he chose to wear, to the loosely knit black cotton sweater, he did not have to be explicit in the pull towards the centre of his inner universe. When it was not you he saw, it was the shadows. When it was not you he heard, it was the echoes. Be it in an interlocutor, a passer-by, an illusion conjured by hope, the world seemed to be like you. All similarities, nuances, interpretations... but still so painfully distant.

Seonghwa listened to the same songs on repeat – songs that you had recommended to him over the years. Again, and again, and again until he heard them even in the lonely silence. A numbing balm to his unforgiving mind, the melodies were an extended monologue – a lifeline. At least they were not creations in the past tense. And one of your favourite artists was even on tour; a proof for the musical organism still pumping its melodic blood, one listener less. Would you go? Of course, you would. You lived for the memories. You had crafted your life to be a series of perfectly curated, picturesque moments, and time aided in cultivating the final selection to be your most precious. He had turned into a loyal spectator, watching with bated breath as the episodes passed him by, under your direction, starring you, produced by you. He could only succumb to the unchangeable fall through time and follow you until that last, unfinished sentence.

He wanted to hate you. He wanted to erase you. Seonghwa desperately wanted to banish you from his psyche, in which you were so deeply entrenched that he would answer to your name.

His love for you was his poison, and he knew that his friends were right. In the cycle, the circle he had drawn to trap what had remained of you and him, was to be his inevitable full stop. His sentence was far from being completed, and yet after what one could call his comma, he struggled to find words. Perhaps because there were none that he found worthy of ever competing with what had been. It was not possible to despise happiness itself, nor was it to not crave it. Just once more. One more time to experience that utopia. A bittersweet suffering completed in shades of a heartbreaking blue.

And that was how he found himself in that same park, under those same white magnolias. In a trance he studied your wind-swept hair, your white cotton sweater and baby blue, washed out jeans, making sure that you were wearing those earrings he had bought you for no reason in particular except to make you happy – perhaps an expensive gift for what would be only a month that you had been a couple, but your gleam had been priceless. His gaze travelled to your hands, spotting that there was still that tiny chip on your manicured left index finger.

Same words. Same motions. Like running through a script of his beloved drama, one that he knew by heart and uttered in his slumber. All going according to the heavens' loathsome plan, until your lips that were tinted with a gloss that he would find out in two weeks, and three days' time precisely was your recent favourite, were weighed down with a concerned frown, and your eyebrows furrowed.

"Why are you crying?"

Cautiously, Seonghwa lifted a hand to touch his cheek, finding a timid, glistening stream that had found its path from his eyed that widened in meek surprise. Another touch on the other side, and he rushed to wipe away the currents with the edge of his sleeve, stifling an agonising sob that threatened to burst out of his throat. His chest on fire, Seonghwa struggled to blink away the mist that settled over his eyes. He must not look away. He must not give into this cruel bleariness. Not when you were right there. You must be so worried. You were always worried about how deeply he felt, about how sentimental he got and would always wrap your arms around him, guiding him to relax into your body, whispering that everything was going to be okay. If only spectral, celestial embraces could comfort him the same.

"Happy to see you again..." he choked out, smiling helplessly as he saw your features return to your bright, hopeful beam, gaze nothing short of a window to paradise.

"Again? We've just seen each other last week, silly." You tilted your head as you responded - a motion he had seen time and time again and loved the same.

He desired to tell you. Tell you that you were meant to be. That there was a future, albeit with the horizon too close for comfort, but a future nonetheless, ahead of you with him. But he knew better than that. It would mean another lifetime wasted, and again, he would have to search space and time for signs of you. Yes, he was selfish, but how could he not be when the fruit of his love's greed was so sweet? He wanted to see all your reactions as if he had not committed them to memory.

"And yet, I feel like I have known you, and lived with you for many lifetimes."

"Then... here's to another?"

And another.

And-

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