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mae-gi-writes · 2 years

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when the words fail . ten lee

Storyline: When your dance teacher decides to pair you up with your best friend Ten as a fun project for the school’s end-of-year performance, you couldn’t be happier. Ten’s your rock, the only person with whom you could trust your body, yourself, your feelings. But this dance brings out the best and worst parts of you, and suddenly, it feels like Ten means so much more to you than what he seems to be.

Genre: college!au, bestfriends to lovers, fluff, comedy, angst and mentions of insecurity and depression

Word count: friggin’ long because I can’t seem to write 1k fics now it’s ALL OR NOTHING.

Song: I Got You - Leona Lewis

————

A place to crash, I got you. No need to ask, I got you. Just get on the phone, I got you.

Gonna pick you up, if I have to.

————

“Love.”

Your nose scrunches up in distaste, “too basic.”

"It's a human emotion," Ten argues.

"It's overdone."

"It's necessary."

"Ugh," you can't help but roll your eyes, "can we do everything but love? We'll use it as a last resort."

He throws you a look as if asking whether you're actually serious, though you're used to it by now; that quirked eyebrow and the narrowing of his eyes. You always think of a cat when he does that, and right now is no exception. A pissed off cat.

"You spend too much time with your cats," is what you answer instead, ducking with a chuckle when he swats at your arm.

What you thought should have been a fun performance to plan is starting to grow into a headache. You're not even sure why your dance teacher came up with such a suggestion. Ten is one, if not the best, dancer of your class. Your entire cohort, even. So why -- out of all people -- has she chosen you as his partner?

"What about Life as the theme?" Ten proposes after a long bout of silence with only the click, click, click of his pen breaking it in small staccatos.

"Life," you lean your head back, stretching your neck slightly, "sounds alright, I guess. But shouldn't we be more specific?"

"So...youth? Like, the beauty of being young?"

"Sure. That works."

Once your theme is cleared, you move on to the logistics; the genre of dance, the music, what costumes to wear. It's all very blurry and unconfirmed, and even when curfew rolls around and you're trudging out of the studio, you still can't register the fact that you're the one who has been given the chance to work with Ten. Alone.

"You're thinking too much into it," is what Ten says when you voice out yout concerns, "Professor Lee probably thinks our styles are compatible."

Sure. Hiphop and jazz, it could work. But still, the skill gap is so obvious that it keeps you up at night.

The only comfort this brings you is that you get to work with your best friend, and what better way to spend the last few months of your degree than with the one person that understands all of you completely?

You try to comfort yourself over that fact, finally allowing the heaviness of your lids to drift you off to sleep.

"Since we're just the two of us, we can make a story out of it," Ten says the next morning during Dance Theory class. You're nestled at the very back and succeed in ducking behind your classmates in favour of exchanging ideas on paper.

Your heads are close, and if you look up you might bump your nose into his temple.

Instead, you keep your gaze focused on the page scribbled in black ink as Ten continues in a breathless murmur, "what are we? Friends? Lovers? Just two strangers who happen to meet by chance?"

"How about just us?"

"Us?"

"Yeah. Us. Our friendship."

Something indescribable flashes through Ten’s eyes when his eyes look up to yours, and you wonder whether yours are giving too much away. What are you giving away exactly? You ask yourself in annoyance. There’s nothing to give away.

Ten speaks before you have the chance to add on to your statement, “I like it,” he scribbles it down on the page in big block letters so that no one would miss it even if they tried, “our friendship.”

It seems that everyone else is more excited about the Performance than you are, asking you how you managed to get on Professor Lee’s good side and whether Ten had anything to do with this particular arrangement. As much as you hate to admit the thought out loud, the more you think about it, the more logical it becomes. Though…why would Ten even want to dance with you if that is his final piece, his thesis, the one stage that will determine where his future his headed?

“You should be happy about it,” Mark Lee says in response to your complaints as you gobble your way through your lunch. The cafeteria is hoarded with hungry students at this time of day and you’re glad you reminded yourself to bring a sandwich from home, “one; you get to work with your best friend. And two, you’ll get good grades for it.”

"Something doesn't feel right," you mumble through bites of your sandwich, "it's like...a sixth sense thing."

"Well tell you sixth sense to back off. You really can't complain when everyone's thirsting to get paired with Ten Lee."

"Maybe Ten doesn't want this."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Oh, I don't know Mark. Maybe because he doesn't want an extra weight on his shoulder?"

"Don't be stupid Y/N. He wouldn't want to work with anybody else but you," Mark takes another bite of his rice and curry, scooping up a little bit of kimchi he'd managed to wheedle out from the canteen lady earlier, "give him some credit."

You try. You really do.

As if to cure yourself of the guilt eating away at your insides, you stay up late mosy nights after dance practice, cooped up in your room in search of the right music to accompany your piece. You scrape the internet for pictures of costumes, wonder whether you could utilize some Chinese elements to your piece, and look over any lights that might amplify the feeling you're trying to convey.

All this information is scribbled into your notebook until the next morning when you have dance class with Ten. Nervousness takes a hold of you as soon as you step in though, and you try not to fidget under your best friend's quick glances when the teacher finally gives you free time to work out logistics.

"I was thinking," you start out shyly, keeping your notebook as close to your chest as you possibly can, "uhm, about the music, maybe we could use I Got You by Leona Lewis or one of Radwimps' songs. Or maybe even Youth by Troye Sivan since we`re working on that theme anyway--"

You realize you're babbling and quickly rush to add, "--I'm sorry, those are just ideas. We can definitely look at more options--"

"Don't go shy on me now," Ten chuckles, making a grab for your notebook and before you know it, he's flipping through the ink-filled pages with such interest it makes you cringe, "oh my god, Y/N. That's amazing. You did all this yourself?"

"I couldn't sleep last night," it's technically just half a lie, "so I thought might as well waste my time productively."

"Goody-Two Shoes."

"Oh shut up--Give that back," you snatch it back with a scowl, hating the way heat spreads to your cheeks, "I'm trying to do my part of the job."

"You're doing more than just your part," his chin rests into his hand, elbow on the table as he grins at you throgh his bangs, "so tell me. Anything else you wanna discuss?"

See, this is what you love the most about Ten. No matter how talented he is, he'll never be one to turn away your ideas in favour of his own. As you spend the next half hour planning out your costumes (Ten thought an autumn color palette would be best) and the story you’d want to tell (you chipped in a part about making it emotional to garner people’s attention), you realize the importance of Ten’s presence in all of this. It’s not that he’s the best at complying nor is he the most creative, but what Ten does is that he brings your ideas together, fuses the abstract into concrete, and gives you so much support you start thinking whether he’s just doing it to be nice.

But here’s the thing. He isn’t just nice. He’s nice, while also knowing what he wants.

You’re so immersed in the subject that you barely take note of the figure hanging over your shoulder until an unfamiliar soprano speaks up from behind you.

"Hey Ten!"

You turn and blink. The woman standing before you is dazzling. All long legs and golden dyed hair drifing down her back in glossy curls.

"Jueun," next to you, Ten straightens in his chair, "what are you doing here?"

Who’s this? Is your first thought. Of course, Ten has a lot of friends. So much more than you do. But none of them have ever stepped foot into his classes. Let alone his godly dance classes. You half-expect Ten to shoo her away with a half-baked promise to get back to her later, but you’re more than astounded when the girl — this girl — merely lets out a soft laugh.

“You’re the one who asked me whether I was free,” she grins at him. And then, like an afterthought, her gaze flits to you, “oh, hi. Sorry. How rude of me, I’m Jueun.”

Jueun — according to the limited, slightly awkward introduction mediated by Ten — is a third-year biology major who’s only focus had been to get into the field of medicine. She’d met Ten at the last Thai committee social and they had been seeing each other casually ever since.

“You’re from Thailand too?” You ask her with a slight frown. Jueun doesn’t remotely sound Thai.

Oh, why do you care?

“My parents are, though my father is half-korean. That would explain my name,” she smiles and it’s so pretty it almost blinds you for a full minute. No wonder Ten appreciates her presence. Any man would be lucky enough to entertain her presence. She turns to Ten then, another playful smile on her face, “I’m gonna head to the cafeteria. We could meet there once you’re done.”

“Sounds good,” he agrees.

In any other circumstances, you’re pretty certain Ten would’ve made a comment on Jueun’s presence after she’s gone. It’s not like he’s never dated before, you’re used to seeing him with other girls who disappear after a while. And you don’t see how Jueun is any different.

Except, Ten doesn’t even mention her. At all. Instead, he focuses back on the topic at hand; stage lighting, and leaves you in a tightly wound knot of confusion as you keep on gazing at him in hopes that he’d clarify this weird situation.

“So…” you muster up the courage to ask him as you’re busy packing up your bag. Ten is shoving his things inside none-too-gently, suggesting that he is probably going to meet him with this Jueun as promised, “you like her?”

“Huh?” Ten’s head snaps up to look at you.

“Jueun,” you motion towards the space she’d once occupied by your table, “do you like her?”

He offers a half-hearted shrug as you make your way out of the classroom, holding the door open for you, “it’s early days.”

“You’re seeing her?”

“I guess you could say that, yes.”

“Is she nice?”

He cocks his head in thought. In the corner of your eye, you catch a small smile fitting across his lips, “she’s…yeah. She’s nice. I get along well with her. She’s easy to be around.”

Ah.

A rock seems to form in your chest, and suddenly it’s a little hard to breathe. You look away from him, hands unconsciously tightening on your backpack straps as you wonder why it had taken Jueun’s appearance for him to say anything in the first place.

It’s none of your business. You know it isn’t. And you’re not one to pry into Ten’s personal affairs.

So you let it go, bid him goodbye at the cafeteria doors, and try not to think about why your heart aches a little at the thought as you make your way out of the school campus.

————

Go ahead and say goodbye, I’ll be alright

Go ahead and make me cry, i’ll be alright

————

“One, two, three, four and five—“

“On five?”

“Yeah,” Ten swings his arms around in a sweeping gesture, the movement as graceful as a swan on water. He rotates his body, adds a spin while counting, “five, and six and seven, eight.”

“Five and six, and seven—“ you try your best to imitate him, though you feel more like an ugly, awkward duckling than a swan. You stumble slightly, lips pursing into a pout, “this isn’t going to work.”

“You just gotta practice,” Ten repeats the movement again, slowly, and you do your best to follow, “yeah, that’s it. You just gotta make sure you hit it on the five, and six, you put your foot down—“ he does, you follow like a newborn fawn, the balance throwing you off, “—and seven, eight.”

The final performance — and evaluation — is in a month and is approaching too quickly for your taste. Late hours had been spent in the comforts of the music lab where you and Ten had sat together, notes spilling out from all corners and coffee cups at the ready for the long night, as you both worked on the melody, choosing each lyrics precisely to the story you were telling, and adding a few beats here and there to allow some depth into it.

Despite your tiredness, those days had been magical, almost pleasurable, when Ten was at your side. He’d bring you snacks from the convenience store whenever he could, managed to stuff a throw blanket in his backpack for the times you’d collapsed onto the couch to doze off. He’d sacrifice his own sleep for yours and instead would click away at the mouse when you gave in to the tiredness and didn’t complain once about coming early to dance practice the next day.

There was a lot of work to be done, a lot of details to be figured out. But with Ten at your side, nothing seemed too terrible or impossible. You’d sometimes find yourself into fits of laughter whenever you got distracted enough by the campus gossip he’d relay to your ears. When you got tired, he’d play loud, exciting music for you to dance to, and when you were both collapsed on the couch after too much staring at the computer screen, you’d exchange soft conversation about your future, about the things you’d like to do once you graduated, about all the places and the people you’d like to see.

“I like it here though,” you’d say to him, shoulders shifting so that it brushed against his. Ten was warm. Wrapped up in the blanket thrown over the pair of you as you leaned against his body, he was the perfect pillow to fall asleep on, “I like being close to my family. I like the simplicity of waking up every morning and knowing where everything is.”

Ten’s head dips so that he can look at you. The warm studio light hits his side profile, causing you to admire his features, “I want to travel,” he murmurs, “I want to work abroad for a few years. Yeah, that would be ideal.”

“Have you started applying for jobs yet?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know what I want to do, specifically. I thought about going into costume design, maybe…” his voice trails off with uncertainty.

“That actually sounds like you. If you weren’t such a good dancer.”

“You can’t make a career only out of dancing, though.”

“Isn’t that why we’re in this program?”

“We’re in this program because we love dancing,” something catches in Ten’s voice then, something you can’t quite decipher, “but just our love for dance isn’t going to get us anywhere. We need to branch out, diversify.”

His words are shocking, for you’ve always known Ten to be a follower of his dreams. You straighten up, look at him as if he’s grown another pair of eyes. He avoids your gaze though, keeps it glued to the blanket he’s started fidgeting with.

“You got into an argument, didn’t you?” Your words are soft, yet hauntingly loud in the silence of the room, “with your mother?”

A pause. Ten’s figure stills.

Then, his head dips into a nod. He lets out a shaky exhale before dragging a hand over his face, “I don’t know what to do,” his voice comes out muffled underneath his palm, “Ma told me I wouldn’t be able to keep dancing forever.”

“You were made to dance,” your hand shoots out to grasp his forearm, “out of all of us, you’re the one who was made to dance, Ten. You can’t just throw that away just because your mother doesn’t agree with your definition of success. And imagine all the grants, the scholarships. You’ll get them all, Ten. What with our final performance—“

And then it hits you.

He might not get the scholarship. Not if it’s with someone like you.

That’s it. That’s the issue.

“It’s me,” you murmur out, “isn’t it?”

Ten’s head whips up, eyes catching yours in surprise, “what?”

“It’s me,” you repeat the words that sound hollow on your tongue, coated with a sourness that makes you want to gag, “I’m the reason why you won’t be able to get your scholarship…isn’t it? That’s what everyone’s been telling you, right?”

His response is silence. But that’s more than enough.

“You’re right,” you swallow thickly. Take a breath, try to continue though your voice starts shaking, “you won’t get the scholarship because of me. But we can do something about that. We’ll focus the choreography on you so that you have more chance. We can do that—“

“No,” Ten’s jaw clenches then, “No. We—No. That’s not right. It’s your performance—“

“And yours,” you counter-argue, “which is why I think it’s fair enough you’re the center of it.”

He’d rejected your idea despite the argument that arose that night, refused to even acknowledge it as a possibility. But you were just as stubborn and willing to give up anything for Ten to get that scholarship that would put him under the radar of the best International Dancers in the world. Heck, he would get master classes out of this, and if he put his name out there, he’d definitely have a wider chance of creating the career he’s always dreamt of.

“We could change the choreography here,” you say while trying out the moves again. Fix, six and seven, eight, “I think you should be the one doing it. I could maybe stay in the background.”

“It won’t look as good,” Ten shoots you a sharp look, “let’s do it together, come on.”

Most attempts up until now had been futile to try and wheedle Ten into taking the centre stage. It’s frustrating, so much so that you end up at Professor Lee’s office one late afternopn in hopes of getting her to influence his decision.

"You know I cannot say anything about that," she looks up at you from behind her wooden desk, lRge and overflowing with papers that seem endless.

"But you agree that him getting more focus would provide better opportunities?"

Professor Lee hums, chin settling atop her hand as she looks at you over the top of her glasses, "Give him a little more credit than that, Y/N. He did ask me to put you with him, after all.”

You blink. “He—He did?”

Professor Lee cocks her head at you, probably confused by your behavior, “yes. He asked me himself. Said that you guys wanted to make your last dance piece a memorable one. Who was I to stop him?”

“But—“ your tongue suddenly feels a lot heavier, your chest suddenly constricting as realization washes through you. So Ten had asked Professor Lee himself, making as though it had been both of your idea, “—but you knew this would affect his grade. You know it. I’m—We’re not even close to the same grade boundary—“

“I’m well aware,” Professor Lee interrupts, “but he wouldn’t hear another word about it. You know how stubborn he is.”

That changes a lot of things. That makes you seething mad.

Who is he to know what’s best for him? What’s best for you? You understand why he’s doing it — he wants you to succeed just as he does. But the anger that pulses through you diminishes your amount of sympathetic reasoning and no sooner you’ve walked out of Professor Lee’s office that you fish out your phone and ram your fingers over your keyboard.

Y/N: Where are u?

The text comes back a few agonizing seconds later.

Ten: Uni cafe. Y?

You don’t hesitate, going straight to the said destination as you try and qualm the sudden overwhelming wave of feelings that are threatening to take over. You hate this, hate the fact that Ten has the audacity to do such a thing behind your back. It’s not just about trying to make it better for you but it’s almost pitiful, the way he’d done it. He might as well be laughing in your face because right now you feel like a complete, blithering idiot.

You’re almost through the cafe doors when you halt in mid-step.

Ten is here, but he’s not alone. Jueun is with him.

Something in your heart cracks.

For a minute, the world seems to freeze on its axis. With only you, and your beating heart. Too loud. Too much.

What are you doing?

You take a step back. Then a second. And then, you’re bolting away and through the campus as a new kind of rage takes over. Stupid, stupid, your brain screams at you like a broken tape record on repeat and your chest seems to constrict and you can’t seem to breathe through the ragged, pulsating blood roaring through your ears. Nothing makes sense as you dash blindly, your feet carrying you and before you know it you find yourself back in the dance studio, breathless and in a sort of daze that makes you slide to the floor.

Wow. You were desperate for Ten's help. But not desperate enough. And yet, he's done the very thing you didn't want him to -- have pity on you.

Pathetic.

A sob crawls up your throat. You lean over your knees, forehead pressed against your kneecaps as you try really hard to gain control of your staggering breaths.

But it's too late. And too much. You start cehing before you know it and you wonder, you wonder whether everything has ever been for nothing.

-----

And when you need a place to run to

For better or worse, I got you

-----

You don't know how much time you spend in the studio, crying your eyes out until your eyes sting and your nose clogs up.

The only thing that takes you momentarily out of your misery is the slow buzz of your phone. You fish it out od your backpack, hesitating upon noticing the caller ID.

Ten Lee.

You roll your eyes, look up to the ceiling to take a shaky inhale, then answer the phone.

"What?" You say as soon as the line connects.

"I've been calling you for ages," Ten's voice is like a knife slicing through the air, "where are you?"

"Studio."

"Wha--Y/N, I was worried sick--"

"I'm not your responsibility, Ten. You don't have to worry about me."

If he hears your bitterness, he doesn't say anything, "stay where you are. I'm coming."

The sound of the door clicking open announces his arrival a few minutes later, but you don't look up from scrolling your instagram feed. You really don't have the energy to face him right now.

You hear his footsteps approaching, "hey," he stops before you, squatting down to your level in hopes of catching your eye.

"Hey," he taps your knee and you look up reluctantly. Worry floods his eyes the moment he spots your blotched face, “woah — you look like shit.”

“Thanks Ten,” you wipe your face using your jacket sleeve. You turn your face away from him, a mixture of shame and embarrassment causing heat to crawl up the back of your neck.

“Tell me,” he nudges your knee once more. Then, his hand grasps it before he sits down cross-legged in front of you, eyes questioning and filled with a softness that echoes his concern.

It makes your chest hurt. And yet, you can’t find yourself to be mad at him.

“Did you—“ the words clog up in the back of your throat as your eyes slide to stare at his scuffed sneakers, “did you ask Professor Lee to put us together? For the final performance?”

His body tenses. He doesn’t answer though.

You laugh. An empty echo of a sound, “I can’t believe it,” you half-mutter to yourself, “why Ten? Why’d you do--"

"I wanted to."

You shake your head, "you...you wanted to dance with me?"

"Yeah. Yeah I did."

"Don't bullshit me," your eyes snap up to his, finally meeting those dark swirls of coffee brown that causes a small knot to tighten at your throat, "why would you? We're not even on the same level, and we--"

"I wanted to and you needed the help."

"I don't need your help!" You yell out so suddenly, the anger finally rising to the surface.

You exhale, inhale, exhale once more and squeeze your eyes shut through the film of fresh tears slowly blurring your vision.

"I don't--" you try to choke out, "I'm not extra weight, Ten. And I don't want to hold you back--"

He reaches for you, "don't say that--"

"I don't need your pity," your gaze snaps back to his despite the tears now rolling down your cheeks, "I don't need you to feel sorry for me. Nor do I need you to sacrifice your future just to--"

"Y/N you're not listening to me," Ten rubs a hand over his face, "I wanted to," he jabs a finger at his chest as he continues, "I wanted to. Okay?"

"But why?" You bite out.

"Because just for this once I didn't want to do something because I was good at it," his eyes suddenly flash and you catch the slow silent torment in them, a black storm raging, "I didn't want to do something just because there was going to be a lot of technique or wow factors or whatever. I wanted to do something of my own, that I wanted to and--and I wanted it to be with you."

His confession is startling, a little shocking even.

You can't do anything but stare at him. He stares right back, dark eyes locked on yours with no intention of looking away. And in it you see the conflict happening; the guilt, the remorse, the need to be understood.

"We could've talked about it," are the words tumbling out of your mouth after a long bout of silence. In the distance, you hear a door slam. Probably a few other dancers closing up for the night.

"You wouldn't have let me do anything," Ten says, "I know how you are."

Well, he isn't wrong.

"We've never danced together, not once since we got here," Ten continues in a soft murmur. He slides up to the wall next to you, shoulder to shoulder, his body so warm you unconsciously inch closer, "so I thought...this would be our last chance."

"But your scholarship--"

"I don't care about a damn scholarship, Y/N."

You allow your head to fall onto his shoulder and a soft sigh escapes your lips. You stay there for a while, the quiet slowly calming you down and weighing down on your lids. Ten’s breathing is a constant rhythm, as is the beating of his heart, and you find that it actually feels comforting to hear him so close like this. It’s nice.

“Tell me about Jueun,” you mumble out after a while.

Ten must’ve dozed off too, for when he speaks next his words are slurred, “what about her?”

“Do you like her?”

You feel his head pressing atop yours, “I like spending time with her. Do I want to go out with her? Yeah sure. But I wouldn’t say I like her that way…yet.”

“Do you think you could?”

“Maybe,” he pauses, “she thought we were dating. I had to explain that we’re just very close.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

There’s something inside you that lights up with that knowledge and the image launches at you so vividly you can’t shove it away quickly enough; you and Ten, walking side by side with your hands interlocked. Him smiling down at you in that crooked grin of his as you tell him about your day, before he pulls your hand up to kiss your knuckles.

You quickly shake yourself out of your thoughts, shivering. Weird, you think to yourself, it would be weird.

————-

Go ahead and make me cry, I’ll be alright

Go ahead and say goodbye, I’ll be alright

————-

Nothing more was said on the matter of Ten having bargained your place next to him with Professor Lee. Instead, you decided to throw yourself entire into the project. Every spare moment you had would find you in the dance studio, going over moves and polishing those that you still found to be a big struggle. Ten would be there most of the time to offer comforting guidance and dancing along to the music with you. His presence, despite not having asked anything of him, was a comforting one, and the more you danced, the more comfortable you felt with those uncomfortable turns and twists of your body.

It happens on a Wednesday evening. You and Ten had Dance Theory in the morning and had grabbed a quick lunch before heading back to the studio, offering sheepish shrugs to the person in-charge as she raised her brows at the two of you as if asking, “you two again?”

“One, two, three and four and five—“ Ten is chanting out as you follow the dance steps, moving in a slow turn using your knee. You turn too fast though, your outstretched hand knocking into Ten’s with as much grace as an awkward duckling.

“You need to take your time with that one,” Ten goes down on one knee to demonstrate, swinging it back and forth as he looks up at you, “see? You use the momentum, not your back foot. Then you’ll have more control over your movements.”

You try it out, kneeling down and spinning around none-too-gently. This time, you turn too quick. Your body crashes into Ten’s chest and you both topple to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs.

“Shit, sorry!” You lift your face from Ten’s chest, before bursting out laughing at his annoyed expression, “sorry Ten, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

He groans, hand going to his chin to rub the sore spot, “I think I broke my chin.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic. Here,” and you knock his hand away to take over his massage, “better?”

You grin at him, not realizing your compromising position until you feel one of his hands skimming along your waist. Your smile drifts away as he pulls you up with him in a sitting position and it would’ve been all so innocent if not for the fact that you’re currently sitting on his lap.

“Sorry,” you manage to mumble out and trying your best not to stare at the fact that his lips are in touching distance with yours.

Ten gently nudges your hand away then, providing you some space as he leans away from your, tilts his head to the side even, “s’alright. Though I doubt my medical insurance will cover this.”

“I’ll pay you in bubble tea,” you slide out of his lap and dust yourself off, “let me try it again. Don’t stand in my way.”

He doesn’t. And both of you decidedly ignore the slight bout of tension that had sparked a few moments earlier.

It’s normal, you try repeating to yourself as you toss and turn in your sleep that night, dance partners need to have some kind of chemistry for it to work.

Another time, you’re trying out one of Ten’s movement combinations, lying down on your back as Ten circles his leg in a circular arc before he’s crouching above you, “I can lift you up with my hand,” he’s explaining, though you’re suddenly focused on the way his mouth is moving, forming words. You feel his hand caressing the side of your face, slipping to the back of your neck. And then you’re being lifted from the ground and right into Ten’s arms.

“Use your core, Y/N,” Ten chuckles when you flop against him like a dead fish instead of that smooth lift you were supposed to do, “it’ll be smoother that way and you can come up with me as I draw back from you.”

So you agree and decide to try with the music.

You try not to let the music affect you too much, focusing on the power each movement creates. The melody picks up through the speakers and you join Ten in the middle, the pair of you moving side by side like mirror images until you drop your body to the floor and Ten replicates the exact same movement he did earlier.

He kicks his leg back,circles around before dropping to the ground with such fluidity and so much emotion that your breath catches the moment his gaze locks on yours.

His hand caresses your cheekbone, slips to the back of your head.

You force yourself to concentrate, try not to get distracted by the way he’s looking at you.

He tugs you up. You follow in a slow motion until your noses brush. Your hand cups his cheekbone, an impulsive move. But one that works.

You don’t realize you’re breathing hard until the music fades.

You and Ten. Breathing in sync. With barely any distance between you.

Close. So close.

“That feels good,” Ten’s murmur brushes against your face.

“Y-Yeah.”

Your eyes drop to the ground. It’s too much. The tension crackles in the air. Electricity, a warning sign. And you wonder if Ten feels it too.

The phone rings. You both jump, started. Heads turn to the device at the other end of the room.

“That’s probably Jueun,” Ten says before slowly extracting himself from your hold and walking over to his phone. You sit there, allowing the space to let you breathe, to allow your heart to calm down from the sudden ricocheting excitement that’s taken over your body. Heat floods your limbs, the bottom of your stomach, so much so that your palms curl into fists by your side.

Ten’s voice floats through the room but the words don’t register in your brain. That is, until he calls out your name and causes you to jump, “w-what?”

“Put your sweater on,” his lips curl into a smile, “we’re going to a party.”

That is how you find yourself dragged to one of Jueun’s classmates’ dormitories, introduced as Taeyong and who coincidentally is also friends with Mark. It’s eleven in the evening and the smell of booze and smoke fill every single pore of the house as you struggle through a throng of people to reach the kitchen. Goddamn, you only want a glass of water and almost cry out in relief upon seeing the drinks stacked on the table. You’ve lost Ten along the way, not that you mind, for the moment he spotted Jueun, he’d been a gone man. Plus, after what had just happened in the dance studio, you probably need some time alone with your thoughts.

You’re midway through pouring some water for yourself when someone taps you on the shoulder.

You turn to see Taeyong, a cheeky smile curled along his lips and hands tucked into the back-pocket of his leather jeans. Who even wears leather jeans?

“Y/N, right? I’ve heard a lot about you from Jueun. It’s nice to finally put a name to a face,” he holds out his hand for you to shake, which you do after some slight hesitation.

“You know about me,” you say it as if it’s a statement, eyebrow quirking up in curiosity, “how do I not know about you?”

“Well,” he grins wickedly, a mischievous little boy ready to take on a challenge, “you can know all about me tonight, if you want.”

As much as Taeyong isn’t really your style, you welcome the distraction he provides. Soon enough, you find yourself at the pool table playing beer pong along with his friends, cheering and whooping and high-fiving random people you’ve only just met seconds ago. But for once, you don’t care. You want this, you want to escape the sudden need to seek out Ten’s presence, you want to push him out of your mind for as much as possible and if alcohol will help, then so be it.

You’re in the middle of downing another shot of absinthe with Mark — he’d sought you out a few minutes earlier, complaining about how you’d ditched him in favour of Taeyong’s cool friends — when a hand lands on your arm, pulling you back into a solid chest.

A whiff of a familiar scent invades your nostrils. You blink as Ten’s blurry face comes into focus.

“Oh,” you squint up at him, “what are you doing here?”

“That’s enough.”

“Wh—“ you scoff, shake your head as a soft giggle erupts from your lips, “what are you doing, Ten?”

“You’ve had enough to drink,” he takes the absinthe out of your grip and you cry out in protest, “wh—give that back!”

“No,” and without waiting for your consent, he turns away and downs the entire thing, shuddering as he does so.

Mark whines out behind him, “what the fuck, dude? Not cool. We didn’t get to drink together for ages. Why you gotta gatecrash like that?”

“She has her final performance in two weeks,” Ten then makes a grab for your arm, though you struggle and push him away. To no avail, his grip his firm. He tightens it for good measure, “she can’t be drinking this much.”

“Aw come on man—“ Mark’s words are cut off by Jueun’s voice calling out Ten’s name from behind him.

You take this chance to wriggle out of Ten’s grip, for once glad that Jueun is here to provide him some kind of distraction. Glaring up at your best friend as a newfound rage bubbles up through your chest, you shove him away forcefully, “Yeah Ten, you have bigger fish to fry. Why are you babysitting me?”

He winces, “I’m not—“

“You’re the one who wanted to bring me here,” you jut your chin out at him, “so let me be, and mind your own business.”

“I—“

But you’re storming away before he has the chance to say anything else. You don’t want to hear anything more, the tide of emotions wrapping you up in wave after wave of despair and feelings that you yourself can’t decipher. A small sob echoes up your throat as you stumble out into the open air. Your hands reach out blindly, finding purchase on the outside wall as you allow yourself to breathe in, breathe out.

The music is nothing but an echo from the outside, blending in with the distant noise of cars zooming by and other people’s chatter. You clutch at your chest and wonder why your heart feels like it just got punched.

It hurts. Right between your chest. Something that is tearing up, eating away at you from the inside. Memories flash through your mind; Ten’s face, crinkled up in that adorable smile of his, with Jueun in a corner of the room. A picture of what you saw earlier like a permanent scar etched into your memory.

Ten’s eyes, swimming with some kind of softness you can only define as adoration as he looks down at her. You squeeze your eyes shut. The dance studio, him hovering over you. His lips milimeters away.

You can’t stay here. Struggling to your feet, you stagger forward. One step. Two steps. Away from that house.

It hurts. It hurts so much you wish to tear your entire heart out of your chest.

It hurts. Tears are streaming down your face. Fat pebbles of water dripping down your sweater.

It hurts, though you don’t want to think about why it does.

Because deep down, you know exactly the reason why.

You like Ten.

You love Ten.

And he doesn’t love you back.

—————

And if it don’t feel right, you’re not losing me by letting me know

—————

It’s Thursday and you’re currently waiting for the practice room to free itself. Your head is heavy and every noise seems too loud. But still, your nerves are jittery, all over the place.

You haven’t spoken to Ten since last night. And you’re not sure what will be the outcome of this conversation.

You rarely fight with him and that’s because you’re both so non-confrontational by nature that 1) you let things slide easily and 2) you talk it out to clear the air.

But last night hadn’t been the usual bite and snap. Last night, there had been something a little more coiling in your stomach, in the way Ten’s eyes had blazed with hurt.

The door opens. You look up, just in time to see Taeyong striding out. He halts in mid-step, recognition dawning on his face, “hey, Y/N!”

“Hey,” you smile back weakly and wonder how he’s not hungover. Or if he is, he does a good job of hiding it.

“Where did you disappear to last night?” He asks, shifting to lean on one leg as his arms cross over his chest, “Jueun told me you left early.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t…feeling too good.”

“Too much to drink?”

Or not enough. You grimace, “something like that.”

“Also, nice shots,” it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the beer pong game that you won against him and one of his other mates Jaemin, “when can I have a re-match?”

“That depends whether you’ll be hosting another party or not.”

“Oh?” His eyebrow quirks up suggestively, “does that mean you’ll come if I host another one?”

“Depends,” you grin, “what’s the prize?”

A cough. You both turn to see Ten with his hands in pockets, dressed as though he’d just rolled out of bed. It’s even more contrasting when he walks over to stand beside Taeyong who is finely decked in another pair of black jeans and black muscle shirt to match.

“Hey Taeyong,” Ten nods in greeting, “how’s it going man?”

“S’alright, what about you?! Was just talking to Y/N about last night. Did you know she’s an amazing beer pong player?”

“The very best,” you add.

“No,” Ten’s eyes flicker between you and Taeyong, “no I didn’t. Would be nice to see that in action.”

“Maybe next week,” Taeyong glances down at his smart watch, “oop, I gotta go. I have chem lab next.”

You wave at the young man as he jogs down the corridor and waits until he’s out of view before walking inside the studio, Ten hot on your heels, “What was that about?” He asks as you drop your bag on the wooden bench in the corner of the room and proceed to plug in your phone.

You scroll through the list of songs as you ask, “What was what about?”

“Since when were you so chummy with the campus playboy?”

“Since when did you care?”

Ten lets out a loud, exasperated sigh before he walks over to you, grabbing onto your shoulders and swiveling you around so that you have no choice but to face him. He grabs your phone, tucks it in the back pocket of his sweatpants before finding your gaze, “you’re mad.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“You stole my shot last night.”

“That’s it?” He scoffs, disbelief crossing his face, “that’s why you’re mad?”

“And you butted your nose into my business.”

“Y/N, I always butt my nose into your business—“

“You don’t need to,” your mind flies you back to that said night; Jueun had leaned towards him, stealing a small kiss from his cheek. Your chest constricts and you look away, “that’s why people think we’re dating. You do these things that friends don’t do. So just—just stop. It’s annoying. And awkward.”

Your eyes glue themselves on one corner of the studio to avoid the evident hurt that paints his face. Ten’s hold on your shoulders loosen slightly as a distinct pause hangs in the air.

Then, he slowly moves away, “alright,” he mumbles while adjusting his cap, “if that’s what you want.”

It’s not.

But it’s better for it to be this way. Because no way in hell are you spilling your unrequited feelings to him and no way are you going to jeopardize his newly-formed relationship. No matter how many times Ten rejects the idea of him dating, it’s as clear as day in his eyes, in the way he tilts his head more attentively towards her, in the way he smiles so brightly it hurts.

The rest of practice happens in silence, only broken by you asking questions when you struggle with the movements. Ten is patient, explaining everything in detail and holding on to you when you need the support. But it’s clear that there’s some sense of dislodgment, of awkward silence that builds in the space wedged between the two of you. And as much as you miss the familiarity of him altogether, you know it’s for the best to pull away now when the pain is still fresh.

Obviously, Ten does not know a thing about your unrequited feelings. So it surprises you after dance practice as you’re making your way out of the door that he reaches over to grasp the back of your elbow. Light enough that you can pull away, yet firm on your skin.

“Yes?” You cast him a glance. And then, surprise takes over.

Because as Ten meets your eyes, you notice the tears threatening to fall.

“H-Hey,” all semblance of ignorance goes right out of the window as your wall breaks and you rush over to him just in time for Ten to bury his face into your shoulder. His tears are silent crystal jewels sliding down his cheeks and drenching your shirt, but the way his arms find your neck to hug you tight against him is enough to cause guilt to creep in and settle at the base of your stomach.

You hug him back hesitantly, hand smoothing down his back in long, slow strokes, “it’s okay,” you hush into his ear as sobs finally start emerging from the back of his throat, “hey, don’t cry.”

It takes a while for him to calm down, you tugging him to the bench and continuing to stroke his back until his sobs subside into sniffles.

“I’m sorry,” you finally blurt out. And as if his tears are contagious, you find yourself leaning onto his shoulder to cry silently into him as you murmur, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I was just…angry.”

When he speaks next, his voice is hoarse, caught up with emotion, “I’m sorry for overstepping. I didn’t—I didn’t realize that I was being overbearing—“

“No no,” you tighten your hold on his arm, “I was being a sensitive bitch. It’s not your fault. You were only looking out for me.”

“Still,” he blows his nose with a tissue, “you’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Silence envelopes the room, both of you too wrapped up in your own thoughts to see the time passing. You wonder briefly how your friendship has come to this. You’ve never had any bumps where Ten was concerned and these few weeks had been rough. Is it because of your dance project? Were you spending too much time together?

No, that’s not it. The thing is, everything is changing. Too much, too fast.

You’re a bystander watching him fall in love and live his life, and he’s moving on. Without you.

Glancing at him from the corner of your eye, you let out another soft sigh before extending your hand out towards him. A tentative attempt at peace, “friends?”

Ten looks at your hand, before extending his own to clasp yours.

“friends.”

And you know that no matter how much you try to tell yourself to stay away, you’ll always be looking for Ten in the crowd.

——————

What’s weird about it, I’ve figured it out in my head.

I have to say, I got you.

——————

“Are you ready?”

You almost snort out your bubble tea, “no.”

It’s a few days before your final performance and you’re in the cafeteria , mourning over your sugared drink and thinking about how your life is about to end with Professor Lee telling you how inadequate you are at dancing.

This is where Mark had found you a few minutes earlier, looking like you’re about to throw up the contents of your stomach.

“Don’t think about it,” he says now in-between bites of pasta, “it’s all muscle memory by now. You’ll be fine.”

The last few weeks after your sudden outburst with Ten had been peaceful, if you don't count the million of ways in which your heart is breaking every time you spot Ten and Jueun together. Sometimes he valls her during your break. Sometimes, you spot them flirting by the corridor. And sometimes, she joins you for a late night snack in the middle of your dance practice.

"You seem very keen on her," you'd remarked to your best friend one evening after she'd gone out to throw the trash.

Ten's ears blush bright pink, though he doesn't say anything.

That's good enough of an answer for you to put two and two together. Their relationship is moving along just fine and every second of it feels like a punch in the gut.

Still, you hold your head high and a fake smile on your face, hating the fact that she's pretty and feminine and smart, and just everything you're not.

And though you still feel the residual effect of that weird tension building between you and Ten during dance practice, you tempt to brush it off so as not to get your hopes up high. Because apart from the intensity in hid dark orbs when he dances with you, it's like an on and off switch that seems to be merely for the sake of the performance.

That hurts you even more.

"So when are you going to tell him?"

You glance up at Mark, sipping on your tea before you ask, "tell who? And what?"

"Tell Ten that you like him--"

No sooner has Mark spoken that your hand shoots out to clamp over his mouth, eyes widening with panic as you quickly glance around the room with fear.

"What the fuck, Mark?" Your eyes narrow dangerously, "don't day those kinds of things out loud."

"I whash vwandering--" you glare at him, before pulling your hand away to let him talk, "I was wondering when were you going to admit it but since you weren't and the performance is coming up, I feel like you should. For your own good." Is what he says before shoving another forkful of pasta in his mouth.

"What are you talking about? Of course I can't tell him," you snap, "it'll ruin everything!"

"Or make everything better."

"You are out of your mind."

"And you are just running away," Mark leans onto his elbow, throws you a pointed look, "c'mon Y/N, do you really want to leave all these things unsaid? I see the way you look at him."

"No. No way. I'm--you know what, I don't even have to answer you right now."

"Ten would want--"

"He would not," you cut him off harshly, "want me to fuck things up for him and Jueun."

And with that, you collect your bubble tea and backpack, before striding away to the dance studio with rattled footsteps and a pounding heart.

No. No no no. Telling Ten is dangrrous. Telling Ten will. Fuck. Things. Up.

God knows you don't need that right now.

The thought of it haunts you though, in the form of Mark’s words. Even when you spot Professor Lee waiting by your dance classroom. Even when you try to focus on the beats of the music flowing through the speakers as you take this time to stretch and warm up your muscles. Ten comes late, closely followed by Jueun’s figure and that almost feels like a knife stabbing straight through your chest. Someone might’ve as well held up a “Here to Hurt Y/N” sign. You quickly swivel away, face the wall, biting your lip as the familiar sting of tears crawl up your throat.

No. Stop it, your mind chants. That’s not what you’re here for.

That’s right. You have a performance to deliver. An artwork to complete.

“Ready?” Professor Lee’s voice pierces through your inner monologue and you look at her, before your eyes find Ten’s who is already walking over to you.

“Hey,” his hand reaches up to tap your nose, “ready?’

You nod. You don’t really trust your voice at this point.

“We’ve practiced this millions of times,” he murmurs into your ear while you both get into curled up ball positions. Professor Lee stands on the sidelines, flicking through the connected phone for the desired song, “don’t worry. Just dance.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble back. Why does Jueun have to be here?

You have half a mind to tell Ten that Jueun needs to get out — you can’t concentrate like this — but it’s too late. The melody begins, a slow thrum that causes your limbs to slowly extend with poetic grace. Just like you and Ten had practiced.

Okay, you think. Focus. You concentrate on the melody, on allowing your body to fold to the words flowing through your song as you kneel and face Ten. His eyes are dark, focused, pinned to yours like you’re everything he’s ever seen. You do the same.

You’re not quite sure how you manage to finish the performance, only realize that it’s over once your forehead presses against Ten’s, breaths intermingling and fingers interlocked and the music drifting away only to leave a silence laden with emotions put on the table. For a minute, no one says a thing.

And then, as if breaking the soft spell that is Ten’s eyes, a soft clap echoes throughout the room.

“Nice,” Professor Lee says, before she beckons you two over. You do just that while trying to catch your breaths and in the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of Jueun, “still a few things you need to work on. First off, your synchronization at the turns and twirls. You need to be careful of that. And Y/N, don’t forget when you lift your leg towards Ten, you need power. Much more power and resistance, like he’s pulling you and you’re fighting against him.”

You nod. She’s right. As she always is.

“In terms of the technique, I think you just need more practice. It looks good overall though,” she pauses for a minute, then continues, “but Ten, for god’s sake, you need to look at her when you’re dancing. Don’t look as if you’re dancing with a corpse. She’s your best friend, you’re supposed to love her. She’s one of the most important people in your life. Is she not?”

Ten mumbles out something that sounds like “yes”, though he shuffles his feet like a guilty kid.

“So show me that she means that much to you!” Professor Lee exclaims, “you look like you want to be anywhere but here. That’s no good. I wasn’t expecting that from you. Y/N,” she gives you a once-over, then nods, “the emotion are there. Loving the facial expressions so keep that up. Show this man how to do it.”

It isn’t until Professor Lee is out of the room that you manage to let out a sigh of relief, “jesus,” you look up at the ceiling and feel like you’ve just aged ten years, “she scares the fuck out of me.”

Ten doesn’t respond. You glance at him, only to notice his glazed over look as if he’s still contemplating what your teacher just said.

“Ten,” you nudge his arm, “you okay? She’s always a little harsh. Don’t take it the wrong way—“

“Yeah I know,” he cuts you off, “we should keep practicing the techniques.”

Something has shifted in his expression, though you can’t really pinpoint what it is.

The rest of practice goes smoothly enough and Jueun leaves at some point, probably bored with constantly hearing the same music. At some point, tiredness takes over, causing you to flop onto the floor and look up at the ceiling. Your muscles are aching, you know tomorrow’s going to be a battle to get up from bed.

“I can’t feel my legs anymore,” Ten crouches next to you before he flops, head landing on your stomach and causing you to grunt at his weight.

“You’re heavy,” you try to shove him off, hating how quickly your cheeks flush with heat at the close proximity. Ten grabs a hold of your sweater with a pout, “nooo.”

“We’ve got a lot to work on,” you murmur, though it sounds loud in the silence of the room.

“I’ve got a lot to work on,” Ten tilts his head up at you, “apparently I don’t seem to look at you the right way.”

“That’s because you take me for granted.”

“Shut up.”

“Just imagine there’s Jueun in front of you and you’ll be fine.”

A pause. Before he asks, “do you imagine someone else when we’re dancing together?”

“What?” Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. You lift yourself up with your elbows, enough to catch sight of Ten’s face. It’s hard to say what you find there, since it’s not a face you’re acquired to seeing, “no. I—no.”

“Do you think of Taeyong?”

“I don’t like Taeyong,” you state flatly, “and I think everyone knows that.”

“So who do you think about then?”

“Just—well, you. I guess.”

And then, you realize the weight of the words that had just blurted out of your mouth. You clamp them shut, teeth finding purchase onto your lower lip as you rest your head back against the floor with a mental scream. Oh shit. Have you said a little too much?

You brace yourself for the worst. Ten will either make fun of you, or he’ll just ask you to clarify your words. Eyes squeeze shut on their own accord, as if just waiting for this dreadful silence to end.

But Ten does neither of those things.

Instead he says, “I’m hungry. Wanna get food?”

“Uh—“ your brain backtracks, “sure.”

Looking back at Ten’s questions, it was clear that he was trying to figure out the intensity of emotions flowing through you whenever you danced with him, whether that came out intentionally or not. It’s not like you want him to know you long, yearn for him to be yours. But there are some things — you learn — that cannot be hidden no matter how much you try.

The next few practices feel weird, leave you buzzing for no reason at all. It’s like a switch has suddenly been switched on inside your best friend. Gone are his shy touches and tentative steps to close the gap between you. Ten reaches for you with a confidence now, with some kind of fluid grace that makes you wonder whether he knows what you’re trying to hide in the grooves of your heart.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way he looks at you that changes. Every single time your gazes lock, something intangible flickers in those dark orbs, something that causes your heart to do a cartwheel because goddamnit, Ten is hot when he wants to be.

And you hate yourself even more for thinking this way.

When you’re not practicing, you’re at Mark’s house and bribing him into keeping this whole ordeal a secret. He manages to come to some kind of agreement begrudgingly after you swear you’ll treat him to a month full of dimsum, but swears that once the performance is over you’ll have to say something because, as he reasoned, it wouldn’t be fair for Ten not to know.

You have no clue how he’s come to such a conclusion. But that’s good enough, for now.

Meanwhile, you start cherishing every single moment you spend with your best friend. You hug him more often — when you’re taking a break from practice, when you’re all sweaty and use that as an excuse to rub your face on his sweater, when he’s lying in the middle of the floor playing with his phone — and tease him mercilessly about Jueun while trying to ignore every crack in your heart at each word that escapes your mouth. If she makes him happy, who are you to step in their way?

Bubble tea trips in the middle of practice becomes a more frequent occurrence when you start spending even more time in the studio to polish up your moves. Whenever that happens, you find yourselves sitting down at a park bench and gazing up at the stars. One of those rare moments you get to breathe and just exist.

Ten would often entertain you with stories of his childhood before moving here, and in return you’d tell him about yours. You spoke about the food you’d want to eat after the exam, the things you’d like to do once you’re free as birds. He tells you about his wish to travel to Europe and you tell him about your desire to go roadtripping towards the coast of the country so that you can camp out and heal from those four hard years of university.

“We should go,” Ten says, dark orbs glimmering with excitement in the dim light of the park, “we could go with all the boys.”

“With the boys? Someone will be found dead if we do that,” you snicker, taking a few sips of your drink, “Yangyang will probably set something on fire, Winwin will find a way to hurt himself or hurt something, and Mark—“

“Mark will get himself piss drunk,” Ten finishes with a cackle, “oh Mark. What a dork.”

Times like these with Ten are magical. Simple, yet filled with so much of yourself that it fills your heart up, makes you all giddy. You wish you can stay like this with him forever, in that small slither of time where the moment belongs to you, and you only.

Alas, the time flies when you’re not looking and all too soon it’s the day of the final performance. As you lay in bed that morning, feeling all of your muscles protest in unison as you stretch your legs, realization creeps up on you; this is the last time you’ll get to perform on stage as a student. This is your official last dance, with no more to come in the future.

Possibly the first and last dance you'll ever get with your best friend.

Your heart aches at the thought.

Participants are to be prepared at five in the evening, two hours before the show starts. Ten doesn't hesitate to give you a small peptalk as you both peek through the dark curtains separating you from the rest of the world. Other dancers are busy milling about and the sheer amount of them just adds on to the growing stress building inside your tummy, not helping in the slightest.

"You'll be fine," Ten keeps on repeating, unconsciously brushing away strands of your hair. You're both already in your costumes -- basic beige pants and white shirts -- and are waiting behind the curtains, box of chinese takeaways forgotten in the corridor at your feet as you try to stop the flurry of panic from crashing into you.

"I need to practice that twirl," you tell him with panicked eyes, "and that weird pause at the end, we still haven't figured that out--"

"Y/N, Y/N," Ten's hands are quick to grab your wrists, before he gently lowers them to your sides, "you'll be fine. We will be fine. I promise. We practiced this dance every day for the past month. There's no way you can make a mistake."

"Oh don't say that, that doesn't help."

His eyes flash with determination. His hand slips to yours before he gives it a gentle squeeze, "I'm here aren't I?" He says softly, "if you fall, I fall. We're soing this together, hm?"

Yeah sure. Except Ten dances like he's made to and you're just a potato in comparison.

Still, you allow yourself to nod. You really do hope that he's right this time. The last thing you want from this performance is the memory of you falling over onstage. And definitely not with Ten in tow.

"Where's Jueun?" You realize you haven't seen her since rehearsal this morning, glancing behind Ten as if she'd appear by magic.

Ten shifts his weight on his other foot, "she was busy this morning, but she said she'll be there for the performance."

"How is it going with her anyway?"

Something darkens on his face. He looks away, "it's complicated."

Huh. Complicated. That's not a word he uses often. Out of curiosity, you can't help but push, "why's that?"

But as if on cue, the intercom buzzes to warn all dancers to be on standby and all your words suddenly fall short when another wave of anziety surges up through your chest.

You clutch at Ten's hands, "oh god. I'm going to be sick."

"You can be sick after our performance," Ten proceeds to lead you to your standby spot, bowing to some of your classmates on the way, "swallow it if you have to."

"Ew," you grimace, "that's disgusting."

You admit that it does help take your mind off things.

"Don't worry about the steps," Ten keeps murmuring into your ear as you join the line for the stage. You can spot the dim lights of the stage, the silhouettes waiting for your appearance, and the MC for the night already giving thanks to whoever sponsor has helped this night come to life.

Oh god. Oh no. It's happening. It's finally happening. Your knees start shaking and you try to wipe your sweaty hands on your pants. The MC asks for encouragement and cheers follow, filling the auditorium with so much excitement it makes your throat run dry with stress.

“We’re number three,” you hear Ten’s voice near your ear, as if hearing him through a film of glass, “we have some time.”

You nod, lick the cracks along your lips.

You really don’t want to mess this up. If not for you, then for Ten.

“Hey.”

Ten’s hands cup your cheeks, tilts your face up so that you have no choice but to look at him.

“We’re doing this together,” his eyes, a dark storm, makes you shiver, “alright?”

Your head dips into a single nod.

“No regrets,” he says.

“No regrets,” you repeat softly.

“Have fun.”

His forehead touches yours, “exactly.”

You’ve never had him so close and what normally would’ve flustered you to death actually comforts you in this very moment. So you lean into him, closing your eyes to breathe in his boyish scent, the scent of familiarity, the scent of what home means to you.

And maybe it’s the fact that it is going to be your last dance, maybe it’s the fact that you’ll have to carry those feelings to your grave that causes tears to sting the corner of your eyes, but you quickly reach out to hug him close, blinking them away fiercely while hiding into the crook of his neck.

You don’t know how long you stay like this, snug in your best friend’s arms until you hear the MC’s voice booming across the stage:

“Next up we have ‘I Got You’ performed by Ten and Y/N! Give it up for them please!”

You pull away reluctantly, blink at his one last look of encouragement followed by a small pat on the back, before you direct yourself towards the stage, Ten close on your heels.

“Ready?” He whispers, hand suddenly catching yours. He gives it a squeeze.

You squeeze back, “break a leg.”

————

Dark.

Everything is so dark.

Silence.

Only your breath, and Ten’s, a few meters away.

You feel him standing in position, and you do the same. Your heart beats so loud you wonder if the audience can hear it too.

And then, the melody slowly fills the room and as if on autopilot, your body starts swaying.

A place to crash, I got you

Your leg swings in a circle and you crouch, face slowly lifting to catch Ten’s eye. A golden glow bounces off his face.

No need to ask, I got you

Just get on the phone, I got you

Slowly, as slow as a trickle of water moulding its way through the cracks, everything comes back to you.

Come and pick you up if I have to

The movement, the emotion thrumming through your veins makes adrenaline push your body forward as you slowly give in to the sensation of dancing.

Just figured it out in my head

I’m proud to say

I got you

There’s only you. And Ten. And no one else. His orbs flash to yours, and you dare a small smile.

He smiles back.

And the beat drops.

Go ahead and say goodbye, I’ll be alright

Go ahead and make me cry, I’ll be alright

It feels like flying, twirling through the air before rolling to the floor. Ten follows, hand reaching up to cradle your face. You throw your head back before he’s tugging you and as electricity sizzles between your bodies, you close your eyes to bathe in the moment.

And when you need a place to run to

For better or worse, I got you

Everything comes rushing back. A tidal wave of memories that pull you under; you and Ten dancing in front of the mirror, sharing a laugh. You and Ten talking about life under faint streetlights. You and Ten locking eyes, and the storm, that dark stormy night you find there.

The bridge comes on and you start walking to the edge of the stage, every beat vibrating through your core.

Cause this is love and life

And nothing we can both control

You close your eyes; Ten’s face flashes through your mind.

Those beautiful eyes. The curve of his mouth. The pain of letting him go.

And if it don’t feel right, you’re not losing me by letting me know

Hands grip your shoulders, spin you around.

Eyes burning with tears, you let his arms crush you to his chest.

And just as the crescendo hits, your arms lock around his neck.

His mouth crushes yours.

For a milisecond, you’re startled at his action.

Your heart drops to your stomach, brain freezing up like you’ve just dunked your head in ice.

It’s a good kiss. A beautiful kiss.

A kiss that makes you lose all breath.

The crowd practically goes wild with cheers and shouts that fill the entire room.

And then it’s over.

You’re dancing again.

Go ahead and say goodbye, I’ll be alright

Go ahead and make me cry, I’ll be alright

Your mind is frazzled even when your body follows theough with the rest of the dance. What the fuck was this? Did Ten do it in the heat of the moment?

Your brain is flooding with questions that don’t make sense.

And when you need a place to run to

For better or worse, I got you

You stand, foreheads pressed together and chests heaving, as your eyes flutter up to find his.

That’s it. That’s the end of it.

An eerie silence. Only broken when the applause suddenly floods the room followed by a few calls and wolf whistles. A series of ‘encore! Encore!’ Make your eyes pound as loud as your heart and as you turn to breathlessly bow to the public, you can’t dent the heat rushing through you at the way Ten’s hand is locked on yours.

You wait though, until you’re past the corridors and until you’ve reached the sanctuary of your audition room before slamming the door shut and whirling around on him with flares nostrils and barely restrained anger.

“What the fuck was that?”

Ten’s chest is still heaving, still recuperating from your performance. He’s looking at you with some kind of emotion you can’t make out and you wonder, for a second, what this means for you. What it means to him.

“Ten,” your breaths come out ragged. You keep your eyes on him, demanding answers, “I asked you what the fuck that was.”

It takes a while before he answers. When he does he sounds weary, “I—don’t know. It was an ‘in the moment’ thing.” A pause that fills the gap for a little too long before he continues, “I’m sorry.”

An in the moment thing. You want to scoff, to hurl something at his face. What does that even mean?

Fury boils through your stomach. What about Jueun? What about everyone who will now think there’s something going on between the two of you? What about your feelings for the said man standing right in front of you and telling you that this didn’t mean anything to him?

What about you?

“I hate you,” your eyes start prickling with tears. Everything you’ve kept inside until now starts pouring over until you see red, “I really hate you, Ten.”

And you whirl around and walk away without waiting for him to call you back.

He doesn’t.

————

“What. A. Kiss.”

“Shut up Mark,” you turn your head to the other side so that you don’t have to look at him, to picture the satisfaction on his face, “I don’t want to hear this right now.”

It’s a shame that you had left right after the performance soon after it ended in hopes of avoiding the crowd. Not that it would help considering that rumours are already flying about like bees buzzing through the air as soon as you left.

Mark confirms that Ten had departed a few minutes after you did and that Jueun was not impressed with the whole ordeal.

You scoff at that, “duh, was she supposed to be happy about that?”

“Have you spoken to Ten since?” Mark decides to ignore your question. He takes a seat at the other end of your couch, jostling your leg in the process.

You try to shove him off with your foot, “obviously not. Why would I do such a thing? It’s awkward enough as it is.”

“So this wasn’t planned?” Mark whistles, leaning back to rest against the couch, “wow. Wow. You guys are amazing—“

“No no,” you scowl at him, “you mean a disaster.”

“Look on the bright side, you got to kiss him—“

“Mark,” your scowl deepens, “do not make me throw my slipper at your face.”

There is no way in hell you could’ve anticipated that kiss and even despite all your rebuttals at Mark’s attempts at teasing, the colour rushing to your cheeks and the way your chest fills up with butterflies proves you otherwise.

You can still feel Ten’s lips on yours, a blissful echo of what could have been, a soft tingling that sends blood rushing all the way to your toes. There are so many things you want to ask him, so many possibilities flourishing in your mind with that one simple kiss and yet, you’re so wary of having your world crashing down on your shoulders because why else would Ten do it if not for your performance?

“Have you?” You ask Mark after some time, albeit reluctantly, “spoken to Ten?”

He shakes his head, “haven’t seen him actually. He literally disappeared off the face of the earth after the show.”

“Yeah,” you grimace, “wouldn’t think so.”

There’s part hope and part fear splitting you down in the middle but you don’t dare dream of what could be. You can’t allow yourself to, because every time you do causes an image of the hurt on Jueun’s face to flash through your mind.

You’re not that girl. You are definitely not that girl.

But what you do need are answers. And something tells you that you won’t get any unless you ask him for yourself.

So it’s a week later that you find your way to his flat, feet shuffling as you try and concoct up the conversation, map it out in your head so that it doesn’t sound as bad. After your last conversation with him, you’re not quite sure where he stands himself.

An in the moment thing.

His words bounce off your skull, terrorizing you with the weight they hold.

You take a deep breathe. Exhale softly. Then reach up to ring the doorbell.

Only for the door to swing open, almost slamming into your face.

“Oh, hi!” Jueun’s voice causes you to blink. Jueun, standing at the door with nothing but a t-shirt that’s definitely too big for her — Ten’s— and a towel wrapped around her petite waist. She blinks back at you in confusion before offering a small smile, “what are you doing here?”

“Wh—“ you don’t even get the chance to ask her yourself when Ten’s voice rings out behind her, “who is it?”

Jueun hollers into the apartment, “it’s Y/N!” Before turning back to you, a grin now bestowed upon her face, “sorry I—I was just about done with my shower. Ten’s in there now. You were looking for Ten right?“ She opens the door a little wider, “do you want to come in?”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Someone is up there in the skies laughing at you right now. You feel like a complete, utter idiot.

“N-No that’s alright,” you somehow manage a smile, though it probably looks as fake as it can get but Jueun doesn’t need to know that. She doesn’t know you after all, “I—Just tell Ten I’ll swing by later—“

“He’ll be out soon though, I have drinks if you want some.”

“No really,” you’re already taking a step back. And another, and another, “it’s alright. I think—I’ll call him later.”

“But—“

You don’t wait. You dash down the corridor, fly down the stairs like your life depends on it, and don’t stop running until you find yourself in the safety of the bus station. Leaning against the lamplight while catching your breath, you struggle to put all images into one coherent thought as dread slowly pools in around you, wraps you up in its horrifying embrace, stuffing out any hope you might’ve had that Ten felt the same way you did.

You’re not sure whether to cry or to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Your heart hurts. In all kinds of ways. Tugging and pulling and being torn apart as though someone had been tossing it over in their hands before chucking it out of the window. Then, the pain starts to settle like a rock lodging itself in your chest where your heart should be.

It hurts.

You bite down hard on your lower lip. Hard, until the salty taste of blood hits your tongue.

You don’t feel it though. Not when your heart is the one breaking all over again.

—————

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

You can’t help but grin up at the worry dotting Mark’s expression looking like a kicked puppy that just had its bone taken away.

“I’ll be fine,” you swat him playfully on the arm, “and atop looking at me like that. You’re going to see me in a week.”

In a week is your graduation and the day of results. You haven’t spoken to Ten over the past two weeks that have flown by and had merely asked about him through his circle of friends in hopes of scraping by with some crumbs you can try picking up with both hands.

You wonder if Ten is thinking of you as much as you are thinking of him. Everything you’ve built up until this very moment had been raw and true and felt real at least to you. The question lies in whether it had been the same thing for him or if it had all just been a fogged up lie, whether he still thinks there are things that he should’ve kept to himself despite the fact that you’ve known him for so long.

In an attempt to rid yourself of all these stupid feelings you’ve tried burying in the grooves of your heart this past month, you’ve agreed to fly out to visit your mother on the other side of the country. A little peace and time away from the university is never a bad thing after all. You’ll be back in time for the results, although you’re not quite sure how that will turn out when you and your best friend aren’t on the best of speaking terms.

“Have fun at your mom’s,” Mark’s arms wrap around you in a soft warm hug, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, “and don’t worry too much about Ten. I wouldn’t. You know how—“

“Yes Mark,” you pull back to offer him a small smile,”I know.”

All too well, you want to add. But you don’t dare say it out loud.

Bidding Mark one more goodbye, you give him one last hug before making your way inside the airport to check-in. It’s bustling at this time of day, filled with students going back home for the holidays or families flying in on vacation, but you find yourself humming under your breath as you go stand in line for your luggage, the good vibes finally catching up to you. For the first time in a while, you allow your shoulders to fall back and relax as you take in the bustle and the noise shuffling around you. It’s been so long since you’ve actually spent time admiring, observing your surroundings that you sometimes forget the beauty of simplicity, of living life just as it is when it isn’t confined to all your inner problems.

And then, as if karma really wants you to suffer,your phone chimes. You glance down and almost gasp at the name flashing across your screen:

Ten: where are you?

Anger flares. Boils through you. How dare he, after all this time, now come around to ask you how you’re doing?

The hypocrite.

You type back your reply with barely restrained anger: I’m leaving today.

His answer comes almost instantly.

Ten: I know. Mark told me about it.

You swear you’re going to strangle that guy the next time you see him.

Y/N: That’s none of your business. And it’s too late anyway.

With that, you lock your phone and drop it back into your backpack even when you feel another buzz vibrate through your jeans. You’re not about to give him that satisfaction of knowing that he still has you hooked around his finger even if deep down you’re all too aware that you’re whipped for him. So whipped you’re so tempted to drop everything to run back to him, to make things good again, the way they always had been.

No. You shake your head in hopes that will clear every toxic thought invading your head.

Thankfully, you’re next in line to check-in and that’s enough to take your mind off the pulsating device throbbing through the material of your backpack and seeping into your jeans. Your fingers, itching to make a grab for the said device, curl onto the folds of your passport as the worker quickly ushers your luggage through the weighing machine roll.

“Thank you. Your gate is E7 and you will just have to check through security at the very back if you turn on your left,” she motions towards the said area and you nod, thanking her with a small smile before slipping out of the queue with another loud breath escaping your lips. God. You need this vacation to start already, or you’ll have to start finding other things to take your mind off—

Strong hands grip your shoulders. Whirl you around so fast you barely have time to blink.

Only to come face to face with none other than Ten Lee in the flesh.

“Wha—“ the words are knots that tangle up your tongue. Your mouth feels like it’s suddenly been filled with sandpaper, “what—what are you doing here?”

“Stopping you from leaving,” Ten is breathless, sweat dotting his hairline and chest heaving as if he’s just sprinted over. His bangs are disheveled and you want nothing more than to run your hands through his messy locks. Your hand curls into a fist in response as he continues, “where are you going? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you anything?” You scowl back, “I thought we weren’t on speaking terms, considering you were ignoring me and all.”

“I wasn’t ignoring—“

“Oh please Ten,” you roll your eyes, “as if you didn’t know I came to your house that day when Jueun opened the door.”

“Wai—What? What are you talking about?” His confused expression seems all too genuine for it to be an act and gathering up the last bit of patience you have left, you allow yourself to exhale shakily, try and coax your emotions to simmer down, “I came to your house. Two weeks ago. Jueun answered the door and the rest of was self-explanatory—“

“Jueun? When was that? That’s— I don’t remember her being here—“ realization suddenly dawns and you feel like scoffing in satisfaction. That is, until he says, “I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when Jueun was, Y/N.”

“Bullshit. She told me you were in the shower—“

“Yeah, in the dance studio. Not home,” his eyes had turned dark, stormy. Something inside you starts trembling as you watch his jaw clench, “she dropped by to fetch her things. That was the last time I saw her.”

There’s a distinct pause where you try to assimilate everything that had just come out of Ten’s mouth.

There’s surprise. Shock. And then, all the missing pieces start coming together.

“Is this why you haven’t called me at all, all this time?” Ten’s question bursts your bubble of thought. You blink, realizing that he’s standing before you in the flesh with something soft and tender in his gaze that makes your entire body light up with heat.

He takes a step closer. You take a step back. Amusement flickers across his face, until it is wiped out by your statement: “well you haven’t bothered calling me either.”

“Yeah, because the last thing you told me after the performance was that you hated me.”

“You said our kiss was just an ‘in the moment’ thing. How do you think I’d react?”

“I don’t know Y/N,” the frustration in Ten’s voice is clear. It’s probably the first time you see him so out of sorts. It surprises you, “what was I supposed to say? That I’ve been trying not to kiss you from the moment we’ve had our evaluation with Professor Lee? That my interest in Jueun just flopped the moment I realized I didn’t like her as much as I loved you? What—What did you expect me to say, Y/N?”

Silence. Only broken when you mumble, “well. This is clearly enough.”

It’s probably his words that render him red-faced and embarrassed, for he looks away and starts mumbling intelligible words under his breath without real meaning and in that particular moment, seeing Ten looking so lost and bearing his heart out to you with such genuine emotion makes your own heart quake in your chest.

Ten likes you. Just as you like him. He loves you. He’s been thinking about you, and that in itself causes a troop of butterflies to suddenly erupt through your insides.

You don’t even think about it as your hands come up to grab his t-shirt before pulling him in.

Your lips press against his. They’re trembling, but the warmth from Ten’s mouth is enough to boost your confidence.

His breaths, small stutters of air between your parted lips, make you press even closer if that’s possible. You kiss his next breath away and relish in the soft gasp that echoes out of his throat.

Warm hands slowly cup your face, trailing down your neck to drop at your waist while yours find their resting place by his jaw. You feel him kiss back, the softest movement of lip against lip, and you swear you almost lose it.

‘Y/N,” he breathes, voice drugged and hoarse, against you, before he proceeds to take over the kiss and kiss you a little deeper. You’ve kissed before onstage, but this is completely different. It feels completely different. You can’t help but sigh as Ten pulls you inevitably closer, tilting his head to the side as your mouths start moving together in a slow, hesitant dance that makes you tremble.

This. This is all you’ve ever wanted. Ten, in your arms. You and him, with nothing but your feelings out in the open, bared over the table for both of you to see. There’s some kind of soft glow of warmth that seems to seep through your veins the more you keep on kissing and kissing as if your entire life depends on it, and out of impulse you tighten your grip on the back of his neck, fingers sliding up to cascade through his dark locks. You hear him groan out softly in response, and that causes you to smile into the kiss.

You pull away after a short while upon realizing that you’re still in a public area, foreheads resting against each other and sharing the same breaths.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur out.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with more emphasis. And maybe it’s the mood, the fact that you’re in his arms and that allows him to let out a small laugh. You join in too and wonder briefly how stupidly in love you both look, like those main actors in sappy romance movies. Not that you can care.

The airport speaker suddenly breaks the spell when your flight is called for boarding. You almost jump out of the skin as realization pours through you.

“Oh shit,” you let out another laugh,”I have a flight to catch.”

That only makes Ten tighten his hold, “when will you be back?”

The desperation in his voice causes a grin to break across your face. You lean in, cupping his cheek with your hand, “I’ll be back next Sunday.”

“Okay,” he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, “I can wait that long.”

He accompanies you all the way to the security line and just before you walk through the sliding doors, tugs you back by your pinky finger with that sort of guilty look that little boys would give their mothers when they were found out with their hands in the cookie jar.

You look up at him with a grin. Although, you’re not sure your grinning has stopped ever since that kiss, “I will be back. Don’t worry—“

“I know I know,” Ten lifts your hand to his lips, presses another kiss on the back of your knuckles, “I’m just beating myself up for being such an idiot.”

There are still so many things left unsaid between you, so many things to unpack about your relationship and where you want to take it from there. But standing in front of Ten right now makes nothing but happiness glow through your skin, through the grooves of your heart. It finally feels right, everything falling in place like it was meant to be, and the grief that you’d been carrying around all his time has suddenly vanished as if there had been a clear blue sky all along.

“I’ll come back to you,” you smile up at him when he’s tugged you once more into his arms, “I promise.”

He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, “I’ll hold on to that promise so you better not break it.”

“See you soon then?”

Ten pulls back then, searches your gaze for a long minute in silence. And then, as tenderly as a soft caress, he leans down to drop another kiss on your mouth.

“Come back to me.”

————

A/N: Hello and if you’ve reached the end of this story, thank you so much for reading this till the end!! It’s a long and a tough read and honestly I practically had a writer’s block for 1 month over this thing. This was supposed to come out end of June but ehhh, life happens I guess!! Anyway, I hope you liked this and I am forever grateful, as always, for your support. Thank you so much for reading my work and for following my blog. I might not know all of you, but every single one of you has made my day a little brighter every time I come onto here. It feels like home.

Stay safe and see you in the next fic!! Xx

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