Chapter Text
Rain.
You were already soaked through, all the way down to the skin. Luckily, you were numbed closely enough to the bone as well that you no longer shivered from the cold.
The stairs on which you sat offered no shelter, the metal railing broke no wind, yet here you sat.
Frozen.
Wet.
Hopeless.
Waiting.
“What the hell are you doing, Y/N?”
There he was. You didn't even realize the neighborhood you were in after walking aimlessly out of the café when you were asked to leave, taking a random turn once the sky opened up. Surely it was inevitable, so when you saw the familiar staircase, you just stopped walking.
Of course you would end up here. It's probably the lesser evil. If he hadn't shown up before the bars closed you may have been forced to take refuge with whichever male human offered a roof and a dry bed for the night. "Better the devil you know" as the saying goes.
“Come on!”
As he hoisted you up by your waist, you realized he had been talking to you and he was already past you on the stairs. Slowly, you plodded up after him, limbs heavy, vision blurred. You were more out of it than you knew.
The most difficult part was forcing yourself to step over the threshold. Not because you didn't want to drip all over his apartment. You could give a fuck! It's just that you had sworn to yourself that you never would again.
You stood still right in the entryway, a mere step inside the door, while he kicked off both shoes and then peeled a damp sock from each foot. Your vision seemed better now that you were in out of the rain, but something must be wrong with your ears.
He was saying something to you. At least his mouth was moving. You followed his face as he stood up and pushed his rain-splattered hood from his head. His hair is short. He had sported an overgrown wolf-cut for the entire time you were together. The close-cropped hair-style was unexpected. He's handsome.
Looking directly at you, his mouth moved again and you caught another few words, “...course…not okay…” Then he gripped your arm for just a second before saying something else and walking away, pulling the hoodie off as he went, disappearing into the bedroom.
Perhaps you were already starting to thaw as you waited for him to return because you noticed your head throbbing. Your ears ached; your feet felt gross. You stepped out of your flats with a squelch and leaned against the wall as you started to shiver anew.
The scrape of the door against the frame was familiar and alerted you to his reemergence before you saw him step from his room in a new shirt. Seemed your ears were working again.
“Y/N, come take a hot shower. You're gonna get sick.”
Sighing tiredly, you nodded and pushed off from the wall, wrapping yourself in your arms in an attempt to warm up, stop shivering, hold yourself the fuck together.
He offered a stack of clothes when you walked by, but you just continued into the bathroom, rubbing your hands along your goosebumped skin. He placed the clothes on the tiny square of countertop and pointed out the wire rack holding clean towels.
“I know,” you replied, breaking your silence.
“Right,” he muttered and then stepped back, closing the door as he went.
~
When you came out, hair wrapped in a thin towel upon your head, in clothes you were pleased to recognize were not a woman's, he was pouring water from the kettle over a teabag.
His smile while he handed the mug to you had you averting your eyes.
“Feeling any better?” he wondered.
“MmHmm,” you responded, taking a small sip of tea even though you were sure it was still too hot to drink safely. Wouldn't be the worst decision you had made today. At least this one you were fully aware of and were prepared for the consequences.
Instead of getting his own cup of tea or sitting down on the couch, he turned you by the shoulders and walked you back into the bathroom.
Why were you even letting him touch you? You were surprised you didn't finch away when he grabbed your arm earlier and now you just acquiesced when he guided you to sit on the toilet lid saying, “You have to dry your hair right away.”
You simply sat there, sipping your tea, while he pulled the blow dryer from the cabinet and unwound the towel from your head.
“How long were you sitting out in the rain, anyway?” he asked, plugging in the dryer.
You shrugged and grunted, eyes closing as the hot air blew over you.
You shouldn't let him do this. You're supposed to hate him. Hell, you thought he hated you, too. Thinking back, you tried to remember a time he ever dried your hair for you before. Nothing. Never.
Turning slightly so he could reach the back of your head better, you dropped the teabag into the garbage. It's just herbal, but still, it had gotten strong enough.
It was clear he'd never done this before. He was bad at it and your hair was going to end up a mess. He was just blowing it any which way, often staying too long in one spot, overheating your scalp. But you remained silent, finishing up the tea and hating yourself for feeling relaxed with his hands in your hair.
It got even more awkward when he finished, clearing his throat and lilting, “All dry!” while he wrapped the cord and stowed the hairdryer back under the sink.
You didn't want to go to sleep here. Even less did you want to wake up here. But you had no other options and at least when you were unconscious, you wouldn't have to think, or feel, or try to make plans. However, before you could ask for a blanket and to be left to yourself on the couch, he offered to make ramen, asking if you had anything to eat, yet.
You had to admit you hadn't. Not since the muffin you ordered at the café before noon, though you didn't tell him that part. And that was hours ago, likely half a day or more.
“What time is it?” you mused aloud and then realized you didn't have your phone on you to check. “Shit!” When did you last have it? You jumped up from the couch, wringing your hands.
“It's just after midnight,” he said from the kitchen. “Why?”
“No, it's my pocketbook, my phone! I don't know–” You were agitated, turning this way and that, completely flipping from your state of dissociated calm.
He interrupted, walking quickly toward the front door, “Sorry, they're here,” he called, “right here! I thought you–” he took your large wallet off a hook in the entryway and turned toward you.
“Oh, my god!” You let your hands fall and met him halfway as he handed over the precious items, the only things you managed to leave home with besides what you were wearing. “Thank you!” you breathed, assuming he must have picked it up when he pulled you off the stairs to bring you inside.
“Sorry,” he muttered again instead of saying ‘you're welcome’ and returned to the kitchen. A few minutes passed before he asked, “You want egg in it?”
“What do you think?”
“Shit,” you heard him grumble, no doubt remembering how you detest egg broth ramen, “no tofu…wait!”
You texted your manager that you wouldn't be available to help out tomorrow so they wouldn't rely on being able to call you in for an extra shift and then remembered to check before mindlessly opening SNS to scroll and you connected quickly. The Wi-Fi password was the same.
“Here you go.” Setting a steaming bowl of noodles topped with shrimp in front of you, he retreated to bring a container of kimchi with the chopsticks and then, finally, his own soup before he sat on the floor across the tea table.
“Thanks,” you whispered, not meeting his gaze, but feeling almost uncomfortably grateful. You blew on your first bite of ramen, ready to fill your belly and then pass the fuck out for the night with no concern for how puffy your face would no doubt be when you woke up.
You jerked awake and it wasn't even morning, yet. "God!" Couldn't you at least get a full night's rest? You shifted to check the time and what the hell was he doing in your bed? Well, his bed. But he insisted you sleep here last night and you gave up the fight after declining three times.
He's on top of the blanket, so it's not likely he was trying anything, his hand stretched out toward your spot.
"Great." You woke yourself up crying; the damp when you rubbed your eyes incriminating, but with how exhausted you were last night, you probably slept right through an earlier crying spell that brought him in to check on you.
The sound of rain battering the roof and windows that had accompanied your slumber was absent, but after dropping your fully charged phone beside you on the bed, you climbed up to your knees to peek out the window just to ensure it was dry.
It was still cloudy, but the streetlight down the end of the alleyway looked a bit dim, dawn tiptoeing its approach.
On a normal weekend you'd tuck yourself back under the covers and sleep another hour or two, but that wouldn't be happening today. Nothing was normal. Or maybe it was? Finding yourself repeatedly in a situation like this was never something you thought you would eventually experience as familiar.
Staring out between the blinds, across the alley, to the glimpse of sky beyond the taller buildings several blocks away; you blinked your eyes, bringing the neighborhood back into focus. The outside world was definitely a tinge more grey at the edges than midnight blue, now.
Shops should be opening in an hour and a half, you calculated, then mentally cataloged the clothes you needed to buy: a new pair of non-slip shoes for the restaurant for sure, plus some pajamas on top of a few work-approved outfits. Hopefully, you could make it out of here without waking him up, you thought, closing the curtains that the two of you chose together back over the window, hoping as well that your flats had dried since last night.
“What're you doin’?” he slurred, startling you as you turned from the window.
“Getting up.” You were matter of fact, ignoring the grit in his sleep-laced voice, grabbing your phone and crawling off the bed. “The rain is over, so I'm gonna go.”
“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked.
Straightening your (his) shirt, you took a step or two toward the door. “Yeah, I need to do some shopping.” Then you ran a hand over your hair, suddenly conscious of the flyaways escaping your post-sleep ponytail even though the room was still mostly dark.
He sat up, clearing his throat before saying, “Okay, but I meant like after that. Do you have somewhere to go back to? To stay?”
"What would he know?" You didn't want him to know, to ask about it. You most assuredly did not want to talk to him about any of it.
Of course, he was correct. Of course, he knew. It must be obvious that you showed up drenched, sitting on his doorstep after six months of no contact because you didn't have anywhere else to go.
"Dammit!" He of all people would know, would see the signs, could easily piece together the fact that you had been kicked out again. Lost your home. Been told to leave for the third time, now, in under two years.
But, fuck him, because the last time it was him yelling at you that forced you out. This self-same asshole caused your second bout of homelessness, and now he's acting concerned?
“No, I don't,” you answered, striding to the door, not even bothering to turn to toss the insult over your shoulder when you added, after wrenching it open with that damned, ear-piercing screech, “And you know what? Fuck you!”
“Y/N, wait,” he called, following you from the bedroom. “Please. I'm sorry! You're here, finally. Don't leave again just like that!” He stayed a few steps away from where you stopped in the middle of the living area, knowing better than to grab you to try to get you to stay.
You were stuck in place, already overwhelmed. Where were your clothes? Did they get dry? You didn't remember doing anything with them after your shower. “Shi-it!” you wailed. They were probably still in the soaked ball where you left them in the corner of the bathroom.
“Y/N, can you–”
“H/N, no. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you! I don't want to even be here!” You headed toward the bathroom, prepared for the inevitable. “Where are my clothes?”
“They're… I hung them…” he started and you pushed the door wider, seeing your bra tossed over the shower curtain rod beside your shirt and your still clearly damp jeans, which had dripped onto your underwear which were laid out on the lip of the tub underneath them.
"Great. Just great."
“Shit,” he expressed from over your shoulder, “such a fuck-up.” He grumbled more under his breath as he wandered away.
You were not about to argue with his negative self-talk, but you could acknowledge that it appeared he tried, though you were not pleased at all with him having handled your intimate items.
With the door locked behind you, you retrieved the blow dryer and got to work on the jeans. The panties would dry in no time and blessedly, the thin padding of your bra seemed not the least bit damp.
Your mind wandered to the times you would curse the five block schlepp to the laundromat while you absently waved the dryer over the wettest spots. Both of you would complain about the bag you were carrying being the heavier one and exchange colorful names for the landlord who refused to add even a tiny machine to the apartment. Back then you were happy, though, and the time always passed pleasantly because you spent it together.
The knock was a welcome interruption from the unexpectedly wistful trip down memory lane, except for the fact that it was him at the door offering you a cup of instant coffee. However, instead of giving it to you, he hesitated and looked behind you.
“Oh!” you started at the same time he began.
“I need–”
“Y-yeah, sure,” you stuttered, moving around him at the threshold, accepting the mug from his hands and going to the couch while he used the facilities.
When he came back out, he walked past you to the kitchen, nonchalantly stating, “I called Hyung,” as he went.
“Ugh,” you groaned, so tired, even though you just woke up. You knew who he meant, though. Not his actual sibling, but one of the only other people on the planet you wouldn't be completely pissed at him for telling you were here.
You hadn't expected any good memories of this place nor a single positive to arise from being forced to walk back in, but at the prospect of seeing this oppa again; you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips.
“Look, Y/N, I know you said you don't want to talk and I totally respect that, but will you at least listen?” he asked from across the room, standing by the short jut of countertop that bounds the kitchen, his own coffee now in hand.
“What did Oppa say?” You wanted to know.
“He's on his way.”
“Oh.” He had you now. There was no way you'd leave before he arrived. It was already too late for your planned escape, in any case, and this hot cup of coffee was such a respite right now. You had no fight in you. “I'm listening,” you murmured, lips on the edge of the mug.
“I'm so sorry, Y/N,” he immediately commenced. “I never wanted you to leave. I was angry that day and I wasn't thinking.” He set his coffee cup down. “I want you to hear me say I apologize. So profusely,” he added from a 90° bow. “I shouldn't have yelled at you. I know that–I knew that. I was wrong,” he continued, righted. “Beautiful, I hope–no you don't…” shaking off whatever he was about to say, he went on, “When I realized you had gone back there, I knew I had really fucked up, really scared and hurt you, but by then it was too late. I didn't mean it, though, Y/N! I didn't want you to go.”
The emotion beginning to overwhelm his voice, the use of his pet name for you, it was all getting to you, but these were things you had come to terms with since you left. It didn't change what he did, what he said. How he hurt you and scared you after swearing to never do that. After making you believe he would be the one to finally understand–but, no. He chased you out as well, forcing you to go back to that place. And now they had forced you to come back here.
But he wouldn't see you cry (not while you were conscious) and you had no inclination to absolve him that easily, so you got up without responding and returned to the bathroom, closing the door forcefully behind you.
By the time there was a knock on the apartment door and you heard a new person enter, you had brushed your teeth, composed yourself and changed back into your own stiff clothes.
“Where is she?” you heard a little more distinctly, the richness and familiarity of the newcomer's voice already a comfort.
Opening the door, you took a step out and he was already coming around the back of the couch toward you. You paused for a second, but he called you, “YLN/YFN,” holding out a hand.
You went to him, feeling all your defenses shattering at once. “Jinyoung, op-oppa,” you choked out, taking his hand.
In one smooth movement, he had gathered you to his chest and you broke, every bit of repressed trauma from the past half year ripping from your lungs and spilling from your eyes onto his pressed, white oxford.