I don't own BoF.
Also, this fic is your problem now.
Ga Eul knows, fundamentally, that she's not the good person that everyone makes her out to be. The guilt takes up permanent residence in the corner of her mind, spreading like a slow-moving rot. Sometimes his presence is enough to soothe the jagged edges, but other times, like when he's lying next to her at night with an arm flung across above her head, the waves crash tenfold over her. She feels like she's walking on a wire at times – the trouble is, she doesn't know if it's safer to fall off.
It's not that she doesn't trust him anymore.
On their third official date after he comes back, she brings him to the cinema. She expects him to balk, to whine, or to surreptitiously try to buy out the whole mall for the next two hours. Instead, he smiles down at her and kisses her on her nose and lips, and tugs her to his car. That right there, she thinks, is a greater declaration of love than anything Gu Jun Pyo has done for Jan Di in the past five years.
She can feel it in the way Yi Jeong threads their fingers together like an intricate lattice, his palm warm and steady against hers. Sometimes, he holds hers so tight she imagines that she can feel the electric thrum of his heartbeat in her own wrist, and the reminder that she, of all people, now holds his heart in her hands, is sometimes so painful she almost jolts to a stop.
She sees it in the way he looks at her, and only her, even in a building spilling over with people rushing through on their way through life. They split up to buy the tickets and the food, and the warmth of his fingers linger after they've separated. The tenderness in his gaze, when she catches him staring at her from across the room, makes her feel taut and stripped bare, and it's all she can do to stop herself from looking down to ensure she's still fully dressed.
It's in the way he whispers in her ear, his breath warm against the delicate shell of her lobe, biting words that aim to entertain her. She huffs out reluctant giggles, poking him in the side in a reprimand, because she does actually want to watch the movie, and she hates those people who distract others from the film. Except now she's one half of those people, so she just presses herself closer to his baritone voice, so it won't have to travel as far to reach her.
After the movie, she drives them down to the Han river, ignoring his winces as she manhandles his sporty little car to roar down the highway faster than he's ever gone with her. She won't admit it, but she's relieved to get there in one piece. (She won't admit that she finds his windblown hair unfairly adorable, either.)
They spend the rest of the night in quiet conversation. At one point, she flops on her back on the grass so she can stare up at the night sky. After a few minutes, he follows suit, albeit a little more gingerly than her. His hands seek hers out, and she grips him hard enough to leave little crescent moon dents in his skin. They are, for all intents and purposes, only three weeks into a budding romance – friends to lovers, to maybe something more. But he whispers into the air like it's a secret: three years is a long time to miss someone.
He squeezes her hands, and she can feel the three words bubbling up in her throat again. Suddenly, without warning, they deflate, and she's left breathless in their wake, her chest feeling strangely empty. They lie there in silence for another forty minutes. When she rolls over on her side to look at him, he takes advantage of her momentum and spins her into his arms.
"Hi," she whispers, and he responds with a kiss to her forehead.
It shouldn't be enough, she thinks, but she thinks he knows, anyway. In the sticky-hot night, she slips further into him and he adjusts his limbs for her. Between the cicadas and the lull of the water below, she falls into a dreamless reverie.
When he jostles her just a little too much coming round a corner, she blinks awake enough to see his lips pursed in concentration as he tries to navigate the unfamiliar path to her door without waking her up. She slips her eyes shut, and burrows further into his hold. She doesn't ever want to see his back again.
The world has changed in the last 4 years, and she has watched these rich heirs grow up and mature in front of her very own eyes. At 21, the insouciant air about them has been whetted and refined, and there's a sense of purpose in the sharp clicks of their heeled boots on marble floors. She's gratified that these boys seem to have developed some sense of critical thinking over time, and well, if they're still bullies, at least they're bullies with heart.
And yet, some things don't change at all. She still holds the little key to his studio that he'd pressed into her palm all those years ago, and she still lets herself in with an almost perverse sort of trepidation. He still has a hold on her treacherous heart, and she still cradles his unwieldy one. It's a stale checkmate, simultaneously comforting and frustrating in its familiarity.
She still half-expects him to forget her as he reclaims his rightful place in Korea, falling into half a step behind Jun Pyo, and seamlessly slouching onto magazine covers with witty and charming interviews. He tells magazines and journalists that sit a little too close that he's attached, his tone brooking no argument; she can see the light in their eyes dim a little as he surreptitiously shifts his seat ever so slightly away from them. But she's a kindergarten teacher, and she can't afford to have her name or picture splashed about on every other society magazine. And even though she's the one to request for this, she feels hot on the inside whenever he sidesteps another question neatly about why he's never been seen with his alleged girlfriend, or when she hears people gossiping about how he's probably made up a girlfriend to stave off crazy fangirls.
She knows she's discounting all his growth over the years, and she's being ridiculously unfair, but sometimes she feels like a dirty little secret, something to be kicked under the carpet when there's company around. It takes all of her grace and maturity to remind herself that this is what she wanted, and what she'd asked for.
He's attending one of those live late-night talk show interviews, the ones reserved for the stuffy old channels that get all high-and-mighty about how they veer away from gossip and instead focus on serious content. She flicks the television set on to the right channel, because it's Friday, and goes to get some alcohol to help tide her through it. She loves listening to him talk about work, loves watching the subtle inflections flick across his face as he considers the question from multiple angles before he works out a comprehensive answer – but it's Friday, and she's exhausted, and maybe his rich-person habits are rubbing off on her.
Bottle and glass in hand, on the way back to her lovely couch, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair is wild and there are shadows under her eyes; her outfit comprises of an old cast-off shirt from his wardrobe and a pair of pyjama bottoms so loose they threaten to fall off with every step she takes.
And there's the rub, isn't it, she thinks, as she curls up on the couch and scrubs her hands over her face, because it's never been about her being his secret or not being able to trust him. It's that 4 years down the road, she still cannot seem to trust herself.
The interview lasts for an hour, and by the time it's done, she's gotten through about half the bottle of wine and her head is lolling back on the couch. Even this talk show host takes it upon himself to enquire about Yi Jeong's love life, and sometime halfway into his response she'd thrown a pillow at the television in a moment of petulance. She's far too lazy to pick it up now, and thinks briefly about making the trek back to her bedroom, but she's just too warm and comfortable to care. Her phone buzzes quietly next to her, but it's all she can do to consider looking at the text before abandoning all notions of it.
She barely notices when, an undetermined amount of time later, her door slips open and Yi Jeong lets himself in quietly. She doesn't see the softening of his gaze as he finds her sprawled on the couch, and barely registers when he picks up the pillow and gathers her up into his arms. She doesn't consciously curl into his warmth, fingers clutching at the smooth finish of his suit. She does remember, however vaguely, asking him to stay with her.
She wakes up the next day with a dry mouth and a rumpled boyfriend stretched out under her, and her heart thumping in her chest. She traces the bow of his lips with trembling fingers, and smooths away the worry lines in his forehead. It feels like the perfect time to admit it, with only her around as an unreliable witness. She swallows the words away instead, in favour of curling back up next to him and letting sleep find its way back to her.
Her favourite thing in the world, she decides, is how his arm subconsciously tightens around her waist.
In the whirlwind of the looming school year, Ga Eul loses track of the days, only barely surfacing for air to reply to texts from colleagues. Yi Jeong calls her at night, and most of the time, she falls asleep to the humming of the potter's wheel front and centre of her screen. On the day of Jan Di and Jun Pyo's Christmas party, he shows up at her door at 6, and it takes a moment for her to compute the why of his presence.
"Christmas party," he prompts, with a sly knowing grin, and she almost smacks herself in the face.
They show up an hour late, with her perched on his arm in a blush-pink slip of a dress, and trying to ignore the hushed tones as they make their way through the crowd to their hosts. She gamely endures the airy kisses on her cheeks, and makes nice with the ladies and their all-too-cloying perfume.
The night wears on; Ga Eul accepts one too many drinks from the waiters circling the room and leans a little too heavily on Yi Jeong who keeps close to her side. Eventually, Jan Di steps in, tugging at her friend's fingers and making excuses for the both of them to escape to the powder room.
Inside, she blinks at the mirror, watching the tired dazed eyes follow her every move. She gives herself a mental shake of the head, and reapplies her shimmery eyeshadow and lip gloss with a critical eye. Next to her, Jan Di stretches her neck gingerly, and massages her shoulders with firm fingers. When it's time, they square their shoulders, Ga Eul just that little bit more hesitant to wade back into the fray.
She notes with relief that the crowd has dissipated slightly, leaving only her boyfriend and the men she considers brothers, watching the revellers with a supercilious gaze. They're snarking at each other; biting words undercut only by the years of firm friendship and playground oaths sealed with blood and spit. They get there just in time to hear Yi Jeong declare, in that tone of his where she never quite knows if he's joking, that he's not quite so far gone as to get trapped into marriage.
"I never said I wanted you to marry me," she says, striving for a firmness in her tone, but her own voice betrays her with a waver at the end. There's a pause in the conversation, the kind that seems to drag on and out for the sole purpose of highlighting the new awkwardness. She casts about for something else to say, something to remove the condescending pity in their eyes, but nothing comes to mind. So she turns on her heel and leaves as abruptly as she joined the conversation, and she hears his smooth excuses he makes for the both of them behind her.
"Ga Eul," Yi Jeong says, mild laughter ringing in his voice. And God she loves that sound, and she would give forever and a bit so she could keep hearing it, but sometimes, like now, it twists the little wedge of hurt deeper in her.
She's never really been a pessimist, but as the months tick by she finds herself waiting with baited breath for him to say that he's done, or he's bored, or that everything has ended. Sometimes she wonders if he even loves her, which is unfair to him, she knows, because he's still here with her after all these years. He still chooses to come after her, even if his footsteps are more languid than her puffing across the crowded floor. She watches as someone waves at him from across the room, and he nods back, but otherwise his attention remains fixated on her. A wave of something crashes over her – it suddenly feels brutally unfair to have him here and now.
"Ga Eul," Yi Jeong repeats, only this time his amusement is gone and there's concern in its place. It only serves to reinforce the guilt blooming in her chest now, and she can't open her throat through its thick coating of phlegm for fear that her blackness would start seeping out.
Instead she chokes out a strangled apology and she turns and runs, weaving through the glittering elegance of dignitaries and tittering debutantes. She makes it through the double doors somehow, and when they swing shut behind her, the wall of noise is blocked out. The dark of the night makes it slightly easier for her to breathe then, and she makes her way shakily into the beautifully manicured garden that is too cold for the revellers to enjoy. The stone bench is freezing through the thin silk of her dress, and her arms come up to wrap themselves around her frame, but she barely notices this as she hunches in on herself.
He joins her on the bench, only breaking her reverie to place his jacket over her (and her heart twists again, because he is here, with her, and his jacket is on her instead of him.) He wraps a solid arm around her, and she lets herself lean in, like a leech, she thinks, taking and taking until she's satisfied.
They don't say anything for a long time. Eventually, the tears that keep flowing down and numbing her face stop, and she braces herself as she turns to him. His lashes fan out strikingly against his skin, and his breathing is deep and even.
This gloriously irritating man has fallen asleep next to her - but even unconscious, his grip on her is firm and unyielding. She thinks there might be a metaphor for something somewhere, but all it does is make her pull his jacket tighter around her.
That movement startles him awake, and his thumb comes up to gently brush away the twin tear tracks setting into her skin.
"Hi," he says, his voice quiet in the night, and still a little gravelly from his nap.
"Hi," she says, and she's relieved it comes out without so much as a waver. It feels like she's broken something sacred in the space around them.
"Ready to go home?" He asks, and her heart swells with something. This is the closest she's come to telling him that she loves him, but instead she nods and allows him to pull her to her feet. She wonders if he knows anyway. He's always been a quicker study than her.
If life were a movie, it'd skip her months by with one of those animations where a dial turns to represent the changing of the seasons. She moves from place to place with practiced routine: work, home, and the occasional dinner out on Fridays. Spinning dizzy-happy over her apartment floors seems like a thing of the past now, but she much prefers the warm dependability of Yi Jeong's embrace. She wonders if this makes her a boring person.
She decides it doesn't matter.
In the summer, she drapes herself over the couch, hair dangling over the edge and long enough to touch the floor. When Yi Jeong comes in, he wrinkles his nose at the lack of atmospheric change in the apartment, as if the heavy air has personally affronted him. He collapses into a pile of limbs on the floor by her head, and she reaches down absentmindedly to touch a hand to his knee.
"It feels," he says, in his self-important manner, "Like soup."
She grunts at him in acknowledgement, too lethargic in the heat for a more detailed response.
They sit in silence for a while, before he reaches up to tangle his fingers with hers. She lets out a squeal and a curse when he tugs her down, off the couch, to land heavily on him.
"Gross," he physically recoils from her sweat-sticky skin, and she laughs because she doesn't know what else he should have been expecting. He stretches his neck to kiss her anyway, because he told her once before that she's his favourite sound.
"Move in with me," he says, and his eyes are twinkling at her from under his stupid-long fringe. She waves him off as she's been doing for the past year; his apartment is too small, and it's too far from school, and she can't live in a place that looks and feels like a hospital's museum. Sometimes she thinks of the phrase "self-sabotaging" and would line it up with herself, but then she would cast that thought aside in favour of something far more productive, like what to eat for dinner.
He huffs at her, impatient, and tugs at her hair slightly. "The apartment above my studio just went on sale."
And honestly? More than the fact that all her excuses now hold no water, it's the fact that he's actually asking that gives her pause. Some nights, when she can't sleep, she holds his hand in the dark, and traces things she wishes she could say to him on his wrist. She feels the blood thrumming in him, as steady as his breathing next to her, and marvels that it is she, of all the people, that he listens to, whose words he holds in esteem.
She fiddles with the corner of the threadbare rug under them, and he catches her nervous energy in his hands, his own nerves bleeding out in his too-precise movements.
"We don't have to if you don't want to," he tells her, his inflections just a little too smooth. She doesn't miss the flash of darkness in his eyes as he scrunches them shut, letting his head fall back against her sofa.
It's one of those moments that really convinces Ga Eul that karma exists. The nebulous promise that meant everything and nothing at all four years ago has morphed and solidified, and now she lies in his arms, making him wait in a peculiar vulnerability. She thinks, for a moment, about this bitterness that has unfurled in her, and blossomed in the vacuum he'd left in his wake, and even now it sings against her ribcage as his heart beats steadily under her.
She reaches up, and her hand is so small against the expanse of his face, and she smooths out the skin between his brows. The corner of his lips quirk up slightly, and she sighs, because the enormity of fate cannot be denied, and this man will only ever know getting what he wants.
"I'm only doing this out of pity," she teases him, fingers lingering near his lips.
His smile unfurls itself fully, and he sneaks a kiss on her hand before it falls back to her chest.
"Confuse it with love one day," he suggests, fingers playing over hers so naturally like he belongs there with her.
The sunlight is spilling in from her open windows, and the sweet warm lethargy of summer spills out around them. In that instant, she can almost see the truth. In that moment, she almost tells him that she already has.
The winter holidays are barrelling down on her at the speed of light, and Ga Eul is a whirlwind in her lessons, cramming as much knowledge and advice as she can into the heads of her young charges. She's far too busy to take note of the fact that she's going through tissue at a much faster rate, or that the headache at the back of her mind has taken up a permanent residency.
Her boyfriend (and doesn't her mind still sing with that word) pays attention for her, and pushes medicine into her unfocused hands and nudges it into her mouth with a cup of water. He buys her soup and porridge, and brings the heavy blankets out from storage to wrap around her shoulders in their little apartment. He drives a small, expensively nondescript black car with tinted windows to pick her up from school after lessons.
But his administrations are no match for the cesspool of germs that small children are, and when he collects her one day after school lets out he takes one look at her hazy-dream grin and knows that her immune system has given up.
She tries to stay awake. She doesn't like him to be lonely, and for him and his friends, a lot of the days, being alone and being lonely are interchangeable. Yi Jeong looks over at her and sighs, and it's exasperated, but she can't quite tell if it's adoring exasperation or just plain exasperation. She hopes it's the former.
She wants to ask if he's disappointed, because he's got that glint in his eyes and she knows that he'd wanted to whisk her off to some exotic locale as soon as the school year came to an end, but all that comes out is a plaintive series of coughs. She gingerly laces her fingers with his, and he runs his thumb soothingly over her knuckles as the car coasts along.
"Go to sleep," he tells her. and she sighs in acquiescence, her world melting in a swirl around her. She makes sure to keep a firm grip on his hand as she drifts off. The metal of his watch warms under her wrist.
When she wakes up, the sky outside their bedroom windows is dark, and there's the familiar stillness of anticipation and focus of the witching hour. The covers are pulled up securely around her, and she is warm and comfortable and liquid. Something twitches in her hand, and she looks blearily to her left to see Yi Jeong perched gingerly on the ottoman he had pulled up to her side of the bed, the planes of his body tense as he sleeps through the discomfort of a sleeping surface smaller than the size of a twin-sized bed. His face is smooth, unworried, even as his fingers move involuntarily to an unseen harmony. She likes to imagine he is spinning new pots on his wheel even in his sleep, likes the feel of his fingers dancing across her bare skin when his arms encircle her at night.
Up close, and paying more attention than she had been in the mad rush of the last few weeks, she can see his stubble starting to grow out, and his eyebags which seem to be growing, even now. She wonders if he sees her in the studio of his dreams, if she's perched at a table there like she is in his reality, surrounded by papers and wires crisscrossing each other. She sees the upward curve of his lips, and decides he does. She tightens her grip on his hand, and sees him relax a little more into the smooth fabric under him. Her eyes fall shut again, and she slips back into an easy sleep.
She only fully awakens when she hears the small reluctant sounds of her boyfriend attempting to clean up the mess on her bedside table, ahjumma rubber gloves and all pushing used tissues into the trash.
"Leave it there," she tells him, all clogged up and stuffy. "I'll clear it later."
He just gives her a look and continues swiping them into the bin, one highly dramatic tissue at a time.
She sits up, and he pauses in his quest to rid the room of germs to pour her a glass of water for her poor parched throat.
"You slept for 15 hours," he whines, situating himself neatly next to her legs, and she sets the glass back on the bedside table.
"Sick people tend to do that," she volleys back, amused.
"Well, I wouldn't know that," with a proud toss of his head. "Superior genes and all."
She snorts at that. "Superior doctors and vitamins, more like."
"Sounds like you've recovered, if you're well enough to put me in my place," he announces, squinting at her.
She rolls her eyes at him, and gently kicks him off the bed.
"Use your words, crazy," he complains, even as he reaches down to drop a kiss on her forehead.
She stretches out, lazy and languid, feeling sleep settle on her like a heavy blanket once more.
"I love you," she says, the words slipping out like honey, sticky-sweet in the crisp air. Her eyes shoot open, and her mouth moves soundlessly, like she can suck the words back into her system and erase that memory from his mind.
But Yi Jeong just smiles conspiratorially at her, dropping down on the ottoman that he never shifted back to the foot of their bed. "I know," he tells her. "Which is a good thing, because I love you too."