[fic] jongin/reader: It Could Be Home
title: It Could Be Home
pairing: Jongin/Reader
genre: romance
rating: pg
word count: ~3k w
summary: He was just a stranger under the rain. You were just you with the umbrella, and you happen to meet each other halfway.
You first meet him on a rainy Thursday night - more like morning. It’s roughly 2 AM according to the watch strapped on your wrist, the black leather a stark difference against the white of your wrist. Your shoes scuffle against the damp asphalt, trying hard to avoid the little puddles that pepper the uneven sidewalk. Cram school is a bother, but it keeps your GPA up, and you at the top of your class. So you pull through with your classes because it makes your parents proud every time you show them your report card. But it gets hard, all the pressure on your shoulders. It’s a downside to being an only child, and it somehow sucks.
The rain falls a little harder, and you tilt your red umbrella higher so it covers you and your heavy canvas backpack. The street you walk on the way home is illuminated by the lampposts turned on at intervals. You estimate that you’ll reach your house in roughly 12 more minutes, and you sigh. Your shoulders are starting to ache from the weight of your thick textbooks, the combined heaviness of your AP Chemistry and Physics tomes getting heavier and heavier with every step. You adjust the straps the best you can using one hand, and hasten your pace.
As you near the fourth lamppost, you see someone leaning on it. He’s wearing a black jacket, the hoodie pulled over his head. His head is tilted skyward, his face catching the raindrops. His grey sweatpants are clinging to his legs from the water, the ends of it darker than the rest. His black Chucks are toeing at a puddle in front of him, the rubber squeaking ever so slightly as you approach the figure. He looks dodgy and, at this time of the night, really creepy. So you walk just that bit faster, and hope that you’ll make it home safe.
You use your umbrella to cover your face as you walk past him. You take a peek, though, as you come closer and closer. His face is void of any affection, eyes glazed over as he stares at the raindrops falling and cascading over his eyes and cheeks. His lips are pressed into a thin line, arms crossed over his chest.
Your shoes sink into the puddle by the stranger’s feet, and the water splashes at his feet. You startle and contemplate on saying sorry, but your nerves get to you and you end up running away.
You don’t look back.
The rain stops when you arrive at your house’s front door. You deposit your still open umbrella by the flower box, and rummage through your backpack for the house key. You deposit your ruined shoes by the rack, and peel off your waterlogged socks. The lights are all out, and you feel your way up the staircase and into your room.
You fall asleep underneath your cold quilt, wondering if the stranger was still underneath the fourth lamppost.
--
The third time you meet him is on another rainy day. The only difference is that it’s a Sunday, and you’re walking home from your duty at the local library. You spent your afternoons sorting through the returned books and putting them back on their assigned shelves. You occasionally stop and thumb through the classic novels on the cart and, today, you discovered how Antony gave up his forces to ruin and fled with Cleopatra, how he blamed her of making him a coward, and how all those lives are compensated by a sweet kiss upon his lips courtesy of her. You decide to check out the book before leaving, clutching it close to your chest as you brush your hair off your shoulder.
Your moccasins trudge on the familiar grain of the sidewalk, slippery with rainwater. The dents and holes are filled up again, and you do your best to avoid them still. You lift your red umbrella higher on your shoulder, looking up from the ground. You see the stranger by the same lamppost, wearing almost the same ensemble he wore the last time you saw him.
He’s still alone, and he’s still in the rain.
He’s running something in between his fingers, though, and it catches the little sunlight that’s streaming here and there. You are five paces away from the stranger when he pushes himself away from the lamppost, and moves. You startle and stop mid-step. He turns around, head down, and starts walking. He enters the giant building beside them, the quiet whirr of the automatic doors sliding open as he steps inside. You watch his retreating back before the doors close in on him, and he’s gone from your sight.
You shrug, and continue on your way home.
--
On the seventh time you meet him you are rushing home. You nearly failed a test, getting a score that’s barely passing by your standards. It upsets you to the point that you skip cram school altogether, and you just want to curl up in your bedroom and cry.
You are already crying by the time you round the corner, tears streaking down your cheeks as raindrops splatter on the synthetic material of your red umbrella. You barely avoid the puddles that are in your way. Your rubber shoes are wet, and your toes are being to freeze.
It is late when you realise that you’re almost near the lamppost, and the stranger as well. You slip on a particularly deep pit of water, and you are sent careening to the asphalt. You feel the tears slip down your face as you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the impact.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead you feel hands coming to steel you back on your feet, helping you stand up. Rain pelts on both of your backs as you wipe the tears away. You watch him bend down to take your fallen umbrella, and he presses it into your hand.
“You shouldn’t be running in the rain,” you hear the stranger tell you. He makes you hold the umbrella above your head, and the fall of the rain stops landing on your damp hair. His fringe is clinging to his forehead, and his hoodie looks heavy on his body.
“Thank you,” you answer instead, offering his a slight bow. You sniffle and wipe at your eyes before adding, “You shouldn’t always be out in the rain, too. You’ll get sick.”
The stranger smiles at you, and it tastes unnaturally bitter on your tongue as your eyes drink it in. He looks handsome, you discover, now that you can finally see his face clearly.
“But how will I enjoy the rain if I can’t feel it?”
This shuts you up for a while, and you forget your problems for a moment. You open your mouth to say something, only to have the words die in your throat. His hand drops from its circled grip on your wrist, his fingers leaving ghosts of warmth around your skin, its press on your watch as it ticks.
“Jongin-ah! Come on! Practice is starting soon!”
You both slightly jump, and turn towards the direction of the voice. There’s a lanky teenager by the automatic doors, wearing similar sweats and a black wifebeater. He looks about the stranger’s - Jongin - age, and he has this look of indifference slapped on his face.
Jongin faces you and says, “Take care on your way home. And don’t cry anymore,” before bowing, bidding goodbye, and running up the steps to clap the waiting teenager’s back. The doors close after them, and you stand there under the rain.
Your failed test is long forgotten, your umbrella drying by the flower box, your fingers stirring your tea long gone cold as you think about the stranger now named: Jongin.
--
The next time you see him is not on a rainy day.
It is a particularly dry afternoon, and you are walking home from school after your final exam. You are in no rush, a cup of warm caramel macchiato settled in your grip as you stroll down the sidewalk on your way home.
You don’t see him when you round the corner, and it upsets you a little. Your smile drops a few degrees, and you go back to counting the cracks on the asphalt.
“Hey!”
You look up suddenly, and you see him. Jongin is standing up from his sitting position on the third landing of the stairs leading to the building, dusting off his pants. He’s wearing jeans today, you note.
“How are you?” Jongin asks, skidding to a stop in front of you. He’s standing directly on a dent that turns into a huge puddle during rainy days, the exact same place where you both first interacted. He smiles at you softly, and you feel something stir in your chest.
“I’m good,” you reply, grinning back lightly.
“I’m Jongin, by the way,” he introduces, shoving his hands inside his jeans’ pockets, “What’s your name?”
You introduce yourself, levelling your voice so it doesn’t seem like you’re nervous when, in reality, your nerves are eating at you. He looks really handsome in broad daylight, like this, wearing a simple white v-neck t-shirt and washed-out blue jeans with the black Cons you swear you splashed the first time you met him.
He repeats your name, testing how it feels and tastes on his tongue, and you see him smiling as he rolls the syllables out of his mouth. You find yourself blushing because all of a sudden your name sounds a lot better coming from him, and you suddenly don’t hate it anymore. He giggles slightly at the sight of you flushed, clutching tightly at your half-finished cup of coffee.
“You a coffee lover?” Jongin asks, pointing at your hands. You nod.
“It’s basically my life source.”
"We're the same then!" He chuckles at your answer and it’s so easy, so carefree that you find yourself following along, laughing silently under your breath. He feels like something you would dub ‘good company’ already.
“Is it too much if I ask you to join me for coffee?” he inquires, “There’s this cafe I know that sells the greatest cakes and creamiest pies at cheap prices, and they have the best-tasting green tea lattes.” He abruptly stops talking, and brings up a hand to rub at his neck. His cheeks flush, and you think, Cute. He adds hurriedly, “But that’s if you want to come. With me. To the cafe. It’s alright if you don’t want to. Come with, I mean.”
It’s your turn to chuckle now, and he shoots you an embarrassed smile, one side of his mouth tilting up and his eyes disappearing into lines.
“I’d love to join you.”
You text your mum that you’ll be coming home a bit late, pocketing your phone before skipping, falling into step with Jongin. He opens the door for you, and you smile up at him.
--
It somehow becomes a routine over the summer vacation.
On your walk home after your library duty he’d be there, waiting for you by the stairs or against the fourth lamppost. The moment your eyes meet his face instantly light up, and you find yours doing the same as well.
You both head to the cafe, and it becomes like some sort of safe haven. You both lose yourselves in the mugs of iced tea and cups of frappuccinos, in the plates of half-finished cakes with forks still peppered with icing. You’ve told him almost everything about your life at this point: your want to succeed in school and need to be at the top of your class even though all your parents want is for you to pass; your fondness for books and smelling the pages as you flit through them before returning them to their shelves; your need for coffee like a person needs water; your insecurities and your complexes; your dreams and your inspirations.
Jongin’s also shared some things with you, too. He’s a dancer, you find out. He’s currently a trainee of SM Entertainment, and the building he practically lives in is owned by the company. He’s been a trainee for roughly three years, and he’s still not sure if he’s almost there. Jongin tells you that sometimes he can feel it, like a deep stirring in his chest that it’s almost there. But it disappears almost straight away, forgotten along with what he ate the night before as he practises another routine. You patted his hand that day, and he tells you that it means a lot.
He tells you of his family: his sisters that love him to death, his mother that he adores very much, and his indifferent father. His father’s always been a touchy subject, much like how your being allergic to your favourite flowers is to you. His father did not want him to go down the road of being an idol. He had consented with all the dance classes instead of piano and taekwondo classes when Jongin was still a kid, but he believed that a line had to be drawn somewhere. But Jongin wants this, craves for this. Dancing is his life, and it keeps him alive. He sometimes regrets letting his father down, he admits.
You’ve chatted about the friends he’s made while inside the confines of the training rooms and recording studios. He’s been reshuffled into a new group a few months ago, and it’s been rumoured that they’ll be debuting together. Jongin says he’s lucky that most of the people in his little group are people he already knows. One of them is Sehun, the guy that you saw calling Jongin that one particularly rainy day. The rest is a flurry of words and anecdotes, unbarred emotions and opinions.
You feel yourself opening up to Jongin, and you conclude that he’s different. Way different - but a good different.
--
One day, as you walk down the familiar sidewalk with your nose buried in the latest book you outed (it’s Merchant of Venice, and you’re itching to write down a particular stanza retorted by Portia), everything changes.
You look up when you know you’re near the outside of SM Entertainment, and you see Jongin standing up and dusting his pants like he always does. As you close your book you see him moving, and he meets you halfway.
“Hey,” he greets, smiling down at you.
You beam up at him, and reply, “Hey, yourself.”
He clears his throat a few times, and you notice him repeatedly wiping his hands on fabric of his khaki shorts. It’s a sign of his nervousness, and you look at him worriedly.
“Is anything wrong?” you ask.
“No! There’s nothing wrong, just,” he answers, looking anywhere but at you, “I - I want to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“Is it, is it ok if,” he starts, then looks up. He meets your eyes, and your stomach does somersaults that felt way too familiar. “Is it ok if I hold your hand?”
You feel your throat close up, and you find yourself blinking. Then you’re blushing and he’s blushing, and somewhere along the way you manage to splutter It’s ok, I don’t mind and his hand is wrapping itself around your own.
His hand is big, considerably bigger than yours, and much warmer. The spaces of your fingers clumsily fit with his. He tugs at your fingers in his grasp, and you both walk towards the cafe, bounces in your steps.
All the while he smiles, grinning down at his plate of strawberry shortcake, his fringe covering his eyes as he chuckles at your story of the day.
This day he asks if he can walk you home.
“But don’t you have to go back? You have practices, remember?” you inquire, shrugging on your shoulder sling bag. He opens the door for you, and you both step out in the warm outside.
“I can sacrifice a few minutes,” he says cheekily. “I don’t think anyone will miss me much. Not as much as I’ll miss your company, anyway.”
You blush at his words, and reply, “Fine, but don’t expect me to invite you in because you are going straight back here.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He salutes, raising two of his fingers to his brow.
You laugh, and he laughs, and he takes your hand back in his. The walk home is slower, but way more enjoyable. By the time you arrive at your doorstep, the sun is already setting.
“I had a good time today,” you speak up, looking at the way Jongin’s fingers loop with yours.
He swings your intertwined hands. “Me too. Thank you, for everything.”
“You should head back. Your trainer will kill you,” you jest.
“I should head back,” he echoes, “But, before I do, can I ask you something again?”
“What is it?”
“Is it ok if I kiss you?”
The question takes you by surprise, and your wide eyes look up to meet Jongin’s hopeful ones. You find yourself drowning in them, and realising that yes, you would let him kiss you.
You also realise that yes, you have indeed fallen in love with Jongin: the wonder boy, the danseur, the boy with dreams as iridescent as the universe.
“Yes,” you breathe. It’s his turn to look surprised now, and he searches your eyes for anything that will contradict what you have just said.
Finding none, he repeats, his voice low, “Yes.”
He bends down slightly, and you lift your feet to stand on the tips of your toes. It’s the second time you meet each other halfway, and it’s perfect. Jongin’s lips are soft on top of yours, and you can feel their warmth seep into the pigments of your mouth.
He leaves with a whisper of See you tomorrow on your lips, and they taste like mocha and strawberries and cream. You watch his fading figure with the sunlight bleeding on his back. The reality still hasn’t sunk in, but you don’t care.
All you care about is the feel of Jongin’s lips on yours, and the promise of see you tomorrow.
--
The seasons change real fast and, next thing you know, a year has passed and it’s back to rain.
You’ve decided to lay it easy on your studies, and focus on reading instead. Jongin has become increasingly busy with the passing time, and you try to meet his ends the best you can.
Today you walk through the rain, twirling your red umbrella as you jump on the puddles. You’re wearing the rain boots Jongin gifted you, and you smile into your coat at the memories.
“What are you smiling at?”
Jongin bounds up to you, ducking underneath your umbrella as he plants a soft kiss on your cheek. His lips are cold against your skin, and his hair is dripping wet. You let him take the umbrella away from your grasp. He shields you both from the rain, and you both walk towards the cafe.
“Hey, Jongin,” you say, staring out at the window as water skitters down it. You both are inside the cafe, and Jongin’s hair is nearly dry. “How come you never use an umbrella? Don’t you have one?”
Jongin contemplates on what you say, taking a sip from his cooling hot chocolate.
“I used to bring an umbrella with me,” he informs, “but I always manage to lose them. It’s such a shame, actually. I used to buy them in bundles and I’ll end up losing all by the end of the month. There was a point I had three umbrellas in my bag, just in case. Not one of them lasted a week.”
“Wow that’s,” you look for the word to say, “sad?”
He chuckles, and bops you on the nose with a finger. “Yeah, maybe. But say, what if it was all just a plan to lead me to you?” Jongin leans over and kisses you; a quick peck, but it leaves you breathless nonetheless.
“Maybe it is,” you answer, pulling him back in to kiss him better, longer, sweeter.
- i swear i was going somewhere with this but i got lost and it was getting long so ;;
- this was a request by an anon from tumblr. hey, anon, here you go! i'm sorry if it's not what you had in mind
- this is my first time writing a you fic so the whole time i didn't know what to do ;w;
- if you guys want to request anything, hit me up on twitter or tumblr!
pairing: Jongin/Reader
genre: romance
rating: pg
word count: ~3k w
summary: He was just a stranger under the rain. You were just you with the umbrella, and you happen to meet each other halfway.
You first meet him on a rainy Thursday night - more like morning. It’s roughly 2 AM according to the watch strapped on your wrist, the black leather a stark difference against the white of your wrist. Your shoes scuffle against the damp asphalt, trying hard to avoid the little puddles that pepper the uneven sidewalk. Cram school is a bother, but it keeps your GPA up, and you at the top of your class. So you pull through with your classes because it makes your parents proud every time you show them your report card. But it gets hard, all the pressure on your shoulders. It’s a downside to being an only child, and it somehow sucks.
The rain falls a little harder, and you tilt your red umbrella higher so it covers you and your heavy canvas backpack. The street you walk on the way home is illuminated by the lampposts turned on at intervals. You estimate that you’ll reach your house in roughly 12 more minutes, and you sigh. Your shoulders are starting to ache from the weight of your thick textbooks, the combined heaviness of your AP Chemistry and Physics tomes getting heavier and heavier with every step. You adjust the straps the best you can using one hand, and hasten your pace.
As you near the fourth lamppost, you see someone leaning on it. He’s wearing a black jacket, the hoodie pulled over his head. His head is tilted skyward, his face catching the raindrops. His grey sweatpants are clinging to his legs from the water, the ends of it darker than the rest. His black Chucks are toeing at a puddle in front of him, the rubber squeaking ever so slightly as you approach the figure. He looks dodgy and, at this time of the night, really creepy. So you walk just that bit faster, and hope that you’ll make it home safe.
You use your umbrella to cover your face as you walk past him. You take a peek, though, as you come closer and closer. His face is void of any affection, eyes glazed over as he stares at the raindrops falling and cascading over his eyes and cheeks. His lips are pressed into a thin line, arms crossed over his chest.
Your shoes sink into the puddle by the stranger’s feet, and the water splashes at his feet. You startle and contemplate on saying sorry, but your nerves get to you and you end up running away.
You don’t look back.
The rain stops when you arrive at your house’s front door. You deposit your still open umbrella by the flower box, and rummage through your backpack for the house key. You deposit your ruined shoes by the rack, and peel off your waterlogged socks. The lights are all out, and you feel your way up the staircase and into your room.
You fall asleep underneath your cold quilt, wondering if the stranger was still underneath the fourth lamppost.
--
The third time you meet him is on another rainy day. The only difference is that it’s a Sunday, and you’re walking home from your duty at the local library. You spent your afternoons sorting through the returned books and putting them back on their assigned shelves. You occasionally stop and thumb through the classic novels on the cart and, today, you discovered how Antony gave up his forces to ruin and fled with Cleopatra, how he blamed her of making him a coward, and how all those lives are compensated by a sweet kiss upon his lips courtesy of her. You decide to check out the book before leaving, clutching it close to your chest as you brush your hair off your shoulder.
Your moccasins trudge on the familiar grain of the sidewalk, slippery with rainwater. The dents and holes are filled up again, and you do your best to avoid them still. You lift your red umbrella higher on your shoulder, looking up from the ground. You see the stranger by the same lamppost, wearing almost the same ensemble he wore the last time you saw him.
He’s still alone, and he’s still in the rain.
He’s running something in between his fingers, though, and it catches the little sunlight that’s streaming here and there. You are five paces away from the stranger when he pushes himself away from the lamppost, and moves. You startle and stop mid-step. He turns around, head down, and starts walking. He enters the giant building beside them, the quiet whirr of the automatic doors sliding open as he steps inside. You watch his retreating back before the doors close in on him, and he’s gone from your sight.
You shrug, and continue on your way home.
--
On the seventh time you meet him you are rushing home. You nearly failed a test, getting a score that’s barely passing by your standards. It upsets you to the point that you skip cram school altogether, and you just want to curl up in your bedroom and cry.
You are already crying by the time you round the corner, tears streaking down your cheeks as raindrops splatter on the synthetic material of your red umbrella. You barely avoid the puddles that are in your way. Your rubber shoes are wet, and your toes are being to freeze.
It is late when you realise that you’re almost near the lamppost, and the stranger as well. You slip on a particularly deep pit of water, and you are sent careening to the asphalt. You feel the tears slip down your face as you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the impact.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead you feel hands coming to steel you back on your feet, helping you stand up. Rain pelts on both of your backs as you wipe the tears away. You watch him bend down to take your fallen umbrella, and he presses it into your hand.
“You shouldn’t be running in the rain,” you hear the stranger tell you. He makes you hold the umbrella above your head, and the fall of the rain stops landing on your damp hair. His fringe is clinging to his forehead, and his hoodie looks heavy on his body.
“Thank you,” you answer instead, offering his a slight bow. You sniffle and wipe at your eyes before adding, “You shouldn’t always be out in the rain, too. You’ll get sick.”
The stranger smiles at you, and it tastes unnaturally bitter on your tongue as your eyes drink it in. He looks handsome, you discover, now that you can finally see his face clearly.
“But how will I enjoy the rain if I can’t feel it?”
This shuts you up for a while, and you forget your problems for a moment. You open your mouth to say something, only to have the words die in your throat. His hand drops from its circled grip on your wrist, his fingers leaving ghosts of warmth around your skin, its press on your watch as it ticks.
“Jongin-ah! Come on! Practice is starting soon!”
You both slightly jump, and turn towards the direction of the voice. There’s a lanky teenager by the automatic doors, wearing similar sweats and a black wifebeater. He looks about the stranger’s - Jongin - age, and he has this look of indifference slapped on his face.
Jongin faces you and says, “Take care on your way home. And don’t cry anymore,” before bowing, bidding goodbye, and running up the steps to clap the waiting teenager’s back. The doors close after them, and you stand there under the rain.
Your failed test is long forgotten, your umbrella drying by the flower box, your fingers stirring your tea long gone cold as you think about the stranger now named: Jongin.
--
The next time you see him is not on a rainy day.
It is a particularly dry afternoon, and you are walking home from school after your final exam. You are in no rush, a cup of warm caramel macchiato settled in your grip as you stroll down the sidewalk on your way home.
You don’t see him when you round the corner, and it upsets you a little. Your smile drops a few degrees, and you go back to counting the cracks on the asphalt.
“Hey!”
You look up suddenly, and you see him. Jongin is standing up from his sitting position on the third landing of the stairs leading to the building, dusting off his pants. He’s wearing jeans today, you note.
“How are you?” Jongin asks, skidding to a stop in front of you. He’s standing directly on a dent that turns into a huge puddle during rainy days, the exact same place where you both first interacted. He smiles at you softly, and you feel something stir in your chest.
“I’m good,” you reply, grinning back lightly.
“I’m Jongin, by the way,” he introduces, shoving his hands inside his jeans’ pockets, “What’s your name?”
You introduce yourself, levelling your voice so it doesn’t seem like you’re nervous when, in reality, your nerves are eating at you. He looks really handsome in broad daylight, like this, wearing a simple white v-neck t-shirt and washed-out blue jeans with the black Cons you swear you splashed the first time you met him.
He repeats your name, testing how it feels and tastes on his tongue, and you see him smiling as he rolls the syllables out of his mouth. You find yourself blushing because all of a sudden your name sounds a lot better coming from him, and you suddenly don’t hate it anymore. He giggles slightly at the sight of you flushed, clutching tightly at your half-finished cup of coffee.
“You a coffee lover?” Jongin asks, pointing at your hands. You nod.
“It’s basically my life source.”
"We're the same then!" He chuckles at your answer and it’s so easy, so carefree that you find yourself following along, laughing silently under your breath. He feels like something you would dub ‘good company’ already.
“Is it too much if I ask you to join me for coffee?” he inquires, “There’s this cafe I know that sells the greatest cakes and creamiest pies at cheap prices, and they have the best-tasting green tea lattes.” He abruptly stops talking, and brings up a hand to rub at his neck. His cheeks flush, and you think, Cute. He adds hurriedly, “But that’s if you want to come. With me. To the cafe. It’s alright if you don’t want to. Come with, I mean.”
It’s your turn to chuckle now, and he shoots you an embarrassed smile, one side of his mouth tilting up and his eyes disappearing into lines.
“I’d love to join you.”
You text your mum that you’ll be coming home a bit late, pocketing your phone before skipping, falling into step with Jongin. He opens the door for you, and you smile up at him.
--
It somehow becomes a routine over the summer vacation.
On your walk home after your library duty he’d be there, waiting for you by the stairs or against the fourth lamppost. The moment your eyes meet his face instantly light up, and you find yours doing the same as well.
You both head to the cafe, and it becomes like some sort of safe haven. You both lose yourselves in the mugs of iced tea and cups of frappuccinos, in the plates of half-finished cakes with forks still peppered with icing. You’ve told him almost everything about your life at this point: your want to succeed in school and need to be at the top of your class even though all your parents want is for you to pass; your fondness for books and smelling the pages as you flit through them before returning them to their shelves; your need for coffee like a person needs water; your insecurities and your complexes; your dreams and your inspirations.
Jongin’s also shared some things with you, too. He’s a dancer, you find out. He’s currently a trainee of SM Entertainment, and the building he practically lives in is owned by the company. He’s been a trainee for roughly three years, and he’s still not sure if he’s almost there. Jongin tells you that sometimes he can feel it, like a deep stirring in his chest that it’s almost there. But it disappears almost straight away, forgotten along with what he ate the night before as he practises another routine. You patted his hand that day, and he tells you that it means a lot.
He tells you of his family: his sisters that love him to death, his mother that he adores very much, and his indifferent father. His father’s always been a touchy subject, much like how your being allergic to your favourite flowers is to you. His father did not want him to go down the road of being an idol. He had consented with all the dance classes instead of piano and taekwondo classes when Jongin was still a kid, but he believed that a line had to be drawn somewhere. But Jongin wants this, craves for this. Dancing is his life, and it keeps him alive. He sometimes regrets letting his father down, he admits.
You’ve chatted about the friends he’s made while inside the confines of the training rooms and recording studios. He’s been reshuffled into a new group a few months ago, and it’s been rumoured that they’ll be debuting together. Jongin says he’s lucky that most of the people in his little group are people he already knows. One of them is Sehun, the guy that you saw calling Jongin that one particularly rainy day. The rest is a flurry of words and anecdotes, unbarred emotions and opinions.
You feel yourself opening up to Jongin, and you conclude that he’s different. Way different - but a good different.
--
One day, as you walk down the familiar sidewalk with your nose buried in the latest book you outed (it’s Merchant of Venice, and you’re itching to write down a particular stanza retorted by Portia), everything changes.
You look up when you know you’re near the outside of SM Entertainment, and you see Jongin standing up and dusting his pants like he always does. As you close your book you see him moving, and he meets you halfway.
“Hey,” he greets, smiling down at you.
You beam up at him, and reply, “Hey, yourself.”
He clears his throat a few times, and you notice him repeatedly wiping his hands on fabric of his khaki shorts. It’s a sign of his nervousness, and you look at him worriedly.
“Is anything wrong?” you ask.
“No! There’s nothing wrong, just,” he answers, looking anywhere but at you, “I - I want to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“Is it, is it ok if,” he starts, then looks up. He meets your eyes, and your stomach does somersaults that felt way too familiar. “Is it ok if I hold your hand?”
You feel your throat close up, and you find yourself blinking. Then you’re blushing and he’s blushing, and somewhere along the way you manage to splutter It’s ok, I don’t mind and his hand is wrapping itself around your own.
His hand is big, considerably bigger than yours, and much warmer. The spaces of your fingers clumsily fit with his. He tugs at your fingers in his grasp, and you both walk towards the cafe, bounces in your steps.
All the while he smiles, grinning down at his plate of strawberry shortcake, his fringe covering his eyes as he chuckles at your story of the day.
This day he asks if he can walk you home.
“But don’t you have to go back? You have practices, remember?” you inquire, shrugging on your shoulder sling bag. He opens the door for you, and you both step out in the warm outside.
“I can sacrifice a few minutes,” he says cheekily. “I don’t think anyone will miss me much. Not as much as I’ll miss your company, anyway.”
You blush at his words, and reply, “Fine, but don’t expect me to invite you in because you are going straight back here.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He salutes, raising two of his fingers to his brow.
You laugh, and he laughs, and he takes your hand back in his. The walk home is slower, but way more enjoyable. By the time you arrive at your doorstep, the sun is already setting.
“I had a good time today,” you speak up, looking at the way Jongin’s fingers loop with yours.
He swings your intertwined hands. “Me too. Thank you, for everything.”
“You should head back. Your trainer will kill you,” you jest.
“I should head back,” he echoes, “But, before I do, can I ask you something again?”
“What is it?”
“Is it ok if I kiss you?”
The question takes you by surprise, and your wide eyes look up to meet Jongin’s hopeful ones. You find yourself drowning in them, and realising that yes, you would let him kiss you.
You also realise that yes, you have indeed fallen in love with Jongin: the wonder boy, the danseur, the boy with dreams as iridescent as the universe.
“Yes,” you breathe. It’s his turn to look surprised now, and he searches your eyes for anything that will contradict what you have just said.
Finding none, he repeats, his voice low, “Yes.”
He bends down slightly, and you lift your feet to stand on the tips of your toes. It’s the second time you meet each other halfway, and it’s perfect. Jongin’s lips are soft on top of yours, and you can feel their warmth seep into the pigments of your mouth.
He leaves with a whisper of See you tomorrow on your lips, and they taste like mocha and strawberries and cream. You watch his fading figure with the sunlight bleeding on his back. The reality still hasn’t sunk in, but you don’t care.
All you care about is the feel of Jongin’s lips on yours, and the promise of see you tomorrow.
--
The seasons change real fast and, next thing you know, a year has passed and it’s back to rain.
You’ve decided to lay it easy on your studies, and focus on reading instead. Jongin has become increasingly busy with the passing time, and you try to meet his ends the best you can.
Today you walk through the rain, twirling your red umbrella as you jump on the puddles. You’re wearing the rain boots Jongin gifted you, and you smile into your coat at the memories.
“What are you smiling at?”
Jongin bounds up to you, ducking underneath your umbrella as he plants a soft kiss on your cheek. His lips are cold against your skin, and his hair is dripping wet. You let him take the umbrella away from your grasp. He shields you both from the rain, and you both walk towards the cafe.
“Hey, Jongin,” you say, staring out at the window as water skitters down it. You both are inside the cafe, and Jongin’s hair is nearly dry. “How come you never use an umbrella? Don’t you have one?”
Jongin contemplates on what you say, taking a sip from his cooling hot chocolate.
“I used to bring an umbrella with me,” he informs, “but I always manage to lose them. It’s such a shame, actually. I used to buy them in bundles and I’ll end up losing all by the end of the month. There was a point I had three umbrellas in my bag, just in case. Not one of them lasted a week.”
“Wow that’s,” you look for the word to say, “sad?”
He chuckles, and bops you on the nose with a finger. “Yeah, maybe. But say, what if it was all just a plan to lead me to you?” Jongin leans over and kisses you; a quick peck, but it leaves you breathless nonetheless.
“Maybe it is,” you answer, pulling him back in to kiss him better, longer, sweeter.
- i swear i was going somewhere with this but i got lost and it was getting long so ;;
- this was a request by an anon from tumblr. hey, anon, here you go! i'm sorry if it's not what you had in mind
- this is my first time writing a you fic so the whole time i didn't know what to do ;w;
- if you guys want to request anything, hit me up on twitter or tumblr!