please stay here; myungsoo/hoya; pg-13; 2k+ words;
kinda sorta sequel to angel, i can't even see in front of me
warning for semi dub-con
lee howon.
the name that’s printed vertically on the back of myungsoo’s hand, right where his thumb connects to his hand.
the name that’s printed in near chicken scratch, with the strokes messy and the “ho” and the “won” having too much space between them that it bothers myungsoo to no end.
the name that didn’t belong there.
the name of his second soulmate.
myungsoo wished he had lee howon’s name from the very start
instead of hers.
he doesn’t remember her name, for it was only a part of him until he was eleven.
but he did remember that it was, in fact, a very pretty name.
myungsoo had always had a bad memory.
his first soulmate had a name that was common-- one that was plain and boring and nearly every girl in a big city had.
myungsoo and her had known each other since they were in diapers-- their mothers being best friends since high school and constantly setting each other up for playdates.
it was meant to be, they said. destiny, fate,
utterly and forever soulmates.
they were stuck at the hip apparently, myungsoo had been told. they wouldn’t be able to go a minute without the other holding their hand when walking across the lawn (covered in toys that they got tired of as soon as they were purchased) to each other’s houses or having an arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders when they didn’t want to share with other kids (my soulmate you can’t have ‘em!) or legs tangled together when they were taking an afternoon nap (always in the same place under the same window and myungsoo would always drape her arm over his eyes because of the sun), and when they were separated, they would get strangely sick (or just extremely irritable and hungry and whiny and just a nuisance really).
myungsoo doesn’t remember being with anybody else during his childhood except for her.
myungsoo lost his first soulmate on the first day of spring.
they were playing in the park, throwing around a ball without any purpose because they thought it was fun, like little kids would. except myungsoo and her were older than the typical “little kid,” but they didn’t mind as much.
as long as they were together.
myungsoo remembers exactly what she was wearing that day-- a cute white sundress with little frills at the hem that were starting to darken with dirt every time she bent her knees and got lower to throw the ball, her hair in twin braids with little embedded daisys, and she still had a bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth from the pasta they had for lunch.
myungsoo had thrown the ball too far, and she had laughed (and he still remembered that it made his tiny little eleven-year old heart flutter), saying that he should try out for some kind of sport, and ran after it
onto oncoming traffic.
myungsoo had felt a whitehotburningitburnshelpme pain on his hand that had made him pass out-- the rush of blood in his ears loud enough to block the screams and ambulance sirens.
when myungsoo woke up hours later in the hospital (his mother holding his left hand and patting her cheeks dry with a tissue while his father patted her back silently, awkwardly even, with the low hum of the tv in the background that stood no chance against the eerie monotony of the heart monitor), his hand was bare.
myungsoo felt empty.
myungsoo didn’t leave the house for months.
partly because he felt exhausted for no reason at all (who was he kidding he knew why his parents knew why everyone in town fucking knew why)
but partly because his mom didn’t want everyone to see his freak son.
it wasn’t myungsoo’s fault.
(yes it was)
she should’ve looked both ways.
(he should’ve been watching her)
she should’ve called for an adult.
(he should’ve seen it coming)
she should’ve just waited for traffic to calm down.
(he should’ve seen it fucking coming)
he couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.
(yes you could’ve)
he should be thankful that he wasn’t in her place.
(you should’ve died instead)
it was myungsoo’s fault.
lee howon
the name is printed onto his hand when he wakes up one day-- the air in the house chilly and quiet and lonely.
the name that was crooked and lopsided and took too much room on his hand.
the name that took her place.
(you killed her it was all your fault you killer you fucking murderer)
myungsoo doesn’t know what to think about lee howon.
sometimes he thinks is he like her or what kind of person is he or what does he look like or what is he doing right now or what if he’s not even gay or what if he doesn’t like me or what if he doesn’t want to deal with some sad boy with luggage thrown to the side of the road like yesterday’s newspaper or
myungsoo still doesn’t know what to think.
myungsoo hears about a couple who had found each other at a club.
he notices the way they hold conversation, like they’ve known each other their whole lives. he notices the way they touch each other, little thigh pats or pinky linking that you could miss if you weren’t looking hard enough. he notices they way they laugh at each other’s jokes, loud and uninhibited and sometimes disrupting the class when it wasn’t even that funny. he notices the way they hold hands, fingers interlaced and thumbs brushing black print. he notices the way they look at each other as if the sun shines out of their ass.
myungsoo wants that.
myungsoo manages to get into a club that has a reputation of bringing together soulmates.
he’s standing near a corner (where a lovely couple is making out and it’s slowly getting more and more inappropriate) and cradling a nearly full bottle of beer between his fingers, watching the mess of the dance floor-- where gross sweaty people are grinding up against other gross sweaty people and
he feels really awkward.
the couple nearly has each other’s pants off and myungsoo feels really awkward so he leaves out the back door.
there’s a boy just around the same age as him outside, cigarette between baby pink lips and wet strands of hair falling into his eyes.
myungsoo can’t help it when his eyes trail to his right hand and squints at the hangul and although he can’t see clearly enough through the dark with a measly streetlamp on the other side of the street, his breath catches because it might be
what’s your name, myungsoo blurts out right when the boy is about to leave and he turns back around, something in his eyes that myungsoo can’t decipher as he crushes his cigarette out with his shoe.
he slowly looks myungsoo up and down, at his messy hair (that took longer to style than he would like to admit) and the slant of his eyes and the sharpness of his nose and his pouty pale lips that had a tongue swiping over when he feels eyes on them.
i’ll tell you later, he replies. he reaches out for myungsoo, palm up.
an invitation.
what if i get murdered is the first thought that pops in his mind.
(i hope you do get killed you fucking deserve it)
myungsoo takes his hand.
that night, myungsoo loses his virginity to a man that was not lee howon.
myungsoo keeps going nearly every night-- hoping that maybe maybe
lee howon doesn’t come.
myungsoo decides he hates lee howon.
it happens on a sunday night, and myungsoo could’ve sworn that this guy driving him to some hotel is lee howon (because he looks sweet and kind and funny and just myungsoo’s type and he just felt a connection).
it’s not lee howon, he finds out right when the man is opening the door for him, his hand sporting a girl’s name.
it’s already too late, he thinks, when the man not so gently tugs him in the room and pushes him back onto the bed.
myungsoo hates lee howon.
myungsoo hates lee howon.
myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoohatesleehowonhateshateshateshates
and it’s over, somehow, finally, finally, and he lays on the bed while the man is already putting his clothes back on.
the man doesn’t even show his hand, like all the others had done, and suddenly he’s fishing through his wallet and grabbing a couple random bills and throwing them in myungsoo’s general direction-- the cash flying out and landing in myungsoo’s lap or on the bed or on the floor.
you’re not bad, the man leaves a business card on the nightstand, call me sometime, yeah?
he leaves without even a look back.
i won’t go anymore, myungsoo tells himself, i’m done i’m done i’m done.
myungsoo lies to even himself.
one more, myungsoo tells himself, after tonight i’ll be done for good.
(he tells himself this every night)
this boy around his age picks him this time-- with a short haircut and red eyes and deep deep dark eye bags, but he has girly and pretty lips so myungsoo doesn’t mind all that much when he’s taken to his apartment.
and they’re kissing, roughly and deeply and myungsoo can’t catch his breath fast enough when his throat is being nipped at in between murmurs of lee sungjong lee sungjong leesungjongleesungjongleesungjongleesungjong.
myungsoo is not an idiot; he saw the name on the boy’s hand and it’s not exactly the first (or second or third or fifth) time that the person he’s sleeping with calls him by his soulmate’s name.
i don’t mind, myungsoo thinks as he’s suddenly being pushed onto the bed and he’s tempted to ask his name (so that he can have at least some variety that weren’t gasps and moans and sighs) except his voice gets cut off when that pretty pretty mouth is being pressed to his jaw and throat and chest and stomach and pelvis and down down down.
he doesn’t ask for his name.
he doesn’t ask for his name when everything is over and the boy’s face is buried in his side and they’re still sweaty and covered in come and he starts to cry.
he doesn’t ask for his name when the boy’s sobs get louder and he starts to gasp for lee sungjong.
he doesn’t ask for his name when myungsoo is already nearly half asleep and he hears the boy stop crying and get up and clean myungsoo’s stomach with a warm wet towel and get into bed on the other side and curls into himself.
he doesn’t ask for his name when he wakes up to the shower on and he hears the boy singing softly and he (really) can’t help himself when he stumbles in into the shower to join him.
he doesn’t ask for his name when he’s hurrying to put his clothes on and leave before the boy gets out of the shower to not suffer the awkward silence and the boy offers him to stay for a bit (though fully distracting myungsoo by walking around the apartment with only a towel on).
he doesn’t ask for his name when they’re cooking breakfast together (a first for myungsoo) and he cracks the egg wrong and the yolk goes everywhere and the boy laughs (loud and unrestrained and adorable and turning his eyes into little slits and showing off little fangs that had left bruises on his thighs) and myungsoo felt warm all over.
he doesn’t ask for his name when the boy sees him out and myungsoo thinks he’s so nice and he wants to see him again but he hasn’t offered and myungsoo doesn’t really want to ask and instead he tells him that he hopes the best for him and this lee sungjong and the boy just smiles at him (and he looks like he’s about to cry all over again) and shuts the door only after myungsoo turns the corner.
myungsoo never sees lee howon after that.
warning for semi dub-con
lee howon.
the name that’s printed vertically on the back of myungsoo’s hand, right where his thumb connects to his hand.
the name that’s printed in near chicken scratch, with the strokes messy and the “ho” and the “won” having too much space between them that it bothers myungsoo to no end.
the name that didn’t belong there.
the name of his second soulmate.
myungsoo wished he had lee howon’s name from the very start
instead of hers.
he doesn’t remember her name, for it was only a part of him until he was eleven.
but he did remember that it was, in fact, a very pretty name.
myungsoo had always had a bad memory.
his first soulmate had a name that was common-- one that was plain and boring and nearly every girl in a big city had.
myungsoo and her had known each other since they were in diapers-- their mothers being best friends since high school and constantly setting each other up for playdates.
it was meant to be, they said. destiny, fate,
utterly and forever soulmates.
they were stuck at the hip apparently, myungsoo had been told. they wouldn’t be able to go a minute without the other holding their hand when walking across the lawn (covered in toys that they got tired of as soon as they were purchased) to each other’s houses or having an arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders when they didn’t want to share with other kids (my soulmate you can’t have ‘em!) or legs tangled together when they were taking an afternoon nap (always in the same place under the same window and myungsoo would always drape her arm over his eyes because of the sun), and when they were separated, they would get strangely sick (or just extremely irritable and hungry and whiny and just a nuisance really).
myungsoo doesn’t remember being with anybody else during his childhood except for her.
myungsoo lost his first soulmate on the first day of spring.
they were playing in the park, throwing around a ball without any purpose because they thought it was fun, like little kids would. except myungsoo and her were older than the typical “little kid,” but they didn’t mind as much.
as long as they were together.
myungsoo remembers exactly what she was wearing that day-- a cute white sundress with little frills at the hem that were starting to darken with dirt every time she bent her knees and got lower to throw the ball, her hair in twin braids with little embedded daisys, and she still had a bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth from the pasta they had for lunch.
myungsoo had thrown the ball too far, and she had laughed (and he still remembered that it made his tiny little eleven-year old heart flutter), saying that he should try out for some kind of sport, and ran after it
onto oncoming traffic.
myungsoo had felt a whitehotburningitburnshelpme pain on his hand that had made him pass out-- the rush of blood in his ears loud enough to block the screams and ambulance sirens.
when myungsoo woke up hours later in the hospital (his mother holding his left hand and patting her cheeks dry with a tissue while his father patted her back silently, awkwardly even, with the low hum of the tv in the background that stood no chance against the eerie monotony of the heart monitor), his hand was bare.
myungsoo felt empty.
myungsoo didn’t leave the house for months.
partly because he felt exhausted for no reason at all (who was he kidding he knew why his parents knew why everyone in town fucking knew why)
but partly because his mom didn’t want everyone to see his freak son.
it wasn’t myungsoo’s fault.
(yes it was)
she should’ve looked both ways.
(he should’ve been watching her)
she should’ve called for an adult.
(he should’ve seen it coming)
she should’ve just waited for traffic to calm down.
(he should’ve seen it fucking coming)
he couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.
(yes you could’ve)
he should be thankful that he wasn’t in her place.
(you should’ve died instead)
it was myungsoo’s fault.
lee howon
the name is printed onto his hand when he wakes up one day-- the air in the house chilly and quiet and lonely.
the name that was crooked and lopsided and took too much room on his hand.
the name that took her place.
(you killed her it was all your fault you killer you fucking murderer)
myungsoo doesn’t know what to think about lee howon.
sometimes he thinks is he like her or what kind of person is he or what does he look like or what is he doing right now or what if he’s not even gay or what if he doesn’t like me or what if he doesn’t want to deal with some sad boy with luggage thrown to the side of the road like yesterday’s newspaper or
myungsoo still doesn’t know what to think.
myungsoo hears about a couple who had found each other at a club.
he notices the way they hold conversation, like they’ve known each other their whole lives. he notices the way they touch each other, little thigh pats or pinky linking that you could miss if you weren’t looking hard enough. he notices they way they laugh at each other’s jokes, loud and uninhibited and sometimes disrupting the class when it wasn’t even that funny. he notices the way they hold hands, fingers interlaced and thumbs brushing black print. he notices the way they look at each other as if the sun shines out of their ass.
myungsoo wants that.
myungsoo manages to get into a club that has a reputation of bringing together soulmates.
he’s standing near a corner (where a lovely couple is making out and it’s slowly getting more and more inappropriate) and cradling a nearly full bottle of beer between his fingers, watching the mess of the dance floor-- where gross sweaty people are grinding up against other gross sweaty people and
he feels really awkward.
the couple nearly has each other’s pants off and myungsoo feels really awkward so he leaves out the back door.
there’s a boy just around the same age as him outside, cigarette between baby pink lips and wet strands of hair falling into his eyes.
myungsoo can’t help it when his eyes trail to his right hand and squints at the hangul and although he can’t see clearly enough through the dark with a measly streetlamp on the other side of the street, his breath catches because it might be
what’s your name, myungsoo blurts out right when the boy is about to leave and he turns back around, something in his eyes that myungsoo can’t decipher as he crushes his cigarette out with his shoe.
he slowly looks myungsoo up and down, at his messy hair (that took longer to style than he would like to admit) and the slant of his eyes and the sharpness of his nose and his pouty pale lips that had a tongue swiping over when he feels eyes on them.
i’ll tell you later, he replies. he reaches out for myungsoo, palm up.
an invitation.
what if i get murdered is the first thought that pops in his mind.
(i hope you do get killed you fucking deserve it)
myungsoo takes his hand.
that night, myungsoo loses his virginity to a man that was not lee howon.
myungsoo keeps going nearly every night-- hoping that maybe maybe
lee howon doesn’t come.
myungsoo decides he hates lee howon.
it happens on a sunday night, and myungsoo could’ve sworn that this guy driving him to some hotel is lee howon (because he looks sweet and kind and funny and just myungsoo’s type and he just felt a connection).
it’s not lee howon, he finds out right when the man is opening the door for him, his hand sporting a girl’s name.
it’s already too late, he thinks, when the man not so gently tugs him in the room and pushes him back onto the bed.
myungsoo hates lee howon.
myungsoo hates lee howon.
myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoo hates lee howon myungsoohatesleehowonhateshateshateshates
and it’s over, somehow, finally, finally, and he lays on the bed while the man is already putting his clothes back on.
the man doesn’t even show his hand, like all the others had done, and suddenly he’s fishing through his wallet and grabbing a couple random bills and throwing them in myungsoo’s general direction-- the cash flying out and landing in myungsoo’s lap or on the bed or on the floor.
you’re not bad, the man leaves a business card on the nightstand, call me sometime, yeah?
he leaves without even a look back.
i won’t go anymore, myungsoo tells himself, i’m done i’m done i’m done.
myungsoo lies to even himself.
one more, myungsoo tells himself, after tonight i’ll be done for good.
(he tells himself this every night)
this boy around his age picks him this time-- with a short haircut and red eyes and deep deep dark eye bags, but he has girly and pretty lips so myungsoo doesn’t mind all that much when he’s taken to his apartment.
and they’re kissing, roughly and deeply and myungsoo can’t catch his breath fast enough when his throat is being nipped at in between murmurs of lee sungjong lee sungjong leesungjongleesungjongleesungjongleesungjong.
myungsoo is not an idiot; he saw the name on the boy’s hand and it’s not exactly the first (or second or third or fifth) time that the person he’s sleeping with calls him by his soulmate’s name.
i don’t mind, myungsoo thinks as he’s suddenly being pushed onto the bed and he’s tempted to ask his name (so that he can have at least some variety that weren’t gasps and moans and sighs) except his voice gets cut off when that pretty pretty mouth is being pressed to his jaw and throat and chest and stomach and pelvis and down down down.
he doesn’t ask for his name.
he doesn’t ask for his name when everything is over and the boy’s face is buried in his side and they’re still sweaty and covered in come and he starts to cry.
he doesn’t ask for his name when the boy’s sobs get louder and he starts to gasp for lee sungjong.
he doesn’t ask for his name when myungsoo is already nearly half asleep and he hears the boy stop crying and get up and clean myungsoo’s stomach with a warm wet towel and get into bed on the other side and curls into himself.
he doesn’t ask for his name when he wakes up to the shower on and he hears the boy singing softly and he (really) can’t help himself when he stumbles in into the shower to join him.
he doesn’t ask for his name when he’s hurrying to put his clothes on and leave before the boy gets out of the shower to not suffer the awkward silence and the boy offers him to stay for a bit (though fully distracting myungsoo by walking around the apartment with only a towel on).
he doesn’t ask for his name when they’re cooking breakfast together (a first for myungsoo) and he cracks the egg wrong and the yolk goes everywhere and the boy laughs (loud and unrestrained and adorable and turning his eyes into little slits and showing off little fangs that had left bruises on his thighs) and myungsoo felt warm all over.
he doesn’t ask for his name when the boy sees him out and myungsoo thinks he’s so nice and he wants to see him again but he hasn’t offered and myungsoo doesn’t really want to ask and instead he tells him that he hopes the best for him and this lee sungjong and the boy just smiles at him (and he looks like he’s about to cry all over again) and shuts the door only after myungsoo turns the corner.
myungsoo never sees lee howon after that.