i’m back teumes i wanted to make my own new lockscreen with the treasure 2022 spring merch preview pics, so i decided … to make (24) lockscreen options - 2 per member, and share them with all of you ! maknae line is used as the examples above but all members are available in both styles. these are sized for your phone wallpaper. in the ‘darari’ music player option, the time is set for haruto’s “excuse me miss…” part ♡
follow the link below to download. these are free for your personal use, but please,do not repost, reupload, or claim these as your ownanywhere as i work very hard on them. likes/reblogs always appreciated, and if you end up using these i would love if you sent me a screenshot :>
Note: this does follow Ao No Flag, yet there are minor plot changes such as time setting! You don’t have to read Ao No Flag unless you want to! The plot was to be described a bit, Maybe? Hopefully— through my writing!
Dialogue heavy!
For the first time since third grade, they share a classroom together. It’s Doyoung that shone with genuine appreciation it: smile wide, enough to make Yedam feel something — something other than a sense of guilt, guilt for feeling insecure. Although he shouldn’t be. They’re completely different people, not at all the same— and yet.
Doyoung’s hands grab his shoulders when he raises his voice, and shouts out his name; Yedam’s body moves on it’s own, jumping toward to Asahi, his face paling, and heart hammering.
Doyoung laughs, and it does something to Yedam’s heart. Makes his gut churn, and fists tighten.
“What class are you in, man?” Doyoung asks, his smile is wide— and his eyes are curled, and his face is bright beneath the sun beating down on him, it shone yellow high in the sky. Doyoung looked happy, and Yedam wishes he wasn't— only for a moment.
“Class A,” He replies, heart calming down from the scare. Palm rubbing over his chest, over his uniform— heart beating under his palm, drumming against bone, hard. Doyoung’s face shifts, into something like surprise, or— Yedam doesn’t know, he really doesn’t.
Doyoung’s arm wraps around Yedam’s shoulder, pulling him into his side. “Woah! We’re in the same class? That’s crazy! Haven’t been since the third grade!” He says, voice heightened. Laced with appreciation, or maybe, gratefulness. He smiles.
Then it shifts.
Voices call out for Doyoung, and he goes. Just as easy as he came, and it makes Yedam stare after him; Doyoung walking into arms, into his friends—
“‘Sup to you too, Yedam,” A friend of Doyoung’s says, staring down at him. A smile on his face. Yedam’s shoulders bunch up, and he smiles, doesn’t feel right on his face. “… Uh, thanks. You too.”
He’s unaware of the eyes watching. Burning on Doyoung, then on him.
—
During lunch, Asahi and Haruto pry. Not that they usually do, it’s just different when it’s about Doyoung, Haruto asks— “Hey… Something’s been bugging me,” A beat of silence, “how are you and Doyoung such good friends?”
Yedam stops eating, thinking before he speaks, “We’re been best friends since primary school,” and maybe that’s why his heart does something for Doyoung, “but I don’t think we’re that close.”
Yedam really doesn’t know— maybe they were close before. But they grew out of it, their closeness. Or maybe, it’s a closeness that became one-sided, on Doyoung’s part, or maybe on Yedam’s part,— or maybe they’ve never really been close— his thoughts don’t stick together anymore after that, Haruto speaks up again, “Nah, you both seem to get along well. Even though you are a completely different ‘class’, right”
“‘Class?’” Yedam’s brow furrows. Face shifting, eyes staring— what did he mean? Class?— Yedam just, he doesn’t know. It makes his heart drop, a bit. “Yeah,” Haruto shrugs, finger pointing out the classroom window, down onto the field outside.
Doyoung is out there, in his uniform playing soccer. The sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat formed on his skin, the sun beating down, and other boys chasing after him. His forearm wipes his skin, the people out there cheer him on— Haruto continues, “Because that Doyoung… Has unrivalled skills in the baseball club, and his dexterity is above most, as well. He has great manners and a sense of humor so the girls are always fawning over him–” And it gets Yedam thinking. Really thinking. Heart sinking as he does. “He’s someone who makes the most of life.”
“And yet he doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he?” Asahi says, slow, curious. But not really caring. Just, curious.
Haruto jokes, “Maybe he just loves to lead people on,”
That makes Yedam lose his appetite, shoving his sandwich into his lunchbox, his face scowls. And Asahi pales, leaning toward Yedam, Yedam’s voice lowers, sinks. “Stop it, Haru… Doyoung isn’t that kind of guy.”
Haruto leans toward him, finger touching his forehead, “Maybe. But he’s on a completely different field than us,” A beat of silence, and Yedam’s heart is sinking so low into his gut, “You are being used.” Yedam wishes Haruto never spoke. His heart sinks as well.
A boy shouts. And clutter is loud. Echoing everywhere in the classroom.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing!” A dark-haired boy has a finger pointed at a light-haired boy, voice deep. Irritated, and angered. The light-haired boy points his finger at the dark-haired one, “… He pushed me!” It comes out quick.
Someone:s voice echoes, “(name) hasn’t even eaten half,”
Your lunch lays on the floor— scattered, and you’re picking it up, face flushed— burning red, cheeks colored so deep, Yedam begins to think it hurts. Yedam lowers his brows, the side of his mouth raised. He doesn’t really like you.
Your friend, her voice is low, has a softened edge lingering beneath, “Are you okay, (name)?” You don’t answer, just continue picking up your food. Burning beneath her gaze, and everyone else’s. “Apologize properly to (name).” She says, and the light-haired boy raises his voice, “It’s her fault for always eating so slowly, and always diddy-dallying!”
And your friend’s face hardens. She’s always been scary, Yedam thinks. And her voice goes even lower, anger lulled low, humming beneath. “Huh? It’s your fault for rampaging through here!”
A voice perks up, mocking, taunting. “Ah, it’s the gorilla girl run,” And they snicker beneath palms, the boys move. Run toward their desks.
Asahi asks, quietly, “Was that (name)’s lunch?” And Haruto clicks his tongue, “Looks like it.”
Yedam stares at you, just watches. The burning of your skin, your blush infectious. “As always, (name) is stupid and slow…” Yedam says, and it makes Asahi stare at him like he’s grown another head, and Haruto calls out Yedam’s name.
“Yeah?” He turns around. Eyes curious, wondering— “I have another question, why don’t you like (name)?”
Asahi speaks, easing his way in, “You’re pretty cold to that girl, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to be…” It’s true. That much is very true. And Haruto says something Yedam doesn’t get that quickly, “Even though you like small animals,”
“Huh?” His hand rubs over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the hairs. “(name) kind of seems like a small animal, doesn’t she? Kind of like a hamster.” Asahi brightens up at that, and looks your way. “Ah. Hamster-ish girls.”
“Hamster girls?“ He questions. Looks your way too— your hands are clasped together, and your face is still red. “Hamster lady?” That makes Asahi stare Haruto down, Haruto says, “Nah, that’s wrong, right, Asahi?”
Yedam has so many questions. But he doesn’t ask. He just, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t—
—
He walks down a hall toward his classroom. Wondering what the problem was— his relationship with Doyoung was the problem. That he hadn’t changed, but was of a different ‘class’.
Then he thinks of you. How long he’s known you, yet hasn’t really known you— he’s always been in the same classroom as you. Your eyes had met often. You never really spoke to each other— Yedam halts, gazes absentmindedly out the window. His reflection staring back. You’re slow. And always looking down— and it’s exactly like—
“Whatcha’ looking at?” Doyoung’s face is suddenly too close, and it makes Yedam jump back. Doyoung laughs easily, “You’re such a wimp, Yedam!”
“You always appear so suddenly!”
“Ah, really? Sorry.” Yedam wonders why Doyoung’s face softens when he rubs the back of his head. They walk into class together.
The voices again. They tell him he’s amazing, and he’s good, and they question why he’s so good, and what can’t he do?— and he stutters a bit— “W–well,”
Yedam just, he doesn’t know. It’s not like he doesn’t like Doyoung, they just don’t get along anymore— Yedam walks toward his desk, without saying anything. Misses the way Doyoung falters, the way he stares after him.
Your desk is beside Yedam’s.
—
Yedam finds you.
At the library near school. Reaching high, on a stepping ladder. Fingers spread outward, touching. But missing the book your reaching for— Yedam turns. Frowning. Wishes this weren’t happening, because he feels like he’d feel bad if he didn’t help you, you look like you desperately need it—
“Are you okay?”
You stiffen. Face burning again, “Eh? Eh? I— Yed—” and Yedam moves toward you, “Move.”
You do, slowly. And you’re burning so much, he feels like he can feel the flames touching his skin, a butterfly-touch, too soft— “Which one? I’ll grab it for you.”
“Th– there’s no need! You can’t look!” And Yedam looks up toward the shelf where you were reaching— and he immediately wishes he hadn’t tried to help you—
About romance, about love, about liking, about having crushes— he turns red. And your hands cover your face. Your blush is, infectious. Is all he thinks. And he’s embarassed too.
He reaches up anyways. And he spreads his fingers out. Missing the book your reaching for too. Fingers grazing against it— he can’t reach either— and when he does reach it, it’s crammed too tightly between the other books. He gives up.
It’s embarassing for the both of you — you both leave the library, and find yourselves at the intersection outside of the look. Waiting for the light to change color.
He can feel your gaze, sometimes it burns, and other times it’s too light to even feel— you look like you want to say something.
You do. “Um… — S–so… Yedam!” And he looks at you. You’re set ablaze, and you’re staring at him. Bright. Radiate. The universe. Silence surrounds you, and the street noise is faded. “… (name)?”
You jump. Burning even more. “Ah! I— I’m sorry!” The light changes color. And Yedam is desperate to leave, to never try be around you again— he apologizes. “… No, I’m sorry about earlier, I went a little overboard.”
Your hands clasp together, close to your chest. “That’s completely!—” And Yedam is staring at the light, wishing he could leave— your eyes shut tight, and you burn bright— Yedam begins to speak again, because the light is going to change soon, and he really wants to get to the other side of the street already, he’s embarassed enough— “Well, I won’t tell anyone so it’s fine,” His hand gestures to the other side of the street, and you’re burning up even more, “I’ve been out for a while, so I should probably head back now. Ah, well, I’ll be–” then the light switches and his insides are screaming.
You don’t mind though, and he thinks, of course you wouldn’t— you fumble with your words, “Um… Yedam… I…— Well, I…”
“I have something I want to talk about with you!” Your eyes are closed tight when he looks to you, you burn beneath his stare— it must hurt— you’ve just shouted at him, and he thinks about how infectious your blush is— “Talk about? With me?” He questions. You open your eyes, and you nod a bit— “W-what…?”
“D… Doyoung… He…” Yedam stares. Waits for you. You inhale, before exhaling, the tension in your body leaving, but not entirely. “What kind of person is he?” Your hands come to your face, touching your cheeks— The universe, radiate, bright. “Doyoung?” He echoes, wondering why him, why why why— “Y-you and Doyoung are good friends so…” You reason softly, shyly, words almost tender— Yedam scratches his head, “but that’s not really the case…” Because it isn’t, they aren’t good friends, they aren’t close— “The discussion… It’s about Doyoung? What kind of person is he?” It dawns on him. Softly, brightly— the library, the books, everything else.
“(name), could it be…” it’s not far-fetched, why wouldn’t you? his hand drops, and the world is still, “you like Doyoung?”
“E… Eh… Eh?!” You set ablaze. “Wh-why? Why? Wh–” You’re burning, and Yedam just knows. You’re so easy to read. “Well… no reason?” He says, and thinks, (name) and Doyoung, they won’t get on well. It doesn’t look like they have anything in common... But thinks about Doyoung, and remembers how well he gets along with everyone— This is about Doyoung. About you. About romance— crushes, love. “If it’s that kind of conversation then I’m useless!” The light switches again, and he’s moving to the train station, “When it comes to love advice I’ve got nothing!” Yedam says, chest tightening. “And I’m not that good of friends with Doyoung anymore…” You follow after him. Steps slower, softer, “That’s… But you guys chat so easily!” Your hands are clasped tightly in fists, and Yedam— he keeps talking anyways. “We don’t chat that much!” He argues back. Thinks different classes, we’re on completely different fields— “Now, We’re completely… – It’s just that I’ve known Doyoung since primary school.” Different classes, different fields, different— “Our friend groups are different. He’s in the baseball club, and I’m in the ‘go home’ club,” different classes, different fields, different— “Since we entered high school, we’ve been in completely different classes too. So–” Different classes, different fields, completely different— “We’ve been with him since primary school?” You question, making him stop. “Eh. Well–” He begins, before you cut him off.
“What was he like in primary school?” your eyes brighten, the universe— it does something to him, his chest tightens, a pressure growing in in his chest— sweat forms on his skin. Doyoung? What was he like? — “Doyoung hasn’t changed at all. Same as now, he was everyone’s favorite.” Is? Was? He doesn’t know—
He thinks, about primary school, about Doyoung— “Whenever he started something new… It would become a fad for the entire class,” Classes, fields— Doyoung is in a class, in a different field— he thinks of primary school, thinks of Doyoung, and then thinks of battle pencils. “Ah, battle pencils.”
It’s nostalgic thinking about it, reminds him of being a kid. When he was free and at ease to be one— you repeat after him, eyes brightened, searching, curious— “Pencils?” It makes him smile.
“You roll the pencil then battle with the side you rolled.” Yedam gestures, mimics a pencil rolling— it’s weird, seeing him do it without a pencil, but it’s enough, enough for you— “Back then, they were super popular! Doyoung started that one too.”
Thinking back, it’s the most friends he’s had— for a moment, it makes him happy, to have had more friends, to have been enough— he turns to you, and you stare at him. Pink embedded in your cheeks, like that’s where it’s supposed to bloom, and he thinks, what the hell am I talking about.
He doesn’t realize the train is pulling in, and he’s still. Standing there, with you— Yedam panics, “The train is already here,” He turns red. Face heating up. Setting ablaze. “W-well, if that’s the case,” You let out a small noise, confused, curious— “Eh?” and Yedam says, “Bye.” Before he’s running off.
You watch after him, and on the inside, Yedam is feeling so, embarassed.
—
“Are these okay?” You’re holding your hands together, staring down at the battle pencils you set on his desk. Yedam stares, “How did you get these?” And you mumble, stutter over your words. “T– they’re my brother’s, but will they be okay?” And Yedam doesn’t understand why you’re asking him. Doesn’t know— “Why?” He asks, he knows he’s mentioned it— of course he does— what will they be okay for? Why?— Why ask him?— “What’s that, Yedam?”
Doyoung is there. Reaching, and touching the pencils on his desk. Holding one in between his fingers, says, these are nostalgic, and you turn. Just a bit, and stare. You set ablaze, and Yedam swears he feels your cells burning.
“Where’s this from, Yedam? Is it yours?” He’s staring at you— Yedam is staring at you, and you do look like a hamster— one that’s in trouble, and one that’s shocked, it can’t move— “Nah…” Yedam tells him, and burns too when he realizes how much you like Doyoung— burning so bright, and so hot— bright, radiate, the universe— “Huh? so it’s (name)’s, then?” And you burn even more when Doyoung shifts his attention to you, you shake your head, body vibrating, trembling almost. “Huh? It’s not?” Doyoung questions, uneased— “Apparently, they’re her brother’s,” Yedam says, his face dropping. You lied, and he’s not finding it amusing, it’s getting annoying— “Ah,” Doyoung replies.
Your brows furrow, and you make a face at Yedam— fists coming up, and you turn to Doyoung, your mouth opens, and Yedam is thinking, you’re about to talk— “Doyoung!” You say the same time Doyoung speaks, “By the way, Yedam!” His voice louder, clearer— Yedam burns a little, “Do you still have them?” Doyoung asks, and Yedam is confused a bit— because what? “The ones you were making!”
Doyoung holds up a battle pencil. Smiles, bright— “Custom battle pencils!” He says, and his smile is so bright, Yedam’s chest begins to get heavy, “I used to really love those!”
“Custom?” Quiet, softly, you echo to Doyoung— and he’s quick to look at you, leaning in, “Yeah! Yedam was super good!”
Yedam begins to burn, everything— from the back of his neck to the whole of his face— “That’s a nice story but! Aren’t these ones better, they look hard to make.” And Doyoung is getting the chair from your desk, and saying, “Let’s do it, let’s do it!”
Doyoung looks to you, “come on, (name) too!”
You burn, setting every cell in your aflame. “Eh?” And your face is red, so very red, “But…” Yedam is staring, “The rules…” Doyoung is sitting, staring so brightly at you, “You don’t know them? That’s fine, I’ll teach you!”
You stare back, burning— bright, radiate, the universe— Doyoung smiles, eyes closing, curling, “Yeah?” And Yedam is thinking, good grief…
You three okay with the battle pencils, and without even knowing, Yedam ends up helping you with Doyoung, and that’s fine.
After, when class begins. When he’s sitting, staring ahead, thinking— you place a folded piece of paper on his desk and he looks to you, and unfolds it. The paper scratches against his skin when he opens it, his heart beats in his chest— and he just, doesn’t know. Thank you for earlier.
Yedam looks at you, and your face is burning— you’re already staring at him, and the book you have in your hands move a bit, away from your mouth, uncovering it. You smile, bright, radiate, the universe— your eyes are closed, and your face is pink, blooming— he burns too.
Doyoung watches, pencil pressing against his bottom lip.
—
At lunch, a day later, Doyoung’s friends, the voices call for him— and he goes. You watch after him. Holding your pencil case full of battle pencils, just watching Doyoung— Yedam watches you.
He stands, “Ah! Yedam…” You say, so softly. Burning. “Today, do you…” He knows, yet he doesn't— “Nah,” he says, you flinch, eyes widening. “With just two people, it’s…” You deflate, even more when Yedam says that. “… You’re right.” A moment of silence, awkward, and too long— Yedam scratches his cheek. “You want to do it with Doyoung, anyway, right?” And you flinch again, burning, setting ablaze. “Then invite him, not me.”
Yedam stares at you, thinking, it’s not like you’ll do it— you look up at him, determined, “Ok!” And Yedam turns white, paling— you’re going? You stand, and then you sit back down. “What should I say…” You’re thinking aloud. And you look to him, “If it was you, what would you say?” And Yedam— he doesn’t know, why are you asking him— “Eh?! Me?” Why am I apart of this— Yedam thinks aloud, “What would I… Would… Normally, I’d say yo.” There’s a cold sweat forming. And his voice gets louder, “I have absolutely no idea!” He’s annoyed, with himself, with—
“O… O- of course… I’m sorry…” A breath, soft. It’s timid, and enough— Yedam stills. His annoyance halting completely, “You don’t need to apologize…”
He stares at you, watching, lingering— your hair is different, tied into braids— puffy, and messy, and so, you— you touch the ends, and Yedam thinks, P.E. is today?
“Do we have P.E. today?” His head is tilting, staring at you— you straighten up, “Eh? I don’t… Think so.” And you wonder too. He speaks again, gesturing to his hair, “It’s just, tat you’ve tied your hair all up, and I thought you only tie your hair up when we have P.E…” He doesn’t know how he knows— maybe because he’s always shared classes with you— maybe because he—
You burn. Like always. “W- well. There’s no special reason for it today.” And Yedam hums. And you touch the ends again, wondering. “I wonder… What hairstyles do boys like.” You brightened, burn a bit more. “Doyoung’s prefered style… And stuff.”
“I don’t really know Doyoung’s preferences, but I don’t think preferences mean anything really.”
You make a noise, and Yedam continues. “Honestly, when it comes to hair and stuff, guys don’t notice small changes.” And he thinks, and yet he doesn't— “Obviously, if you go and cut it all off. You’d make an impression.” His hand gestures again, shorter this time. And you stare. A boy comes in, “Yedam,” and he turns, “Huh, Asahi?”
Asahi asks, “Can I borrow your dictionary?” and he sees you, “Are you in the middle of something?” Not anymore— Yedam says, “Nah…” Looks to you, before stepping away, “It’s fine.”
He takes a glance back. Lingering, let’s himself look— he’s not thinking, when is he ever though?
—
He knows it’d happen, he should have known— but when he walks into class, he’s surprised— “… (name)?” It’s short, really short— touching your cheeks, it— it suits you. “That…” But he isn’t thinking, not at all. “…Head…” And you smile, hand coming up, touching the ends of your hair, you smile again, just like before, when you handed him that note— thank you for earlier— and you ask, “How… Is it?” And Yedam is frozen.
Until Doyoung tells him good morning, his attention shifting to you— “Woah, what happened?!” It sets you ablaze, and Doyoung’s tone is, nice, nicer than Yedam’s. Doyoung sounds, impressed. “Amazing! You went and cut it all in one go!” And you don’t burn, but Doyoung’s eyes sparkle— they brighten, like how yours do when you see him— Yedam begins, says Doyoung’s name because it might hurt you— “It looks good. It suits you.”
You burn this time. There’s hesitation in your voice, a shake— so soft, slow— “I… I-i, it’s not weir–” Your shoulders almost touch your chin, they’re so bunched up— Doyoung cuts you off, “Looks good. It’s great!” And he looks at Yedam, stares right at him, “Right, Yedam?” Smiles, so bright it hurts. Makes Yedam’s chest feel heavy— Yedam looks at look, you’re red and burning and bright and radiate and the universe—
A voice takes Doyoung away. And It’s just you and Yedam, and Yedam moves. Scratches his head, and tries to sit down— setting his schoolbag down, not turning toward you, you whisper a thank you Yedam!, and he wonders— “What for?” And you repeat after him, slower— like— like him…
“My hair. You told me, I should cut it short. Thanks to you, he complimented me!” He hates it, he hates this— there’s a heaviness on his shoulders, like responsibility—yet, why would you go so far? why? why—yet… “Thanks to me…? When did I say you should cut it short?” It’s terrifying— feeling this much responsibility— it’s your hair— you make a noise, confused, you’re still smiling, bright, radiate, the universe— “Eh…? Yesterday, you said—”
And he doesn’t mean it— maybe he does, maybe in the moment he means it, he doesn’t know— when does he know?— He shouts. At you, at himself at everyone— because he wasn’t thinking, when does he ever think?— “I didn’t say… Anything like that!”
The world stills. And Everything is quiet except for his heart racing rapidly in his chest— he wasn’t thinking— and he’s running, only after seeing everyone, after seeing Doyoung staring at him— you chase after him. Asking him what’s wrong, that you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean to hurt his feelings— he turns abruptly once you’re outside, near a stone wall, lower enough to sit, shouting again, because that heaviness, it won’t leave— “I didn’t say like “you should cut it short” did I?” He heaves, “I take no responsibility!” and you echo the last word. You panic, arms coming to your head, “It… It’s really that strange? It’s weird?!”
“No! That’s not it at all! It suits you!” His hands come to his head, he feels— he doesn’t know— he wonders why him, why you would go so far, for someone like, someone like Doyoung. And you, you’re so— “So far…? He complimented me, didn’t he?” You’re so you, you’re so slow, and always looking down, and— you ask Yedam it so easily.
“He complimented you…”” Yedam repeats, echoes it so indifferently. “He complimented you, but.” He’s no longer holding his head, his hands coming together. “(name), what do you want to do with your love for Doyoung,” you make a noise, and he continues, “You want to confess? Do you want to go out?” And you’re burning, making noises, “Um…” And he shouldn’t mean it, but he does. “You’ve got no chance!” And the world is still again. He apologizes, “Sorry, I… I knew Doyoung’s preference… I mean, the person Doyoung likes is… Slim, tall, and older than him. Has a mature girl vibe. She’s sporty and straight to the point. As well as very colorful, and says things clearly.” A heartbeat later, “And also… Has long straight, brown hair.” His chest is tightening, you’re you— bright, radiate, the universe— he continues speaking, “You’re saying that his characteristics are just your type, right? He might be the perfect fit for you, but maybe you’re not the perfect fit for him.” You hand touches your mouth, your heart hurts— “In Doyoung’s case…” Yedam stops.
“I see… So the complete opposite of me, isn’t it?” And you ask him, “Is Doyoung dating that person right now?” And Yedam looks to you, “No, It’s his unrequited love.”
You smile, glancing at the ground. Yedam stares. “Well then. I really am thankful. You thought I had no chance, didn’t you?” your hands move, fingers spreading. “But… You told me that straight from the beginning, so…” You smile, eyes closed. Your fists tighten, “I’ll do my best!”
“Eh?!” Yedam feels, surprised, and— “If Doyoung isn’t dating anyone right now, I still have a change, right? Even though you said I’m not his type, even if just a little he mag start to like me… Just a little.” And your voice is beginning to trembling, beginning to shake— “Even just a little.” Your eyes are glossy, and you’re smiling— your face does something weird, and you’re crying, and Yedam panics. “Are you okay?!” And your voice is trembling, “I’m fine! It’s nothing! It will stop soon!” And your face is still weird, eyes wet and face squished together, red and blotchy— “But your face is…” Yedam is— he doesn’t know. And a slow realization grows, he asks, “are you crying… Because of that?” Because maybe he’ll like you, even just a little? Because, maybe he won’t?
“I’m not crying!” You say, and your face twists, relaxes. Then you say, “Because I decided to change. I’ll give up. I can’t do it. I thought before doing this, I had no chance. But if I didn’t do it, I would regret it… I won’t like myself if I stay like this.” Yedam feels relieved, even though he had no reason to. Thinks, you won’t have any regrets if you understand yourself and know your place. More than that, this— you won’t have any reason to dislike yourself.
You’re crying. And Yedam is awkward, heart beating heavy in his chest. “So… Are you going to stop crying?” Your hands cover your face, you burn, set ablaze— he’s unaware of the cells beginning to burn in him— “don’t look!” you say.
He remembers something, “You know, if you don’t want to cry… Opening your mouth a little helps,” He opens his mouth a bit, staring intently at you, and your uncovering your face, “like this,” he says. His mouth open, “when you open your mouth, you can’t focus on other things,” his mouth closes, and he stares, at the glossiness of your eyes, the sheen of glass, the tears threatening to fall, and the pink blooming in your cheeks— “so you won’t cry.” Yedam opens his mouth, head tilting back. And you copy, slowly. Staring at one another until your tears at gone, and you both laugh— at free, and at ease.
“Yedam… I’m starting to like this hairstyle.”
—
Doyoung finds Yedam, Doyoung calls out Yedam’s name, and he walks near, closer— “What was up earlier? You don’t normally raise your voice like that,” Yedam stands, and so do you, “Ah.” Doyoung says. And he leans toward Yedam, quietly asking, “Did I get in the way here?” and Yedam asks, “Of what?”
“Huh? What was wrong earlier?” And Yedam stiffens, flinches, “Nothing really…” And you and Yedam both say, “It was my fault,” at the same time, it’s enduring. You both argue, back and forth— “Huh? You’re wrong, I said it’s my fault,” Yedam begins, and you mumble, “Eh? That’s not right, it’s my fault!” “I told you, you’re wrong, it’s my fault!” “Why? I selfishly–” “Wrong.” “Why, I–” — Doyoung laughs, smiles. His hands raise, and they touch your heads, ruffling hair.
Life is a series of choices. In your first year of high school, you three, — maybe everyone, was living in ambivalence, choosing careers, taking exams, the future is spread out before you. It was going to be hectic, at this stage… The three of you landed in the same class. Best friends… Lovers… At this time, Yedam doesn’t know how it ends.
The nape of your neck turns vermillion, it makes him wonder, — “There’s no one else I’d rather be with.” [Pacific Rim AU].
Yedam is six years old when a monster emerges from the sea (& he is eighteen when he signs up for the Jaeger program).
—
“We… — We can’t be Drift-compatible, I… — We can’t be.” Your fingers clenched tight into fists, white blooming in skin. Eyes looking at Yedam, tired. Afraid. And there is Yedam, there is his heart. Beating heavy in his chest, against bone. Fast, heart pulling away.
“You don’t have a choice.”
(He doesn’t know you. But you know him, and he thinks that’s all that really matters).
—
You ask to spar with him, your eyes locking. Lingering. Yedam just thinks, yes. And for a split-second Yedam thinks you can hear him, he’s almost convinced you can — “Okay.”
Seeing you in front of him then, in a body that wasn’t Jihoon. He tell himself you’re far too young, far too inexperienced. Just like him.
(He leaves the sparring session with a bruise on his cheek, and a bloody nose. You apologizing, trailing after him.
Yedam realizes he’s the one who is far too young, far too inexperienced).
—
He feels like he knows you. Yet he doesn’t.
It’s not his thoughts. It’s yours. When you first drift together. At first, it’s just flickers of your past growing up — ripples of you, a swing set and one long lonely road. The sky morphs into red, you against the backdrop of the world — then there is screaming. Then there is a Kaiju. Rising from nowhere, the sea.
(After that it’s Yedam — flickers of him, fading black. Spots appearing, then gone).
Yedam looks to you, gaze lingering. The nape of your neck turns vermillion, it makes him wonder. And your eyes glossen, face and ears reddening.
+
It hurt his heart, ached. Pounded against his chest. The Jaeger moved when he did, and so did you (maybe you’ve always moved when he did, trailed behind — he remembers eyes looking at him, tired. Afraid).
Then, he looks at the screen in front of him.
Drift synced.
Yedam doesn’t remember anything after. Just you, and he reels from your memories.
—
The days following after your first drift pass. You still trail after Yedam, and sometimes he finds himself trailing after you.
Yet there is something there, something hardened. Unquiet, and building.
—
Every time you drifted in the Jaeger, he got more flickers of your memories. And Yedam wonders if you get any of his.
He got more of himself out of your memories than he gets of you — like you’re always drawn to him, always wanting— needing to be with him, always wanting to touch him — and it should scare him how much you look up to him— how much your heart loves him. Yet it doesn’t.
+
Yedam asks, just once. And maybe again later. “What do you see in my mind?”
“I… — I don’t see anything.”
(That isn’t how drifting works. This isn’t Drift-compatibility — yet you’re almost perfect for one another).
—
He watches you. Yedam can’t help himself when he stands next to you. Can feel you stiffen, but you still stare at bluish, almost purple machine. You’re alone in the Jaeger hanger.
Yedam stares at you, and thinks maybe if you have to drift again, you won’t hate him.
(He knows he could never hate you).
He can’t explain it but he’s sure he’s always been connected to you.
“Why do I always feel connected to you?”
—
The first memory you see, is of you.
It’s weeks after, and it makes your heart swell. Your body heating up. You stare at him in disbelief, because this isn’t the time — not now, not here, there’s Monsters in front of us—
A part of Yedam whispers, You’re the one. It’s a feeling akin to the universe aligning. Yet it’s not sudden, or a realization, just there. You don't— can’t settle for anything less.
Your nerves prickle, and it feels frightening.
He forces you to help him, you do— but he does everything for you, and for himself. Yedam does everything, and a part of him whispers that he doesn’t need to expect anything in return.
The Jaeger’s limbs move when you move, together. The machine’s limbs all moved by hydraulics and muscle fibers driven by individual motors. The machine rattles, and it makes your heart drop.
(You kill six Kaiju, yet you don’t. Yedam does.
He leaves the machine quick, untangling himself from the wires and never looking back
You’re the one, you don’t like the way he stares at you when you catch his wrist. You don’t like the way he tells you to stop—).
—
You found him where you once stood. In an empty Jaeger hanger, hands curled over the guardrails, you’re the one — he stares down at his hands, knuckles bone-white. Tightening when the length of your body presses against his side, hands curling together over his arm, grounding into flesh like pulp. A sour taste in the back of his throat, “Maybe it’s apart of being drift-compatible… Always feeling connected.”
You stare at him like you know him. And every cell in his body burns, telling him you do.
“What if we drift again? Then… — then what?”
Your fingers tremble over skin, muscle, bone. And the look in your eyes is unbearable, tired. Afraid.
You give him a quiet look. You’re the one, his words etched inside your mind, forever.
“We won’t. Whatever we have… — It’s forever. As long as necessary.”
Yedam looks at you, swallowing. Adam’s apple bobbing. He says, “There’s no one else I’d rather be with.”
(He wonders — what if this was meant to be? The flickers of him in your mind, burning, searing. Heavy in your head, in your heart. If there’s really no one else for him other than you…)
your second kiss is your first real kiss. [or: five times you kissed Jihoon, and the one time he kissed you].
He sits still, feels it first. Let’s it linger.
On the corner of his mouth, resting there on his pale skin and the sliver of pink. Soft and sweet, and fleeting, a breath of warmth stuttering over skin, flesh, past bones, through him. Then gone, setting his nerves to tip over, prickling all over inside of him.
And then he stares, watching as your face sets ablaze, makes his throat dry.
“I… — I like you so much, Jihoon!”
Chest heaving, cheeks tinged pink – and in a heartbeat, your face twitches, eyes glossen, then you’re gone. Steps brisk, almost dashing. There is only Jihoon, and a loneliness once you leave.
Burning, “… Me too.”
He sits still, feels it first. Let’s it linger.
It burns.
—
Your second kiss is your first real kiss.
His palms sweat, together between his knees. Thumb tracing the joints in his fingers, stretched, open-palmed.
“– Color?”
His face twists, frowns. A crease between his brows. “Sorry?”
You smile, knees folding beneath you on your bed, the bed creaks – your head tilting just a bit, “What color?”
Four tubes held up to his face, they all look the same to Jihoon, – he chooses the glittery one, the one you wear, that gets hair stuck to your lips. Light pink, full of sparkles – glossy. And smells of strawberry, or something sweet.
“This one,” You smile at him. Cheeks reddening, eyes brightening. “That one’s my favorite!”
He knows, you’ve told him before. More times than he could count.
You hold it between your faces, twisting the lid off.
Then you’re holding his jaw between gentle fingers, pressing against bone. Brows coming together, face coming close, a warm breath, “Stay still, okay?”
He sucks in a breath, holds still. Stares at the crease between your brows, shifting to the slope of your nose, the pink tinge of your cheeks – then at your lips.
It drags across his bottom lip, and you pull away just a bit. “Go like this,” You rub your lips together, and he does too.
You run a finger at the corner of his mouth, beneath the line of his lips. Hands coming to his cheeks, holding him in place.
Then you see Jihoon.
Face burns, just like his chest.
Then you bring your mouths together, slow. Then fleeting.
Hands coming to your mouth, stammering, “I’m… — I’m sorry!”
Gone again, dashing out of your own room. Into the hall, and into the bathroom, where the door slams shut.
He doesn’t catch his breath, instead sinks into your bed, into the softness of your room – and burning, “… I’m sorry too.”
Jihoon wonders if you know how much he likes you. And the lipgloss sticks to the corners of his mouth, it must be everywhere.
—
In summer, Jihoon licks the side of your face.
“Ew, Jihoon!” You’re grabbing napkins, shoving your ice cream cone into his hands. Your nose is wrinkling, hands rubbing your cheek hard, and a discoloration comes after, red and rubbed raw – “You had ice cream on your face,” He smiles, making you frown.
You scoff, holding out your hand for your ice cream. Fingers brushing when he hands it back. He says, “It didn’t even taste like strawberry anyway.”
And you elbow his side. “Never do that again,”
Jihoon watches as your face reddens, and smiles. Notices just how beautiful you are, wishes he’d noticed before.
You smile again, lean closer into him. Eyes twinkling, “Can I have some of yours? You can have some of mine!”
Jihoon holds his ice cream out, a hand held out at the bottom of your chin, ready to catch any if it leaks out.
“Mint ice cream is just toothpaste,”
“You’re dumb for saying that,”
You sputter, mouth opening and closing – you whine, “But I’m right! It does!”
And the sun sets, sinks lower into the horizon. Jihoon watches, and you watch him.
He looks to you, and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. You redden, standing and holding out your hand.
“Walk me home.”
He does, he always does – Jihoon wonders when the burning will stop, that fades, or etches itself somewhere else in his mind when you squeeze his hand.
—
Jihoon stares at your eyebrows, the crease between your brows.
Your hands rub sunscreen on his neck, tilting his head up, neck stretching. Then onto his ears, thumbs gently tracing the shell of his ear, his shoulder comes up, head presses close to it. “It’ll come off,” You say and he’s looking up again, this time at the blue sky. Feet digging into the sand.
“There,” You smile, patting him on the head. And pressing a peck to his mouth. “Go play!”
Jihoon burns, and not from the sun.
Smiles at you, and watches you tinge red.
(You take a bus home after, sitting close together. Hands in his lap, you trace the ridges on his knuckles, his head on your shoulder. You tell him you love him, and he can’t breathe).
—
You’re overthinking, face downcast.
“Jihoon,” It’s a breath, you breathe his name out. Eyes glossed over, looking at his mouth.
“… Jihoon,” He’s staring at you, hand touching your wrist. “Are you –”
It’s just a press of lips, mouth together. Gentle, but it sets ablaze in his chest. Spreading all over his body from the inside.
You pull away, mouth twitching.
You leave again, slower. Face down, eyes glossened. And Jihoon is afraid of the loneliness that comes once you’re out of his room, the door slamming.
Kissing you burns, and it makes him wonder.
—
+ 1.
“I’m in love with you.”
Your brows furrow, “I mean, that’s why we’re together, right?”
His hands come to his hair, tugging, and he paces, “No, like I want to be with you all the time, and… — I don’t know how to be without you,”
You’re sitting still on his bed, listening. Always focused on him, always aware of him – “I can’t be without you. You’re always with me, you’re like a… — A leech.”
“Jihoon, that’s not very nice…” Your hands rubbed your upper arms. Grounding into them like pulp, digging into flesh.
“CanI kiss you?” He’s staring at you. Watching you redden. You say too softly, “But you said you don’t like kissing…”
“When?” His head is tilting, eyebrows knitting deep together. A crease between his brows. You sigh, “Before we started dating… I thought that kissing made you uncomfortable –”
“But that was before. I don’t like kissing, but I like kissing you! There’s a difference…”
You stare at him, nodding soft. Gentle, eyes tender. And face red.
When you barely stand, and Jihoon takes your face into his hands, kissing you.
Your hand takes hold of his wrist, grounding into his pulse. The thrum of his heart in his veins, throughout his body. Heartbeat at his wrist, and the other hand grounds onto his chest, fingers unfurl, spreading open. Pressing into his breastbone, into the soft flesh of his chest – it beats just as fast as yours.
Then the kiss is different, more certain. Different than yours – his tongue drifts across your bottom lip, making you melt into him. Your knees together, sinking.
Jihoon pulls away, and you smile so beautifully at him. Cheeks darkened, flushed.
You & Hyunsuk are strangers, the whole world seems to think otherwise.
In his last year of high school, Hyunsuk makes the mistake of accidentally confessing to the wrong person. That’s where everything goes wrong.
·
“Excuse me,”
Turns to find you. And a boy.
“Do– do you need something?” Your smile is unbearable, the kindness in your eyes bright and blazing on your face. Head tilts, the boy’s head does the same – synced in a way that doesn’t mean friendship, deeper than it looks. More.
“I… Um!” Turns to your locker, stares at it – heart drops, chews on his lip. Bites hard.
“… Ask if he’s okay,”
Hyunsuk feels the burn, your eyes and the boy’s – searing at the back of his neck, seeping into his skin, bones, to his heart. Feels the red bloom of embarrassment grow on his cheeks.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re sick–”
Hyunsuk runs. Wants the ground to open up and swallow him – he made a mistake. Accidentally gives you his love letter for someone else – he makes a mistake, and he doesn’t know what to do.
Hyunsuk makes a mistake and runs.
·
“Maybe it’s a bomb –”
Yoshinori leans close to you, stares over your shoulder at your locker. Steals a glance at your face, before he bumps your shoulder gently with his, says, “– or a very lovely love letter,”
“Or maybe, he made a mistake and accidentally put it, said love letter, in my locker,”
“That only happens in Shoujo manga…” He pouts, bottom lip jutting out. You shrug, looking to him, a smile blooms on your face, “my life could be a work of fiction, you never know, Yoshi.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,”
You begin to taste something bitter in your mouth. Wondering if it is a love letter, or if it’s a mistake, or it’s – you dwell on your thoughts. Feels a hand ground into your shoulder, kneads through the layers of your uniform. Presses soft, too gently on you – “it’s okay to reject people, you know.” Nods his head, brings you back to reality.
You nod, open palm moving to cover his hand, “It’s okay to reject people,” you say back. Repeating his words, more to yourself than to anyone else.
“I’ll go get us milk, you’ll wait here for me, right?” Waits until you hand him over a few coins from your bag, fingers brushing against his. You nod, “obviously,” you say quietly. He smiles before he’s gone.
You stare after him. Feel the heat burning in your gut, you inhale. Swallow the world and feel something heavy on your shoulders.
You open your shoe locker, stare at the letter above your outdoor shoes. Stare and stare, until realization hits.
This could be for you, or it could be for someone who isn’t you – you don’t open it. Not until after lunch, after mouthfuls of rice, after your strawberry milk, after Yoshinori walks you to class, and goes to his.
Once you sit in your desk. Placing the pink envelope in between the folds of your notebook. Tearing it open, and placing out the parchment paper in your schoolbook, in the folds again.
Parchment paper between fingers, scratches against your forefinger. Draws blood, seeps into the corner of the paper.
You whip your fingers against your woollen sweater, red staining brown. Before your heartbeat quickens.
You looked beautiful today. I wanted to talk to you, ask you if you liked the color green – or any colors, you probably like colors. I chickened out, felt like I wasn’t enough to be beside you. But you looked beautiful today. I like the way you look. Your hair, the way the sun catches it – I wonder how your hair will look green. Probably wouldn’t match you, maybe it would. But I like the color green, I wanted to ask if I should dye my hair green. I probably won’t. Too chicken for that. Just like I’m too chicken to talk to you – I want to write poems about you, expect I don’t know how, and my friends think that’s weird because I can’t spell correctly when I’m expressing myself. What do you think? Am I good at writing? Grammar really shouldn’t matter, right? If it does– I’m rambling, can you do that through pen and paper? Anyways. I think you’re beautiful. I like the way you look – I just like you. There’s no one like you. I hope one day you like me just as much as I like you.
Your not-so secret admirer, Hyunsuk.
Then your heart stops. Your knees knock together.
The letter smells like strawberries.
·
Hyunsuk sits with Jihoon. Watches Bang Yedam make his way to them, Asahi following close behind – they’ve been attached by their hips when someone swore that they were too awkward with one another, Yedam’s face grew red and Asahi had said, “we aren’t, you just don’t see us together often,” – let’s Yedam press close to him when he sits beside Hyunsuk. And Asahi stands, stares at students eating their lunches, while popping the joints in his hands.
“I messed up.”
Jihoon is sighing, face twisting in confusion, “in what way? The kind of way that means cleaning up after you, or the kind of way that means–”
Hyunsuk interrupts him, voice barely a voice, “I gave the letter to the wrong person…”
Yedam is leaning up, staring at the side of Hyunsuk’s face, and Asahi has stopped the popping. “Are you alright?” It’s cautious, too low for anyone to hear, Hyunsuk nods before he drops his head, hands coming to curl around the back of his neck. Still feels the burning of your stare there, “I’m just so embarrassed. Like, why would I do that like that? I’m so – oh my god, there’s that guy that was with them!” His voice squeaks, draws attention. And he’s pushing himself behind Jihoon, who stares at the boy with eyes wide.
Asahi says, “That’s Yoshinori.”
And Yedam is humming, nodding along in understanding. “He’s always in the music room with class 1’s [reader],” And suddenly realization hits. “You confessed to [reader], didn’t you?” And Asahi is walking away despite Jihoon calls for him. “There he goes. Our son is growing up,” Jihoon says jokingly, and his smile snaps away when Hyunsuk’s face turns purple, like all the air in his lungs has been pulled away.
Asahi stands behind Yoshinori as he buys two milks from the vending machine, talks to him. Hyunsuk watches as he smiles at Asahi, soft. Pulls the corners of his mouth gently, lightens up his face. Wonders if you two are together – Then Yoshinori is waving awkwardly at them, smile soft. Cheeks reddening. Asahi is shrugging as his mouth moves.
Then Yoshinori is leaving, stealing glances at Hyunsuk. Just Hyunsuk. Only Hyunsuk – and Asahi is coming back.
He says, “he’s in the manga club with me.”
A breathe escapes Hyunsuk’s mouth, “I’m so dumb…”
Yedam hand rubs Hyunsuk’s shoulder awkwardly, “maybe they’ll both forget about it.”
“He wrote about how he wonders what their hair would look like green,” Jihoon says, mouth twitches. Hyunsuk is sighing, “I was just wondering…”
“… Why would you even wonder that?” Asahi questions. Brows narrowing at Hyunsuk, and Jihoon laughs, hand covering his mouth. Makes it muffled.
“I don’t want to be friends with you guys.”
“I’m trying to make you feel better, hyung!”
·
After school, after club practice, after Yoshinori leaves the school early to catch his bus – you’re alone.
Left by your shoe locker switching shoes, White cotton socks on wooden flooring. You shrug off your woollen sweater, folding it before shoving in your bag. A student walks by, nodding his head to you as he leaves, “be safe,” you say quietly. Watching as he leaves. You stare absentmindedly at the sky, before the door closes. You continue to stare once it’s closed.
“Um. Hey.”
A voice startles you. You jump. Knocking your bag over, your things spell out, along with the letter.
He’s kneeling, grabbing your stuff. Sliding it across the wooden floor. Toward you. They sit at your feet, before you kneel to. Knees pressing atop the floor. The crevices of wood holding skin. “You shouldn’t do that. I could have punched you,” You smile at him, but he keeps his head low.
Strangely, you don’t like it.
“Can you take a confession back?”
He asks. Your heart begins to hurt.
–No, this is the first boy to ever like you. He’s thinks you’re beautiful, he likes your hair, and you. And you don’t know him, but for the first time – you don’t know.
“I don’t know you. I don’t like you. Like– like that. I think you should dye your hair. I think green is nice, but I like black because it’s ever color. I don’t know you… And I don’t want to know you. I’m not looking for romance. Not now.”
For the first time you look at him. Think you see, see you. And he does.
You hope he does. But you also don’t.
“I… Okay, but can you answer my question.”
You smile, your head tilts and you say thoughtfully, “You can’t, not once you’ve already confessed.”
He nods. Your cheeks begin to burning. Palms becoming sweaty. You swear he’s beautiful. “I’m sorry,” He apologizes, “But I–”
“There you are!” A friend of his appears. Eyes on you and the contents of your bag on the floor. “I was looking for you, you weren’t in class.”
“I was… I was just apologizing to [reader].”
You nod, beginning to grab your things. Hand touching the letter before you slide it to him. “Be careful next time.” You say, because he’s taking his confession back and he nods. Cheeks reddening.
You’re shoving your things in your bag, standing up in a hurry. “See you both,” Grabbing your shoes, and slamming your locker with more force then intended.
Your eyes blur, and you wonder if it means you aren’t enough.
It isn’t that, you just don’t know.
·
“They looked upset.”
Hyunsuk is staring, the letter by his knee. Torn open, pink suddenly doesn’t look like it should. It doesn’t feel like a lovely color anymore.
“They were.”
A realization hits – you wanted the letter to be yours.
(He doesn’t know that there is a girl listening in, hands curling around her books, mind swirling – “[reader] was confessed to by Hyunsuk!” she gushes the next day to a few other girls. “They rejected him! Why would they even do that?!”)
·
#main protagonist: hope you’re home safe and sound, can we have lunch with a friend tomorrow? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧ [06:48]
#readerchan: i am! and of course, anything you want! ^_____^ [06:50]
You’re changed, pajamas soft your skin. You finish up your homework. Settling in your bed, phone in your hand.
#main protagonist: yeah, a friend from the manga club asked if i wanted to meet his friends, he invited you (´⊙ω⊙`)！[06:53]
#readerchan: that’s weird… [06:53]
#main protagonist: it is weird! i was like !, and then he was like ?, but i said yes [06:54]
#main protagonist: that guy who was by your locker is his friend (๑•﹏•) [06:54]
#main protagonist: i can decline, make up an excuse like i got sea sick and forget about his invitation lol [06:55]
#readerchan: you’re so weird~ [06:59]
Sighing, you lay down and stare at the ceiling. Eyelids closing over irises. You picture a cow jumping over the moon, feeling your heart heavy in your gut.
You sleep and dream of the boy you barely know.
Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk – you wonder how he’d look with green hair.
·
Hyunsuk is walking to school. Bundled in a coat, the morning air bitter against his skin.
Closing his air as he walks down an emptied street, listens to a song that makes his body ache – pull it together, we could love you, forever and ever – sees you hopping in the bus, coat buttoned up, woollen sweater in your arms along with two bags. A brown paper bag, and aged leather. Watches you fade into bodies on the bus through glass.
Realizes you live down the street from him.
Then he continues walking. Wondering if he should buy Yedam lunch.
·
At school, Yoshinori is waiting patiently by your shoe locker, already talking to someone. You recognize him as the boy from yesterday, the one who isn’t Hyunsuk – “– you heard that? From a freshman? I don’t think that’s true–” Yoshinori stops talking, face turning red at you. And the boy stares, and stares, and stares. Until you redden. “Wh… Um, hello.” You bow, and he smiles. Lifts at corner, before it spreads across his face. And Yoshinori waves. Awkward, like he has something he shouldn’t tell you.
“You’re [reader]?”
You nod, smiling. Shuffling between feet. Standing awkwardly in the hall.
“Uh. There was –”
“There is.” Yoshinori says, low. Quietly. The boy continues, “There is a rumor. It’s about you. And Hyunsuk. And Yoshinori.”
Your face twists. “… Hyunsuk?”
Your voice expressed regret over embarrassment. “Um. I didn’t accept his letter.” You’re looking at Yoshinori. Forgetting about the boy for a moment. “I couldn’t.”
Your heart hurts.
You walk cautiously to your locker. “They should fade, they won’t last – tell Hyunsuk not to worry.” You smile. And it looks bitter on your face.
The boy nods. Smiling, “See you later.”
His hand pats Yoshinori on the back before he’s gone.
“Why didn’t you accept? Hello, Shoujo romance is cheesy, you should have –”
“It’s also cringy, Yoshi.”
He sighs, hand going to his pants pocket, holding a manderine out. An open palm and a smile too soft – you grab it slow, fingertips brushing against his palm.
You don’t see Hyunsuk watching. Feeling the low unsettling burn of something in his gut – eyes on your face, your cheeks, your fingers – realizes you don’t want a letter from him, but from Yoshinori.
·
Hyunsuk walks to class after putting his things away. Thinks of Yoshinori and who he is – and why he doesn’t like you the way he should.
“What are you thinking about?” Yedam is by his side, books in his arms. Face lightening up at him.
“Yoshinori. Do you know him?” Yedam slows, thinking. Brows furrowing, lip going between his teeth. “Only that he’s in the manga club.” Shaking his head softly.
“Manga club…” Hyunsuk stops, sees you walking down the hall with Yoshinori. “What do you know about [reader]?”
Your head turns and you don’t see him. Your cheeks are tinged red, only seeing Yoshinori who doesn’t see you in the way you want – “they’re really nice. I talked to them once,”
Hyunsuk decides, why not – and vows to make Yoshinori jealous. For you. Only you.
That’s his second mistake.
·
You peel the manderine during break. At your desk, atop notebooks and schoolbooks. Fingers pull the skin, tearing the flesh of the manderine.
Your fingers softly ground into the pulp, pulling the piece apart and laying them on your tongue. Chewing slow, feeling the warmth of happiness bloom in your chest.
Until Hyunsuk walks into your class looking at you with a smile.
You begin choking, grabbing your water bottle and chugging.
“Are you okay?” He’s suddenly in front of you, concern written on his face – “I shouldn’t have come, I’m so sorry, I clearly almost killed you–”
And you laugh, because he’s rubbing his chin. Forgetting about you.
It snaps him back into reality, looks at your face, red discoloration seeping into your skin. You look different without Yoshinori.
You look beautiful.
“You almost killed me twice already,”
You say, softly. And you don’t notice eyes watching you both. All you can see is him.
He gestures towards the empty desk beside you. “May I sit with you?” You nod.
“Did I really almost kill you?” He questions. It’s cute, makes your heartbeat quicken. You don’t feel it, you don’t feel the pink crawling up your neck.
You and Hyunsuk talk. You give him a piece of manderine and watch his entire face redden when your fingers brush his palm.
A friendship blooms.
·
“I talked to [reader].” He tells Yedam. Whispers it, like a secret. It is.
Yedam nods, looking at him to continue. “They’re nice.” Yedam is humming, makes Hyunsuk’s gut jump. He agrees, low and quiet. Smiling.
They wait for Jihoon and Asahi. By a bench near the school doors. Yedam’s lunch in plastic containers on his knees, tells Hyunsuk, one is for Jihoon. And Hyunsuk pouts, “None for me?” Yedam is pushing him, softly with his shoulder.
The hair on Hyunsuk’s neck stands when he sees you trailing after Yoshinori. Hair blowing in the breeze that passes, hand pushing it away. The other hand clenched tight around a brown paper bag.
Doesn’t notice his heart burning.
“You look beautiful in the sun.”
He says, and he smiles. Watches you freeze. Face flushing, before you say, “…You too?”
Thinks it’s true. That you look beautiful in the sun.
Doesn’t notice you staring at Yoshinori. Doesn’t notice Yoshinori staring at him.
·
You sit beside Yoshinori and Yedam. Across from Hyunsuk.
You pick at a jelly sandwich, listening to Yoshinori talk about Shoujo manga and the recent adaptation of his favorite manga with Asahi – you think of manderines and if they remind Yoshinori of you, or if he’s just a good friend.
Your gut starts becoming uneasy. Emptying out.
Would Yoshinori ever like me?
You think. Chewing the inside of your cheek until Hyunsuk hands you a strawberry, smiling at you.
Yoshinori stops talking. Stares at you. Stares at Hyunsuk.
You think, but rejection is okay, if Yoshinori doesn’t like me, other people will. And you take it, pretending you are in a Shoujo manga. Just like Yoshinori said.
You smile. And Yoshinori frowns.
And Hyunsuk’s heart burns.
·
Hyunsuk stares at your smile. Feels the burn, remembers that you aren’t the one he likes – remembers that it could change.
His heart begins to burn. Searing against bones.
His breath catches.
This is his third mistake.
·
Hyunsuk asks Yedam about it days later, if it’s okay to move on quickly, and if it’s okay with like you – “people move on differently, it depends on the person, it depends on you. Everyone has their own process.” Smiles at Hyunsuk and continues walking. Meeting Asahi again, this time with Yoshinori.
Yoshinori isn’t Yoshinori without you, that’s what Hyunsuk thinks. Doesn’t realize you and Yoshinori walk different paths in life.
Trails behind.
Until he sees you.
Leaning against Yoshinori’s shoe locker. With two containers in your hand. And two strawberries milks atop them.
Face brightening up at Yoshinori. Heart burning, wishing it were him. You hand Yoshinori the container, fingers pressing tightly around it. Releasing it into his hands.
You give a strawberry milk to Hyunsuk.
You sit between them, and Hyunsuk watches the way the sun catches your hair when it shines bright in the sky. Heart aching, he decides to write you a letter – but this time, it isn’t for someone else. This one is for you.
·
“Do you like Hyunsuk?” Yoshinori asks quietly.
You’re sitting across from him. His eyes are tender, too soft to hurt you. Your hand curls tightly around your pencil, biting the side of your cheek, something bitter tinges your tongue. “W– what do you mean?”
His head tilts, drops to the chest. “You didn’t give me milk today… That sounds childish saying it out loud.”
You smile, but it feels strained. Your gut recoils, and you feel strange.
It’s been weeks since the letter. It’s felt like days – the more you think about the letter, the less you think of Yoshinori.
Instead all that fills your head is the smell of parchment paper that held the scent of strawberries, and Hyunsuk and if he’ll ever dye his hair green.
“I don’t… I don’t know.” It’s quiet. And Yoshinori stares, “you should tell him.”
Your breath hitches. Face twisting, you become upset because – because… You like Yoshinori. You do. You want him to be with you. You do. But Hyunsuk is there, here, he’s everywhere. Hyunsuk makes you feel warm and fuzzy and Yoshinori – “I liked you, Yoshinori.”
His face pales. He stiffens, and you know. Like you’ve always known.
You begin collecting your things. “Don’t say anything, okay? I know. I always knew. I… We were always just friends.”
Your eyes dampen when you walk away.
You think of Hyunsuk and wonder if he’ll ever dye his hair.
You think of Hyunsuk and wonder if he’ll ever hold your hand.
If he’ll ever just make a move.
You think of Hyunsuk. And he’s all you can really think of lately.
·
Hyunsuk writes you a letter.
He feels his heart ache and burn.
Thinks of your hair and your hands and you.
·
You’re almost at the school gates when Jihoon notices you.
You remember parts of him – he likes dancing, drawing, and he’s good at those things. His excitement rolls onto everyone around him, and he can make you smile and anyone else. You remember he’s friend with Hyunsuk and he’s easy to get along with – “Goodmorning!” You bow slightly. And it makes him laugh a bit.
“That felt so formal… Never do that again.”
Your voice stutters. Chin ducking, hitting your chest. “… Am I really that formal?”
“Try extremely reserved,” He jokes, it makes you smile. Face reddening, hands curling around your bags. “What’s for lunch?“ His chin lifts, gesturing to your brown paper bag.
“A sandwich.”
You shuffle between feet, hearing him mumble quietly, “Aw.”
“You should go, the bell will ring soon, don’t want to take up your precious time!” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pushes you gently through the gates.
You wonder about Hyunsuk.
“Jihoon… Um… Hyunsuk, is – do you think… Do you think he likes me…?”
Your chewing your lip. Staring at the way his head tilts, at the way a smile grows on his face.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
You ‘oh’ softly, taking slow steps backwards. Nodding, before you twist around.
“… Ask him?”
·
He catches a glimpse of you at lunch.
Eating outside, sitting on a bench. Cherry blossoms fall, and it’s heart pounding. Smiles a little at your fingers pulling back the flesh of a manderine.
Opening the door, he walks to you. Maybe too quickly. Too rushed. But his heart is pounding loudly in his ears, his chest burns and wildfire is spreading across his body.
He practically throws the letter at you. It’s in a light green envelope. A sloppy drawn heart at the centre, slanted.
Eyes shut tight. Face tinged pink.
“I love you [reader]!”
That’s his fourth mistake.
Helikes you. But that works too.
Then he’s running. Towards the entrance doors. Pulling it open and letting it slam shut.
You face bursts into flames. Your heart swells and your stomach flutters.
His hair is green. A very bright green.
·
You read the letter during your last period.
There’s an extra layer of timidness in your fingers when they tear open the envelope.
Your whole body seizes. Your heart drums, and your fingers are running over his writing.
You look beautiful every day. My first letter, it wasn’t for you – but I’m glad I gave it to you. You like green. I did it BTW, dyed my hair. You’ll probably see, or have seen? I talked to you, I know you. Or at least, I like to think I do. Here are some things I know – 1. You like fruit, you pull the skin off of manderines slow, and you eat strawberries like they’re too sweet 2. You like the color black, because it’s every color. I think 3. You’re more reserved than anyone I’ve ever met, you remind me of an old person, in the best way 4. You look beautiful, that’s a given. You’ve always been beautiful and I’ve just never noticed 5. You’re everywhere, I’m just blind 6. You might like me. I don’t know. Not yet. I hope you do. If not, that’s okay too. I’ll understand. But. I think you’re beautiful and I think I’m a bad letter writer? See. I don’t know how to write.
You look beautiful every day. I like you. I think we’d go sweetly together. Let me walk you home.
Your not-so secret admirer, Hyunsuk.
Your knees knock together. Your heart bursts and your stomach knots.
He didn’t like you, but he does now. You think that’s okay, and you also think, maybe it isn’t.
Your heart has already decided.
You’re walking home with Hyunsuk.
·
He waits. At the school gates. Starked off in his uniform. Waits and waits. Feels a quiet nervousness swirl in his gut.
Doesn’t notice you walking toward him. Two strawberry milks in your arms and the letter in between your fingers.
“… Hey.”
The world slows down for Hyunsuk.
“Will you walk me home?”
Hyunsuk’s heart pounds and he smiles. Nervousness fading away, ebbing into less.
He nods, watches you hold out a strawberry milk. Takes it, fingertips brushing against your palm.
“Okay… I’ll walk you home,”
What he means is, I like you so much.
·
Hyunsuk walks you home.
Kisses you slow. Tastes like strawberries. Reminds you of Summer.
No – you lean in first. Eyes closed when your lips touch. Your hand twisting at the fabric of his shirt, palm warm over his chest. Pulling away slow.
“… Are you okay?” You ask, hand covering his. “I… Just really like you.” Face flushed red, you smile. Kiss him once more. Tasting of strawberries. Reminds you of Summer.
(#readerchan: i’m sorry :(
#main protagonist: finally, i thought you were never going to apologize
#readerchan: WHY DIDN’T YOU APOLOGIZE THEN
#main protagonist: I didn’t want to <3).
·
In his last year of high school, Hyunsuk makes mistake of accidentally confessing to the wrong person. Everything turns out okay.
Today was April Fool’s day, the day of insane pranks and dank memes. You had always been fascinated by the holiday but never got to participate simply because the people around you didn’t handle jokes well and you had no skills to pull them off successfully, either. So, you settled each year for just watching people prank each other online instead, reblogging them as if you were somehow part of the joke. But this year? This year you were determined to prank someone. You spent hours going through your contacts trying to choose a victim, but there was only one that you felt comfortable enough with to prank.
Your best friend, Asahi.
He had put up with a lot of shit since becoming your friend and you felt confident that he wouldn’t get upset over a silly little prank. You also worried that he might see it coming since he was a smart cookie, but you chose to ignore that worry and got to work setting your plan in motion.
You climbed out of the car, looking up at the giant Hobby Logic sign that sat above the store in orange letters. It was early in the morning and the store had only just opened, so there were very few people inside. You stepped in after a woman and her young daughter, glancing around for your friend. You found her near the back of the store, straightening up the wall of pipe cleaners.
You tapped her shoulder. “Excuse me.”
“Yes? How can I he -” she turned around, a customer service smile on her lips. She blinked when she realized it was you. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”
You clicked your tongue. “Is that any way to speak to a customer?”
She rolled her eyes, turning back to the pipe cleaners. “Considering you’re not a morning person and I can’t believe you’re up so early, I don’t think you are a customer. Maybe you’re a ghost or a demon.”
“How rude,” you huffed, smacking her shoulder. “I’ll have you know, I have a really important mission to accomplish today.”
She paused, realizing what day it was and she looked at you suspiciously. “Why? What are you planning?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to prank you. I do need you to direct me toward the confetti, though.”
“Aisle eight.”
“Brilliant, thank you!” You gave her a wave before heading toward aisle eight. Rows of colorful glitter in plastic tubes lined the shelves, followed by colorful confetti in plastic bags. They started out small, the size of sandwich bags, and they grew all the way into bags that reached your waist. You spent a good five minutes staring at the bags, trying to decide on how much you would need and, more importantly, what color you should choose.
“You’re so indecisive, I swear.”
You glanced at Naomi as she approached you, straightening the apron around her waist with the store’s logo on it. “It’s an important decision. If I choose too little, I’ll have to come back but if I choose too much, I’ll have leftover confetti with no use for it. Then there’s the color which can determine the mood of the prank. If I go for something bright, it might be too noticeable but if I choose something dark, it might make the prank lose some of its humor and seem more serious.”
She deadpanned. “You put way too much thought into this.”
“It’s my first prank since I was a kid, of course, I did.”
“Just choose blue. It’s a fairly neutral color.”
“You don’t think it’ll be too noticeable?”
She hummed, pointing toward a darker blue. “This one here is royal blue. It’s lighter than navy blue but it’s still dark enough to not draw too much attention. I recommend that one.”
You leaned closer to the bag she was pointing at and nodded. “It’s a nice color… but how much should I get?”
“I don’t know what the prank is so I can’t help you there.”
You turned to her but she held her hand up to stop you.
“And I don’t want to know. If you get arrested, I want no part of it.”
“You’re supposed to be my ride or die,” you frowned, earning a look.
“I am, but I draw the line at jail. I’ve got to get to work, hurry up and choose something before people start complaining about the weirdo staring at confetti for twenty minutes.”
You watched her disappear from the aisle before looking at the confetti, a frown on your lips. For the color Naomi had chosen, there were only three options – the tiny sandwich bag size, one that was just a bit bigger, and a giant bag that sat on the top shelf. You did some quick calculations on your phone and realized that it would be more expensive to buy a bunch of tiny bags than it would be to just get the big bag. You got on your tiptoes, leaning on the shelf to try and reach the giant bag at the top but the shelf was too high and the tip of your finger just barely brushed the plastic.
You put your foot on the bottom shelf, testing it to see if it could hold your weight and it seemed somewhat stable. You’d just have to be fast about it, that’s all. In one swift motion, you pulled yourself up the shelves, fingers curling around the plastic but a cry left your lips when your foot slipped and you fell backward, your ass hitting the linoleum floor and the bag of confetti landing on top of you. You winced in pain, rubbing at your hip. ‘Well, that could have gone better… but it also could have gone worse!’
Shaking your head, you pulled yourself to your feet, feeling a sharp pain go up your back when you did so. You were fairly sure it was going to bruise and be sore for a while, but it wasn’t anything serious. The bag was even bigger now that you held it in front of you and, sitting on the ground, it reached your waist. Would you really need this much? You doubted it, but you would be saving money regardless. You grabbed the bag, thankful that confetti wasn’t heavy, and headed for the front of the store to wait in line. Since there were only a few customers, Naomi was the only one at the cash register.
When you placed the large bag on the counter, she looked at you as if you had just murdered an entire family. She took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N…”
“Yes, bestie?”
“Don’t you think this is a bit… excessive?”
“Not really,” you shrugged. “Why? Do you?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” you waved her off, pulling your wallet out. “This is gonna be epic.”
Once she rang up the item, she sent you a look. “I’m serious, Y/N, don’t call me from prison.”
“You never support me,” you stuck your tongue out at her, taking the bag and carrying it under your under.
She just shook her head, watching you leave the store.
━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━
You stood in the living room, looking up at the ceiling fan with a frown. It was a lot higher than you thought it was and you weren’t sure you’d be able to reach it but not for lack of trying. First, you tried standing on the coffee table but it wasn’t even close. Then you tried using a stool from the kitchen and, despite being taller than the table, you still couldn’t reach it. Your frown deepened as you looked around your apartment, looking for anything that could boost you up enough to reach the fan – the only thing sturdy enough was your dresser.
After clearing the items off the top, you took a breath and pushed your back against the side, pushing it with all your might. It screeched loudly against the wooden floor and it took a lot more effort than you thought it would to get it into the living room, especially since the living room had carpet instead of wood flooring, but you completed your task. You set the bag on the dresser before climbing up and reaching for the fan only to start coughing at the thick layer of dust and cat hair that coated the wood.
‘Jesus, when was the last time this was cleaned?’ you waved your hand in front of you and coughed again. You were sure you had cleaned it at least once in the two years you had been living there but there was so much dust that it seemed as if it hadn’t been cleaned in eight years. With a huff, you climbed back down to get cleaning supplies. Twenty minutes later, the fan was mostly spotless and ready for the confetti. The problem is that the confetti didn’t like to stack up and kept sliding off, fluttering to the ground. Would a thin layer be enough? It would have to be.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you paused, tugging it from your pocket. It was a new message from Asahi.
[Asachan || Hey. What are you up to?]
You smiled. [Trying to relax :3 how’s practice?] Putting the last of the confetti on the fan, you slid off the dresser and winced as pain went through your hip. And you still had to move the dresser back. Shaking your head, you put your phone on top of the dresser before beginning to push the dresser, but you got it right in front of the hall before you groaned, out of energy.
[Asachan || It’s going well. I like this choreo.]
Before you could reply, he sent another message.
[Asachan || Are you gonna stop by the studio today?]
You glanced up at the fan. [Sorry, I can’t today.]
[Asachan || Why not?]
You hummed as you looked at the empty message box. What should you say? You needed him to come home for the prank but you doubted he would stop by after practicing all day. Your hip throbbed and it was like a light bulb went off above your head. You could ask him to bring you meds for the pain! [I hurt my hip today When practice ends, can you bring me some pain meds? Please~ Asachan?]
A minute passed, then two, then five, and no reply came through. ‘He must have gone back to practice,’ you shrugged, setting your phone down on the dresser before sealing the confetti bag and placing it in the hallway closet. You tried to move the dresser again but pain shot through your back and you groaned, letting your upper body slump across the dresser. The wood was cool against your cheek which felt good since the room was heating up without the fan turned on. You pulled yourself up until you were lying across the dresser, using your arms as a pillow.
Before you knew it, you were asleep and not even your buzzing phone could wake you as message after message came through from a worried Asahi.
[Asachan || How did you hurt your hip? What happened?]
[Asachan || Y/N? Are you okay?]
[Asachan || This isn’t funny, Y/N. Answer me.]
[Asachan || If this is an April Fool’s prank, I’m deleting your number.]
[Asachan || I’m on my way.]
━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━
Asahi was out of breath by the time he reached your apartment door, his heart hammering with worry. You still hadn’t responded to any of his messages or calls. He wanted to leave practice as soon as you stopped replying but his manager wouldn’t let him and his members convinced him to wait a bit, saying that you might have just gotten busy or distracted but after a few hours passed and you refused to reply, he finally got his manager to agree to let him go.
He knocked on the door, holding himself back because it was getting late and he didn’t want to disturb your neighbors. The sound roused you from your sleep and you lifted your head in confusion, rubbing at your eyes. It took you a minute to realize that the sound was coming from the door and you started to push yourself off the dresser but your back locked up from the terrible sleeping position and the earlier accident and you fell off the dresser, hitting the ground with a soft groan.
When you didn’t answer, he tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked. How many times had he told you to keep the door locked? You never listened to him. With his heart pounding in his ears, he turned the knob and stepped into the apartment. The lights were off, the room dark without the sun to cast light through the window. He flicked the light switch beside the door, bathing the room in light.
You winced at the sudden bright light, peering your head over the top of the dresser to see who had just entered your apartment but you got a face full of confetti as the fan kicked on at its highest speed, sending the little blue pieces of plastic all over the room like a confetti tornado. You sputtered when a piece went into your mouth.
Asahi blinked in confusion, looking up at the fan to try and discover why it was snowing blue in your apartment but then he remembered your message and he frowned, eyes snapping to you. “Y/N.”
Your eyes met his as you slowly pulled yourself up, giving him a sheepish smile. “Hi…”
His eyes raked over your body, searching for any physical sign of injury but he found none. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you reply to my messages? Are you okay?”
“Breathe, Asahi,” you laughed, shaking your head to get rid of the confetti that was still falling from the fan. You held your arms out. “April Fools…!”
His brow furrowed. “So you’re not hurt?”
“I mean, I did hurt my hip when I fell at the store this morning,” you put your hand on your lower back, feeling the ache there like you had just had a bad night’s sleep. “Or maybe it’s my back. I’m not sure, the whole area is kinda sore.”
“Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I waited a bit for your reply and then I fell asleep. I’m sorry!” You put your hands together in front of you and he sighed, running his hand through his blonde hair, sending a mess of confetti to the floor and earning you a confused look. “Yeah… about that. Happy April fool’s day?”
“Was this your plan the whole time?” his lips twitched up.
“Maybe. It would have gone better if I hadn’t fallen asleep…”
“You pranked yourself, Y/N.”
“Eh? How?”
He motioned toward the room and you glanced around, finally noticing just how much of a mess had been made. The confetti had gone everywhere.
“Crap, I have to clean this up.”
“Mhm,” Asahi smiled softly, resting his hand on top of your head. “I’ll help you.”
“That’s not necessary! You practiced all day and I did this to myself like you said.” You took a breath. “I made my bed and now I must lie in it.”
“I can’t let my best friend suffer alone,” he stated, kneeling down so he could start gathering the confetti into a pile.
You smiled warmly, kneeling beside him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Asachan.”
He picked up a handful of confetti and tossed it at you, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Yah, that’s not cleaning.”
He grabbed another handful, raising a challenging brow.
“Asahi, don’t you dare -“
He tossed it at you again and you let out a battle cry, tackling him to the ground. Your laughter mingled with his as the two of you wrestled, ruining the small pile he had made. Your prank may have failed, but you still considered it to be a good day.
Gifts, generosity, and good favours are flowing in your direction today or you may find yourself the recipient of someone’s kindness and good heart.
Monetary or material gifts may be relevant for some but Treasure can be on a more metaphorical level and suggests that you’re highly valued and treasured.
Man Reaps Windfall from Art Found in Connecticut Dumpster
A trove of paintings and other artwork found in an abandoned barn in Connecticut has turned out to be worth millions
Notified by a contractor, Waterbury auto mechanic Jared Whipple retrieved the dirt-covered pieces in 2017 from a dumpster containing materials from a barn in Watertown. Whipple later found out they were by Francis Hines, an abstract expressionist who died in 2016 at 96 and had kept his work stored in the barn, Hearst Connecticut Media Group reported.
Hines was renowned for his “wrapping” pieces, in which fabric is wrapped around an object. His art has been compared to that of Christo and Jeanne-Claude, who became famous for wrapping installations around Europe, including the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
Hines wrapped more than 10 buildings in New York including the Washington Square Arch, JFK Airport and the Port Authority Bus Terminal, art curator and historian Peter Hastings Falk told the news outlet.
The hundreds of pieces of art retrieved by Whipple included paintings, sculptures and small drawings. Hastings Falk estimated the “wrapped” paintings can be sold at around $22,000 apiece and his drawings at around $4,500.
Whipple showed some of the pieces at a gallery in Waterbury last year, and recently decided to sell some of the art. He is collaborating with Hollis Taggart, a New York City-based gallery, on exhibits in New York and Connecticut in shows beginning next month.
Since finding the treasure trove, Whipple has researched Hines’ work and contacted the artist’s family, who, he said, have allowed him to keep and sell the art.
“I pulled it out of this dumpster and I fell in love with it,“ Whipple told the news outlet. “I made a connection with it. My purpose is to get Hines into the history books.”
My finished piece for Tuskbuddy 2018! The sketch was a lot of fun to work with, and I found it worked very well with my own style! My only grievance is that it took me so long to do. Bad time management on my own part.
