A/N:

Hi! I'm Raeven! And my sister Stasha and I have been using our imaginations with this fic for longer than enough. I believe it's been about six years! And we've changed alot about it. We've been so into writing this story that we almost feel like we live with our own version of 2PM haha! But yeah, enough with the creeper talk, right (it's what I'm good at hehe)?

Let me introduce you to a hopefully very enjoyable piece of fiction. <3 I hope posting it on here will push me to get the following chapters up and ready without any terribly long breaks in between >__<.

On another note, there are OC characters in this fic. I also wanted to emphasize the fact this fic is also dedicated to the appreciation of  relationships (it's the most beautiful thing!). But I didn't really want to put it out in the spotlight too much because it really shouldn't be a big deal what races are used. Just thought I'd help out the few that look for AMBW fics out there (like me!). :D Well, anyway, that's all I wanted to say for now. I hope to have character descriptions and all that jazz later.

Please review!! Tell us what you think! We LOVE feedback! <33333

Enjoy!

-Raeven

prologue;

JYP won't be seeing them off at the airport. Instead, he stands by the black van parked at the side of the boys' city-side dorm, hidden from the main entrance to reduce risk of hundreds of fans who wouldn't let the still of the night get in the way of their obsessions. But still, even at four in the morning, Seoul city is completely awake. A lot are drinking and partying; some are studying; and many will be standing on the sidewalks in hopes of spotting a black van, waving posters of farewell and sobbing to it as it passes them on its way to Incheon Airport.

While the temporary engagement seems a promised step forward, it will be undeniably bittersweet.

“'You worried about us, hyung?” Taecyeon asks from the back entrance. JYP was so buried in his thinking to have noticed his arrival. The older man's smile is somber. He opens his arms and the tall young man hugs him back with a few strong, reassuring pats on the back. “I promise, we'll be good,” he says through some weak chuckling. They pull away and the elder holds on to Taecyeon's confidence as if to remind himself that he's doing the right thing.

“I know you will,”

The rest start coming, filing slowly to the van in their own pace, stopping by the door to bow respectively to their boss, their mentor, their second dad. They all seem excited, but even more uncertain to leave home. Chansung is hiding his eyes under sunglasses, but his nose is flushed with red under the faint glow of a street light. When JYP hugs him, Chansung's more reluctant to let go and he's sniffling, telling his hyung to take care of himself, to drink more water and to finish up the bananas he'd left behind upstairs in their dorm. Then he fails to suppress a fresh bout of quiet sobs. The producer gives him a few comforting words that coaxes him to get in the van with Nickhun close at his side.

Finally, after many more hugs and emotional goodbyes, Jaebum is the last. He does this on purpose and JYP knows his intention. “I'm sorry, again,” Jaebum says in a quieted tone.

“It doesn't change what already happened,” JYP says, but it doesn't have an edge any more and he even pulls him in for a hug—like a father would —that actually feels forgiving. Jaebum smiles a little.

“Thank you for this,” he says, and he means it from the bottom of his heart. JYP is looking him dead in the eyes now. He nudges Jaebum's shoulder, enough to disturb the boy's balance.

“Just show me that I made the right decision, Jaebum. Maybe then I'll have the nerve to say, 'you're welcome'.”

"I don't want to say something like 'they could change my life forever' or 'It's funny how' or 'I never thought' or. . .  you know, something like the first few lines straight out of a cliche movie. These boys never really became a cliche part of my life, so I hate to admit that those little cliche movie lines are what I want to say right now when I think about them.

" 'But then again. . .  I never thought'  they'd be part of what shifted my life so much. 'It's funny how' I thought they were nothing but a nuisance when I first met them. I took the job without any desire of the fact that they 'could change my life forever'. And they did--they did in such  a huge way.' "

. . .

I've lived in Florida all my life. I thought, actually, after I graduated high school, that I'd move somewhere entirely different for college, but I ended up in Miami instead. I can't really complain, though. Miami's way different from life back in Palm Bay, where the fun was where the movie theatre and the played-out mall was. Your friends were the only really entertainment there, so if you had some dull ones, well, I'm so so sorry.

Palm Bay was just a safe, large, residential community. I didn't like calling it a town for some reason because it made me feel country, and I didn't like calling it a city because I naively connected cities with skyscrapers, wide-range availability of public transit, and walking. None of that belonged to dull old Palm Bay. There was no walking done in that place unless you were exercising. Everywhere required a car. You'd die of heat by the time you go where you needed to be by foot.

That's why I have to remind myself everyday when I have to take my trusty mo-ped to work, or out anywhere, that even this low form of transportation beats a stroll to the gas station in Palm Bay any day. At least, living in uptown Miami, I only have to drive this motor scooter with a seat for 10 or 15 minutes tops before I've arrived at where I need to be.

It's another one of those long days. As always, I never got off when my schedule said I'd be off, but I should know better by now never to trust the schedule of a CEO's assistant. "The attitude of a surgeon on call" is what she--Mrs. Chano-- told me when she interviewed me. And she repeats it when she pleases, like it'll leave my head at some random time of the day.

Whenever I get home I expect some kind of meal from Neve, then to slither straight into my bed, for a nap or even for the night. Whatever time that ends up being, I'm usually never up for much chit-chat; just some eats and some zzz's.

I pulled into the parking lot of my condo, chaining my red moped up to the roofed bike-rack near the lobby entrance. Jacque greets me with a few words from behind the front desk of the lobby. I give a passive wave, a tired smile as I head toward the main elevators.

He usually made some kind of smart remark whenever I passed, but I'd cursed him out enough times for him to learn that I usually got off work in an unfriendly mood.

Today, he keeps his mouth shut, smirking instead as I trudge along in heels, almost limping by now, with my suitcase and accordion folder occupying both hands, and this bundle of papers under my arm that Mrs. Chano had just given to me before I left. A new assignment, I guess with no sort of enthusiasm. I feel like I get these things for homework every day. "Read it as soon as you get home," she told me. Didn't want to read it any time soon, though. Like I said, I just wanted to eat and then go to sleep. If I had to get up at 4 in the morning to read this thing, I would. But now? I just shake my head to myself when I'm in the elevator alone, pressing the button for floor 12.

I'm tempted to kick off my heels and leave them in the hall as I set everything on the floor to get my keycard. I'll just do it, I think to myself. Bare-foot and finally free of hands, I take my keycard out of my purse and hold it in front of the sensor on the wall next to my front door. The light turns red instead of green, so I try again. Same response. I flip the card over and try again.

At the fourth try, I'm beyond frustrated; I've never had this problem.

I jam my key card into the key slot of my apartment for what has to be the fifteenth time before I actually start cursing aloud in the hallway. This was really starting to spark my bad mood. Now, I have to go back down to the lobby for a new key probably. I'm sure Jacque "the concierge" wasn't trained for those kinds of things. He'll probably have to call someone to activate a new card for me. By the time this all gets squared away, I'll have lost a valuable hour of my nap, probably.

My feet are throbbing from the heels my boss requires of me to wear, the dry patch of skin on my leg itches; I need some lotion---Neve isn't answering her phone—sh**!!

Jacque is standing behind the large counter, just as he was, this evening when I came back from work a few minutes ago, this morning when I left for work, and, well, now, as I get off the elevator to meet him again. Usually the expanse of the open lobby has a settling effect on my mood. It resembles lobbies of high class hotels or resorts, without all the tourists coming in for rooms or children running around everywhere. The walls are paneled in warm tones of marble; theres enough windows around the place to capture the better parts of Miami's beauty. It reminds me of the accomplishments it took me to get a place like this, and it usually distracts me from whatever I was feeling so crabby about. Today, it isn't working.

My leather bag and suitcase isn't the type to be subtle with noise. The gold clasps on both items obnoxiously clank as I set them onto the marble surface of the front counter. Jacque is looking down on me. I always wonder how Jacque came upon a job as hospitable as concierge when he rarely ever opens his mouth or smiles. He's tall, skinny, pale, strikingly beautiful; he isn't very visibly easy to approach. When Neve and I first moved here, we were afraid to ask him for our keys. After about a year of seeing him constantly at the front desk and sometimes making small talk, I offered him a card to my job's modeling agency. He didn't want it. Even now that we're as tight as two sisters from another mother, he remains stubborn by my countless suggestions at him ditching his boring lobby job and pursuing a modeling career.

But while I think of him being a waste to this boring establishment, I also remember he's a waste of man for us females, because Jacque is also a homoual. He'll tell anyone who asks, but he is most certainly not obvious. He talks like a man, stands like a man. He may be more groomed, more elegant, but his image can easily be mistaken for one of those hipster kids nowadays. I actually wish there were more straight men like him. My sister and I have a weakness for the pretty boys out there.

“Jacque, my key isn't working,” I tell him, and I hold the key card out for him with a tired expression on my face. He takes the card silently, examines the back for any bad scratches, and starts pushing keys  into the keyboard of the lobby computer. “What does it mean? Ugh, I never had this problem before; will it take long to fix?”

“You complain too much,” Jacque says in his monotone voice.

“I just want my nap,” I say, setting my chin on the cool marble. I poke my lip out. Jacque picks up the phone, dials a number, and puts it to his ear. He's smirking.

“You always want me to feel bad for you,” he says.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask sadly. While he explains my card trouble to a higher-up, he pats my head a few times. Although Jacque and I are around the same age, he and my older sister are the ones I normally turn to when I have a problem. If my sister isn't around, Jacque has to deal with me. That's probably why we've eventually become friends.

He's answering with “uh huh”s and “mm hmm”s over the receiver, entering information on the keyboard again. I watch his eyes scroll the computer and hint the subtle rise of Jacque's eyebrow. I lift my head from the table and straighten when I stand. Man, now I know something isn't right.

“Your card isn't working because it's been deactivated.” Jacque tells me when he's off the phone. I'm looking at him and he knows I'm confused. I know Neve and I paid our bills; last month's was covered on time as well as this month's. It's only the first week of March. “The database reads that you've moved out and the lease has been renewed for a different location.”

This all, of course, made no damn sense. What he just told me may as well have been said by a three year old. It couldn't possibly have been true.

“Jacque, come on—you're kidding me. My apartment should be completely untouched. All I need is a new key to open the door. . . there's no way—be real here,”

Jacque shrugs, his subtle one-arm shrug of effortless resignation. He does it when he doesn't know what to do next, and it's usually cute, when he's not doing it to me. Now I kind of just want to hit him for doing it because I really don't want someone to shrug at me when they've just told me I've been moved out of my home.

Then my cell phone's ringing inside the zipped pocket of my purse, but I'm still staring at Jacque after that shrug he just dared to give me, really contemplating whether to get in his face about it. My behavior's a little ridiculous, but can you blame me?

Jacque only looks slightly concerned, with his bright eyes settling on me under some sluggishly-moving eyebrows, but I can't expect much emotion from him anyway. I look like I may just take some frustration out on him, but he knows I'll only stand there and seethe until I tire myself out. So there isn't any hint of hesitation when his eyes flick to my purse and says, “You probably wanna get that,”

I hate that he's right. It's probably Mrs. Chano. Her phone-call experiences are rarely pleasant; she doesn't know how to end a conversation. I'm often stuck on the phone with her when I don't want to hear her voice. Mrs. Chano calling after hours means I'm still her assistant no matter what I'm doing at the moment. Fortunately, she doesn't tend to call after an hour past the time I've left her for the day, so her calling now wasn't unusual. But still, as I grudgingly put my cell to my ear and greet her over the receiver, I most definitely am not prepared to hear her say, “Sancha, sweety! I'm so glad you picked up, otherwise, this wouldn't have gone well.” She indulges herself with a fit of giggles. Her voice is always slightly sing-songy and dramatic, but you get used to it.
 

When have I ever not answered your calls, I'm thinking, but whatever.  

“What is it, Mrs. Chano?” I ask her with as much patience as I can muster in my voice. I'm looking at Jacque with half-lidded eyes. He's smirking at Mrs. Chano's voice over the phone. On his late-night shifts, I often come down to talk with him. I tell him stories about my job and eventually we end up imitating Mrs. Chano a lot of those times. Jacque has managed to mimic her voice so well it scares me.

“Well, darling, are you home yet?”

“Yes, Mrs. Chano, I'm—,” I stumble on “home” because, yes, I'm in the main lobby of my home but I'm in the middle of a dilemma that involves, well, home apparently, so I can't get the words out as smoothly as I want. “Yeah, I'm uh—home, yeah,”

“Ah, then I should probably hurry up and tell you, then, huh,” Mrs. Chano says like the murmur of an afterthought and before I have enough time to emit a sound of puzzlement, she says, “I'm promoting you, hun! And it comes with a little—ah—little promotion gift,”

Wait a minute. What did she just say? I'm thinking. I press the phone to my ear some more, like I'm somewhere noisy and I can't hear, and I ask Mrs. Chano for a confirmation.

“Mrs. Chano, wait—what did you say?” And Mrs. Chano starts laughing.

“You heard me, love. I'm giving you a promotion. And I've specially arranged for you and your sister the Baroque penthouse. Now hurry and get the keys to your new home, sign the papers—whatever it is you need to do, because I need for you to call me once you get in. I'll hear from you soon, hun,”

Confusion spills past my lips before I realize she had hung up. All anger lost from my system, I want to climb over the marble counter between Jacque and I. “Jacque, I-I've just been promoted!! A-a-and—and the Baroque penthouse—the one all the way on the top?” My eyes are saucers. I know they are; they're naturally round already. I probably look like a real freak. Jacque is looking at the computer, one side of his thin lips pushing up.

“Apparently, yes,”

“Jacque—Jacque,” I whine, reaching for his hand, squeezing the life out of it with both of mine. At this point, I've lost some reasoning. Amidst all this excitement, I have yet to question how everything of mine and my sister's has been moved into this new apartment. Or the more important question, in which Jacque gets to first:

“What's she promoting you to?”

My forehead's on the marble surface, my hands still sandwiching his. I tap his fingers and think. When I can't come up with an answer, I raise my head and look at him. “Crap, I really don't know,”

But I guess the only way I'll find out now is when I sign the papers, get the keys, and get inside so I can call Mrs. Chano back. Suddenly it just all feels like too much.

A/N: Welp! That was the prologue. Now that I got that outta the way, the real goodies are in store! Well, hopefully ;D