A/N:

Thank you Jkwonie for your request! 

"Could I request another Meanie drabble about Wonwoo's actually high-pitched voice and his habit of lowering his voice to be cooler but he's in fact a cute cinnamon roll?"

It came out a little differently than I had planned (a.k.a not as humorous lol), but I think it’s a sweet take on Meanie’s relationship. I hope you enjoy it!

First love was an odd time, made of secret glances, dry throats, and fluttering heartbeats. Shy smiles, fleeting looks, and stilted, sometimes pointless conversations - words that you collect and carry with you like sweet candy in your pockets.

He’d fallen swiftly, without care or control, for the way her hair shifted when she’d move in her seat; for the hints of brown in her darkly-coloured locks, only seen when the light hit it just right.

He didn’t understand how he could be so happy from that one single smile of hers, even if it wasn’t directed at him. He couldn’t fathom the depth of his joy when she had finally said ‘yes’ to his first and most awkward, stuttering confession.

Giddy, half in a daze, a rare animation to his words and expressions - oh, how he’d spent that week in bliss!  Then, one afternoon, as they sat across from each other at a small cafe, she took his fingers in her hands as if touch could alleviate the sting of her rejection.

“Ah, I didn’t think you were like this.” She tilted her head as she tried to explain, lips pursing slightly. “Your personality doesn’t really match your looks, did you know?”

He’d been a fool back then, taking those small, cutting words and fashioning his entire perspective around it.

Then again, what else would you expect from a young boy in the throes of first love?

It became an endless string of similar experiences, of hands and hearts brushing only the surface, rarely delving to the depths beneath. No longer did his eyes crease up when he flashed a wide-lipped grin, no longer did his voice break from the sheer volume of pure excitement.

He’d cultivated the image his partners seemed to enjoy, the one they seemed to expect from him - quiet, laconic, mysterious. He fulfilled their dreams with a persona he continuously tweaked and altered, and he comforts himself by saying this time, this time for sure, everything will turn out just fine.

(even if he knows it won’t.)

It’s like slipping on a familiar sweater at the start of the day, a character he’d become so proficient in playing. Face impassive, voice a low rumble, hands stuffed in pockets and a piercing, hooded gaze.

And yet, he always commits the same mistake, always ends up in the same pitfall - when he allows himself to think that things would end differently this time. He lets down his guard and laughs a little too loudly, speaks a little too freely, loves a little too openly.

They had always said same thing afterwards.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

He swore he’d heard every variation.

He’d never taken it against them, just numbered it as another mark against himself. If he couldn't properly change himself, mold himself in order to keep their love, then the blame lay with him.

One, two, three, four, five…A string of disappointed looks, of gentle rebukes. Of it's not you, it's me conversations that made him want to cry and laugh at the same time because it was always him.

It was always him. 

Six. He thought he'd be the sixth. 

“Stop that.” The other boy said, reaching out to ruffle his hair - a move no one else would have ever dared to do, for how little they knew he enjoyed it. “Let it out, I know you want to.” The boy smiled with every single one of his teeth, or at least that’s what it seemed to him.

And he had told himself, scolded himself, not to give in to the bright, blooming feeling in his chest, not this time. Not again.

But if there’s one thing he’s learned, is that he’s incapable of doing things in half-measures.

“Laugh!” The taller boy would say when he reached over and let his fingers dance over his sides, the sensitive crook of his neck, eyes twinkling in mirth.

“Shout!” He’d yell joyfully, and he’d throw his own arms wide open and celebrate with nothing barred, nothing held back.

“Talk to me.” He’d whisper, when they lay curled up in his bed, soft morning light filtering through the windows.

“Make me smile.”

A pause, in which wonderment filled his soul, for the answer fell from his lips easily, without thought. 

“Ah…Then I just have to be myself, then?” Wonwoo leaned up on his elbow and looked down at his boyfriend, tone utterly mischievous.

Mingyu simply answered him by capturing his lips in a kiss.