The air outside is crisp and he is on the verge of fourteen when a girl enters into his class, eyes unfocused and her chin raised in defiance. She is placed in the seat beside him, their shared heritage used as the instructor's flimsy excuse for placing them in the back farther from the board. She makes no secret of her power and makes the school bullies pale and retreat with nothing but words when they try to pick on her the very same day. Within hours, the school is abuzz with gossip, and even he has heard of the immediate gossip - her "boytoy" two years her junior and her mafia family. At the end of the day, she bids everyone - including himself - a good day after a whole minute of dawdling at the door, and he wonders. But only for a bit. Later, he regrets not learning more about her sooner.

Snow has layered the town in a hushed quiet the day that he is looking for a place to nap in the library. She is hidden amongst the volumes, only the neon pink of her backpack (chosen, he later learns, by her half-brother to find her more easily) giving her away. Her tears are crystals, glinting even in the shadows, and roll down her cheeks unhindered. It is the way that she is frozen, eyes focused on nothing and posture as still as stone, that leads him to take the seat beside her and ask if she is ok. (He knows she knows he knows she knows - and so on - that he was there, so he doesn't worry about startling her. The same goes for her knowing that he knows she knows he knows - and so on - that he can feel her negativity clearly.) For a long time, she doesn't move, but after some time, she shakes her head in answer and admittance, leans over slightly, and closes her eyes. They sit like that, her tears falling and his presence steady, for a long while.

The new year has usurped the old, and he is more than familiar with her presence now. She is often silent and much too observant about his home situation, but she never presses for an answer. She simply presses closer, arm brushing against his in what seems to be comfort, and talks in distraction though he knows that words come as easily to her as they do to him. (That is to say, not at all.) She is warmer now, due to, he thinks, the influence of her half-brother, whom he hears about constantly, their mother tongue whispered between the turns of pages. She is less...edged where she used to be and he still is. He knows that they have grown close, but he still forgets and marvels at how she reads him so easily. It is why he is simultaneously surprised and strangely pleased when she asks aloud the question on his own mind. Her answer is just as boggling because how could he - the one without any - give her hope?

The ice has given way to spring and hints of summer heat when he is fighting the biting claws of his own power, the attack large and unexpected and wholly dangerous. She is warm and kind and loved (unlike him), and it is no wonder that people forget that she too was once ice - that there was a period when he and she were no different - when she has melted and watered a blooming bud; it is no wonder that they wonder why he and she stay together with a question of condemning fire. He doesn't even have time to warn, lips sealed by blood and clenched teeth, but a hand slips into his - warm, slightly smaller than his own, soft - and words stride into the air, confident and firm and protective. His power recedes, declawed in an instant, and a soft warmth blooms in his chest not unlike a flower turning towards the sun. He thinks back to a few months previous and her quiet answer and thinks that, perhaps, she - his best friend, his mind adds with awe and glee - does the same; perhaps she gives him hope too; perhaps more.

He is on the edge of fifteen and starting high school when she is by his side, hand in his. He knows what it means and feels his cheeks warm at the show of trust. New faces question again their relation, but there is less challenge about who they are and more pressure to join a club. They take their time, and there is an implicit promise to join together - to stay together. She requests that he choose since she has no preference, so he busies himself with checking out clubs and ensuring that it'll be one that will not be an obstacle between them. A day later, she strides down the halls, sheepish smile on her face and anxious excitement on the curve of her lips. He can feel her apprehension and understands, when she admits she joined a club without him. He crushes the filled-out application in his hand numbly and strides away without a word, his application already turned in and unretractable. It takes him a while to realize that it is their first fight.

The sky is grey and colorful leaves are falling, and he is lying on his back on the ground. Something is poking his back, and his breathing is labored by the weight on his chest. It is raining and wet, and it takes him time to clear through the sharp haze of his mind. He opens his eyes, finally, to recognize that the wetness he had felt is tears, flowing from her eyes, and that the weight on his chest is her, hands smothering heartbroken sounds from . He winces at whatever-it-is digging into his back, and she notices immediately (of course, she does). She swallows hard, chest heaving, and smacks him in the shoulder, sensation stinging but not overly painful. She calls him names, but her words are of encouragement and promise. He closes his eyes, trusting and warm once more.

The weather is perfect on the day when he is fifteen, surprisingly warm for late October but crisp enough to forego any extra layers of clothing. She is brighter than usual, her smile not just warm but positively sunny, and even her brother, who hates him from the incident a month prior, looks pleased at her joy. The party is small and intimate and more enjoyable than he expected, though he suspects later that it might have had to do with the girl whose hand was in his, trusting and warm. At the end of the day, he lends her a jacket as the sun sets and takes away its warmth. Her brother, by the end of the night, has grudgingly given his approval (that she had raised an eyebrow in clear disapproval for - the implication that she needs her half-brother’s permission - but does not say anything to). When she tries to return the freshly-washed article of clothing a few days later, his brain short-circuits and he carefully stills his expression. Her faint scent, light and familiar and warm, loosens the hold of his power, and oh. Oh. That is...beyond their current relation, especially after just earning her brother’s approval. He resolves not to tell her - about the way claws weaken their hold at her scent and his feelings.

Snow chills the air when he is again “younger” than her, the near year between them a wide chasm that he’s aware of. She is nearly glowing on this day, her loved ones gathered together in peace and smiles. His gift is small and light and an opportunity that he can, maybe...Maybe it will divide them. Maybe it will not work. Smiles, warm against the nip of snow, snatch away his worries, and her face lights up at each and every gift equally though with different connotations - bittersweetly at the succinct card (and money) from her absent father, sweetly at the carefully folded paper cranes from the neighborhood children, brightly at the array of hair ribbons from her brother, more. Her smile is gentle and considering at his gift, twin golden studs shining in the sparse sunlight. He doesn’t get time alone with her for the rest of the party, but she clings to his sleeve even long after everyone else has gone and her brother has gone to clean and give them privacy in one move. Her request is careful and soft against the settling snow, and he places his jacket on her shoulders when he spots her hiding a shiver. She moves close, sharing her heat and looking up at him under long lashes. He agrees to her request - to pierce her ears, as he had hoped she would ask when he bought her a pair of earrings - and hopes that she doesn’t realize how he never seems to be able to deny her; his hope is in vain.

The air is softening with the onset of spring, and he is closer than ever before, his face inches from hers and hand steady though his heart trembles violently at her proximity. She is closing her eyes, trusting with her ear turned towards him. Flesh gives way underneath the needle, but her expression does not even flutter at the pain. She surrenders her other without fuss, and when it is done, a pair of gold drops gleam from her ears, her face hit just so in the light. His heart pounds at the idea of his mark scarring her skin, and he pulls away, an excuse on the tip of his tongue. She acts oblivious, but her cheeks are pink and skin warm as if she could read his near-possessive thoughts. She takes another jacket on her way out, replacing it with the one she’d taken previously, and he’s long since accepted (and quietly freaked out and resigned himself to) her consistent scent lingering on his jackets. He knows she knows he knows she knows - and so on, again - that her scent calms him. He tells himself that that is why she stands closer to him. He tells himself that that is why she lingers in his space with something akin to hope in the flush of her cheeks. He tells himself and his hopes that he is reading too much into it.

Heat is lingering on the land, and he is nearing sixteen when he is at the mall with a familiar figure by his side. She is warm and he cool, but he sticks close to her anyways, hoping the heat will disguise the flush at her presence. The end of the summer heralds the coming of school, and they shop for new notebooks and writing utensils though more for him than her. He picks out a book that he enjoys, searching for another instance of common ground. Her response is tightly casual, tone revealing her discomfort. His offer is random and impulsive, an offer that is most likely unnecessary because he knows that she can find a braille copy somewhere, (right?) but it leaves his lips anyways and, at her bright smile and soft thank-you hug, he can no longer take it back. When he reads aloud to her without asking a month later, he cannot bring himself to regret it.

Spring is early, and he is, now sixteen, enjoying the warmth from both the sun and her fingers carding through his hair. She is speaking to him, words flowing from her lips mindlessly. He is on the verge of sleeping when he hears an unusual word flit by. Hearing someone "want" something is not unusual, but from the girl who he wants to give the whole world yet can never with her personality, it is a first. And, just, it's out of character for him - even his friends know. They comment on it, within her power-earshot as well, and it is the flash of his eyes and the purposeful glance in her direction that replaces their words with teasing looks. Later, when they're walking home together - alone - she doesn't comment, but her wrist bumps the strap of the new watch, and he spots her features break out into an ecstatic blush. Listening to her fumble over an excuse over her happiness is a new experience; it is, he decides, more than worth it. 

Autumn transitions to winter, and he is seventeen as is she. He eyes prices of cell phones for the visually impaired and his bank account with distaste. She picks up on his emotions like reading even though she can't even see, surprising him not for the last time. She reassures him that she doesn't need one and that, if anything, she might as well give out his number since they're always together. He pauses, then agrees. He's pleased to see the adorable confusion on her face and pretends that it is not satisfying to allow his stuff to become hers as well, theirs altogether. 

Summary of the / More Headcanons:

• They speak to each other in Japanese so that no one else can overhear. 
• Wooyeon cries without wiping away her tears or hiding or anything most would expect / do. 
• Wooyeon always takes Yuta's hand. Yuta always reaches out at the same time. 
• Yuta was upset that Wooyeon didn't join NCT with him. 
• Yuta hates being younger than Wooyeon. (It's a pride thing.)
• Wooyeon got her ears pierced by Yuta. 
• Wooyeon steals Yuta's jackets regularly. She also returns them regularly. 
• Yuta reads aloud novels to Wooyeon when they're alone. 
• Wooyeon, despite being quiet, has an easy time talking to Yuta and tells him about everything. The other way around is true as well. Though it only occurs when they are alone. 
• Yuta wears a watch only for Wooyeon because she wants one to always tell time, but she can't read one with her eyes, so his wearing of the watch is his way of implying he'll always be with her to tell time for her. 
• Wooyeon gives Yuta's phone number out as her own, but no one except a select few know. (They assume that whenever he answers for her, it's because they're often together so whatever.) Basically, Wooyeon treating Yuta's stuff as her stuff, and Yuta being very chill with it. 

Author's Note to the Apply Author: These are snippets on how I imagine their relationship came to be from Yuta's point of view. I took some liberties with his home life (since I imagine having a kid who you need to keep happy to keep him sane can be stressful), but feel free to do what you like with this. As for the ages, I had to logic it out (and if I'm wrong, correct me) but basically, 1997 - 1998 are uni second year (Yuta and Wooyeon). In this, Yuta's birthday is in October 1998 whereas Wooyeon's birthday is December 1997, so Wooyeon is older than Yuta for most of the year. I don't know why I like the idea of Wooyeon being the older one in the relationship, but I do. Also, his berserk and parasitic power wasn't elaborated on so I made it as general as possible. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and have a ton of ideas for them now.