“I’m unfair to you, am I not? I hurt you in ways more than one. I took advantage of your heart and then claimed you as my own. How dare I, putting a claim on people, let along with you, you free-spirited love?”

A few days later, and Suho is asking everyone for their weekly gathering. Soyeon’s not exactly excited, because of what happened between her and Baekhyun. The boy hasn’t been speaking to her lately, and she’ll be damned if she goes to someplace he’ll ignore her presence entirely. But she’s not keen on staying home, either. Suho has told everyone to dress up prettily and that everyone wearing sweats will be kicked out. Sehun had gone through this once when he appeared with last night’s sweats and a dirty black shirt, which got him slapped and thrown away, so she knows not to take the threat lightly.

Dressing up for Suho meant there will be more than the number of people he usually asks in his home, which means that there won’t be only her and their friends. Suho rarely does this, because he likes his privacy more than anything and he likes to meet with his friends alone, too. But at times (like this one) he’d be over the top — like he really is — and ask numerous people to come. Being Suho means being loaded with not only wealth; but friends too. She’s aware that that’s the reason he has come forward to befriend her in the first place, to accumulate an entire army of friends.

Still, knowing of this beforehand doesn’t lighten the gasp that comes out of upon seeing his penthouse loaded with people; music so loud it’s possibly reaching ten houses away. She doesn’t think anyone would open the door when she rings the bell because really, the volume of the music is penetrating more than just her eyes; but Suho must’ve been standing across it for newcomers like her, and he instantly opens the door, beaming with a wide smile at her, looking slightly intoxicated already.

She looks past his body to the house, noticing how b with all kinds of people it is. She’s having a visualization of a pumped balloon that is constantly getting air until it bursts loudly; Suho’s massive house oddly resembles that, and considering his house is two times the size of hers, the people count must be a lot. A lot a lot.

“I thought it was just a gathering, Suho?” Soyeon breathes in still rattled shock; her eyes wider than two tennis balls. 

“Soyeon, hey!” He greets cheerfully, as if just registering her presence or just understanding he hasn’t yet greeted her, “Things happen, I guess. Friends called their friends, colleagues called their colleagues, and here we are.”

“This is no longer a gathering, stupid,” she half growls in poorly concealed anger, “This is a freaking party.”

Suho seems oblivious of the anger that she’s radiating like a scorching fire, or maybe he’s just dismissing it because he thinks of it as trivial and unimportant, “And?”

“You know my stance against parties.” She deadpans, eyes blank. 

“I know your stance against having fun, for sure,” he snorts or scoffs. It oddly sounded like both, “You’re not into them.”

“So why am I here?” She laments, crossing her arms over her chest in a totally unamused gesture. Suho’s either an absolute idiot to not notice her b irritation or he’s ignoring it. Knowing him, he’s definitely ignoring it. He looks down at the typically red cup in his hands, half full, and then shoved it towards her hands. She reaches out to grab it by pure instinct when it looked to be teetering dangerously to the side.

“Because I have a bigass stance against people who have a stance against parties,” he slurs, “And I’m going to yank that outa your !”

“You’re drunk!” She yells back over his shout, but the music’s blaring through every corner of the house that her own yell sounds like a muffled squeak.

“I’m not drunk, the world’s just spinning.” Thankfully, Suho’s heard it, and he giggles much like a drunk. He leans to the same side his cup had previously teetered towards, his massive body (only because her body is small as a squashed banana) and she quickly reaches her hands for his arms, steadying him. He giggles again, his cheeks flushed a harsh red against the whiteness of his ivory skin. She sighs so hard her whole chest deflated down. 

“You’re a ,” she says first, or stated. “C’mon, you need to sit.

She drags him down his massive house which feels like tangled large hallways and brushes, or pushes, past drunken people. She’s walking with the precision of a person who knows where they’re going, which she kind of does consider she’s spending a lot of her days (and nights) at Suho’s house.

He’s trying to pull his own weight, thankfully, knowing that she’s tiny in comparison to him. But he’s also aware that she’s used to dragging drunken people to steady places — her dad’s an — and so knows he can depend on her. He doesn’t even feel apologetic that he hears the people she pushes roughly aside screaming at her. Instead, he giggles. Alcohol definitely shifts your priorities around. 

When she reaches a large red velvet sofa in the middle of his large living room, where people had changed it into a dance floor; she sighs in relief at the absence of his weight on her shoulders. She asses his condition first, checking if he’s sitting on a correct station and not skewed, before ruffling his hair (earning herself a giggle) before going to the kitchen for a cup of water. 

It’s difficult to maneuver through a crowd of brainless monkeys who’re too wasted to realize their own steps, but she makes it a successful dart towards the kitchen. However, her speedy legs come to a surprising halt upon landing her eyes on a couple making out right on the counter next to the fridge. She’s not exactly self-aware on why exactly she’s pausing in front of them when everyone’s doing some not very PG stuff next to them, but there’s a spark of recognition igniting within her. She tilted her head sideways as if trying to catch who the boy is; his broad shoulders too familiar.

Her eyes widen when the said boy opens his eyes and glances right at her; his own eyes flickering in his own acknowledgment. He separates his lips from the girl’s, frowning at her as if she dared to interrupt his session or something. The girl with him merely giggles and buries her head into the juncture of his neck. 

Soyeon can’t look away.

“What are you doing?” He asks her harshly, and she flinches at both the tone and the look he’s giving her, breaking her out of her trance. 

She gulps but doesn’t answer him. What is she going to say, anyway? I want water from the fridge right next to your body but seeing you being frisky with a girl brought me to an absolute stop? That’d sound like a declaration of weakness from her part, or worse, a confession. She gulps away; unable to am extreme ability to yank her eyes off of him. His eyes are smoldering hot, whether because of the black kohl in them, or the volcano of emotions they’re enwrapped in. His black hair is smoothly brushed backward, and she notes it’s because of the girl’s fingers running through his locks rather than a trendy look he’s going after. His legs, which the girl’s legs are tangled in, look heavenly boyish in the skinny jeans he’s wearing.

She can’t tear her eyes off. 

He’s growing amused; she can see it in his eyes by how stiffly she’s standing, watching him. His blood-colored lips curl a little to show some of his enjoyment, and she wishes she can yank some of that lush hair of his apart 

“Look away, sweetheart.” He murmurs, almost soothingly, persuasively; she gulps yet again.

She doesn’t look away. There’s something in the ethereal status of him, of who Byun Baekhyun is in a whole that stops her from pulling her eyes away from him. He’s so beautiful, her mind gives way for such thought; he’s so beautiful, an enticing sort of beauty, devilish and taunting. She’s acknowledging the hard pacing of her heart around the walls of her ribs, harshly pouncing like a basketball inside of her, or a bullet ricocheting off of her chest. She can’t look away.

“Look. Away.” He grits his teeth, now sounding annoyed and irritated and angry and sad, hurt even. It’s this tone of his that reminds her exactly what she did to him three months ago; how much she broke his heart. It’s her that’s guilty here, not him, and now she dares look at him like she’s aching?

She looks away.

“Sorry,” she grumbles, cheeks a faint shadow of redness. “I want water for Suho.”

She walks towards the fridge with unsteady legs; she can feel their weight dragging down, when he pulls off of the girls and stands right in front of the fr