March 11th, 2016

This Ain't You

Title: This Ain't You
Length: Oneshot (~1700w)
Pairing: Kris/Any (written in 2nd person with no gender references)
Rating: PG-13 (for drug/alcohol references and language)
Genre: general, fluff
A/N: i don't usually do someone/reader, but apparently yeoseong's dreams inspire me to write things about yifan being dumb :x

This Ain't You

The second you walk through the door, you have to fight back choking on your own breath. The air is almost too thick to see through and reeks of booze and weed as you push your way into the hall. There’s at least three people stumbling around in front of you, but you can’t make out a single face and it takes a second to stop yourself from reaching for the glasses you know are already on your face.

He is so dead when you find him. So dead.

More people come crashing down the hallway as you make your way to what you guess could be the living room, tripping over beer cans and plastic cups the entire way through. A few people try to shove a drink or a roll of paper into your hand, but despite the tempting offer, you refrain and keep your eye on the prize. It’s rather ironically convenient, you muse as you finally get close enough to make out the figures slumped all over the couch, that your prize is already wrapped up for you with a nice linen bow.

You don’t know who the people sitting beside him are and right now you don’t really care- all you care about is that despite the chaos thrumming through the rest of the house, Yifan seems to be relatively safe and unharmed. He does, however, look blasted out of his fucking mind.

The smoke is much thicker here than it was at the door, and tiny flashes of glowing red break through the haze every time you blink your eyes (which is a lot, because fuck this stuff burns why would anyone in their right mind ever do this?). You almost voice your thoughts when Yifan’s droopy eyelids perk up a bit and a slow, slow smile spreads across his lips.

“Babe~ you’re here~” he drawls, much too loudly for how close you are now, but despite it all, that smile still sets a few butterflies loose in your stomach. He raises his arm in attempt to reach out to you, but somehow falls pitifully short. “What took you so long?” he asks with a helpless giggle, the wiggling of his fingers doing nothing to help with the butterflies.

There are a million ways you can answer his question, from telling him that it took you less than ten minutes to get there to the incoherent screaming you were doing at your steering wheel during those less than ten minutes, but instead you decide to address the most pressing issue. “Yifan,” you start slowly, leveling him with the calmest stare you can manage, “you’re wearing a toga.”

It’s as if the realization comes in slow motion; the dopey smile slips from his face and is replaced with a dull confusion, his eyes squinting and eyebrows pinching a line into his forehead before he looks down at the crumpled sheet pathetically draped over his chest. “Ohhhh,” he breathes out. “Did I do that?”

A flash of anger surges through you for a second, a brief you better have done that yourself, crossing your mind before you can shake it away. “Doesn’t matter. Grab your shit, we’re leaving,” you answer, and before Yifan can process the words, you’re already pulling him up off the couch, his practically dead weight draping across your shoulders when his knees refuse to hold him.

“Babe noooo~” he whines, this time so close to your face that you should have noticed the lack of alcohol on his breath. He falls into you anyway, wrapping his bare arms around your shoulders and laughing slow with his lips pressed against your neck. “Mmmm you look so pretty,” he says, and the butterflies go nuts again.

The way the gentle press of his lips turns into a sloppy attempt at a kiss makes your own knees a bit weak, but you manage to drag him away from the party and shove him into the passenger seat of your car with little incident. He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive, and halfway to his apartment you notice that his eyes have a lot more clarity than they should for the state you found him in just five minutes before. The dopy, carefree expression on his face is completely gone, and his teeth are diligently worrying away at his bottom lip, fingers twisting the seams of his makeshift toga with too much precision for someone in his state. With a sigh you pull into the nearest parking lot, empty at 2am on a Thursday, and turn off the car.

“Yifan…” you start slowly. He doesn’t even twitch as he stares blankly out the window. He still reeks of weed and booze he probably didn’t even drink, but you know without a doubt that it’s your Yifan sitting there this time, looking properly scolded despite you not saying a word yet. You don’t let it deter you though; he’s still getting it whether he feels sorry or not. The speech you threw together on the drive over bubbles up and immediately dies in your throat, the only thing you can actually manage to say making it out on a whisper rather than a roar.

“What the hell was all that?” is all you manage to say, and it’s not quite the tongue lashing you had prepared, but it gets your message across all the same.

Yifan sighs deeply and looks even further away from you, some streetlight on the other side of the parking lot getting the brunt of whatever expression he’s making, and his fingers finally let go of the hem of his toga. “I don’t know,” he mutters, but that’s not good enough.

You turn to face him in your seat and stare until he spares you a glance out of the corner of his eye, quickly looking away once your eyes meet. You wait for him to say more, but he remains silent.

“Seriously Yifan?” you start again. “Beer, weed, getting undressed at a party just so you can wear a… a stupid sheet? This isn’t you.”

There isn’t nearly as much bite to the question as there should have been, but he winces all the same. Despite all Yifan’s stupid decisions, you still have a soft spot for the man, and he looks so pathetic right now that you can’t bring yourself to scold him properly. His answer doesn’t quite help.

His fingers return to worrying the seams of his toga, and he shift to keep his eyes solidly locked on the floor of your car. “I… I know. I think that’s why I texted you,” he mutters. “I think I just got caught up in everything and just… I didn’t actually drink anything and nearly choked to death after taking just one hit so… I didn’t… really do anything past that.”

You stare, long and hard as he speaks, and it’s almost charmingly pathetic how he wrings his hands in the cheap microfiber sheet after the silence gets too thick for him to bear. It takes everything in you not to reach over and comfort him, but you hold strong and keep your arms at your sides.

“You don’t have to impress any of them,” you say instead- a compromise of sorts. “If that’s the kind of crap you have to do to keep those people as friends, then they aren’t worth it. You deserve a lot better than that.”

He nods slowly and draws his lip between his teeth, chewing on it as he thinks. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “You’re right.”

“You have people that love you for who you are,” you continue, “and that person isn’t the one I had to drag out of a cheap drug party.”

He doesn’t say anything this time, just blinks at the floor as he lets your words soak in. You both know it’s not the first time he’s done dumb things just to impress people, but this is by far the most out of character. You want to still be mad- you really really do- but without your permission, your hand reaches out to slip beneath his and your other comes up to turn his face toward you, his eyes finally rising from the floor to look at your face. You offer a smile, and he answers with a half-hearted curl of his own lips.

I love you for who you are Yifan,” you say, and his smile strengthens.

“Yeah?” he answers back, smile slipping into somewhat of a self-depreciating grin. “Even when I do dumb shit like this?”

You have half a mind to smack him with the hand still resting on his cheek, but you lean in to kiss it instead. “Yes, even when you do dumb shit like this,” you say with a laugh, and the next time you go in to kiss his cheek, he turns just enough for your lips meet- just a gentle press before you’re pulling back and smacking him for real.

“Hey! No real kisses for you yet!” you shout. He has the audacity to give you a wounded look before immediately breaking into that goofy smile you can’t help falling for, and it’s right then that you know you’re utterly screwed.

He tries to trick you into another while you’re still close, but you catch him this time, smooshing your hand against his face before he can get too far and laughing the entire way. “No, I’m still mad at you!” you lie, and it’s only after two more half-assed attempts at blocking him that he settles down enough for you to start the car, radio blasting your favorite songs as you drive past his apartment and on to yours. It’s there that you pretend not to notice him sneaking behind you in your bedroom, his long arms wrapping around your waist as he bends in for a real kiss that you “aren’t prepared” to block. He smiles into it, wide, gummy, and stupidly in love when you don’t pull away, and you fall asleep with a cheap microfiber sheet wrapped tightly around you both.