Work Text:
He finds her at the billboard again.
She’s still in her work clothes, a smart blazer paired with sneakers instead of heels. Over the years, her fashion sense has changed from comfy and oversized to business practical, her hair now shorter and tucked behind her ear as to not hinder her view.
“Practicing your businesswoman look?” MJ asks lightly, coming to rest next to her.
“Mm. Maybe I can absorb your powers of suave mystery if I do this and attract my clients,” she responds, eyes still fixed on the billboard.
It’s become a weekly tradition of theirs, after they met coincidentally last year. Friday nights, he walks her to that small restaurant that serves really good kai palo. He tells her about his day and she reciprocates, usually badmouthing some client of hers as they share a plate of mango sticky rice.
They both ignore the absence of three other friends.
“You have to be born with it, Gorya,” he says nonchalantly, making her roll her eyes.
“Sorry I didn’t have the luck to be born rich.” She snarks back, eyeing him judgmentally. “At least I was healthier than you.”
“I never should’ve shown you that photo.”
She gives him a sideways smile. “I could’ve whooped your butt if I met you in middle school.”
MJ frowns. “Hey, just because I was scrawny doesn’t mean that I’d go down that easily.”
“Would you have come at me with a pistol or something?” At MJ’s cough, her expression changes into that of comical concern. “MJ, please tell me you wouldn’t have.”
“Well, I did know how to wield a gun when I was 7,” he shrugs, ignoring her indignant gasp.
“MJ, friends don’t do that,” she mock admonishes.
“Exactly. That’s why you’re still here,” He smiles and she shoves him in the shoulder before smiling back.
They stand in comfortable silence, born from rekindled friendship. It’s easy to hang out with Gorya; there’s no hidden agenda, no constant worrying about his next move. It feels nice.
Not to say that Gorya hasn’t changed. The girl with strong morals has grown into an even stronger woman, but growing up always comes with its own set of consequences.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
It’s a loaded question and he knows it, seeing the way her shoulders tense ever so slightly.
"What do you want me to say, MJ?” she asks, finally meeting his eyes. There’s a kind of wistful longing in them, the same feeling he had whenever he saw Iris.
"It’s been years.”
She lets out a bitter laugh at that, ruffling her hair and finally looking like that disheveled seventeen-year-old girl who didn’t even hesitate to almost shave her head.
“I know. It’s pathetic, when I...” She falters, before sighing and turning away. Neither her nor Thyme ever spoke of that day, but MJ can see that she obviously regrets it.
He observes the picture she’s gazing at intently.
The billboard in question is a picture of the Parama group members, all of them looking regal and elegant as they pose for the camera. Thyme has lost some of the baby fat he had in his youth, his jaw sharper and gaze colder as the picture captures the defining moment he becomes the successor, with his sister being the vice-president.
The perfect puppet son his mother wanted.
He broke off his engagement with Lita soon after, much to the displeasure of Roselyn. He changed, going from the bumbling best friend to cold and quiet, the one that could silence another with a single glance.
He stopped hanging out, and after a particularly explosive fight, MJ left, much to the horror of Kavin and Ren.
He was always the first one to forgive, and now, the first one to leave.
“They still intimidate me even from a billboard,” she laughs, but there’s an air of self-deprecation.
“Are you saying the son of a literal gangster doesn’t intimidate you?”
She eyes him with scorn. “This one doesn’t.”
“Hey.”
She chuckles.
But in all honesty, he understands why. Kavin, Ren and Thyme are all old money, their titles passed down generations. While they were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, MJ grew up in relative normalcy, with the exception of his father disappearing every once in a while to “make some people pay”. He finally accepted his status of wealth when people who would’ve passed by him in the street without a second glance now clamored to suck up to him.
The disparity he felt with his friends, with him being relatively ‘new money’ still affected him sometimes. He can’t even imagine the pressure Gorya must have felt.
“It’s his birthday today.” He says cautiously.
“I know.” She doesn’t even miss a beat, clearly recalling past memories.
“What are you gonna do?”
He hears a deep exhale. “What I do best. Stay out of the way, and root for him in the sidelines.”
She checks the time on her phone, hand clutching a worn pop-socket painted with yellow tulips against the backdrop of a starry sky.
“It’s late.” She says apologetically. “Sorry about that. I should’ve stopped being so sentimental.”
“I think it’s the only time where you seem like yourself.” MJ says.
She doesn’t take offense at his statement, because she knows it’s true. But mourning the loss of her innocence can be saved for another day, because she doesn’t think she can handle doing it twice.
She glances back at the one she would’ve moved mountains for, only if she’d been born more capable. If only the distance between them hadn’t been too great.
Maybe in another life.
She turns back to MJ, who’s watching her with an inscrutable expression. “Want to have some sticky rice?”