Chapter Text
She’s had the power since she was twelve. As far as she knows, at least.
It starts when Moonbyul shoves her sister off a swing. She rationalizes, because she wouldn’t have to shove her off if she wasn’t hogging it. The sickening crack of bone against pavement causes her to reconsider and, regret. Her sister is crying and her mother is shouting, get your father, she says.
The voices blend and overwhelm. She crouches, terrified.
She tip toes into her sister’s room that night. Leans against the hospital sheets and signs an apology on her cast. But her tears are smudging the words and she has to keep starting over and over and –
Moonbyul catches herself mid-argument with her sister.
They’re back at the playground. Her sister’s still hogging the swings. Her arm isn’t broken.
It takes her a few times (years) to catch on, and to get past her own initial disbelief. Time travel, as it turns out, is a hard concept to introduce to her parents, who dismiss it as nothing but the imagination of a child.
She doesn’t know when the whole thing transitioned into normalcy. When it simply became habit to rewind at the slightest mistake or displeasure. It’s a pretty terrible way to grow up. When her peers were learning from their mistakes, Moonbyul was learning how to reverse them.
Sometimes she thinks the powers that be must be rolling in their graves. She could have been something. Done something great with this power of hers. Became a superhero, maybe.
But that would have upset the cosmic balance, if she believed in such a thing.
She’s nineteen when she meets the love of her life. It’s hard to believe because she’s never so much written a letter to Santa or left her tooth under her pillow. And whirlwind romances seem to take a page right out of that book.
Love -- four letters that disgusted her and probably would have never surfaced if she’d just ignored that smile belonging to what was surely the devil’s work.
“I haven’t seen you around. I’m Solar.”
The girl is smiling wider than she needs to and it makes Moonbyul squirm. She really doesn’t need another reason to hate History class.
“I’m Moonbyul.” She tries to return the smile but she’s pretty sure it’s crooked. Solar laughs anyways.
She also giggles, Moonbyul finds. And really, the sheer number of times Solar lets out a piercing laugh during the rest of their conversation sets her on edge. It’s uncomfortable and possibly a little annoying. When the bell rings, Moonbyul decides that maybe she kind of hates her.
But when she turns to leave, Solar calls her name and presses a folded piece of paper against her palm. Her eyes are sparkling and Moonbyul almost forgives the last forty five minutes. Solar smiles again and Moonbyul looks away.
A different kind of discomfort settles in.
When she unfolds the paper, Moonbyul almost laughs because how completely old school.
It’s her number.
They meet three more times, two of which were on the dance floor sandwiched between sweaty bodies and stale air (Solar ropes her into it, because as she finds, Solar’s impossible to say no to). Three times, that’s all it takes before Moonbyul wakes up next to Solar.
Spontaneity is something she grows up with. Moonbyul blames her power, for letting her do whatever she wants with a get out of jail pass readily available. Because three meetings is barely long enough as a probation period for being friends. And they are definitely past the friends stage and becoming more like -
Actually, Moonbyul doesn’t know what they are.
People say love changes a person.
Moonbyul thinks it’s all bullshit. She still fights with her sisters, plural now, accident be damned. She’s still petty as ever, holds grudges, and burns her marshmallows instead of slow roasting them.
And maybe none of those things change, but without her even realizing it, Moonbyul’s been using her power more and more for Solar. For the most insignificant of things, no less. Like spilling coffee on yourself before an interview.
She offers Solar her sweater. It’s cold and all she has on underneath is the thinnest of shirts.
“I’m not dressing to go to hipster concert,” Solar huffs. “Couldn’t you be a little more helpful? I mean this is really important to me.”
Moonbyul doesn’t stop to argue that it’s just a shirt. That landing a part time gig at Zara probably wasn’t going to be the turning point of her career.
But Solar is on the verge of tears now. Her eyes aren’t watery but Moonbyul knows just from the tone of her voice, the practiced restraint. Solar would never cry in public.
She sighs. It was easier to just rewind.
Suddenly they’re back in Starbucks before the spill happened. She inches Solar’s coffee away from the table’s edge so that when it spills, it only drips along the side of the table.
Solar shrieks anyways and waves her hands frantically, signaling for napkins without actually moving to get them. Moonbyul walks toward the counter with a silly smile on her face.
But a searing pain runs through her head. The suddenness catches her by surprise and she nearly stumbles.
It only lasts for second. She shakes it off and swears off caffeine for the rest of the week.
Love changes a person. The jury’s still out on whether it’s for better or for worse.
She meets Wheein when she’s twenty.
“This is Moonbyul, my friend.”
Friend. She’s pretty sure Solar’s misusing that word. Friends help each other on homework assignments, not towards screaming orgasms, she guesses.
Moonbyul smiles at Wheein though – but only half as brilliant as Solar. She’s learning, and Rome wasn’t built in a day. Solar quickly runs through introductions. Rants on about how Wheein’s really good at karaoke, which seems to embarrass her, and teases Moonbyul about having a soft spot for girls who could sing.
She punches her in the arm before Solar could continue.
Attention span was never her forte. Suddenly Solar is gushing about some party that weekend.
“You should come,” she says and loops one arm around Moonbyul. She’s touched her so many times now, and in so many places more intimate than this. And yet Moonbyul still breaks out a small grin that she tries to cover with a cough.
She looks up and sees Wheein staring.
“You too Wheein,” Solar adds, stepping forward and looping her other arm around Wheein’s.
“Sorry, I can’t. There’s somewhere I have to be this weekend,” Wheein replies, and just smiles apologetically when Solar clings to her arm and wails about all the fun she’s missing out on.
Wheein smiles as she waves her goodbye. It isn’t as wide as Solar’s, thinner maybe. Moonbyul’s heart doesn’t beat any faster.
But she does find herself returning the smile. It doesn’t fade, even long after Wheein’s gone.
It turns out what happened at Starbucks wasn’t an isolated incident.
The pain hits her again out of the blue, when she’s trying to help Solar score better on her Physics final. It’s maybe worse and longer this time. And when it happens a third time, it’s impossible to ignore.
Finally, a consequence. Something she’s been avoiding her whole life. Moonbyul’s almost relieved.
The pain makes her think twice about using her power, which is probably the point. For the first time in a long time, she starts making choices instead of testing them.
Patience was a secret she had unlocked growing up.
Seven times out of ten, her mother shows up at her grade school hours later than promised. Moonbyul stops waiting on the front steps.
She joins the theater club just to pass the time. It doesn’t occur to her that she loves it until the crowd is on their feet, a standing ovation for their Christmas play.
It’s not the acting – she’s kind of terrible she admits – but the performance that absolutely enthralls her. When she’s on stage, everything else bleeds into the background. It doesn’t matter that her mom’s late, or that her sister broke her favorite doll. The only thing going through her mind is the rush of adrenaline propelling her forward.
She asks her mother for dance lessons – no, begs. She declines, but Moonbyul persists. Day after day until her mother hesitantly relents.
The dance studio by her house soon becomes her new home.
She’s not really the caring type, she finds this out about herself. Or her first girlfriend tells her. She doesn’t really call or cuddle or do those cute aegyo things you do for girlfriends. And she doesn’t cry either when they break up.
Solar’s the exception, as she is to most things.
For Solar, Moonbyul wakes up twenty minutes early and calls Solar for the next fifteen until she picks up with that hoarse, barely alive morning voice of hers. She makes sure to match her schedule with Solar’s, laughing as she wails about their terrible Econ teacher over lunch.
More than once she picks her up when she’s barely conscious, stumbling through the rugged halls of her apartment together. Solar’s always been a terrible drinker, and sometimes she’ll mumble an apology as Moonbyul rolls her into bed.
And when Solar says that she doesn’t want to make their relationship public, Moonbyul just accepts. Like she accepts Solar’s frequent late showings to their dates, and when she peels Moonbyul’s hand off her waist, hissing for her to be more discrete in public.
With Solar, Moonbyul accommodates.
It’s only half past nine and Solar’s already flushed.
Three drinks was her maximum and she’s now just halfway through her second. Moonbyul’s been counting, making sure she doesn’t exceed her historical limit.
It’s a terrible job, standing on the sidelines like Solar’s goddamn mother. Nursing her cup of punch and fending off guys that seemed keen on bombing out.
And it’s even harder to watch Solar stumble her way onto the dance floor and all the cat calling that comes with it. Guys, girls, attraction is indiscriminate when it comes to Solar, and Moonbyul finds it hard not to lower her eyes.
Jealously, another concept she never understood until Solar came along.
She scowls when a girl from their Psych class approaches Solar and starts dancing noticeably close to her. To anyone else, it’s probably a normal, innocuous gesture and yet Moonbyul clenches her teeth and takes an extra-large gulp of her pathetically nonalcoholic drink.
She can’t even get mad really. Not when Solar asks for her damn permission before each party, I’ll go but only if you’re okay with it. And it’s not like Moonbyul can just say no because a). she’s not really her mother and b). it’s hard to think when Solar asks with two fingers inside her and lips drumming against her neck.
She also whines about how Moonbyul hardly ever dances with her, I’m starting to doubt that you’re really a dancer. Moonbyul doesn’t bother pointing out that grinding on dirty concrete hardly qualifies as dancing. But really, she doesn’t show her dance to anyone. It’s her longest and best kept secret.
Her second best kept secret is something she’ll never admit. It’s not the dancing or the intimacy or the fact that Solar’s getting passed around like some dirty exhibitionist show – that’s not what bothers her.
It’s the terrible truth when she realizes that Solar’s eyes never really change. Whether she’s casually dancing with a stranger, thanking the lunch lady for letting her off without her wallet, giggling as she picks up and twirls Moonbyul’s sister in the air, or whispering I love you and kissing Moonbyul on the bridge of her nose – it’s all the same look.
Moonbyul used to think Solar just loved everyone indiscriminately, congruent with her angelic exterior. But it soon occurs to her that maybe, she doesn’t love anyone at all.
“What are you drinking?”
Moonbyul nearly jumps at the tap on her arm. She frowns when she turns around.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
Wheein’s dressed in an oversized sweater, probably the second most conservative outfit here next to Moonbyul’s.
“Changed my mind,” she shrugs.
“Why didn’t you tell Solar? She really wanted you to come.”
“Slipped my mind.”
It’s a badly put together lie but Moonbyul doesn’t press further.
“What are you drinking,” Wheein asks again.
“Nothing. Punch,” Moonbyul replies, with a slight bitter edge to her tone.
Wheein laughs and Moonbyul notices for the first time how pronounced her dimple is.
“How’s Solar watch going,” Wheein comments casually and smiles at her surprised expression. “You’ve been staring at her for the better half of the hour.”
She’s perceptive, Moonbyul will give her that. Two can play at that game.
“Yeah? And what about you? How long have you been watching me?” She fires back.
Wheein returns her look, seemingly unnerved, and then glances at her near empty cup.
“How about I get you a real drink.”
It’s late. She still has to take Solar home. She should say no.
But there’s something about Wheein’s eyes that puts her at a diametric opposite to Solar. Moonbyul can’t quite pinpoint what it is, and it sort of fascinates her.
She follows Wheein to the bar.
They’re not perfect. Far from it in fact.
The truth of the matter is, the divorce rate isn’t climbing because relationships aren’t perfect; it’s because people try to cheat themselves into thinking that they are.
Moonbyul’s satisfied though. Being with Solar isn’t easy. It’s exhausting more times than not. But it feels safe, comfortable. With Solar, she can be as open or as private as she wants. She can pour her soul out and Solar will listen. Or she can lie through her teeth and Solar will look the other way. It’s a sort of safeness she’s never experienced with anyone else.
Solar’s pretty vocal about most things though. She yells when she’s angry, cries when she’s sad, and laughs when she’s happy. It’s a nice foil to Moonbyul’s more convoluted set of emotions and it strikes a perfect sort of balance in their relationship.
Love though, she doubts either of them really knows the meaning of the word. They throw it around enough, in their texts, at the end of phone calls, when their bodies are pressed intimately against one another. But replace love with need and Moonbyul’s not sure she knows the difference.
They’re happy though. And really, that’s all that matters.
Moonbyul’s always surprised by how heavy 95 pounds of deadweight is when it’s balanced on her shoulders.
From the way she’s grumbling under her breath, Wheein seems to share the same sentiment.
“How is she this heavy when she’s built like a tiny squirrel,” Wheein huffs out between clenched teeth.
“She’ll surprise you, in the worst ways,” Moonbyul fires back. The slight malice in her words goes unnoticed by Wheein who yelps when Solar shifts her weight towards her subconsciously.
“Shit, her arm is slipping on my side,” she tries, unsuccessfully, to readjust the weight.
“It’s okay, I’ve got her on my side. We’re almost there,” Moonbyul reassures her.
It’s nearly three in the morning. They’re both exhausted and sweaty and none of them exactly smelled like flowers at this point. Moonbyul is seriously contemplating rolling back time for this.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you get me that drink,” Moonbyul groans.
“Are you seriously blaming this on me?” Wheein hisses. “It’s not like you don’t know how terrible of a drunk Solar is.”
She wishes she was drunk enough to ignore the throwaway comment. Moonbyul doesn’t know why she’s even asking this now, when her shoulders are screaming for her to shut the hell up and to keep moving.
“How well do you know Solar?”
“Are you really doing this now? Can we at least get her to her room first,” Wheein squeaks. “You know, before my lungs and limbs give out on me.”
Perspective. Right. It starts her legs moving again.
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
There’s a lot of things Moonbyul ignores about this night.
Like how closely Wheein has to lean in to speak over the loud drum of the party. The way Moonbyul tenses up every time her breath tickles the curve of her ear. Or how surprisingly enjoyable Wheein’s company was.
And definitely the part where Wheein pulls out a key for Solar’s apartment.
Moonbyul doesn’t ask. Not about that or the way Wheein smooths the cover around Solar’s neck and gingerly tucks a loose strand behind her ear.
Motherly, Moonbyul decides. It’s motherly, she convinces herself.
She’s not sure why she’s looking away.
“Are you staying the night?” Wheein asks.
She wasn’t planning to, but the question startles her and now she’s on the defensive.
“Yeah, of course,” Moonbyul answers shakily. “I’m her friend.”
“Right,” Wheein responds, carrying a slight tone of disbelief. “I should be heading back then.”
The door closes behind Wheein and Moonbyul lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She presses a soft kiss against Solar’s temple before plopping down on her couch.
Moonbyul’s never been a heavy sleeper. The fatigue must have caught up to her because she sleeps through the whole night. When she wakes, she’s wrapped in Solar’s comforter. There’s a note on the coffee table.
Sorry about last night. There’s coffee in the pot. I love you.
The last three words linger long after morning ends.