The Price Of Lemons;; YangYang x Reader [FLUFF]

The Price Of Lemons

    Sweat builds within your hair and threatens to trickle down your forehead while moisture wells above your lip. With a quick swipe it transfers from your face to your hand. Between the unbearable heat and the disgusting mess you're becoming, you let out a groan. Every inch of your body is on fire but the back of your neck is the worst; it's hot to the touch while also slick with perspiration.

To make matters worse, the air is dead. Not a wisp of a breeze passes you. Instead of providing relief, it burns as you suck down a dry breath. Underfoot the pavement might as well be magma. Heat rises through the concrete and through your shoes, baking your feet as if you were in an oven.

To put it simply, it's fucking hot.

An unprecedented heatwave, perhaps. They might have even warned of it in the news had you watched it before heading out. But a tiger doesn't change its stripes, and knowing wouldn't have altered your decision anyhow. Stubborn to a fault, you were always going to end up in suburban hell sans water and shade. Armed only with your worthless pride, you push forward into greater discomfort.

House after house promises reprieve from the elements. Inside there's cold water and air conditioning, maybe even a pool. Each and every one is paradise... but you're making a point. So when a sweet granny begs you to "escape the heat" over some iced tea, even just for a few minutes, you turn her down.

But despite your best efforts, you have your limits.

Your skin is sizzling. Your blood is boiling. Your mind is melting. Your body is sweltering.

The sun is winning the battle and it's only a matter of time before your exhaustion catches up to you... but there's a glimmer in the distance. Across the way is a shining beacon of hope. Each step toward salvation is light and airy, a skip in your step as you approach the small makeshift stand. Consisting of a plastic chair, lawn umbrella for shade, and table littered with solo cups and a jug, you suppose that's all you really need to start up a lemonade business.

Seated on the chair is a young man whose features sparkle like the ice within his pitcher. He clocks you within seconds of your staggering advance. As the road's searing heat stings your sensitive feet, he watches with an angelic smile. As you stumble closer to his stand, unquenchable thirst prickling at your throat the longer you stare at the delicious beverage just out of reach, he draws circles on the table with his finger. When you stand before him only to stare at the drink, not yet desperate enough to steal (keyword: yet), his head tilts to the side and a playful smile flashes across his face.

He's the embodiment of an angel as he speaks to you, his demeanour refreshing after the literal hell you've subjected yourself to in the last hour.

"Have a lemonade!"

"No, thanks." It hurts to speak, not only because of how parched you are but because you're denying yourself the very thing you crave. Your pain is amplified when he pours the sweet, sweet liquid into a cup, the drink sloshing within its cheap confines. "I don't have any money."

"Take it." Delicate fingers wrap around the plastic cup before he holds it up to you. His eyes glimmer and you can't refuse his kindness. When your hands graze against one another, you fight to hold back your gasp. Perhaps cooler than even the drink now safe in your grasp, his skin soothes your feverish touch. "You need it."

"Not a sound business strategy," you say as you take a small sip, just enough to wet the tongue, "giving things away for free."

He hums at that, nodding. "I never said it was free. Come back tomorrow to pay for it, okay?"

What a little scammer!

Scoffing, you shake your head. So that's how it's going to be. Doing your best to ease your irritated glare, you speak through gritted teeth, "Fine. How much for two?"

"It's usually five dollars for one cup but due to the circumstances... twenty for two!"

"What?"

It's at this point that you decide to really take him in; he's young, sure, but he's no boy. Children can get away with charging outlandish prices - it's a lesson in entrepreneurship so people tend to fawn over their little businesses. This man, however, is grown. Despite (or perhaps because of) his faux innocence, he's adept in loosening money free from wallets. He's equipped with beautiful, warm eyes that lure unsuspecting victims into his charm, disarming them so he can rob them blind. His face is sharp but his mind is sharper. No matter how naive a smile he tries to wear, you can spot his type from a mile away: a hustler.

"It'll be twenty dollars!"

"That's a scam," you spit out between clenched teeth, forcing your agitation onto your face in the form of a scowl. It does nothing to faze him, however.

"But it's freshly squeezed and these"–with a sad sigh, he gestures around you–"are trying times. I'm slaving away in this heat to provide unfortunate souls like yourself some relief."

"My only misfortune was stumbling across you."

"Actually... I think your problems started long before you met me." His smile reaches his eyes and you have to remind yourself that this man is a swindler taking advantage of a bad situation and not heavensent. "I think saviour suits me better, or maybe saint."

"Try con artist on for size," you mumble under your breath before sculling the first cup. It goes down easy, quelling the burn in your throat. Flicking your finger toward him, you request your second drink and it's just as smooth as the first.

"Satisfied?"

"No, actually, I'm n–"

"Then I'll see you tomorrow!"

"I don't think you will, pal." Glowering at him, you crunch the solo cup until it breaks, a mock threat hidden in your action that he chooses to ignore with a wide grin. "I've already got the goods; I have no reason to return."

"You seem like an honourable and respectable citizen so I'm sure you won't sully your good name by skipping on your tab. You're no criminal. I can tell!"

"I guess it takes one to know one, right?"

"And don't forget to tip!"

"You have got to be kidding me! Listen here you lit–"

"I accept payment in the form of ice cream. Expensive ice cream, like from a parlour. One of the fancy ones with too many options to pick from!"

"You mean..." Trailing off, your eyes fall onto his joyous expression. It's time to turn the tables. Wanting to put him on the spot and make him a little nervous, you lean into his space all while wearing your best smirk. It's the same one you use whenever you know a win is in your future. Perhaps it's cocky, but you're determined to throw him off his guard. And when you want something, you don't stop until you get it. "Like a date?"

There's a mere few inches of warm air left between you. Much to your dismay, he doesn't shrink away. The look of pure shock you had wished to see painted on his face instead adorns yours as he unabashedly winks. He's beating you at your own game! Heat scorches your cheeks and there's too much shade under his umbrella to blame the sun this time around.

"Exactly! Let's catch a movie afterwards too, okay?"

"Fine," you stutter, your voice shy in comparison to his overt enthusiasm.

A delay in victory isn't a loss, not necessarily. And he does possess a certain charm, the kind that makes it hard to refuse him. That's why you're agreeing to meet him tomorrow, and even going so far as to exchange contact information. But you still have a few tricks up your sleeve. After all, you can play the long game with the best of them. There'll be another chance to fluster him, to make this cool cat lose his composure–

"I think this makes me the luckiest guy in the city," he muses, chin in hand as he gazes up at you, soft brown eyes melting your tenacity away.

Maybe – just this once – you could allow someone else to win.

"Then give me a discount on my third cup."

"Nope! Triple or nothing!"

Sometimes a loss is worth more than a victory anyway.