Sweet tooth-rotting fluff 🚎
"Do you believe we would have met even if it hadn't been raining that day?"
"𝘙𝘪𝘬𝘪, 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶."
"Sometimes I think about the first time we met and wish I had just walked away if I known I would hurt you this...
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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Sunoo's alarm buzzed relentlessly, shattering the stillness of the early morning. He groaned, groping blindly to silence it before collapsing back against his pillow. For a moment, he contemplated staying in bed, letting the world turn without him. But as sunlight filtered softly through his curtains, painting his small apartment in golden hues, he forced himself to sit up.
The space around him felt like an extension of his personality: cozy, creative, and brimming with potential. His desk overflowed with fabric swatches, fashion magazines, and sketchbooks, each one a small piece of his dream. A half-finished embroidery project draped over the back of his chair, its needle and thread still poised as if waiting for his touch.
Yawning, Sunoo padded to the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee, the warm, nutty aroma filling the air. He tossed a handful of fresh fruit over a bowl of yogurt, carrying his modest breakfast to the little table by the window. As he sipped his coffee, he let his thoughts drift.
Last night's dance class lingered in his mind like the afterglow of a good dream. Riki's teasing smirk, the way his movements seemed effortless yet powerful, and the rush of trying something so outside his comfort zone—it all replayed in vivid detail. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he remembered his own clumsy attempts to follow Riki's steps, his laughter bubbling uncontrollably every time he stumbled.
Who knew he'd actually enjoy dancing? Or, more accurately, who knew Riki could make him enjoy dancing?
Sunoo shook his head, setting down his coffee with a small smile. "Focus, Kim Sunoo," he muttered to himself.
When it came time to get dressed, he let his mood guide him. He pulled on a loose, oversized jacket that he'd customized with embroidered daisies—a little project he'd finished last spring—and paired it with baggy jeans that gave off an effortlessly casual vibe. A few rings and a gold chain added just the right amount of sparkle, reminding him of how confident he'd felt last night under Riki's gaze.
Grabbing his bag filled with sketchbooks and pencils, Sunoo headed out into the brisk morning air. The subway ride to Decelis University was its usual blend of quiet chaos: the hum of moving trains, the occasional announcement crackling through the speakers, and commuters lost in their own worlds.
When Sunoo arrived on campus, the courtyard was alive with energy. Students clustered in groups, exchanging notes or chatting about their plans for the day. Sunoo weaved through the crowd, smiling and nodding to a few classmates.
ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎
Design Fundamentals began promptly at 9 a.m., the classroom buzzing with quiet focus as the professor launched into a lecture on texture. "Texture," the professor explained, pacing in front of a screen displaying examples of tactile fabrics, "is more than just how something feels. It's emotion, movement, and story all rolled into one."
Sunoo leaned forward, jotting down notes in neat, precise handwriting. His mind wandered as the professor spoke, conjuring images of garments that looked as if they could dance on their own—pieces that felt alive, inspired by motion.
He couldn't stop picturing it: the fluidity of silk mimicking a dancer's spin, pleated fabric cascading like a flowing river, and sharp, angular cuts reflecting the precision of a perfect turn. In the margins of his notebook, he sketched quick designs, annotating them with thoughts like, How to make fabric move like a dancer?
The rest of the class passed in a blur, and as soon as it ended, Sunoo made a beeline for the library. He spent hours poring over books on fabric manipulation and textile design, the faint smell of old paper and ink filling his senses. Each page brought new ideas, his mind racing with possibilities.
The thought of incorporating movement into his designs became more than an idea; it felt like a calling. Dancers filled his imagination—effortless, free, yet meticulously controlled. And always, unbidden, Riki's image slipped into his mind.
ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎
By lunchtime, Sunoo's stomach growled in protest, dragging him out of his creative haze. He made his way to the bustling cafeteria, juggling a sandwich and a bottle of iced tea as he scanned the room for an empty seat.
That's when he saw him.
Riki leaned against a table, talking animatedly with a small group of friends. Even in a crowded space, his presence stood out—effortless confidence radiating from him like a beacon. His laughter rang out above the din, his grin infectious even from a distance.
For a moment, Sunoo debated whether to approach him. But before he could decide, Riki looked up, his eyes locking onto Sunoo's. A wide smile spread across his face.
"Hey, Sunoo!" he called, waving him over.
Sunoo's heart skipped, but he played it cool, walking over with a casual, "Hey, Riki."
Riki gestured to his friends, introducing Sunoo as "the fashion designer I told you about." Sunoo flushed at the attention, mumbling a modest, "Still learning," as Riki's friends offered curious smiles.
"You must be good if Riki's talking about you," one of them remarked, a girl with brightly dyed hair.
Sunoo took a seat beside Riki, feeling both nervous and oddly comfortable as the group's attention shifted to lighter topics. He found himself laughing along, the easy camaraderie of the table reminding him of how much he missed being part of a lively group.
"So," Riki said, turning back to Sunoo. "What's this project you're working on? Any cool ideas?"
Sunoo hesitated before admitting, "I'm thinking about creating pieces inspired by movement. I want the fabrics to flow, like... dancers, almost."
Riki's grin widened. "Dancers, huh? You've been thinking about last night, haven't you?"
Sunoo's cheeks burned. "Not just because of you," he insisted, though the truth was painfully obvious to both of them. "But... yeah, watching you dance made me realize how much movement can inspire design."
Riki's gaze softened, his teasing tone giving way to genuine warmth. "Glad I could help. If you need more inspiration, you know where to find me," he said, his voice low and inviting.
Sunoo laughed, shaking his head. "I'll keep that in mind."
ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎
By the time lunch ended, Sunoo felt lighter, his earlier nervousness replaced with a quiet excitement. The rest of his day flew by, his thoughts swirling with ideas and possibilities.
When he finally returned home that evening, he dropped his bag on the floor and went straight to his desk. His sketchbook lay open, pages filled with half-formed ideas. But tonight, the designs came alive.
With each pencil stroke, he refined the shapes, imagining how fabric could bend and twist with a dancer's movements. He experimented with pleats, folds, and flowing lines, every design telling a story of motion.
As the hours ticked by, Sunoo worked tirelessly, his excitement never waning. And in the quiet of his apartment, he couldn't help but wonder when fate—or perhaps Riki—might throw them together again.
