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stupidly perfect - (best friend!bang chan x reader) part 3

pairing: best friend!bang chan x reader

summary: you're greeted with an unexpected surprise that same evening. but no one said it would be pleasant . . .

genre: angsty (everyone say it with me), idol!au, mentions of injuries, blood, cuts, scrapes, mentions of first aid kits and medical supplies, slight suggestive warning (nothing intense or graphic), lots of back and forth, lots of crying, i think i missed something but this chapter is sadder than the last two combined . . . i'm not sorry

a/n: yall wanted part 3 . . . SUFFER ! ! div by @ferretmilkshakezzz

skz masterlist | skz prompt list | part one | part two

Chan is soaked.

His hair looks as if it had been styled earlier; not anymore, and the rain drips down strands of his hair and into the neckline of his tee. The white fabric clings to his skin, turning sheer under his leather jacket; its dark, smooth surface collects water in the grooves, running off the silver-clipped cuffs.

His bare skin has a thin sheen of water over it, like he'd wiped his face before knocking. He stares at you with flushed cheeks, shining wet and dark under the warm light of your porch.

"Y/n," he says cautiously. The rain thunders behind him, and you can barely hear the whisper of your name as the wind carries it into the house behind you.

You step back.

Chan doesn't move; doesn't ask to come in, or offer an explanation. He simply stands. Like he showed up at your door without a plan or anything to say. The thought pisses you off, and before you know it, you're moving to slam the door.

He presses a hand to the frame before you can shut it; the satisfying bang that was supposed to come from the slam is replaced with the dull thud of the wood smacking against Chan's hand.

He doesn't flinch.

The skin instantly turns an angry red, a raw scrape running across the top two knuckles. Your hand grips the doorknob as you watch a thick rivulet of scarlet bloom across the wound and run between the dip of his fingers, mixing with the rainwater, tinging his palm pink.

Your voice is low, but firm enough that he can still hear it over the cacophony of rain behind him. "What do you want, Chan?"

Silence. Then-

"To talk."

You glare at him, feeling your shoulders go rigid. "Bit late for that, don't you think?"

He does flinch then, from the cold tone in your voice, but he pleads anyway. "Please, Y/n. I just want to figure this out. Let me in."

You scoff and bite the inside of your cheek. The audacity. "You had time to come and see me, both when I was in hospital, and yesterday, when I came back home. Why now?"

"I-" He pauses. "I had to think things through."

You don't have a reply for that. You needed time to process things too. His reply is valid enough. And it's not like he could have texted or called you; you'd blocked him on every platform, and given the members explicit instructions not to let him contact you through them.

Wordlessly, you step aside.

Chan hesitates for a split second before toeing off his shoes and stepping inside. The door brushes his shoulder as you shut it, quieting the din from outside, and he stands there awkwardly, clearly not sure what to do. He doesn't seem to notice the injury on his hand, and blood drips onto the floor, mixing with the rainwater around his feet.

"Wait here," you say monotonely.

Leaving him standing by the door, you head upstairs to fetch a fluffy towel from the linen closet. Pausing by the landing, you spin on your heel towards your bedroom and fetch an oversized shirt and sweats from your drawers.

Chan doesn't look at you as you come back down the stairs; he's still fixed in position as you left him. There's a sizeable puddle around his feet now, tinged with pink where blood from his hand is still dripping. You thrust the towel at him and place the clothes on the back of the couch.

He takes them with a quiet nod of thanks, still not making eye contact. You watch as he pauses, clearly not wanting to trail water over your floor.

"It's fine," you sigh. "Just use the towel after."

He nods and moves to the coffee table in the midst of the living room, taking out several items; his wallet, keys, and his phone in a plastic bag, as well as a few random things like a chapstick, gum wrapper, and crumpled sticky note. Ink stains his fingers as he sets it down on the table, along with everything else.

You wonder dryly as to how he managed to remember to put his phone in a plastic bag to protect it, but somehow forgot to bring an umbrella with him.

The thought is chased away as Chan sheds his jacket. You blink as he brings his arms over his head, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He's-

Oh.

Oh.

You spin around with a squeak and your hands fly to cover your eyes. Chan doesn't remark on this; simply towels his torso down, puts on the shirt you left on the couch, and does the same for his lower half.

He's reasonably quick with it; by the time you turn around, cautiously lowering your hands from your eyes, he's dried off his hair and the water he trailed on the floor.

He folds his wet clothes, save for his leather jacket, which has dried, and places them on top of the damp towel. He stands with the items in his hands, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Put them in the guest bathroom," you say. There is nothing welcoming or gentle about your stance or tone. Just firm, cold instructions.

Chan wanders down the hallway and you sigh, fetching your first aid kit from the kitchen drawer. By the time he comes back, bare feet padding across the tiles, you're sat on the couch with an antiseptic wipe in your hand.

Wordlessly, he sits down beside you, keeping his distance, and lets you swipe the cold pad across his knuckles. You don't coo or utter words or sympathy as you normally would have; cleaning it briskly of the blood, you wind a soft, clean bandage around the top half on his hand and secure it at the wrist.

He flexes his hand as you tuck the empty antiseptic packet into the kit, zipping it up and pushing it to the side. Part of you feels bad, exhibiting this cold demeanour to your best friend, but the other half of you, the much louder part, says he deserves it. Not to say that it isn't partly your fault either.

Is he even your best friend anymore?

You think about yesterday night at this time, sitting with Hyunjin as he stroked fingers across your blanketed knee, cooing and talking to you gently. The air then was filled with unspoken compassion, a mature gentleness, and mutual understanding.

It is nothing like that now. The atmosphere is thick with tension.

"Are you feeling better?" Chan asks quietly.

His voice is tired, void of expectation, but you can detect a slight glimmer of hope behind his words, however short his sentences are.

"Fine," you say curtly, ignoring the stabbing guilt in your heart.

He exhales, tucking up his knees to his chest. "I wanted to come and see you, you know. In hospital."

You fix your eyes on the lamp like you did with Hyunjin yesterday. "So why didn't you?"

"I was afraid."

You fight a scoff. "Afraid of what?"

Silence. Then, "I didn't want to make you feel any worse than you already did."

You actually do scoff then, glaring at him in your peripheral. "Don't spare my feelings, Chris. If you really cared, you would have told me anyway, because the truth is what I needed. Not you avoiding me for almost two weeks because you were too afraid to face me."

He flinches at the odd use of his name, but doesn't retaliate. You can tell you've cut him with the formality, and a look of hurt clouds his eyes before he wills it away. "I'm sorry, Y/n."

"I don't care."

He sighs, running his fingers along the hem of the shirt. A stray droplet of water from his still-drying hair soaks into the fabric, blooming a damp patch on the cotton.

You exhale. "How did you even know I would be home?"

He lifts his gaze. "What?"

"How did you know I would be home when you came?"

He sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "I begged Hyunjin for his phone. The texts from him earlier earlier were from me."

A breathless, disbelieving laugh punches its way out of your chest. "So, first you avoided me, then lied to me, and now you're trying to justify lying to me again through Hyunjin."

Chan throws his hands up. "He agreed to it!"

"That doesn't make it right!" You cry.

He groans, slapping both hands onto his face. "I was a coward, okay? And I didn't want to hurt you, even though I know I already have. I just-" He sighs. "This is a mess."

"Yeah," you mutter. "It is. And I'm going to kill Hyunjin."

"Y/n, just listen," he says desperately. "I don't need you to forgive me. I need you to understand. I'm so sorry I wasn't honest with you-"

"Did you know how I felt?"

He stutters, caught out by your hasty interruption. "I- What?"

Your voice wavers and you curse it for doing so. "Did you know how I felt about you?"

"I-" He leans back again, biting the inside of his cheek. "I had suspicions after you left the restaurant that night, but I figured it might have been because of Chae-"

"Do you like her?"

"No," he says instantly. "I- She's nice and all, but- I don't know. She makes me feel off sometimes."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "So why do you talk to her? Too oblivious to see how she fawns over you?"

He groans again, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I'm not oblivious. And that's my job, Y/n. She's part of the dance crew. If I don't talk to her she starts shitting on the group and I really can't deal with another scandal or hate train, okay? I have enough on my mind."

You exhale. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"

"I thought you knew!"

"Well, I didn't," you can't keep the accusatory tone from your voice. "I told you, Chan, all I want is honesty. And if she's that much of a problem, just report it. You have that power over your crew-"

He rolls his eyes. "It doesn't work like that, Y/n. Besides you can't be calling me oblivious when you don't see the way Felix stares at you half the time-"

"What?"

"Just forget it," he scoffs. "Since you're so determined to miss my point."

You exclaim in protest. "I just wanted you to admit that you were-"

He hisses and leans back into the couch, clearly fighting with himself as he interrupts. "Alright, fine! I was wrong. I did something stupid. Okay? Happy?"

"You usually do stupid things anyway," you murmur stubbornly, looking away. It's petty, but it slips out before you can stop it, and strangely, you don't find yourself wanting to take it back.

Chan actually stands up then, running a hand agitatedly through his damp hair. "Y/n, what do you want from me? You want me to admit I was wrong? That I was always around Chae and not you? That I was too scared to come and visit when you were injured? What do you want?"

"I just wanted you to admit to me how you felt!" You cry at him, standing up too, and throw your hands out. "I never wanted any of that! I just wanted the truth about your feelings, about me..." You swipe a hand across your eyes. The backs of your hands come away salty and wet, and you sniff. "But you never listen."

Chan is silent.

His expression is bewildered, upset, the way he looked when you confessed through a haze of tears. Like you're telling him about your feelings for the first time again.

You let out a sob then, the sound bursting out from your chest. It feels ugly, unpleasant, wildly inappropriate for the context of your current situation. But you can't help it, so you screw up your face and cry with your hands at your eyes. A bit like a child.

Chan stands there and lets you cry. He doesn't move to comfort you, reason with your attitude, gently pull your hands from your face like he did so many times before.

He just stands.

You sniff and lower your hands from your face, the room blurry through your misery.

"I thought, that just maybe, you would finally feel the same after all this time, that you would realise feelings the way I did about you." You sniff again. "But you don't."

His mouth is slightly open, like he was moving to say something, but he shuts it again, expression hardening. You blink up at him, vulnerable, exposed, feeling utterly wretched.

He stares down at you, pale and strained, like he's holding himself back from saying something. The way a person who desperately wants to argue, explain, might look at someone who's just sharply told them to shut up.

A strange look takes over his face. Like he can't decide what expression he wants to make. You watch the transition, watch the warmth and softness leave his gaze. Eventually, his features settle, firm and fixed and void.

The lamp does nothing to soften the harsh edges of his words. "You're right, Y/n." His tone has gone numb, uttering out a dark, resigned finality into the lamplight. It's strangely peaceful. "I never felt the same way. I don't believe I ever will."

There's a cold whirl of air, a scuffle, and you flinch as the door then slams shut. Cold, frosty air from outside swirls around the living room.

Unable to process anything, your gaze wanders numbly to the table.

The items he set out on the table earlier are still there, save for his phone, wallet, and keys. His shoes by the door are gone. You let your eyes drift wordlessly to the couch, where Chan had been sitting not even five minutes before. Outside, the rain continues to thunder down relentlessly.

He never even bothered to take his jacket.

a/n: i don't feel like writing a part 4 tbh i just wanna be lazy (can someone else write it please :3 )

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