The Play of You and I | bc
❝𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝…❞
↳ There is nothing time leaves untouched. It changes all, as it changed you and him, and though those sepia days of childhood seem so far now, you cling to them fondly. When sudden grief tears the man you know - the boy - from himself, it falls to you to bring him back. It was nice to play pretend for a while.
↳ Bang Chan x female reader
↳ Childhood friends to lovers romance trope. Angst and hurt/comfort, budding romance and yearning, grief and loss, referenced drug use and severe addiction/withdrawal the consequences therein, slow burn.
! Mature content, adult themes, 10.2k, suitable for 18+ readers only !
He wasn’t a remarkable boy. Wouldn't be recorded in the annals of history for any great feat of bravery or wonder of strength. He wouldn’t change the world or its archaic institutions. He wouldn’t break records or revolutionise or rally or do much of anything other than live his quiet, small life, because he was just a boy. A perfectly ordinary boy. And you liked him that way.
You liked his dimples and his mop of ochre brown curls and his Australian twang. You liked the games he invented and the ‘let’s pretend’ that would excitedly precede every occasion of play. Most of all, you liked the hour just after school where, from your childhood bedroom window, you would watch him trot across the sunlit street to knock on your door and steal you away to the treehouse his father had constructed in the very nearby woods, whereupon you lived in a world of carefree creation and make-believe.
It had always been just him and his father; a sad fact that as a child both confounded you and compelled you to quiz:
“But where is your mummy? You don’t have one? Why? My mummy says everyone has a mummy. She says I came from her tummy. Where did you come from?”
Chan only ever shrugged and ran off to play, as complacent of your questioning as ever he would be. As childhood faded and adolescence rolled in with all the gentile of a marching brass band, you learned that his mother had passed when he was a mere six weeks old. He told you that he was glad he’d never known her. He thought it spared him the pain of loss. You rather disagreed, and told him as much; wasn’t it better to have loved and lost?
“No way,” he had said. “I’d rather spend my whole life alone than lose everyone I love.”
“But you’re not alone. You have me and your dad,” you had argued.
Chan shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette— a habit you detested. “That’s different. I’ll never lose you two.”
