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paglambingfandom: newjeans
pairing: minji/hanni
rating: teen & up, for language
word count: 1,136 (edited!)
other tags: reincarnation AU, barely any plot, just vibes
A/N: inspired by 25 lives by tongari, which i quoted at the start & end of the fic. i haven't written in a very long time, so i thought i'd do a low-stakes drabble instead of trying to finish any of my wips. i've also been really into bbangsaz lately, so i don't know if anyone is going to read this, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
♥︎
The very first time I remember you, you are blonde, and you don’t love me back.
-
Hanni decides that miracles can happen.
It’s not because a pretty girl has her hand on Hanni’s knee—well, that’s a miracle in its own way, warm and soft against Hanni’s skin—but the fact that when the girl lifts her hand, the gash is gone. As if Hanni has never tripped a day in her life.
The girl stands and pulls Hanni up to her feet.
“Wait,” Hanni says, before the girl can turn around and leave. “Do you wanna have coffee with me?”
The girl blinks at her and tilts her head ever so slightly, facing Hanni. Hanni wrings her hands and tries again. She tacks on a smile for good measure.
“Coffee. Me. You. Yes?”
The girl rolls her eyes, not unkindly. “I can speak English just fine.” And there’s a lilt in her voice, Hanni observes, that sounds partly Australian and partly something else.
(There’s no surprise at all if this maybe-not-human comes from Australia, because duh.)
“So is that a yes?” Hanni asks. She searches for any indication of acceptance on the girl’s face. “It’s thank you coffee. For the, you know.” She gestures to her knee.
“No, it’s okay.” The girl bows, smiling. “Thank you, though.”
“Okay,” Hanni says. She offers a bow of her own and waves a small goodbye. “Thanks for helping me out, still.”
“No problem.”
Hanni turns and walks—somewhere. Maybe home. Maybe coffee. She still deserves coffee even if the girl didn’t want to go with her. (Even if she knows she’ll be racking her brain about it for days.)
When Hanni hazards a look back, the girl is gone, and no trace of her hair or her silhouette can be found in the crowd.
-
There is a lake in the park by Hanni’s house that she frequents. It’s as good a sanctuary as any, even if it isn’t solely her own.
Sometimes she brings her guitar, hefting an instrument almost as tall as her on her back, strumming out magic chords and finding a song that fits. She sings quiet mashups to herself, studying the way music works and making it her own. Sometimes she brings a pen and her journal, scribbling all her thoughts down in an effort to wash them away.
There is nothing with her today.
It’s a sit-at-a-bench-and-stare-at-the-water kind of day, in sweats and Crocs and an old t-shirt.
The lake grounds her in a way she has no words for, the way the water ripples when ducks swim past, the way the greenery is reflected on the surface.
Hanni allows her mind to go quiet, lets the greens and greys and blues meld together.
Movement in her periphery snaps her out of it, and Hanni blinks a few times in an effort to get her vision to refocus. She sees—wings, like an angel’s, feathered, gleaming in the sun.
The winged creature turns to reveal a girl with big eyes, and for a moment Hanni panics. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. When she opens her eyes, the girl is still there, as if she is looking straight at Hanni. Hanni stands to get a closer look, and the girl dips into the water again, wings disappearing in the ripples.
Hanni stays until the water goes still.
(Hanni goes back the next day, and the next day, and the next. There is no sign of the winged girl again.)
-
Hanni steps into the temple, letting the cool of the marble seep into her feet.
She makes her way to the altar and lays out her offerings of mugwort, a vial of rabbit’s blood, and a pudgy white candle she made herself. She lights the candle, tips her head back, and prays.
She has always seeked favor from Artemis—protection, guidance, ease. There are more women in her family than men, and she wishes them no harm.
(They’ve been talking about marrying her off, recently, now that she is of age. The whispers reach her when they think she is asleep.
Her safe place is in Artemis’ care. She holds onto her self-restraint like a flag, allows it to be an integral part of her.)
Hanni prays until the words blur together, until her voice scratches and she cannot speak. Her arms fall heavy at her side, and she watches the candle flicker brighter in the dusk of the temple. There’s still half of the wax to go, but she can’t stay any longer.
As long as Artemis has heard her, as long as she has gained the goddess’s favor, as long as she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with marriage.
(That night, she dreams of Artemis weaving silver bands into her hair. Is that all? Artemis asks.
Hanni closes her eyes. It shall suffice.)
-
Hanni runs her hands through her hair and ruffles it one last time. She turns the fan off and goes in front of the mirror.
There are purple stains on her hands from when the gloves moved, bright against her pale skin. When she looks at herself, the purple doesn’t look too bad—it’s a good color, it suits her, her friends were right. (Minji was right, too.) She checks for patchy spots, nothing too big, and decides she’s done a good job.
(She wishes, not for the first time, that Minji could see her.)
Hanni plugs her phone to charge—doesn’t matter that it died an hour ago, there’s no one to reply to anyway—and lies down on her bed.
Dyeing her hair doesn’t have the same relief as it did months ago; she doesn’t feel like she was made anew, like she could start over and organize her life into neat sections to pay attention to in turns. She could say she doesn’t know why, but she knows.
Someone knocks on her door.
She doesn’t want to get it, maybe someone’s just fucking with her, but. It could be anyone.
(Anyone, really, but she wills herself not to hope.)
“Hanni?”
Fuck.
She gets up and opens the door—
“Minji.”
Minji smiles, happy to see her, apologetic, wistful. (Beautiful as ever.) “Hey.”
“I thought you left.”
Hanni watches as Minji’s gaze trails down her hair. “I’m still here,” Minji says. “Your hair is purple.”
“It is.” (You said it would look good on me.) “Do you wanna, uh, come in and talk…?”
“Yes. Please. If it’s okay.”
It’s a start, Hanni thinks, for what they’ve been doing with each other the past few weeks.
It’s as good as any, so Hanni takes it.
-
It’s only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you’ll return to me.
pairing: minji/hanni
rating: teen & up, for language
word count: 1,136 (edited!)
other tags: reincarnation AU, barely any plot, just vibes
A/N: inspired by 25 lives by tongari, which i quoted at the start & end of the fic. i haven't written in a very long time, so i thought i'd do a low-stakes drabble instead of trying to finish any of my wips. i've also been really into bbangsaz lately, so i don't know if anyone is going to read this, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
The very first time I remember you, you are blonde, and you don’t love me back.
-
Hanni decides that miracles can happen.
It’s not because a pretty girl has her hand on Hanni’s knee—well, that’s a miracle in its own way, warm and soft against Hanni’s skin—but the fact that when the girl lifts her hand, the gash is gone. As if Hanni has never tripped a day in her life.
The girl stands and pulls Hanni up to her feet.
“Wait,” Hanni says, before the girl can turn around and leave. “Do you wanna have coffee with me?”
The girl blinks at her and tilts her head ever so slightly, facing Hanni. Hanni wrings her hands and tries again. She tacks on a smile for good measure.
“Coffee. Me. You. Yes?”
The girl rolls her eyes, not unkindly. “I can speak English just fine.” And there’s a lilt in her voice, Hanni observes, that sounds partly Australian and partly something else.
(There’s no surprise at all if this maybe-not-human comes from Australia, because duh.)
“So is that a yes?” Hanni asks. She searches for any indication of acceptance on the girl’s face. “It’s thank you coffee. For the, you know.” She gestures to her knee.
“No, it’s okay.” The girl bows, smiling. “Thank you, though.”
“Okay,” Hanni says. She offers a bow of her own and waves a small goodbye. “Thanks for helping me out, still.”
“No problem.”
Hanni turns and walks—somewhere. Maybe home. Maybe coffee. She still deserves coffee even if the girl didn’t want to go with her. (Even if she knows she’ll be racking her brain about it for days.)
When Hanni hazards a look back, the girl is gone, and no trace of her hair or her silhouette can be found in the crowd.
There is a lake in the park by Hanni’s house that she frequents. It’s as good a sanctuary as any, even if it isn’t solely her own.
Sometimes she brings her guitar, hefting an instrument almost as tall as her on her back, strumming out magic chords and finding a song that fits. She sings quiet mashups to herself, studying the way music works and making it her own. Sometimes she brings a pen and her journal, scribbling all her thoughts down in an effort to wash them away.
There is nothing with her today.
It’s a sit-at-a-bench-and-stare-at-the-water kind of day, in sweats and Crocs and an old t-shirt.
The lake grounds her in a way she has no words for, the way the water ripples when ducks swim past, the way the greenery is reflected on the surface.
Hanni allows her mind to go quiet, lets the greens and greys and blues meld together.
Movement in her periphery snaps her out of it, and Hanni blinks a few times in an effort to get her vision to refocus. She sees—wings, like an angel’s, feathered, gleaming in the sun.
The winged creature turns to reveal a girl with big eyes, and for a moment Hanni panics. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. When she opens her eyes, the girl is still there, as if she is looking straight at Hanni. Hanni stands to get a closer look, and the girl dips into the water again, wings disappearing in the ripples.
Hanni stays until the water goes still.
(Hanni goes back the next day, and the next day, and the next. There is no sign of the winged girl again.)
Hanni steps into the temple, letting the cool of the marble seep into her feet.
She makes her way to the altar and lays out her offerings of mugwort, a vial of rabbit’s blood, and a pudgy white candle she made herself. She lights the candle, tips her head back, and prays.
She has always seeked favor from Artemis—protection, guidance, ease. There are more women in her family than men, and she wishes them no harm.
(They’ve been talking about marrying her off, recently, now that she is of age. The whispers reach her when they think she is asleep.
Her safe place is in Artemis’ care. She holds onto her self-restraint like a flag, allows it to be an integral part of her.)
Hanni prays until the words blur together, until her voice scratches and she cannot speak. Her arms fall heavy at her side, and she watches the candle flicker brighter in the dusk of the temple. There’s still half of the wax to go, but she can’t stay any longer.
As long as Artemis has heard her, as long as she has gained the goddess’s favor, as long as she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with marriage.
(That night, she dreams of Artemis weaving silver bands into her hair. Is that all? Artemis asks.
Hanni closes her eyes. It shall suffice.)
Hanni runs her hands through her hair and ruffles it one last time. She turns the fan off and goes in front of the mirror.
There are purple stains on her hands from when the gloves moved, bright against her pale skin. When she looks at herself, the purple doesn’t look too bad—it’s a good color, it suits her, her friends were right. (Minji was right, too.) She checks for patchy spots, nothing too big, and decides she’s done a good job.
(She wishes, not for the first time, that Minji could see her.)
Hanni plugs her phone to charge—doesn’t matter that it died an hour ago, there’s no one to reply to anyway—and lies down on her bed.
Dyeing her hair doesn’t have the same relief as it did months ago; she doesn’t feel like she was made anew, like she could start over and organize her life into neat sections to pay attention to in turns. She could say she doesn’t know why, but she knows.
Someone knocks on her door.
She doesn’t want to get it, maybe someone’s just fucking with her, but. It could be anyone.
(Anyone, really, but she wills herself not to hope.)
“Hanni?”
Fuck.
She gets up and opens the door—
“Minji.”
Minji smiles, happy to see her, apologetic, wistful. (Beautiful as ever.) “Hey.”
“I thought you left.”
Hanni watches as Minji’s gaze trails down her hair. “I’m still here,” Minji says. “Your hair is purple.”
“It is.” (You said it would look good on me.) “Do you wanna, uh, come in and talk…?”
“Yes. Please. If it’s okay.”
It’s a start, Hanni thinks, for what they’ve been doing with each other the past few weeks.
It’s as good as any, so Hanni takes it.
It’s only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you’ll return to me.
