A lullaby for a butterfly

There’s a message in a bottle, and it has your name on it. You could probably open it if you tried. You weren’t the one that hid it, all you did was find it.

Now, you could break it. Burn it. Get rid of the whole thing altogether. But you can’t bring yourself to read it.

For now, you just leave it where it is.

Early June, and summer is off to a head start. The sun is beating down on you relentlessly. Chaeryeong doesn’t seem to notice, skipping ahead like the earth isn’t turning fast enough for her.

“Can you slow down? It’s way too hot for you to be this energetic right now,” you call out in a failed attempt to keep her near you.

“Absolutely not. Can you speed up, instead?” she retorts, and you can’t blame her. Turning twenty-one and no longer having to sneak around to get drunk is a big milestone, after all. Nothing past your first sip the day you celebrated your birthday made it into the permanent memory bank.

Go figure she’s brimming with the same kind of anticipation, the kind that makes her shine. Blonde hair swaying in the wind like rays of the sun itself as she turns to look at you with mock anger. You. The one who promised to treat her to a drink of choice, after all.

“If I die of heatstroke, I can’t buy you anything,” you grunt. 

“I could just take your wallet off of your body if you die.”

She’s always been like this. Sharp, faster and more deadly with a comeback than you could ever be—when she’s paying attention. Relentless in her teasing, and most certainly one of those weirdos that has ragebaiting as their lovelanguage.

By the time you reach the liquor store, you’re drenched in sweat. But that’s just you. Chaeryeong—unlike you—looks pristine, like she’s made out of porcelain, like sweating is below her, but still chooses to wrap her arms around one of yours like she doesn’t care about any of those observations, she’s just happy to usher you inside.

“So, what are we looking for?” you ask as you browse the seemingly endless shelves. Chaeryeong is scanning each shelf, her pace significantly slower, like she’s in no rush to decide. A joke is begging to burst out of you, but you keep it locked up, lest you speed up her process and waste precious, air-controlled minutes inside.

She hums as her eyes scan up and down, thinking it over until she brings you up to speed. “Iunno,” is all she gives, though.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” you ask, kind of incredulously.

“I don’t know. What? Can’t a girl pick her first drink based on vibes?” she asks back.

“I don’t know. I guess? I knew what I wanted my first drink to be long before I got to it.”

She stops walking, holding you in place with her as she turns her gaze away from the endless bottles towards you. “Really? What did you get, again?”

“Whiskey,” you answer with a misguided sense of pride, like it’s supposed to be a cool answer. “You know, like, a real man’s drink.”

She just stares at you, one corner of her lip curling upwards into a smirk, and she doesn’t need to waste any words on mocking you.

“I just figured I would find a nice bottle of something screaming at me,” she teases, poking you in the side with a finger, the rest of her hand still wrapped around your arm. “And if it’s expensive, that’s your problem.”

“Your plan is to let the bottle choose you?” you question, again.

“Worked out fine with you.”

That gets you. A chuckle escapes you, and she looks up at you, proud of herself. Worst part is that she’s completely right. She gave you shit for weeks for how long you waited to ask her out.

“Brat,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She adjusts the black bow tied into her hair like she’s checking to see if you didn’t boorishly ruin her pristine sense of style, shrugs her shoulders when she’s satisfied with its current fit and smiles up at you. The intent is all too clear. She gracefully accepts your admission of defeat.

Finding something that suits Chaeryeong's taste might prove impossible. She’s got high standards for her likes to clear. Nothing really seemed to strike a chord with her, that is, until you reached the wine department.

“Oh. My. God. That is the one,” Chaeryeong exclaims with glee, rushing towards a black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. She grabs it off the shelf, carefully turns to you and holds it up for you to inspect. “Isn’t it so fucking cute?”

It’s just north of a hundred dollars, a lot more expensive than the cheap forty dollar whiskey you celebrated your coming of age ceremony with, but that thought gets shoved down the moment you see the joy on her face.

“It suits you,” you say as you take the bottle in your hands. 

“You think?” she questions back, and you just nod to answer.

Bottle in one hand, her hand in the other, you head towards the register, making good on your promise. A fine bottle of champagne for an even finer girl. She kisses you on the cheek the moment the cashier hands you back the bottle.

There’s an empty black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. Inside, there’s a piece of paper, rolled up, and it would only make sense to have your name on it.

Chaeryeong must have left it for you to find.

Three years have you had it like this. Three years since she vanished from your life—and, as far as you can tell, hers as well. 

Three years since you’ve worked together on turning that bottle from full to empty. 

Looking at it makes the taste linger on your tongue.

"It's so fucking good," Chaeryeong practically moans. "It tastes like the world's most expensive cherry is making love to fizzy grapes on a bed of flowers, somehow?"

The shade of her favorite red lipstick paints the edge of her paper cup—courtesy of the room and wildly unfit for the quality of the drink—and she hands it to you. There’s still some champagne left at the bottom. You press your lips to the edge, already tasting a small hint of cherry from where Chaeryeong’s lips left a stain, and finally take a sip.

The fizz tickles your nose, teasing floral notes, a sharp contrast to your first drink, which could only be described as sandpaper fucking mudwater on a bed of burnt wood.

“Well?” she asks, tilting her head. She’s already claimed the center of the bed, lounging back on her elbows with a light grace that makes the room feel classier than it has any right to. “Did I pick the perfect drink or what?”

“It’s alright,” you lie, obviously, even though you’re already making a mental note to buy this exact bottle for every future celebration. You take another sip, finishing the paper cup, crinkle it in your fist and throw it in the trash can.

“Liar,” she chirps, kicking out a leg. Her foot, encased in a soft, ivory-colored wool thigh-high sock, pokes you right in the chest. “You can’t try to act nonchalant while also going for a second sip.”

You catch her ankle, the fabric soft and surprisingly warm against your palm. You don't let go. She doesn’t want you to, either. It’s obvious in the way her pupils are as big as they’re allowed to be, unwaveringly fixated on you. Every inch your hand slides up her leg causes another twitch in her calves.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She's known ever since she wore this exact pair for the first time and you both lost your virginities. She wore these specifically because she fucking knows they turn your brain into mush, that seeing the little stretch of skin on her thigh between where the sock ends and her miniskirt begins makes you simply obsessed.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter without making eye contact, gaze fixed at her legs. Throw her a smirk, and pull her closer to the edge of the bed.

She’s won, celebrating her birthday with all the right beats. She hooks one of those wool-clad legs over your shoulder, the texture dragging against your neck, pulling you closer into her, into the mattress she reigns over.

“You’re so pathetic when I’m wearing these,” she whispers. Her tongue pushes through her lips, wets them, and leaves her mouth just slightly agape long enough for you to nearly close the distance. Those cherry covered lips should be on you, but instead they continue to taunt. “I wore them in a heatwave just to—” she huffs, smiling when your grip tightens, “—see you look at me like this. Like a dog waiting for permission to eat.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?” you growl, but you’re already leaning in, your hands sliding up the back of those socks to the soft, squeezed skin of her upper thighs. “A horny, attention-seeking brat.”

“I’m your princess,” she corrects, her eyes beaming with contradictory hunger. She reaches down, her fingers brushing against your knuckles before she pushes your hands away so she can take over. “And princesses get what they want. Right now, I want to see how much of a mess I’ve made you.”

A sly smile plays on your lips as you slide her leg off of your shoulder, and steal the bottle of champagne out of her other hand, taking control of the pace.

“Not so fast, princess. I’ve paid for three hours off this room, we can take our time,” you retort in a competitive growl. She watches you with wide, surprised eyes as you take a long, deliberate swig, letting fruits dance on your tongue. Swallowing would be a waste now.