Chapter Text
Two weeks passed. After Zen visited him in his office, neither he nor Zen had alluded to that night. Which made sense. Zen had clearly remembered, and since he had also remembered, the decision on how to proceed more or less fell on him. Because he had kissed Zen first.
After the initial thrill of amusement at knowing Zen knew, he had to start questioning why. Why, exactly, had he done that. Well, obviously, to mess with him. But that wasn’t the whole truth, not really. The answer at its core was simple: because he’d wanted to. Zen was a handsome individual. Even Jumin wouldn’t deny that even if he rejected all of Zen’s narcissism and self-flattery. In that moment, with Zen flushed, helplessly dependent, and at stark odds with his usual wary and prickly self, it was easy to lean forward and kiss him. He’d even considered going further than that, but no. That wasn’t proper. Not that a drunken kiss taken on a whim and at the other’s expense was very proper either. He hadn’t expected Zen to moan. That had been... something.
Jumin was spacing out again. It had been happening semi-frequently for the last fortnight. He glanced down at his phone that had been buzzing on and off for the past few minutes. On the lock screen, he saw RFA chatroom notifications, most of them from Zen. The opening night of his new show had gone spectacularly, and someone had sent him a large, anonymous bouquet of roses again.
Jumin smirked, just barely, as his hand passed over the screen and stuttered to unlock it. He didn’t really care. No, he did, but he didn’t really want to entertain Zen at the moment. Their entertainment usually consisted of back-and-forth bickering that ended in the other getting upset. He’d let him have his night, but for some reason, Jumin suddenly got the urge to.
Tell him.
Before he could humor the thought any further, the doorbell rang. Jumin raised an eyebrow. Elizabeth 3rd, who’d been lying on the bed, yawned and stretched languidly. Jumin, at his desk, re-buttoned his dress shirt the rest of the way. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and his eyes flickered to his phone again as he scrolled down the notifications to check no one had called while he'd been otherwise preoccupied. There was nothing.
"Now who could that be, Elizabeth?" he asked only to receive an adorable, little meow in return. Smiling faintly at the pristine creature over his shoulder, he stepped out into the hallway and noted immediately that whoever was ringing his doorbell wasn't stopping. One ring was sufficient. Two was excessive. Over three, and whoever it was must have known him personally. He could count on one hand the people who qualified and even less those who would ring the doorbell incessantly rather than, say, hacking in somehow (Luciel) or simply using a key (Assistant Kang).
He didn't need to check who it was before opening. Some part of him already knew.
As soon as he did, Zen was leaning against the frame with an aggravated expression. His propped left arm held his phone; his right that had been raised to the doorbell dropped back to this side. He was wearing his black leather jacket today, not the white one, Jumin observed passingly.
“What the hell?”
Jumin raised an eyebrow. He gave no ground, no invitation to enter, but instead crossed his arms. “Excuse me?”
Zen gestured with his phone, the RFA chatroom open from what Jumin could see, as if that would answer his question. It didn't. Rather, it only raised more. "How are you here? Weren't you talking in the chatroom just now?"
Zen pulled a face. “I sent those messages like an hour ago.” Bringing his phone to him and frowning all the while, Zen tapped around on the screen for a split second before raising it to Jumin, practically shoving it at him. “What the hell is this?”
Jumin blinked. “What is what," he asked. All he saw was a picture Zen had presumably sent in the chatroom, him posing before a large bouquet of roses that filled the entire background.
“This." Zen jabbed at the flowers. "You sent these, right?”
“No,” Jumin lied reflexively and then had to question why he did that when he was considering being honest a few minutes ago. Maybe it was just because Zen was confronting him that he felt like being ornery. Their relationship had that effect on him.
Jumin didn’t know how Zen found out, and he briefly considered asking before deciding that it didn’t matter. Point was that he knew—which put Jumin in a somewhat uncomfortable spot depending on how the rest of the conversation went. He was surprised that Zen had bothered coming all the way just for that, but then again, Zen had seemed hypersensitive lately. Even their chatroom encounters had been somewhat... stilted. He thought he knew why. But he'd play the unsuspecting party anyway. (A little unfair, maybe, but when did Jumin Han ever play fair?)
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he added for good measure, and exasperation washed over Zen's face that was already tinged with fatigue. He must have had an exhausting night, and yet he'd still bothered to come see him.
“Dude,” Zen scoffed, stopped, and frowned. He licked his lips, eyes skittering away in thought. “Fuck, fine. Never mind. I just—“
“If you wanted to come over, you could have just come,” Jumin goaded and managed to keep his expression neutral and disinterested. Zen, on the other hand, immediately looked up.
“I did not—“ Zen cut himself off with a sour grimace. “Really, are you just... messing with me?”
A pause. “No,” Jumin conceded, and that seemed to shock the other because he did a small double take.
“Really?” he repeated, incredulous and disbelieving despite seriously asking a moment ago and wanting a serious answer. Jumin had given one despite himself, but Zen still wasn’t satisfied. (He never was, was he?) “Then what the hell are you doing, Jumin Han?”
What was he doing?
Zen was being a bit more confrontational than usual. And Jumin was feeling a little odd as well. He leaned forward, and Zen nearly tripped over himself in his haste to put distance between them.
“Woah, h-hey—!”
“You’re drunk,” Jumin remarked casually. No Asian glow this time (unfortunately) but he could still smell the faint aroma of alcohol on him.
“No,” Zen returned testily with a narrowed, distrustful gaze. “Not drunk, anyway. I drank, but I’m not drunk. The cast always gets together on opening night. So what?”
Jumin shrugged and leaned back again, taking amusement in the way Zen visibly relaxed as soon as they were out of kissing distance. He almost smiled if that wouldn't have given him away. This was fun despite being uncharted territory. He cleared his throat. “You should stay the night.”
“What?" Zen's bright, red eyes widened slightly. "No.”
“Elizabeth 3rd will stay in my room. Really, this time.”
“Wait..." Zen took a step back and cocked his head to the side, watching Jumin as if he'd grown another head. "Are you serious? I’m not even that drunk. And it’s not even that late.” Unlike last time, was the unspoken sentiment that Zen was clearly trying to keep unspoken. It was probably a good thing that he hadn't stayed last time anyway. Jumin avoided dragging his impassive stare to the other's lips.
“I know. But you wanted me to offer, right? That’s why you came.”
“No. I—" There was a groan somewhere in those words, not the same unrestrained, breathless sort that Jumin had heard that other night. It was the more normal one, the 'I don't like you, and you don't like me' sort. "You know what?" Zen straightened and mimicked Jumin in crossing his arms. "Fuck you.”
Jumin shrugged. “Go ahead.”
That look on Zen’s face—if he could have framed it...
“Go to hell! You know what I meant." Zen growled, pivoting. "I’m leaving.”
“Just make sure you don’t stumble into anyone‘s arms again, or they might not be able to control themselves this time.”
"Wait—" Zen swiveled back around faster than Jumin could blink. Horror, realization, and finally distress all flashed across his face within a millisecond. It was almost impressive. "So you do remember!”
This time, Jumin really couldn't help lifting the corner of his mouth ever so slightly. “Remember what?”
“You said ‘again,’ so—!”
“Yes? Do you not remember what happened at the last RFA party?” The last RFA party. That was a sobering thought. The both of them went quiet.
Zen broke the silence first after a good second or two. He scoffed. “Alright, whatever. Bottom line: stop sending me anonymous roses. I don’t need them. I’m popular enough to get plenty of them on my own, thanks.” That hadn’t been the point. Jumin had never sent them out of a mockery of Zen’s fame, or hitherto lack thereof. But it was easier to acquiesce than to explain. Zen wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
“Very well. To tell the truth, I’d ordered the florist to send them to your opening nights on her own and to simply bill me after the fact. That was years ago. I had no idea she was still doing it.” Another bald-faced lie told like irrefutable truth. Jumin was a businessman, after all. And Zen was an actor. Maybe he’d caught the lie this time because he was slow to respond and his expression inscrutable.
“Good,” he finally said. “I was afraid you were painstakingly hand-choosing each stem.”
“You flatter yourself.”
“Sure, that’s what I do best.” Zen waved away the verbal jab and didn't even bother saying a proper goodbye. Neither did Jumin. Once the other was a distance away with obviously no intention of looking back, Jumin shut the door. He glanced around his empty apartment that suddenly felt a good deal emptier and felt a little strange. Mostly, it was his chest that felt strange, like he'd missed an opportunity, but he didn’t dwell on it. Seeing Zen flustered was enough. He should’ve taken a picture, that night especially, but the look he’d given him just now was good too.
Retracing his steps to the bedroom, Jumin shut the door and loosened his shirt again. Elizabeth 3rd had hopped from bed to desk and now sat with the upper half of her body splayed across his keyboard. The sight was endearing and allowed him to forget the unusual thoughts he'd been entertaining for the past few minutes. Moving to the chair, his left hand went into Elizabeth's fur as his right traveled to his laptop in an attempt to focus on the seven new emails that had just come in.
The next half hour was a losing battle for his attention that dawdled on an event and a person no matter how much he reasoned it was due to tiredness rather than distraction. In truth, with regards to said event and said person, he didn't really know what he was doing. But he wanted to savor it a bit more before he let the consequences spoil the memory. They didn’t have to if he didn’t acknowledge them.
Sighing, Jumin finally resolved to just go to bed and turned off the light. He wasn’t thinking rationally about this was he? Jumin Han didn’t run from things, but Zen was the first person who made him feel like running.