Work Text:
Tuesday nights aren’t memorable. Especially Tuesdays in the middle of November, when it’s not quite chilly yet, but it’s too cold to leave without a jacket, and the sky is not quite dark yet, but it’s too dark to leave feeling safe.
Then again, even if they were memorable, there wouldn’t be much Jiyong could do anyway. Even if the weather were balmy, and the sky was a picturesque cerulean blue, broke-off-his-ass Jiyong still wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.
So instead he sits there, in the middle of the couch, trying desperately to think of something to do, and ending up just doing nothing. He has homework to do, he notes to himself. As a theoretical mathematics student, Jiyong is never lacking in work to do. But that’s mundane, and the prospect of sitting down with a pencil in his hand and a calculator in the other ignites nothing in his mind.
He has already done it all. Jiyong is methodical in his routine, mechanically shoving lukewarm ramen into his mouth and then dutifully brushing his teeth to rid himself of the packet powder smell that managed to cling to his mouth and his nostrils. He changes from his school clothes to his pajamas, a faded and severely oversized t-shirt and boxers, like always.
Now he sits, eyes staring nowhere in particular as he hopelessly wracks his brain for something to do. It’s crippling, this sensation of nothing. Jiyong feels separate, detached, untouched by the world that surrounds him. It looks inviting. He could watch TV, read a book, walk around, sing at the top of his lungs - but he can’t. He’s a millimeter away each time, his will to complete the action dying as soon as it begins.
Jiyong hears the door open and close, followed by the telltale scuffles of someone kicking off their shoes. He would love to get up and hug him, to welcome him home, to ask how his day was. All he manages is a slight tip of head, a nonchalant acknowledgment of another’s presence.
Seunghyun’s exhausted, and Jiyong can tell by the way he forgoes setting his briefcase down on the coffee table; instead, he sinks down into the cushions, his head bending backward awkwardly to rest on the back of the couch.
“Hey, babe,” Seunghyun mutters after a moment of silence, his eyes opening to gaze at his stoic boyfriend on the other end of the couch. To anybody else, it might have seemed that Jiyong was being petty, or lazy. His position resembles that of an abandoned marionette, limbs resting limp and his face expressionless, and he just stays like that, seemingly unaware of the other man on the loveseat.
Seunghyun doesn’t really think as he slides over next to the other, gently cupping his face. Jiyong’s face twitches at the touch, and his eyes widen ever so slightly - a negligible reaction on the outside. On the inside, Jiyong’s heart is jumping, cheering at Seunghyun for helping him out of his mind.
Without a word, Seunghyun tenderly grabs Jiyong’s hands and places them on his shoulders. The cue seems to be enough, because soon the man is present enough to hoist himself up from his seat to straddle his boyfriend’s lap. He wraps his arms around the other’s neck, and rests his head on his shoulder, gently nosing at Seunghyun’s throat. It smells of cologne and faintly of cigarettes, and it’s wonderfully comforting.
Seunghyun wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s small waist, engulfing him in a hug. “Feeling better?”
A small nod, after which the head of freshly cut black hair burrows further into the crook of his neck. “Loads.”
A pause. “Can we stay like this for a little?”
Seunghyun squeezes him closer.