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i.
The first time it happens Woojin doesn’t actually notice it’s happening until a single observation floats lazily to the forefront of his idle mind.
His skin is literally fucking glowing.
A slash of pale sunlight streaming through their bedroom window has been traveling slowly across Jihoon’s sleeping face, steadily illuminating him with a pearly glow. The sunlight first touched the ear peeking out from his nightmare-level bedhead and as the minutes rolled on eventually stretched across his cheekbone, crept over his closed eyelids and the high bridge of his nose.
Jihoon’s skin is darker than his fansite noonas like to admit—sure, Jihoon looks good with lighter skin tone edits and filters but he looks right in this skin, the real stuff, the healthy golden shade that Woojin has been staring at for the last...
He checks his phone and lets out the quietest warble. Twenty minutes. Woojin has been watching morning sunlight tiptoe over Jihoon’s face for twenty absent-minded minutes. His alarm is due to jingle-jangle in less than four minutes and Woojin stares at Jihoon’s stupid sleeping face while he thinks of something to do instead of, well, stare at his stupid sleeping face.
Eventually Woojin lands on, if you’re trying to not look at Jihoon, try not looking at him. That’s some superior problem solving right there. Simple, normal, completely plausible and somehow much more difficult than it should be. Woojin eventually manages to extricate himself from his blankets and rolls off his bed with a soft curse and cold toes. He risks one last glance at Jihoon before viciously snatching some clean clothes and gets the royal fuck out of their room.
The pressure in Woojin’s chest recedes as soon as he shuts their door quietly behind him, deflating like a lazily leaking balloon and with the exact same mental sound effect. Strange feelings on a strange morning, but technically Woojin has only been vertical for two minutes (despite being conscious for nearly half an hour) so he gives himself some credit just for being awake and breathing right now. He sags back against their door, thudding his head back against it with a sigh.
ii.
The second time it happens Woojin realizes with muted panic that the first time was probably not the first time at all, and that this staring is just a thing that he does. Is Woojin a creep? Yes, but.
Who wouldn’t stare at Jihoon if given the opportunity? Perhaps not the straightest opinion, sure, but Jihoon packs the aesthetic heat of a nuclear bomb and Woojin can’t not. He looks at flowers and trees and buildings for their prettiness—this is the same kind of thing. Jihoon possesses objective beauty, like a rose or perfectly cooked barbeque. Especially when it’s barely 3am and Woojin has been dancing his bones into goo alone for the last two and a half hours. Especially when he had hoped that Jihoon might be awake when he returned and they could... be. Together. Coexist. That thing they do together all the time.
Instead Woojin sits cross-legged on his bed, feeling the fatigue in his core and back from tonight's solo practice. He looks across the room at Jihoon snuggled into what Woojin can only hope are sweet dreams. Or sexy dreams. Whatever floats Jihoon’s dreamboat. It’s only technically morning so there’s no sun to stream through their window, nothing in particular to draw attention to Jihoon’s warm skin but his repose still snags Woojin’s gaze as easily and wholly as ever. Objective beauty, yep, that’s all.
Far from glowing, right now Jihoon has an odd sort of double chin going on (probably because he’s tucked into a very strange sleeping ball) and his hair sticks up on end as though he stuck his toe into an electrical socket. He’s actually a fucking mess, particularly right now, but Woojin’s attention still snags over this double-chinned, bed-headed brilliance.
Jihoon would rip his eyeballs out if he knew Woojin sometimes-maybe stares at him at in these moments when he’s vulnerable, when his formidable guard is down. Maybe that’s what this staring shit is about. Maybe Woojin’s naturally protective instincts just rise like the tide of a full moon whenever Jihoon shows any vulnerability, conscious or not. Maybe he lives to protect the things he finds most beautiful and important, and whether or not they’re conscious doesn’t even factor into it.
Protect from what though? He’s the only threat present. Shit, if Woojin were watching himself watch Jihoon he’d consider his own self a hugeass threat. On that decidedly convoluted and oddly dissociative thought Woojin dives under his blankets and pretends this (whatever it is) isn’t actually happening.
n.
The nth time it happens Woojin swears to his Charmander plushie that he hasn’t been consistently waking up a good quarter of an hour before his alarm is due to scream. He definitely isn’t using these extra minutes to stare at Jihoon sleep, to watch his expressions shift and wonder what he might be dreaming about.
Woojin doesn't think about him while he showers either, no sir.
?.
It’s a rare free night for a few of them, and Woojin finds himself spending his leisure time sitting awkwardly on Jisung’s bed, pouting heavier than he ever would if he were with anyone other than their leader. Jisung is busy going through a skin-care routine—Woojin winces, knowing he should be doing the same—but he’s using his desk mirror to maintain eye contact as he swirls moisturizer onto his cheeks.
Woojin hasn’t actually said anything since entering and the expectant silence stretches longer than a whole dreadful minute.
“Out with it.” Jisung finally demands with a sweet smile to lessen the blow.
Woojin opens his mouth to speak, finds he has nothing to say, and shuts his mouth with a gulp. Nice. Great progress.
“Okay—” with a final soft slap to his damp, glowing cheeks, Jisung turns in his chair, crossing his legs fluidly and adopting the classic chin-in-palm posture of those who know too much. “I’m going to guess.”
He’s going to guess right.
“We all see it, Woojinie. The weirdness is acknowledged by us all, you know? Do you know?”
The thing is, he doesn't know. Woojin doesn’t like this but he’s still at least one minute from wholeheartedly regretting bringing his emotional whateverness to Jisung. Time to make use of that minute. “No, actually. A-are you talking about disbandment—” Jisung winces as the word comes from his mouth but Woojin presses on. “—or are you talking about...?”
“Jihoonie, obviously. I don’t talk about the twelfth month.” Jisung crosses his arms and nods to himself. Words like ‘disbandment’ and ‘December’ aren’t really in any of their vocabularies, least of all Jisung’s. Jinyoung once combined the two to make ‘Disbandber’ and half the band had to stop the other half from eviscerating him right there.
“But we’re not weird? We’re good, bunsso-ing on. The sausages remain pink.” As Woojin says that last his cheeks flare and he hastens to cover. “We’re consistently the least weird.”
“Uh-huh, sure. You’re only ‘not weird’ because you two are so weird that it’s become normal to the rest of us. And to Wannables. And to the Korean media. Our own company ships you two.”
“That’s not weird, that’s just...” Woojin’s objection trails away and he shrugs quickly before wrinkling his nose and wiggling his hand noncommittally. “That’s our chemistry.”
“Your chemistry is...” Jisung trails off, arching a magnificent eyebrow and making a hand motion combining awkward turtle and the decidedly more uncouth finger-in-hole fucking gesture.
Fucking WHAT.
Woojin's expression must say it all because Jisung flips instantly from saucy to shocked. “Oh, oh nonono. You... oh. What? Seriously?”
Um? “You think we just...” Woojin recalls Jisung’s awkward fucking motion and shakes his head of the memory. “... for fuck’s sake hyung, what do you think happens in our room?”
Woojin’s actually curious about his answer but is also trying desperately to hide his utter terror at the fact that this conversation is taking place right now. His Jihoon-related emotions have always been categorized under a complicated adaptation of the table flip emoji, but there’s no table here. Only Jisung, who despite being perfectly flippable is not allowed to be used to illustrate how absolutely batshit Jihoon drives him.
“Honestly? Well, I think you two are moving slow, still pretty vanilla right now but I mean, come on, that’s because Jihoon’s got baggage and you can be a little heavy-hand—”
“Ah! No! Nope!” Woojin does not want to listen to Jisung’s opinions on the sex life that he and Jihoon are not having. “The fuck, hyung? We’re not f-fucking!”
“The fact that you stuttered saying fucking is the only reason I believe that.” Jisung mutters, nodding like he knows anything and everything. He doesn’t, but he sure as shit knows a lot more than the rest of them. “Okay, then why are you here?”
They call it Office Hours, the times when Jisung is awake and willing to take a stab at helping them through their issues. Rules are no more than three members at a time and one-on-one sessions are ideal. Woojin is here because he’s been not only staring at his best friend and thinking sappy thoughts, he’s been making time to stare.
And that can’t continue. But considering where this conversation has already gone Woojin wonders if admitting his ridiculous shit is a good idea after all. Jisung reads his trepidation with a soft, sad smile, actually cooing. Still, if Jisung (and maybe everyone else!?) was already operating under the assumption that he and Jihoon were some sex-having hooligans, admitting the actual case should be easy.
“I just... can’t stop staring at him.”
Jisung bursts out laughing and can’t even recover by the time Woojin stands with a huge huff and makes for the door.
“S-sorry, Woojinie wait—” Jisung laughs. Woojin turns to see him determinedly attempt to dam the flow of his laughter but giggles still trickle free. “Wait—hehe—Okay. Sorry I just—okay.”
Very eloquent.
“I—” Jisung tries again but gets caught by another huge wave of laughter.
Woojin doesn’t think this is very funny at all so this time he actually leaves, slamming the door behind him like the teenager he’s almost not.
♡.
Another morning, another early wake up. It is fifteen minutes before Jihoon’s own alarm has been set to go off and Woojin is laying on his back neatly with his blankets pulled up to his chest and his arms crossed moodily. Woojin doesn’t even set his alarm anymore, his circadian rhythm has actually adapted to allow him to stare more effectively at his Sleeping Beauty.
Though today isn’t exactly the best example of the beauty part. Sure, he is Park Jihoon—thereby pretty much guaranteeing a high aesthetic standard—but there is some fine drooling action happening this morning. Jihoon’s blankets are half thrown off, revealing the fact that he’s sleeping in another strange ball. This one looks scarily uncomfortable and Woojin looks at the contortion for one long moment before staring straight up at their ceiling with a sigh.
A loud sigh. Maybe too loud.
Woojin goes to look at Jihoon again (because apparently that’s what he does) only to find Jihoon staring back, eyes sharper than knives. A falling piano of panic slams down on his chest, knocking the wind straight out of him.
"Were you watching me sleep?"
Play it cool, you can be cool, you’ve done it at least once before. "Uhhwhat? N-no. No! Oh my god, w-why would I?”
Nice, cool as a fucking cucumber. Woojin shuts his eyes painfully tight and stiffens like a board, wondering if it would be easier to jump out their window or suffocate himself with his pillow.
“Uh huh.” Jihoon mutters quietly, a bit gravelly. Woojin hears the soft rustle of him tossing aside his blankets, feels the floor pulse with his sudden, clumsy footsteps across the wooden floor. Towards Woojin, still unwilling to open his eyes and face this reality.
He almost swallows his own tongue when he feels a dip near the edge of his bed, the weight of a knee finding its place near his waist. Then there’s another dip, another knee framing his waist on the other side. Woojin’s heart beats quickly, obviously, and without realizing it he brings his hands out of his armpits and covers his face. Jihoon comes to rest his weight slowly, cautiously in Woojin’s lap as though afraid. Not afraid of Woojin, but wary of what he's instigating and what it means for them.
“Were. You. Watching. Me. Sleep?” He asks again with a quiet edge.
Park Jihoon is fucking straddling him to get an answer. In what world is that fair?
"Jisung-hyung told me yo—”
“—Yes!” Woojin bursts out, suddenly very aware that Jihoon and Jisung are close, actually very close when it comes down to it. He’s fucked, he’s caught, and he cannot begin to think his way out this when he has Jihoon’s weight and heat in his lap. "A-A little bit."
"A little bit." Jihoon repeats with perfect Seoul dialect. It's mocking and borderline mean—here Woojin thought he managed to hide his accent quite well that time—but it’s a hint of their regular banter. If Woojin were thinking with his brain he could probably see that as a good thing, but all he has right now is a carousel of Jihoon, straddling, lap, and fuck.
“Look at me.” Jihoon demands. Woojin drags his hands down and away from his face and slowly flutters his eyes open with a defeated sigh.
His heart swells immediately at what he sees. Jihoon’s hair has surpassed mere bedhead and has now officially achieved gorgon class. He’s disheveled but focused, deliberate but hesitant. Despite how neither of them actually know what the fuck they’re doing or where this is going, Woojin feels his anxiety clear a bit just being in close proximity with him.
Then Woojin notices how Jihoon’s blown pupils determinately hold his gaze, looks a little lower to see the fine sheen of saliva glossing his lips. Two seconds ago that was charming drool and now the very shine of it sends his thoughts spinning. Woojin averts his eyes, suddenly assaulted by memories of all the times leading up to this that Woojin entertained some less-than-wholesome thoughts about the taste of Jihoon’s skin and the timbre of his moans. Still, he wasn’t going to actually, you know, do anything about it. He looks up at the ceiling instead of at the man in his lap.
"I didn't say stop looking." Jihoon mutters. Authority clings to the words but the tone doesn't match. It’s less a demand than a statement of fact. Jihoon straightens his back, unintentionally(?) grinding down into Woojin's lap with the action. "I like it."
"W-what?"
"I like it. I like it when you stare.”
Woojin wonders just which of his neck veins are going to burst first. This is...? Ridiculous, he’s going to go with ridiculous. And absurd. And perhaps one of the most electrifying moments of his life. This is Park Jihoon.
“Wh-what is this? What are you talking about? Dont fuck around, Jihoon.”
A flicker of doubt and terror darts across Jihoon’s face but it gets lost when he raises his eyebrows incredulously. "My idiot chamsae. Excuse me while I stop straddling your body. Idiot." Jihoon actually does begin to roll off him and Woojin snaps his fingers around his right thigh to stop him from getting away. This is going somewhere, fast.
Jihoon makes an oh? expression that’s somewhat nonchalant but not quite enough to cover the monster of a blush that expands across his chest and neck. His baggy white shirt is translucently thin and Woojin can't help but make out the frame of his body beneath it, can’t help but imagine the bare torso below. Fuck. What a morning.
He loosens his grip on Jihoon's thigh but doesn’t let it go, even brings his other hand to grab his other leg to hold him firmly in place. "I... I like looking at you."
Jihoon shifts again, riding a bit lower down Woojin’s lap. He maintains eye contact, endearingly surprised by his own daring. They’re emboldening each other and something small falls into place in Woojin’s heart as he realizes, plainly, that this is what they’ve always done in some shape or form. This might be the most compromised shape or form to date but it’s still them.
"Good. I like having your eyes on me." Jihoon’s words don’t come out as cocky as perhaps they should, but then again that’s probably just Woojin's pathetic Jihoon-filter at work, the one that highlights even his spoken words in soft rose. Somewhere in the world, a whip cracks.
"Whatareyoudoing." Woojin spills in one messy breath, wondering how many more moments of sanity he has left before Jihoon completely pulls him under his spell. How did this happen? What even is happening? He loves it, maybe fears it a little but that seems healthy given the stakes here.
"What am I doing?" Jihoon purrs. PURRS. "I said it before, didn't I? I like having your eyes on me."
A series of images flash through Woojin’s head: Jihoon eating spicy ramen in front of him, shooting him big wet eyes begging for help. Jihoon going too far with a physical gag, even when it was only them, when there was no one to impress other than Woojin. Jihoon holding his gaze in a playful taunt that always went a bit too far. And now, Jihoon hovering over him, sensual and honest and scared enough for Woojin to trust him with whatever the hell he's up to. Woojin is here for this, wherever it might go.
"I’m not the only one who stares." He declares, encouraged by Jihoon's musk and his demanding need for Woojin’s gaze on his body.
This time it’s Jihoon who stays silent, brows furrowed not out of concern but from consideration. Eventually he reaches some conclusion and his eyes light up impishly. “You’d only know that if you were staring.”
Well, shit. That was a pretty good counter. Woojin concedes the point. “So I do. Stare.”
“A lot.”
Woojin starts running his palms up Jihoon’s bare thighs, more reassuringly than sexual for now. “You have a face.”
“Uh huh...” Jihoon chews on his bottom lip in a brave attempt to stifle a grin. Eventually it breaks free and grows to giddy proportions and he shakes his head of it and tries to control his smile with a touch more success.
“It’s got eyes on it.” Woojin wiggles his eyebrows and beams when Jihoon snorts in laughter before leaning closer, bracing himself with one hand on Woojin’s shoulder. Another touch, just as hot. Jihoon likes to play, that will never change, but instead of the dangerous game this should be it feels a bit more like sweet safety.
“There’s a little smelling thing too.” Woojin can’t help but smile coyly, his grip on Jihoon drifting higher, tighter, a different kind of reassurance.
“A very functional face, it seems.” Jihoon whispers. A small breath escapes his lips when Woojin dips his fingers under the hem of his sleeping shorts teasingly.
“Oh look, it’s got little mouth pillows too.”
“You’re ruining it.”
“Ruining what?”
By now their lips are centimeters apart, and boy has morning breath never smelled so good. Woojin’s fingers slide smoothly up Jihoon’s thighs, over his hips, coming eventually to rest beneath his ribcage over his shirt. They stay like that, bold, daring, gathering potential energy from everything this has been and is about to be.
“Can I kiss you?” Jihoon finally breathes against his lips.
He’s asking? Woojin’s grip around Jihoon's waist tightens. “I dunno, can you?”
Jihoon socks Woojin in the solar plexus, taking advantage of his reflexive release of breath to steal a hot open-mouthed kiss. Woojin laughs breathlessly through their lips, bewildered and delighted as he pushes Jihoon away only so he can manhandle him under the blankets and wrestle until Woojin manages to pin one of his wrists to the mattress. With his free hand Woojn thumbs at Jihoon’s bottom lip and does that thing he does.
Stare.
(Somewhere in the world, 99 whips crack as one.)