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Jiyong takes his time inching closer to Seunghyun on the couch. During dinner, they’re comfortably far apart, each on their own sofa cushions with their plates balanced on their lap. Seunghyun tries to focus on the beef bourguignon and not how Jiyong’s jaw looks when he chews it.
During the subsequent board games (a half-game of Monopoly that was declared too stressful and given up for a much more enjoyable round of Candyland), their thighs touch, and by the time they turn on the television, Jiyong’s head is laying on Seunghyun’s shoulder, one leg thrown over his lap in a style much too careless for Seunghyun’s poor, addled brain to process.
For some inexplicable reason, the TV channel is playing an old Esther Williams film, which is something Seunghyun would delight in if it weren’t for his pounding heart. They watch her swim gracefully from one end of the screen to the other, one arm gracefully dipping into the water as the other one comes up to meet the air. It’s so fluid, so seamless, and Seunghyun can’t help but be a little jealous. He’s big and bumbling, not quite lanky but not buff either. His mind flickers over to Jiyong. If it weren’t for his tattoos, he could be Esther Williams. Modern, male, and Korean, but still a passable likeness.
Seunghyun’s mind only realizes that the movie they’re watching is Neptune’s Daughter when the Baby It’s Cold Outside scene arrives. Esther is playful, her sharp features set smugly as she repeatedly twirls around the exotic man trying to coax her into just one more drink.
“What would you do?” Jiyong’s voice breaks through the nasal 1950s crooning.
Seunghyun’s caught off guard, and it shows.
“I mean, if someone did that to you. Begged you to stay.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I don’t think I could give in like that.”
Something about how Jiyong’s eyes bore into him, bright and unblinking, has guilt twisting in Seunghyun’s stomach. He’s obviously tired; one small leg is thrown over Seunghyun’s leg, and his head is lolled to one side on the back of the couch. But his eyes, they seem to say something and Seunghyun’s not sure if he’s putting words there or not. His throat closes up.
“I...just don’t know.”
They stay silent for a while after that. Somewhere between the end of the song and the end of the film, Jiyong’s head comes to rest against his shoulder, and with the way his legs are positioned, Seunghyun finds himself with a half-asleep Jiyong virtually laying in his lap.
Seunghyun starts to get nervous.
It’s obvious that Jiyong means no harm, can be of no harm, but Seunghyun’s subconscious races far ahead of his logic. He feels the weight of the body on top of him, the rub of Jiyong’s exposed calves on his pants. His mind starts reeling when it recognizes Jiyong’s hot breaths fanning over Seunghyun’s collarbones.
All of a sudden, Seunghyun’s body turns to lead. He can’t move. His eyes squeeze shut, he’s trying so hard to concentrate, but now he can’t breathe. Seunghyun can feel it though, he knows his chest is going up and down, but there is no relief, no air rushing through. His hands are trying to squeeze, to reach for something, but they just curl into fists, and Seunghyun doesn’t register the pain of his own fingernails digging into his palm. Time is hurtling forward at breakneck speed and stopped at a standstill all at once; Seunghyun hasn’t gotten this worked up in years, but when his arms and legs start to tingle he bites down on his lip and lets the first few tears fall.
His mind takes him where it’s most painful. He sees the panic attack in the subway bathroom after seeing Namkyu in the next car, the dreams that led to insomnia in his first year after college. He feels the cool skin of the woman’s inner thighs against his hips, her nails as they grab onto his shoulder. Seunghyun is shaking.
He is so, so far down, and the weight in his chest is twisting painfully. He’s an inch away from letting it wash over him completely when he hears Jiyong say his name.
“ Seunghyun!”
Seunghyun forces his eyes open, and all he sees is Jiyong. Beautiful, sweet Jiyong, his orange hair haloed by the crackling TV and his face twisted in worry. How awful Seunghyun must be to make him worry so.
As Seunghyun swims in anxiety, Jiyong keeps trying.
“ Seunghyun!”
Jiyong’s in front of Seunghyun, standing, his hands clenching at the front of his shirt because he’s not stupid enough to touch Seunghyun again, not when his touch caused the whole attack, but God, does he want to.
“Seunghyun, nothing’s touching you, nothing’s on you, you’re fine, I promise, you’re safe…”
Jiyong rambles, but Seunghyun isn’t hyperventilating anymore, so he keeps on going.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I promise it won’t happen again, I want you to feel okay around me-”
Seunghyun opens his eyes, and Jiyong’s words stop in their tracks.
Everything is both hot and cold, black and white. He knows what caused this - Jiyong knows too, at this point he must have discerned the nature of Seunghyun’s personal little black dog. His skin rises in goosebumps as his body stops shaking, as his breathing slowly calms itself back to its invisible rhythm.
The beat of silence between them is palpable, and the air is thick with tears and realization. The tear that had been balancing on Seunghyun’s lower lash falls with a blink, and the moment snaps. Seunghyun isn’t thinking, or rather, he’s thinking too hard.
Jiyong’s mouth lingers half-open, half-formed words, encouragements, consolations at the tip of his tongue.
“Hold my hand,” Seunghyun chokes out. The tear hits his cheek.
A pale, tattooed hand reaches out to entwine itself with his. It is warm, and it is soft, and it doesn’t repulse him. It is comforting, and Seunghyun lets the rest of his tears run their course down his face. Jiyong holds his hand through it, huddled on the couch next to him.
They will fall asleep like that, as awkward and cramped as the position may seem, but in the morning Seunghyun will wake and bat his eyes in disbelief. That he allowed himself to sleep on the couch. That he slept at all after a panic attack. That the sleep was not a vicious cycle of nightmares. But most of all, that the pale, tattooed boy is still there, clinging onto his hand.