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“Baby,” Jaemin murmurs, pressing soft kisses onto the sliver of skin between Renjun’s neck and shoulders. Renjun grunts, pressing himself further into the wall beside the bed. “At least take your makeup off before you fall asleep.”
Renjun grunts again and reaches out to blindly bat Jaemin’s face away from the periphery of his neck. He succeeds in poking Jaemin’s eyelid and counts it as a win when Jaemin lets out an undignified screech.
“Excuse me, who was the one who barged into my room demanding cuddles and dragged me here without any regard for my nightly bonding time with Jisung because, I quote, ‘Train to Busan is still scary no matter how many times I watch it’?” Jaemin asks, playfully nipping on Renjun’s ear. Renjun jolts up with a shriek, clutching his ear and glaring at Jaemin, scandalised, as Jaemin grins back sunnily. Renjun groans and rolls over Jaemin off the bed, pulling open the door and trudging towards the bathroom across the hall, Jaemin’s feet pattering on the floor behind him.
Renjun plops onto the toilet bowl, jutting his chin forward as Jaemin pulls his fringe back with a hair tie. He watches through bleary eyes as Jaemin pulls out a cotton pad from the pile they have stuffed in the medicine cabinet and squirts makeup remover onto it. Jaemin’s left hand comes to rest naturally on Renjun’s nape, his right hand gently swiping across the bumps on Renjun’s face. Renjun’s eyes flutter closed as the cotton pad passes his eyelids. He lets out a breath.
“Jaemin.”
“Hm?” Jaemin hums noncommittally.
“Do you like me more or do you like Mark more?”
“Mark-hyung,” Jaemin corrects absentmindedly. He’s moved on to massaging cleanser into Renjun’s pores. “You’ve got to fix that habit, or you’ll start referring to him informally on broadcasts, and then netizens will shit on you for being impolite.”
“Jaemin,” Renjun whines, “answer the question.”
“I like the both of you, you know that.” He’s filled a small basin with water, washing the foam off Renjun’s face. Renjun sighs, fidgeting with the sleeves of the flannel he’d changed into after their broadcast.
“You fucking suck,” he declares, as Jaemin wipes his face dry with the tenderness of a lovesick man caressing his lover’s cheeks. “I hate you so much.”
“I love you too, my darling,” Jaemin says, pressing a kiss into Renjun’s gross, unwashed hair. Renjun huffs grumpily.
The door swings open. It’s Jisung, who barely spares them a momentary judgemental glance before shuffling over to the sink, reaching for his toothbrush. Neither Renjun nor Jaemin pay him any mind. It’s silent, save for the sounds of Jisung brushing his teeth and the insistent hum of the fluorescent lamp overhead and Jaemin’s fingers rubbing smooth circles into Renjun’s temples, the cool of face product fading into the warmth that exudes from Jaemin’s fingers.
Everyone loves Mark. It’s an irrefutable fact, one that Renjun has been well aware of since, well, forever. And Renjun is not an exception to this.
But Renjun would never be special to Mark. Mark likes Sicheng. Mark likes Jungwoo-hyung. Mark is best friends with Haechan. Mark’s soulmate is Jaehyun-hyung. Mark’s mom is Doyoung-hyung. One’s heart only has room for so many people. Try to squeeze in any more and it’ll explode, like the confetti that rained down on them during their first win, like the leftovers Jisung tried to microwave that left them scrubbing the kitchen for hours, like a firework fizzling out of existence after the apex of its colourful performance.
Renjun knows when it’s not his place. It’s how he survived as a trainee, after all; always keeping curfew, practising whenever he had free time but never practising too much, laughing and joking around with the other trainees so as not to let them be too cautious, being polite and respectful to the teachers, never sneaking out or speaking out or causing trouble. Never overstepping his boundaries.
Renjun sits up.
Jaemin starts, having been in the midst of dabbing moisturiser onto his skin. Jisung has long since vacated the bathroom, the only signs that he’d been here a slightly damp toothbrush haphazardly thrown into the cup.
“I want to be loved,” Renjun declares. Jaemin stares at him, his gaze a mix of amused and exasperated and utterly smitten.
“I do love you,” Jaemin says. Renjun’s head tilts, just a bit.
“I know,” he says. “But what should I do to be loved?”
Jaemin sets the container down on the sink, contemplative. He’s staring at Renjun’s lips again, and at this point in time Renjun doesn’t know whether Jaemin is even conscious of the action or not. It makes him feel wanted, yes, but not loved.
“I wouldn’t know,” Jaemin finally says, one corner of his lips slightly upturned in a ghost of a smile. “I think I give more love than I receive.”
Renjun considers this, tilting his head slightly to the left. He reaches his right hand out, placing it firmly against Jaemin’s nape. Renjun presses gently, and Jaemin abides, bending down lower and lower until his eyes are level with Renjun’s chest. He is crouching, knees bent and palms splayed in front of Renjun’s feet.
Renjun watches as Jaemin’s gaze flickers back and forth between his eyes and his mouth.
“I won’t wear the bracelet,” he announces, the solemnity in his gaze betrayed by the playful lilt in his voice. “But I’ll wear the watch. Okay?”
Jaemin cracks into a smile, slightly wistful. His hands seem to inch closer and closer to Renjun from where they are on the floor, yet they falter.
“After all this while,” he says softly, head bowed. Renjun can feel Jaemin’s breath on his thighs, like a hesitant touch.
Jaemin laughs, low and melodious, as Renjun rubs circles into his skin. He’s not sure if this is enough.
Renjun heads up to the roof, armed with thick winter blankets he stole from Jeno’s bed, his phone, and a pair of earphones. Not his Airpods, but the ones he’s been using since sixth grade, a cheap pair with questionable sound quality that has somehow survived the battering of his youth.
“Light pollution fucking sucks,” he whispers as he nestles further into his cocoon of blankets. The cord of his earphones tangle up between the sheets, and he pulls at them resignedly as his eyes trace a passing airplane in the burnt purple sky.
He doesn’t hear Jeno open the door of the staircase leading to the roof, but he does feel Jeno walking towards him, the vibration of each footstep loud and heavy, clanging in the echoey space of his brain. Jeno doesn’t say a word, instead using his fingers to pry at the sheets tightly wrapped around Renjun and worm his way into Renjun’s blanket haven, displacing Renjun from his mould and melding into a new space for the both of them.
“So you were the one who took my blankets,” Jeno whispers, and Renjun hears it loud and clear, even through the music playing on his earphones. He wordlessly plucks the left bud out of his ear and hands it to Jeno. “You’re gonna wash them later, right?”
Renjun hums noncommittally and tries to focus on the waning moon again. His body is tilted slightly to face Jeno, because Jeno made it that way. Jeno is way too close for comfort, shoulder digging into Renjun’s collarbone and an arm resting on Renjun’s waist. When Ariana Grande’s Moonlight comes on, Jeno mumbles, “You’re so mushy, Injunnie.”
And promptly falls asleep on Renjun’s shoulder.
Renjun sighs as Jeno starts to snore lightly, shifting just a tad so they’re both in more comfortable positions. This close, bare-faced, Jeno is still startlingly handsome, even with the pimple scars from a couple of days ago and blemishes dotting parts of his face. His lashes are so, so long, and Renjun wonders what they would feel like against his skin, fluttering, tickling, like the wings of a butterfly.
Renjun turns off the music, letting Jeno’s snores fill his ears, along with the chirping crickets and occasional whir of a car passing by the streets below them. He thumbs at the mole below Jeno’s eye, and lets his own eyelids fall shut, breathing out a long exhale. White spots dance around the back of his eyelids, like sparkling stars from a night sky a distance away, like back in his Grandma’s house where he thought he would live for eternity. His body is touching every inch of Jeno’s, and it feels like they’ve melted into one another, like the fondue that Renjun sees at fancy company dinners.
Maybe this is enough, for now.
“Stop thinking about it,” Jisung says from where he’s perched on Jaemin’s lap. Renjun can hear the disgusting chewing sounds he’s making as he talks from the strawberries Jaemin has been feeding him. “I can hear you thinking from here.”
Renjun is flopped on the other side of the couch, his toes digging into Jaemin’s thighs for warmth. He stares blankly at a fly flitting about the saucer-shaped light on the ceiling. Jisung will freak out if he sees it, he muses. “About what.”
“Whatever you and Jaemin-hyung were talking about in the bathroom that night,” Jisung says nonchalantly. Renjun can hear Jisung rolling his eyes, as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious. He shoves his face into a cushion, feeling awfully like his ribcage has been ripped open like a bag of potato chips.
“That’s none of your business,” Renjun says, words muffled. He feels Jaemin’s hand on his calves. He withdraws, retracting himself into the smallest ball he can possibly make. He doesn’t want to look at Jaemin’s face, or Jisung’s.
There’s a pause as Jaemin feeds Jisung another strawberry, and the sound of Kang Hodong’s garish voice from the television fills the spaces in between.
“You are liked — loved, whatever — whether you believe it or not,” Jisung says, “and there are people who like you for what you are. No more and no less.”
“This is weird,” Renjun mutters. “When I bare my heart out to someone, it's usually late at night, with some candles or low lighting to set the mood, in a nice enclosed room where we can feel private and safe. Can we go back to talking about the conspiracy theories surrounding Asteroid Bennu?”
“I like you,” Jisung continues, as if Renjun hadn’t said a word. “I can talk about stuff other people would think is weird with you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very significant reason to like someone,” Renjun deadpans.
“You don’t always need a life-changing reason to like a person,” Jisung says, shrugging. “A pimple may not hurt as much as a stab wound, but it still leaves a scar.”
Renjun can’t help but snort at the analogy. He sits up, back against the arm of the sofa, and stuffs his toes back under Jaemin’s thighs. Jaemin smiles into Jisung’s nape, and places his palm back onto Renjun’s calves.
“Jisung,” Renjun says, “Do you want Goraebab? I’ll treat you.”
“Yes,” Jisung says. “And I want you to cook me hotpot, and get annoyed whenever I don’t call you ‘hyung’, and help me level up in Tetris, and teach me how to sing, and correct my grammar, and nag at me for flooding the entire bathroom floor whenever I shower.”
Renjun smiles. “Those are pretty lofty demands.”
“I think you can meet them,” Jisung replies, and without even chancing a glance upon him, Renjun can hear the answering grin in his voice. “I have pretty high standards, you know.”
Renjun averts his eyes, lips clamping shut, and buries his face into the back of the sofa. “Thanks,” he says, wiggling his toes under Jaemin’s butt. Jaemin slaps his calves lightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Jisung says nonchalantly. “I don’t just like anyone, hyung.”
Renjun burrows his face harder into the plush cushions of the sofa as Jaemin pinches his left calf teasingly. Maybe this will be enough, for a time to come.