Work Text:
“I was going to move next to the ocean. That was the plan.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Money.”
“Ah,” she sounds nonchalant and cold.
“Yeah.”
“So this was your second option?”
“I guess.”
“But you don’t know?”
“No.”
“Why the ocean?”
“It makes me feel at ease. Calm. No more storms, you know.”
“You say that a lot.”
Jeno furrows his brows.
“Say what?”
”You know. You tend to say vague things and assume that everybody knows what you mean. The thing being that they don’t. I don’t.”
He bites down on his tongue, trying not to squirm on the squeaky armchair.
“Well,” he starts, “I don’t know how to say it.”
She looks at him, eyes dark behind her glasses, the lines of age deep patterns over her skin. Therapy probably shouldn’t make him feel worse but that’s how it seems to be going, an uncomfortable itch covering his skin slowly. She’s an unempathetic woman, he thinks, selfishly. He hasn’t seen her smile once.
“Try to.”
Jeno looks past her, to the window, how the rain is hammering against the glass, a rhythmic sound that despite everything, does make him feel a little calmer, somehow.
“There’s a sense of solidarity,” he says, “I know it’s weird. I look at the ocean and feel like it understands me. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“If it makes sense to you, that’s what matters,” she says and for the first time in the past half an hour, it feels comforting.
Jeno nods slowly and focuses his eyes back on her.
“It rains a lot,” he says, “here.”
“It does,” she agrees.
He wants to say that he didn’t want more storms. He wants to say a lot of things but instead he just smiles a little, and saves them for another time.
They wrap up quickly after that.
There’s always things on the tip of his tongue, wanting to crawl over the edge in the manner of little spiders. He’s too careful, tiptoeing around, but the way he exits the building is almost panicked, rushing through the halls.
And outside—gripping his umbrella, hand clenched tightly as if to keep himself grounded—Jeno tries to push away the following shame, the embarrassment of not being enough, the repetitive, boring feeling of he tries and he fails, and then he tries again, just to fail once more.
His neighbour never wears a shirt.
This would be more of an interesting statement if Jeno had seen him more than thrice. He’s sitting on his balcony, in gym shorts, the rest of his body bare, exposed to the last rays of sunlight the evening has to offer.
Jeno looks away, towards the sky, before he steps back from the window. It’s an awkward angle to look out from anyway, out meaning his neighbour's balcony, his neighbour's balcony meaning his backside, the back of his head, dark brown hair a mess, skin golden and tan.
He isn’t a creep. Jeno sits down to his kitchen table, feet knocking against the leg of it. The apartment is quiet, echoing the silence. Some of the moving boxes are still unpacked, even after almost a month, sitting stacked up in the corner of the room, echoing the feeling of some sort of incompetence he’d rather forget.
Jeno leans back and looks at the ceiling. The landlord had told him about the history of water damage in the upper floors but he didn’t expect it to look this hideous, dark splotches all around the grey surface. What can he do? The rent is dirt cheap.
He sits there for a while, listening to the sounds that reach his ears from the staircase behind his walls, like a beast hiding, before he’s being jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of his phone ringing abruptly. He knocks his foot against the desk again, this time the impact more painful, followed by a dull throb. He curses under his breath and gets up, dragging himself across the door to grab his phone from where it’s plugged in to a charger next to the kitchen sink.
“Hi?”
“Jeno!” A cheery voice greets him through the phone.
“Christ, Mark, what do you sound so happy for?” He asks, a little smile rising on his lips, the ache in his foot beginning to fade away.
“I can’t be positive for no reason, huh?”
“I guess you can. Was just waiting to hear that it’s because of me,” Jeno says.
“Well, you are a delight,” Mark says and he can almost hear his smile through the phone. Jeno unplugs his phone and makes his way back to sit down by the desk.
“I know I am,” he says absently, looking out of the window although all he sees is just the brick wall of the apartment building next to his and a thin strip of the sky, turning a page, settling into the night.
“But you are also a liar,” Mark says.
“What?”
“You promised you’d call,” he mumbles, “call more, that is.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeno says instinctively, “I was going to. It’s been just really busy.”
He isn’t being truthful, of course. It tastes like gravel in his mouth—to lie to his best friend. Mark is quiet for a while and Jeno looks at the sky, a heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach, sinking, almost like concrete proof of him not being who he says he is.
“I’m sorry,” Jeno repeats, “it’s just—I started seeing a new therapist and all, and writing has been taking all of my time—”
“It’s okay,” Mark interrupts his erratic explanations, pausing for a sigh before continuing, “I’m just worried about you.”
Jeno hates hearing that.
“You shouldn’t be,” he says but his voice sounds strangled and weird, and he just hopes Mark will blame it on the call and nothing else.
“Not really something you can control,” Mark chuckles but it’s a little sad, “how’s the therapist?”
“Awful,” he says bluntly and it draws an abrupt laugh from Mark, “no, seriously. I was gonna give her a few more chances but she’s atrocious.”
“Ow, man,” he says, “that’s sad.”
Jeno laughs a little, nodding as if Mark could see it. It, suddenly, makes his chest bang, a painful ache in his bones. And like he could feel it too, he suddenly speaks.
“I miss you,” Mark says, and knowing that he isn’t the one to say things such as this so straightforwardly makes it dig a little deeper, “not just—not just here, you know, but ever since—”
“I miss you too,” Jeno interrupts, “but I don’t wanna go there, please. It’s not right.”
“Why does it matter?”
“What?”
“If it’s right or not,” Mark explains, his voice quiet. Jeno swallows and blinks away the tears rising up to his eyes. It’s embarrassing and he isn’t even sure why it’s getting to him like this, feelings like the tides.
“It just does,” he says softly.
“Alright,” Mark says, like he understands. He doesn’t, but it’s alright.
Jeno shuts his eyes and thinks back to five years ago, when Mark and him used to live together. Just eighteen, no idea how to do the taxes and pay the bills, cooking skills limited to instant ramen and microwavable meals. How he used to cut Jeno’s hair just because. The comfort of wearing Mark’s shirts to sleep.
Things have changed.
“I promise,” Jeno starts, unsure, “I will try to call more. Don’t worry, Mark, I am fine.”
It’s not even a lie. There’s an argument to be made for the case that being fine is just a relative concept but it’s all too complicated to get into that.
“I believe you,” Mark says, “don’t get me wrong. I do.”
“Good, good,” he says, “how are you, anyway?”
Mark starts talking about how things are back home, how Chenle’s older sister is pregnant, and that the ice cream parlor they used to visit is closing permanently. It’s obvious how he circles around some subjects, people, and Jeno is grateful for it.
“—and I got the job, by the way.”
“What?” Jeno asks.
“Yeah,” he confirms, shyly.
“That’s amazing,” he says, a bright smile spreading on his lips, “look at you, being all grown up and shit.”
Mark laughs.
“It’s technically just an internship,” he says.
“Don’t downplay it,” Jeno rolls his eyes, “you’re gonna be a big shot lawyer, one day.”
“Yeah, one day,” he chuckles.
Jeno promises to call more, again, again and again. After the call ends, he’s convinced for a few minutes that he will keep that promise.
After an hour has passed by and Mark’s presence in his mind isn’t as vivid, he isn’t so sure.
It haunts him. The thought of possibly being a worse person than he thought he was. And then it’s raining again.
“Excuse me!” A voice calls after him when Jeno is walking up to the elevator on his floor. A jolt of discomfort passes through his body at the thought of having to interact with his neighbours but he hesitantly turns around just to face him. The man who never wears a shirt. Except now he is wearing one.
“Yeah?” He says, trying to look at the ground or at his hands, just to see if Jeno dropped something he’s trying to alert him about. There’s nothing like that.
“You live next door to me, right?”
Jeno nods, tilting his head expectantly. He reaches out to shake his hand.
“I’m Donghyuck,” he says, a somewhat restless quality to him.
“Jeno,” he says, withdrawing his hand and shoving them to the pockets of his jeans.
Donghyuck reaches into the tote bag slung over his shoulder and pulls out a flyer, old-fashioned and all.
“My cat’s gone missing,” he says. Jeno takes the flyer, looking down at the grainy picture of a black cat. He has to admit, it’s kind of unconventional.
“When?” He asks, scanning over the info written on the paper.
“Oh, yeah, I should’ve probably written that down. Last night. I waited for her to come back but she hasn’t,” he explains rapidly, seeming almost nervous, that Jeno wants to place his palm on his shoulder and ask him to calm down. He, of course, doesn’t do this.
“Alright,” Jeno says and smiles politely, “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thank you,” Donghyuck says, rushing past him towards the elevator, “it was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Jeno mumbles and turns around, looking as the elevator doors open and he steps in, pressing the button, before his head perking up, dog-like.
“Were you gonna come, too?” Donghyuck asks, hurried, rushed, and Jeno is getting a little anxious over his energy.
“No, I’ll take the—” he starts but the doors start closing, slamming shut before he has the chance to finish, “stairs.”
Jeno is left there standing with the flyer clutched into his sweaty hand. He really didn’t want to take the stairs but after a moment of just standing there, dumbfounded, he turns on his heels and heads towards the staircase.
While walking down, he studies the flyer better. The cat’s name is Tofu and apparently loves tuna—Jeno supposes that’s important for trying to tempt her to approach—and has a white spot in the middle of her tail, barely visible in the picture.
“Huh,” he mumbles to himself, folding the flyer and putting it in his pocket.
It’s not raining and neither does it look like it’s going to, which is strangely surprising. On his way to the grocery store, Jeno spots a few of the flyers glued onto lampposts.
He swears that he places the can of tuna in his shopping cart just because it’s on sale.
It’s not just because it’s on sale.
Of course.
By the time he’s doing it, it feels silly. He’s dressed in clothes suitable for a run but in the pocket of his shorts there’s the can of tuna alongside with his keys. It’s embarrassing, stupid, for multiple reasons. There’s the possibility Tofu has returned home already and he’s walking around like a fool. There isn’t really a reason why he should care this much other than his general liking of cats.
Then the sky roars and it starts pouring. It isn’t that dramatic, not really, it starts with a light drizzle but Jeno just doesn’t want to give up yet. He had left his phone home, too, so it’s just his clothes that are gonna get soaked. It’s a warm evening, walking around the streets still foreign and unfamiliar, the smell of rain fresh and raw.
It builds up gradually. In no time the rain is hammering down violently, hitting his skin in unconditional aggression, and Jeno is considering just turning around..
It feels dreamlike. So absurd that at first he has to blink the water from his eyes and squint but there, appearing from the bush next to the sidewalk, is a black small cat, and yeah, with a white spot on its tail. A strange feeling of excitement in his chest, a quick rush, Jeno slowly squats down and pulls the can of tuna from his pocket, hooking his finger in the ring to open it, and places it on the ground in front of him.
Tofu looks at him with almost narrowed eyes and for a moment Jeno is afraid the rain is sabotaging his silly little plan but then she approaches him with careful steps.
There’s a relief spreading in his chest when she starts eating from the can and lets him pet her. Jeno isn’t a creep. It’s a little questionable that he has to tell himself this on separate occasions.
Eventually, Tofu lets herself be picked up by him, and Jeno kicks the empty can aside carefully, feeling bad for littering but he’s scared that if he tries to pick it up, too, Tofu might struggle herself free despite she seeming quite calm.
“Good kitty,” he murmurs, like the idiot he is.
While walking back, the rain calming down, leaving him cold, he wonders what the fuck he’s doing.
Jeno supposes it’s normal enough to want the approval or friendship of his neighbour since he doesn’t know anyone from the city. It just feels a bit weird to go out of his way to find his cat. But then again, Donghyuck had put up posters and handed out flyers, so he must appreciate the help.
He should bring it up to his therapist. But his therapist also is kind of insufferable so he really isn’t so sure if that is a good idea.
Jeno reaches his apartment building quickly enough and then he’s in the elevator, going up, catching a glimpse of himself from the mirror. There’s water dripping down his hair, dark shirt soaked through, sticking to his skin uncomfortably.
That’s how he ends up ringing Donghyuck’s doorbell, hoping to God that he is even home. To Jeno’s luck, he opens the door—not wearing a shirt. Goddammit.
“Uh,” Jeno says, “found Tofu. I think.”
Donghyuck looks at his face quietly, almost staring, before looking down to his arms.
“Baby!” He exclaims, and it’s enough to make the doubt that maybe it isn’t her after all fade away. Donghyuck opens the door further so Jeno bends down and lets Tofu jump off his hold, and then she’s quickly running off to inside the apartment. Donghyuck doesn’t even try to stop her and her wet paws.
“Where did you find her? How did she even let you carry her? God, you’re soaked,” Donghyuck talks fast. Jeno blinks slowly.
“I—” he starts, before deciding it’s too weird to be honest about, “the park closeby. I was on a run.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
“She must like you,” Donghyuck chuckles.
“Ah, the highest form of compliments,” he jokes, a small smile on his lips. Donghyuck is really handsome, he realizes. It’s difficult to keep his eyes up and not check him out. He refrains, not wanting to make the situation any more awkward than it is, standing in the doorway, shivering.
“I haven’t got much of a reward, I’m sorry,” Donghyuck says, as if realizing it only now. Jeno shrugs it off.
“It’s fine,” he says.
“You should come over for coffee sometime, though. That’s the least I can do. But not now—obviously.”
Jeno laughs and nods. There’s a smile on Donghyuck’s lips, almost coy.
“I will take you up on that,” he promises.
In the shower, Jeno smiles at the tiles. He has a restless heart leaping in his chest anxiously.
The library is unfamiliar and strangely distorted. The backs of the books on the shelves are all blank, in dark saturated colours, intimidating and staring at him with mean eyes. Jeno almost wants to back away, hide into a corner, but the space is lit with sunlight, making everything appear Heaven-like. Not that he has ever been to Heaven.
“Honey,” a familiar voice calls behind him, and the confusion is heavy on his shoulders, but Jeno turns around to see him. And how it makes his heart hurt. Jaemin’s smile is bright, the light behind him making it look like he has a halo above his head.
How Jeno hasn’t said his name aloud in months.
“Jaemin,” he says but he can’t hear his own voice, only his lips move and nothing comes out. It’s almost like he’s underwater, struggling against the waves. How the body will do its everything to survive, trash and twist and turn, fight to stay afloat.
“You were looking for me,” Jaemin says. He hasn’t changed a bit.
“I was?” Jeno asks.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Jaemin rolls his eyes and steps closer—Jeno takes a step back.
“You know that better than I do.”
“I don’t,” Jeno says and it comes out desperate and weak, “what if I don’t?”
It’s been months. The library shifts and shapes into a school hall. He keeps taking steps backwards and stumbling over his feet, but he never falls. Jaemin reaches out with his hands and takes Jeno’s between his.
“You do,” he says, softly, gently. Jeno can’t bear his own anger. He looks away. How do you face someone you once loved so terribly? How do you look him in the eye and repent?
“I’m sorry,” Jeno gasps out, strangled and weak, pathetic and beaten up, “I’m sorry that I—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts, softly, “you’ve told me this before.”
“It isn’t enough.”
“And it’s never right, either,” Jaemin says.
“It’s never right,” Jeno repeats.
“But it shouldn’t matter.”
“That’s what Mark says. But—it should matter.”
Jaemin guides him to a bench, pulling him down to sit. It’s the hallway of the college they went to, still sunlit, still too wide, still too bright, too frightening.
“Would you forgive me?” Jeno asks.
“I don’t know,” Jaemin says. It’s not really him, something tells him.
“I’m scared,” Jeno admits, looking away, “what if I’ll never heal? What if you’ll never forgive me and I’ll never be able to forgive myself, either? Then I’ll be stuck in the loop. Running around.”
Jaemin wraps his arms around his shaking body and pulls him to a hug. Jeno buries his face in his shoulder.
“You gotta,” he says.
“But what if I don’t?” Jeno mumbles against his shirt.
It feels like he’s about to say something, a rumbling in his chest that sounds like the beginning of a storm, raging, ready to sweep him off his feet.
And then he wakes up. Gasping, like drowning.
“I had a dream about him,” Jeno says.
“You still won’t say his name,” she says but she doesn’t sound disappointed. If she did, Jeno wouldn’t know how to cope with it.
“I can’t,” he says and shakes his head.
“Why?”
“I’m ashamed.”
“Of?”
Jeno parts his lips to close them again. He looks down at the floor.
“I feel like a bad person,” he says, “that deep down, inside this, I just am rotten. That no matter what I do, I can’t remove that part about myself. Eventually, in all outcomes, I ruin shit.”
Jeno takes a pause, feeling like cringing at himself for the words sound like a fifteen year old’s. If he could say it in a way that made more sense, that felt more right, he could cope with it better. He can’t, so it’s his own ruin.
“Saying his name means admitting to what happened. Admitting to that means I don’t get to hide any longer.”
“That’s an essential thing to do if you want to heal, Jeno.”
“I know,” he says, gently pinching the skin of his knuckles, “but what if—what if there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to?”
“You don’t want to heal?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just unsure to what it means to do so.”
“Have you tried writing about it?”
Jeno glances at her.
“No,” he admits.
“That’s what you’re good at, right? Try it.”
The tone of her voice says that there’s nothing to lose but Jeno would disagree. He wants to keep punishing himself, is the truth. He wants to take a lash and whip himself until he’s blistered and bleeding, dragging his body across the floor to prove to someone— watch me, I am hurting, it’s not just that I’m a bad person, believe me, please.
But who wants to join a pity party like this? No one. It’s nearing despicable.
Jeno takes up on Donghyuck’s offer a week later.
At first he’s nervous on the floor of his bathroom and then, suddenly, he’s sitting in Donghyuck’s kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug. It says #1 mom on it. A part of him wants to ask, another doesn’t.
Tofu is asleep on a pillow next to the table, curled up. It’s adorable, tugging on his heartstrings.
“You just moved here, right?” Donghyuck asks. Jeno lifts his eyes from Tofu to him. He’s in a tank top, tan arms bare, resting against the dark wood of the desk.
“Yeah, it’s been a month,” he confirms.
“Why did you move?” He asks, lifting his legs on the chair, knees up. The way he sits is boyish, young, and Jeno shifts on his chair. “For work? School?”
Jeno shakes his head.
“No, I’m—I’m an author. Just needed a change of scenery, really.”
“An author?” Donghyuck seems genuinely surprised, “I thought you have to be like, I don’t know, Rowling level to make a living.”
Jeno chuckles and nods.
“Yeah,” he says, “I’m just holding on for a while and hoping it works out. I’ve got a deal.”
“Man,” Donghyuck shakes his head, “that’s really cool. While I work in goddamn retail. How is this fair?”
It’s lighthearted, the shimmer in the corner of Donghyuck’s eye bright and mischievous. There’s something so inexplicably intriguing about him. Jeno almost wants to reach his hands inside him and pull him apart just to see how he works—but those are the things he tries to avoid.
“What do you wanna do, then?”
“Don’t ask me that,” Donghyuck says and rolls his eyes, “it’s kinda sad to be in your twenties and still haven’t gotten your shit figured out.”
Jeno shrugs his shoulders and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s gone lukewarm.
“You’re young,” he says dumbly.
“Not for long,” Donghyuck laughs.
“Debatable.”
“I guess.”
Jeno turns his eyes away to look at the walls of his apartment. It’s built like his but completely different. He spots an acoustic guitar in the corner of the room.
“You play?” He asks.
“Badly, but yeah,” he says, “got it from my dad, the guitar.”
Jeno just nods, not knowing what to say, again.
“What if we just skipped the small talk phase and drove right into the meaty stuff,” Donghyuck says.
“Huh?” Jeno says and turns his face towards him.
“I don’t like small talk,” he says and rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” Jeno says, “why do you never wear a shirt?”
Donghyuck lets out a laugh that’s loud, abrupt and awfully lively. It makes him smile too, somehow, a contagious effect. Jeno realizes he wants to hear more of it.
“You’ve noticed?” Donghyuck laughs.
“I can see straight to your balcony.”
“Oh man,” he giggles and shakes his head, “I just fucking hate shirts.”
Jeno lets out a baffled laugh.
“That’s probably the most inconvenient thing to hate.”
“I could list a few worse.”
“Like?”
Donghyuck seems to be in thought for a moment.
“Showering?”
Jeno tilts his head.
“I mean, you gotta do it once a day anyway,” he says.
“Breathing?”
“I’ve got another name for that.”
Donghyuck gives him an unimpressed look.
“Morbid,” he says and what can Jeno do but shrug his shoulders. He has the right to joke about such things, in his mind, but of course Donghyuck couldn’t know this.
“What do you hate, then?” Donghyuck asks, resting his chin on his knee.
“I could say lots of things but all of them are sad,” Jeno laughs.
“I’m fine with sad.”
The strange thing is that it sounds like Donghyuck means it. Like really, genuinely means it, and Jeno can’t put his finger on how he does it.
“Don’t know if I am,” he says, trying to keep his tone joking but it comes out a little more serious than intended. Donghyuck looks at him like he’s trying to understand something. It’s making him feel like he is being dissected right there, pulled bare from his clothes and cut open like a frog in a high school biology class.
“Well,” Donghyuck says, straightening up and putting his feet on the ground, “do you mind?”
“Mind what?” Jeno laughs.
“If I’m going to indulge my hatred and take off my shirt?”
It’s all so absurd and silly. There’s a big grin on Donghyuck’s face and it looks like he’s trying to hold back in laughter. It’s making Jeno’s chest feel light, easy.
“Suit yourself,” he says—because what else can he say?
So he pulls off his tank top and throws it on the floor, and there’s nothing sexy in it. It’s raining outside, Jeno can hear it, but it doesn’t affect anything, it doesn’t matter.
He tries to distract himself by taking a sip of his coffee. It’s just cold by now, making him grimace, the bitter taste heavy on his tongue.
Donghyuck is weird, he finds out this easily. Jeno has a history of being drawn to people like that. A recipe for chaos, if you may.
It’s an ugly thought, an embarrassing one; it’s not him who gets hurt but Jeno who hurts others.
He pushes it aside for now.
“I said I would call,” Jeno says.
“I’m glad that you did,” Mark says, “don’t know if this is the best moment, though.”
Jeno frowns, looking up at the roof, laying on his back on his bed.
“Are you with someone? I can call later.”
“No, I’m alone, that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, then?” Jeno asks, laughing a little, and it’s as if he can see Mark hesitating despite there being hundreds of miles between them.
“It’s—I, I’m sorry, Jeno, but it’s just that I’m feeling, you know, I’m not in the happiest mood,” he sighs, “I just talked to Jaemin.”
It feels like his whole body suddenly got drained of his blood, cold, empty, used and trembling. The sound of his name a slap in the face, a tight feeling around his throat, and Lord—how much he hates it. He hates how it makes him feel, he has no right to reach like this.
“I see,” Jeno says, his voice foreign, “I mean, like I said, I can call you later.”
“No, please, don’t hang up,” Mark says, pleading. He lets out an anxious groan, rubbing his palm against his face.
“Mark,” he says and it almost sounds like a warning.
“Please.”
“I don’t really want to do this,” Jeno says and shuts his eyes.
“Please,” Mark repeats, sounding small, “don’t push me away.”
He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he says slowly, carefully.
“But it is, whether you want it or not,” Mark says, “don’t let it happen.”
And how guilty he feels. Jeno wants to snap back at him, say that that’s not him, and it’s outrageous that Mark would ever accuse him of something like this. But he knows. He knows he has a point even though Jeno doesn’t really want to admit it.
It feels like he is quiet for a long time.
“What do you want me to say?” Jeno asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. Jaemin once compared him to a scared animal, ready to bite when frightened, and the sinking feeling in his stomach over recalling it makes it so much worse.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” Mark sighs, “I just—you gotta talk about this sometime. I’m not gonna force you to, but you gotta. It’s not just gonna go away.”
Jeno takes in a shuddering breath, sitting up on his mattress.
“What if I’m never ready to?” He asks as if Mark would have an answer that would please him.
“You will never be,” he says, “it’s not supposed to be easy, Jeno.”
“What do you know?” Jeno asks before he can stop himself and it sounds bitter, mean, “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know it ain’t right.”
“Quit it with the right or wrong bullshit,” Mark says, frustrated, “and you’re correct, I don’t know. But I know you and you can save the well, what if you don’t, because I do. You’re still my best friend.”
Jeno bites down on his tongue.
“I guess I just,” he says, back to the soft tone of voice, “I am so ashamed, Mark.”
He is quiet for a while.
“I know,” Mark says, “and I’m not holding this against you or something like that. I just don’t want to see two of my friends in pain.”
“It sucks that you’re caught up in between,” he mumbles and Mark just makes a sound of confirmation.
Jeno hesitates, afraid that if he says it, he’s going to open a can of worms he can’t close.
“How is he, by the way?” He asks and it comes out vulnerable, shy in the most uncomfortable manner.
“Oh, Jeno,” Mark says softly, “he’s—good, I think. Better.”
Jeno almost wants to ask if he ever mentions him but he doesn’t do this, mostly because he probably couldn’t handle it either way, no matter what the answer would be.
“Good,” he mumbles.
“Are you okay?” Mark asks.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and while he has been better, it’s not exactly a lie, “I pay a therapist for this kinda bullshit. Sorry.”
Mark laughs.
“I’ve been your personal therapist for way longer than anyone else.”
“That’s true,” Jeno chuckles.
“I gotta go now,” Mark says, “I’ll vent to you, I don’t know, whenever you’ll call me again.”
“Tomorrow?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Say hi to Chenle. And Lucas, yeah?”
“How do you know Lucas is back?” Mark asks.
“Instagram.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, yeah, okay,” Jeno says, not really wanting to hang up.
“Aight,” Mark says, “bye.”
“Bye bye,” he says, and then, quickly, “love you.”
Jeno squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the laugh. There’s none.
“Love you too,” Mark says after a second of silence, sounding taken aback. Jeno doesn’t blame him.
“Alright, bye now, for real,” Jeno says, and hangs up.
It leaves him all sorts of exhausted. So Jeno has a good cry about it, and then he goes to bed.
He dreams about the ocean. The changing tides that rage but never in a way that feels out of place. Just waiting for the right moment before lapping itself against the shore. To be washed ashore alongside it.
To be washed ashore.
Jeno is in his kitchen, eating his breakfast at noon, when he spots Donghyuck from the window, leaning against the railing of his balcony, shirtless, smoking a cigarette. Jeno furrows his brows, acting on impulse as he gets up and walks up to the window, yanking it open.
Donghyuck jolts at the loud sound, turning to look at his direction, and his face morphs from surprised to confused to somewhat amused. Jeno sticks his upper body out of the window.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says, loud so it doesn’t get lost to the wind.
“I don’t,” Donghyuck says and takes a drag.
Jeno looks at him with a puzzled look, fingers gripping his windowsill. Donghyuck laughs at him.
“I’m stressed, dude,” he says, “I smoke when I’m stressed.”
“My mom used to say that. Then she’d smoke all the time.”
Donghyuck snorts.
“I’m not like that,” he says.
“What’s got you stressed, then?” Jeno asks, a smile on his lips.
“Okay,” Donghyuck sighs, “not stressed. Pissed off.”
“I knew it,” he says.
“No, you didn’t know shit,” he laughs, “but you’re gonna ask what got me pissed off. My friends bailed on me. They were gonna come over later. I got drinks and shit. But no.”
“A shitty move,” Jeno says, nodding.
Donghyuck looks at him in thought.
“Are you free tonight?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“I mean—yeah?”
“Why does that sound like a question? But if you are, you should come over.”
Jeno blinks slowly, considering it for a moment, but also not, because he kind of made up his mind the second Donghyuck offered.
“Yeah, why not,” he says, “that’d be fun.”
“Ah, thank you! My lifesaver! Just show up at my door at, what, seven, yeah?”
“Okay,” Jeno laughs, “do I bring anything?”
“Just your gorgeous face,” Donghyuck says.
“That’s awful,” he laughs.
“I said I was gonna skip the small talk phase,” he grins and puts out his cigarette against the railing, flipping it over it.
“I can see that,” Jeno says with a smile on his lips.
So that’s how he ends up on Donghyuck’s floor, more than tipsy, laughing about something stupid.
“Seriously, sometimes I just want to drop everything and move to, I don’t know, in the middle of the woods,” Donghyuck says.
“I get you,” Jeno snorts, “I actually wanted to move next to the sea, for real, but I haven’t got the money for that.”
“We can just put our money together and build a little shitty shed somewhere,” he suggests. Jeno laughs, looking at him with a grin on his lips. Donghyuck’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, a somewhat wild look in his eyes. There’s always something riveting in him. It’s difficult to pinpoint but it’s there, commanding for attention.
“You a craftsman?” He asks.
“No.”
“Neither am I,” Jeno says.
“Damn,” Donghyuck shakes his head.
“My talents consist of mediocre writing and what, going to therapy.”
“Sounds familiar,” he says, “except I can’t even write. Replace that with mediocre musical inclinations.”
Jeno laughs.
“You should play for me, sometime,” he says.
“I can, but not now, too drunk for it,” Donghyuck sighs, and Jeno doesn’t blame him.
“Looking forward to it, then.”
“When are you gonna tell me what you hate?” Donghyuck asks suddenly.
Jeno looks at him with surprised eyes. It’s kind of flattering to know that he didn’t forget about it.
“I think that should be reserved to the going to therapy-talent of mine.”
“Please,” Donghyuck whines.
He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer.
“I hate,” he starts, thinking what to say, “I hate being worried about. Quite basic.”
“You don’t seem to be a hateful person, after all,” Donghyuck huffs and shakes his head, “which is good, I guess. Hate is heavy on the heart, ain’t it?”
It’s getting a bit too real.
“I don’t think your heart gives two fucks about if it’s hate or what. It’s there to pump your blood,” Jeno says.
“Cynical. Boring,” Donghyuck says.
“Maybe,” he shrugs his shoulders, never dropping his smile. It’s strange. Despite it being a little too much for his liking, he’s still finding himself giddy. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the contagious nature of Donghyuck’s.
“I gotta confess something,” Jeno says suddenly.
“Bring it on, big boy.”
“When I found Tofu,” he starts, “I had a can of tuna. I went looking for her.”
Jeno doesn’t dare to look at him for a moment but when he doesn’t say anything, he gathers up his courage to face him. He looks like he’s holding back laughter. Jeno doesn’t know if his own face is heating up over embarrassment or the drink.
“Why on Earth would you do that?” Donghyuck asks, obviously amused.
“I don’t know,” Jeno sighs, “maybe because you’re my hot shirtless neighbour, I’m a friendless creep and also love cats.”
Donghyuck just laughs harder, falling on the floor from where he is sitting on the carpet, before he stops on his tracks.
“You think I’m hot?”
“That’s the part you’re gonna latch onto?”
Donghyuck rests his cheek against his palm, elbow pressed against the floor, laying on his side. Of course, a shirt nowhere to be seen. He’s showing off.
“You’re hot, too,” Donghyuck says, a mischievous look on his face.
“Bullshit,” Jeno says, just to see how he would react. He knows he’s fairly good-looking, even though it feels conceited to admit that. He’s not ugly, is a better phrasing.
Donghyuck sits up, making his way closer to him. He’s drunk, both of them are, and Jeno has never been the smartest when he’s under the influence. He doesn’t consider the consequences, doesn’t know how to be careful.
“Seriously,” he says, studying his face closely. Donghyuck lifts up his hand and places it on his cheek and he almost instinctively leans against it. He rubs his thumb over Jeno’s lips and it’s slowly sinking in, the feeling, getting his heart to skip a beat.
“You’ve got the prettiest mouth,” Donghyuck mumbles. Jeno presses a light kiss against the finger. The look in his eyes is hungry, almost predatory, and it makes him feel all sorts of ways he hasn’t felt in a while.
Jeno, of course, ends up in his bed.
“Um, Mark,” Jeno starts.
“Yeah?”
“I slept with my neighbour.”
“What? When?”
“Yeah,” he says, “uh, last week. I was drunk and so was he. Then again, yesterday, sober.”
“You did it twice?”
“Yup,” Jeno says, grimacing.
“Congrats, I guess?” Mark says, sounding amused. He can just imagine his face right now. They should skype sometimes so he wouldn’t have to imagine.
“Thanks,” he laughs.
“Is it just that?” Mark asks curiously. “Just hookups?”
“Like Lucas and you?”
“Hey!”
“Sorry,” Jeno snorts, “and I mean, yeah. But that’s the thing. I’m starting to really like him.”
“Butterflies and all?”
“God, yeah. It’s bad. I feel like a teenager.”
“I’m happy for you,” Mark says, “although. Wait. Does he reciprocate?”
Jeno hums in thought, looking out of the kitchen window. It’s raining, again, but he feels like taking a walk. It’s a strange feeling, although it probably shouldn’t be.
“He might, he might not. He’s odd, somehow, but he makes me, you know, happy.”
“Sappy bastard,” Mark coos.
“Shut up,” Jeno says and rolls his eyes.
It’s not like him to bring up the subject himself but he finds his mouth opening and words spilling out like water.
“I’ve been writing, you know, about him. Not my neighbour but him. ”
“Really?” Mark asks.
“Yeah,” he says, “it’s painful, to be honest.”
“I’m proud of you for it, though,” he says and there’s again that part of Jeno that wants to argue against it. The bugging noise that wants to say that there’s nothing that Mark should be proud over as it is the bare minimum and Jeno should be capable of more by now.
But he just swallows that part down and smiles to himself.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Can you send some of it to me?” Mark asks.
Jeno hesitates, biting down on his knuckle and thinking about it for a while.
“I might,” he says, “but I gotta think about it for a while. It’s a little embarrassing. And like, seriously bad.”
“Take your time,” Mark says.
And Jeno thinks, maybe it’s the time to start sharing his heart again. A bit by bit.
So later, he sends Mark the text, parts of it, at least. It’s not good or without its disclaimers and a heavy burdening feeling on Jeno’s shoulders but he does it.
His heart burns. Cynical, he thinks, in the sound of Donghyuck’s voice.
We used to visit all sorts of playgrounds, in front of elementary schools, in parks, wherever. I hate to say it but now I can’t see one without thinking of you. For the longest time, you were the you in everything sappy I could spew out. Now it’s back to the faceless, unknown you. I’m sorry, is what I would tell you, again. I’m sorry, and then after that I’d ask you, do you think I deserve to be hurting, too? Do you think it’s right of me? You have such a strong moral compass, the north of it being your heart, and I just sometimes feel lost without it, like sleepwalking. Most of the time, it’s just the guilt that keeps me awake. I have no right to- —
So it goes on. Repetitive and boring.
That’s the most difficult part, sometimes. The fact that Jeno can’t make it into something greater, beautiful and captivating. Jeno isn’t the ocean. Such a silly little thing. Such an ache.
Such a silly little thing. How it hurts. How awful he feels for having it hurt the way it does.
A silly little thing.
Jeno takes the bus to the beach a few days later, by himself.
He tells himself that it’s for inspiration. His writing hasn’t been the best recently but he still keeps on trying, and maybe that’s what matters. It won’t be enough when the deadlines start to creep in and calls from his publisher increase, but for now he isn’t to beat himself up over it. He refuses to, fights and bites back, dog teeth.
For the longest time everything used to remind him of Jaemin. It’s been always like that for him, his mind incapable of telling things apart, objects from people, words from himself, for they always morph and mold into a being that just one whole—something to be loved, something to forget.
He’d like to say now the beach is just a beach, and to a certain degree, it is.
It also is reaching its sand-hands into his chest and examining his insides, twisting and turning them around, leaving him uncomfortable and a little hurting.
Jeno walks and walks, kicks the sand around, it gets into his sneakers but he doesn’t mind. The sunlight reflects from the waves like diamonds, shimmering as if it is aware of its own beauty, the ocean, a sharp blade of a knife.
He sits down to a rock, the far edge of the beach, just woods on his other side, and wraps his arms around his knees. He’s almost alone, the few bodies on the shore distant and quiet. There, Jeno thinks, there, I’ve given it to you, now. Time to let go.
He doesn’t know who he is talking to.
No more storms, he thinks.
No more storms, he thinks, and later on, he lets his therapist know he would prefer another. A gentle drizzle on his way home, no umbrella to be seen, Jeno lets himself just be and tries to hold onto the sound of the waves rushing, dancing around violently.
The thing about Donghyuck is that he’s borderline addictive.
Jeno knows it’s a weird way to put it. It’s like he limits himself, somehow, always allowing just a little piece to be taken before being willing to give a little more.
The first time Donghyuck visits his apartment, it’s just to help Jeno build some IKEA furniture. For decency, he does wear a t-shirt. It ends up on his floor.
Now, though, it’s solely because he seems to want to be there.
Jeno doesn’t know why but it’s a foreign concept to him, in a way, to have someone as vivid and bright to latch onto him. It has happened before. It has and it shouldn’t surprise him. Donghyuck is as odd and eccentric as he is funny and kind. He isn’t bad for thinking him in such a light.
Donghyuck has draped himself over Jeno’s bed like he belongs there—and in Jeno’s mind, he already does—looking up with a concentrated expression.
“Your ceiling’s really ugly, you noticed that?” He asks suddenly. Jeno lets out a baffled laugh and glances upwards.
“Yeah,” he says, “I have. It brings the rent down, though.”
“As it should! Not to hate on your apartment but—”
“But it’s painful to look at,” Jeno finishes it for him, voice flat but a smile on his lips. Donghyuck sighs, a voice of agreement.
There’s a feeling in the bottom of his stomach. A good feeling, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell. A tangled up disarray, a confused movement that asks, would you wait by the dock?
It never makes any sense. It feels right. Jeno knows so little.
”So,” Donghyuck says, his voice lingering in the air a moment before he continues, ”what’s this thing, like, between us?”
A fast pulse of anxiety passes through him but he manages to stay calm and collected, although he doesn’t really dare to look him in the eye across the room.
”Uh,” Jeno licks his lower lip, ”I guess it depends on what you want.”
”I asked you first,” Donghyuck says, sharp, ”but because I am a big boy, I’m going to speak up.”
He nods, the nervousness tight in his throat.
”See, I really like you. I’m blunt because it’s dumb as shit to beat around the bush. I don’t think I can do the friends with benefits sorta thing so if you don’t want to go on an actual date with me, this is gonna be kinda awkward, but whatever. You can get curtains.”
The tides never come.
Disclaimers and everything, Jeno feels like he should come with a warning sign, there’s a heavy sensation inside him, trying to get out, desperately wanting to fix the situation with trembling hands, put back the words spoken, get the cat off the table.
But more than that, there’s an intense feeling of relief and just—just okay. We can work with this.
Jeno looks at him, a little shy, and Donghyuck isn’t looking back at him. How he gets his voice to sound so confident and bold with his body seeming smaller than a few minutes ago, it’s baffling.
“I feel the same way,” Jeno says—and it feels wrong, lame, flat. Donghyuck’s head perks up at this, like he didn’t expect him to say words like these, looking at him with round eyes.
“You do?”
Jeno smiles, gentle, soft, because he doesn’t want to be difficult any longer.
“Of course,” he says, “you’re very charming.”
Donghyuck chuckles and rolls his eyes.
“I am,” he nods.
Jeno bites on his tongue before opening his mouth again.
“But—”
Donghyuck interrupts him with a heavy, disappointed sigh, although there’s at least a bit humour in it.
“There’s always a but.”
“But my last relationship, it—it ended really badly. Yeah? I’m still, I’m still trying to,” Jeno stammers before making a vague motion with his hand, trailing off, “trying to… you know.”
“Get over him?”
Jeno shakes his head.
“Because I can’t be your band-aid,” Donghyuck says, his voice not as cheery as before. It strikes as almost scared.
And what is he afraid of, Jeno wonders. Whose name is he petrified to hear? What shapes and of what size walk through his dreams or keep him awake? He wants to know these things, he realizes, like truly, deeply, wants to know them. Intimately, face to face, no more hiding.
“I’m over him,” Jeno explains hurriedly, and it hits him with such force he almost tears up. He doesn’t but it’s there, creeping in, shadow-like. It’s not a matter of him missing him or trying to replace a void left by another, no. He is over him. It’s a typhoon underneath his sternum.
“I’m not over the way it ended,” he says and it sounds choked. How embarrassing. Donghyuck’s brows furrow and he pats the space next to him on the bed. Jeno gets up and makes his way to sit down, and he reminds himself of a sad dog. Mortifying.
“Tell me,” Donghyuck says, putting his hand on Jeno’s thigh, “I wanna hear.”
And he believes him. He looks down to his lap, Donghyuck’s knuckles a deep reddish brown.
Jeno wonders if the sunshine falling in is the wrong light. If he’s meant to stay in the gloom of shade and days of endless rain—but he can’t prove either right or false so he tries to let it go.
“I don’t know how to,” he admits, quietly, “it isn’t interesting. There’s nothing—nothing great, or big. I just suck.”
“Well,” Donghyuck shrugs his shoulders, “that’s life for you. What’s his name?”
“Jaemin.”
It’s been eight months. Donghyuck doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know it’s the first time he has said his name since their ways parted. Eight goddamn months. Jeno feels like laughing—not out of uncomfort or shame but out of its absurdity and how funny it is, really. All this time.
“Jaemin,” Donghyuck repeats and nods.
“I’m kind of a bad person,” Jeno laughs sadly and shakes his head, “I—I offered no explanations. I just left. I apologized but that doesn’t matter. Blocked his number, refused to talk to him, left him in the dark. And I still—”
He bites on his lower lip and tries to shake off the burning shame. He’s so ashamed. It’s spreading through his body like wildfire. Donghyuck sits there, waiting patiently even though Jeno is quite convinced he isn’t a very patient person. He might just want to leave after hearing things like this.
“Why?” Donghyuck asks, his voice quiet, a little confused, when Jeno doesn’t continue.
“I was just, I don’t know, so deeply,” Jeno shrugs his shoulders, “unhappy, with him, I guess. I was ashamed of that. Now I’m ashamed of everything else that followed. A loop. I’m sorry, I said it’s nothing interesting.”
He nods, slowly, and squeezes his thigh.
“I’m not gonna lie, that’s pretty fucking shitty,” Donghyuck says, “but I don’t know shit about your, whatever, situation. Have you talked to him?”
Jeno shakes his head again.
It’s an awful thing. To grieve over his own actions so meaningless, so cruel. Nothing to justify them with, nothing to show as a sword that slayed the dragon which would be to say, see, out of necessity, see, just surviving.
There’s nothing.
“I think you aren’t honest with me,” Donghyuck says suddenly, getting Jeno’s head to turn to him in surprise, “I think there’s more than just unhappiness. You didn’t do it to be cruel, right?”
“Of course not,” he says, truthfully.
“I don’t think someone would do that just because they were simply unhappy. There’s always more,” Donghyuck says, “I’ve been seeing therapists my whole life, man. I’m a bit of a professional myself by now.”
Jeno laughs. He fucking laughs and it feels light in his chest—which is wrong, so wrong, and he feels guilty for it. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of Donghyuck’s words.
“Why, though?” He asks, both because he’s sick and uncomfortable over talking about himself, and because he wants to know.
“Trauma, I guess,” Donghyuck says, “I hope you didn’t expect me to be mentally stable, in this day and age.”
“I don’t know what I expected,” Jeno mumbles and gives him a little smile.
“Good,” he says, “keeps things exciting.”
Donghyuck sleeps through his appointments and misses deadlines.
He recommends Jeno a new therapist, pulls his hair and pets it, too. He moans obnoxiously on the background when Jeno talks to Mark on the phone like a preteen. He has chronic insomnia and takes medication that leaves him groggy and mean in the morning.
Still, giving only what he chooses to, and Jeno always wants more.
Tofu scratches Jeno’s arm one day and Donghyuck puts a moomin plaster on it. Kisses it better, too.
Not yet, but eventually, he is going to face the monsters of his own creation. It’s getting easier. Mark tells him he sounds happier. It’s because Jeno is. Admitting it to himself is scary, the ruthless guilt still there, telling him he shouldn’t therefore he isn’t. But—
But no more storms.
“Do you think we could visit your home, sometime?” Donghyuck asks, running his finger over the crook of Jeno’s arm, drawing circles.
Jeno wants to say that they are home already, but he knows it’s not what he means.
“Yeah,” he says even though it doesn’t sound confident even to himself, “I think, yeah, I think that’d be fun. But I’ll need emotional support.”
“That’s what I’m here for, baby,” Donghyuck chuckles cheekily.
Outside, it still rains. It rains and it keeps raining. Jeno doesn’t give a shit that it does.