Work Text:
Yoosung☆: T_T
Yoosung☆: T_T
Yoosung☆: T_T
Yoosung☆: Does anyone else ever feel like
Yoosung☆: everything’s hopeless
Yoosung☆: and all you can do is be sad about it the whole day?
Jaehee: There have been times when I’ve been stressed and unmotivated.
Jaehee: Maybe immersing yourself in a soothing experience for a while would help?
Jaehee: I can lend you some of my DVDs if you’d like.
Yoosung☆: nNO
Yoosung☆: I mean;;
Yoosung☆: It’s not like I can concentrate on anything right now.
God that’s the last thing he needs, to have Zen’s beautiful face and beautiful voice taunt him from behind a TV screen when he’s in the middle of being sad about him. He’s already tortured himself enough with whatever images he’s found on Zen fanblogs. He really doesn’t need to see any of it in motion.
[ZEN has entered the chatroom.]
Yoosung☆: I don’t really want to watch any of Zen’s musicals anyway.
ZEN: Hey! What are you talking about?
ZEN: My musicals are great!
ZEN: I worked hard on those you know.
ZEN: I think I look especially good in the Zorro one ^^
Jaehee: That’s true, the costumes were very well done.
Yoosung☆: -_-
Yoosung☆: Now I want to watch them even less
ZEN: What’s with you?;;
Jaehee: He’s feeling down today.
ZEN: Oh? What happened?
Yoosung☆: Nothing!
ZEN: That doesn’t sound like nothing.
ZEN: Why don’t you come over to my place tonight?
Yoosung☆: No way, you’ll just start nagging me
ZEN: Yoosung
[Yoosung☆ has left the chatroom.]
Yoosung tosses his phone to the side with an irritated sigh and lets his head thunk down right there on the desk. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have pretended to get on LOLOL again. Zen hates the one-word answers he gives when he focuses too much on the game and not enough on the chat; he would have just gotten offended for a minute and then left Yoosung alone after that. Well whatever, he’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow anyway.
Soon enough a half-smile sneaks onto Yoosung’s face without his permission. It really is cute how Zen wants his attention so bad sometimes though. Not like that’s anything special—Zen wants praise from everyone —but Yoosung can’t help it: it feels good to have the power to tie Zen up in knots like that. It lets him keep the fantasy alive that maybe it’s not all hopeless, that maybe Zen likes him too, at least a little bit—
Yoosung raises his head an inch and thunks it back down again. Stupid.
How many times does he need to hear Zen say something like ‘ew, I don’t want a guy touching me,’ before he gets it through his thick skull that nothing is ever going to happen? How many times will Yoosung fall for the trap of Zen fishing for praise and then having the nerve to call Yoosung’s compliments ‘weird’ when he caves and gives him one before it finally clicks that this is the most dead-end crush Yoosung’s ever had?
Even ignoring that most people would already find it unbelievable that he’s friends with a handsome actor that regularly gets fanmail. Forget romance.
Yoosung’s eyes start to go hot and he blinks rapidly at the fake wood grain of his shitty college dorm desk. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He already cried earlier about this, can’t he opt out of a round two?
He sniffs pathetically. Guess not. At least he—
Knock knock knock.
Yoosung’s head whips back up. Who? Who is that?! Oh god, if Yoosung accidentally skipped one of his project group meetings he’s going to cry even harder.
“Yoosung? Are you in there?”
Z… Zen?!
“You’re not here!” Yoosung calls out, panicked. Wait, no. Wrong one. “I’m not here!” Dang it. No. That doesn’t make any sense. Yoosung puts his hands over his wet face and despairs. “Nobody’s here! Go away!”
“What?” The door’s locked, but Zen jiggles the handle anyway. “Yoosung, stop joking around. Let me in.”
“No!”
“Come on,” Zen says, an audible pout in his voice. “You can’t leave me hanging out here. What if I get spotted and mobbed by fans right in the hallway? What if everybody fails their tests because they can’t concentrate after seeing my face?”
This is the worst.
“You’re the worst,” Yoosung accuses out loud, getting up from his chair and dragging a pajama sleeve across his face. He shuffles over to the door and unlocks it, ignoring Zen’s indignant protest at the insult. “Why are you even here?”
The door opens. “I was working late, so I was in the area anyway and I thought I’d—Yoosung?!” Immediately there are hands tilting his face up. Yoosung bats at Zen’s arms, fighting a blush, but Zen barely even notices, just frowning at his red-rimmed eyes. “I knew something was off. What happened?”
“I told you already. Nothing. It’s just a bad day,” Yoosung grumbles. He’s excruciatingly aware that he’s in a pair of his ancient Sad Pajamas and wearing his Sad Headband, hair pushed back and sticking every which way. His comfort clothes have suddenly become a whole lot less comfortable with Zen in the room.
Zen’s thumb rubs across Yoosung’s forehead and then lingers, a warm spot on his skin. “You’ve got a red mark… You really should be kinder to your skin.”
“Ugh, stop lecturing me!”
“Ha. If I were really going to lecture you I’d tell you to get pajama pants that don’t have holes in them.”
Yoosung squawks and looks down. Oh thank god, these aren’t the ones that have holes in any, uh, weird places at least. He reaches around Zen to close the door anyway. He’s not exactly itching for anyone he knows on campus to see him like this.
“Um,” Zen says, going stiff. “Yoosung, you’re too close.”
Yoosung bites down on a scowl. Says the guy who’s always putting an arm around his shoulders. Says the guy that invited himself over just because Yoosung was a little down. Says the guy that tenderly touched his forehead five seconds ago . Yeah, okay. Sure. Too close.
Once Yoosung trudges to his bed to flop on it in defeat Zen begins meandering around the small room, looking this way and that. “It’s messy in here.” The mini-fridge opens. “Don’t you like cooking? Where are the groceries?”
“Oh my goddd,” Yoosung groans, throwing a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
Zen’s yelp is satisfying, but that was Yoosung’s only pillow. He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in the crumpled up blanket instead. The pillow lands square on the back of Yoosung’s head when Zen tosses it back.
“When’s the last time you ate? Do you want some dinner? I think I can scrape a meal together out of this.” There’s a rustling sound, the clink of a tin can. “I’m making you something to eat. I’ll be right back.”
Yoosung can hear the sound of the door opening and closing again, but he doesn’t move. Usually Yoosung goes to Zen’s not the other way around. Did Yoosung tell him where the communal kitchen is before, or did he see it on the way in? Or maybe it’s something Yoosung mentioned in passing once in the messenger and Zen actually does pay more attention to Yoosung and it’s not just wishful thinki—
Yoosung grabs the edges of the pillow and pulls them down around his head, growling his frustration into the mattress. Stupid! Why does his brain always have to go there? It’s not going to happen, it’s not going to happen, it’s not going to happen.
The air gets stuffy, but Yoosung still doesn’t move when he starts to cry again. This is so embarrassing. Crying over Zen when Zen’s still in the building? And he doesn’t even have any alcohol to blame it on. It’s just Zen doing what he always does: sticking his nose into Yoosung’s business and treating him like he’s twelve. But he’s here and he’s cooking Yoosung food and he’d fretted so hard over his red-rimmed eyes and held his face so softly and….arghghgh, why does Zen have to be so perfect all the time?!
Yoosung’s so lost in beating himself up over his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Zen’s returned until he speaks up. “Hey, you’re still lying there like that? That can’t be good for your back.” Footsteps. “Come on, get up. It’s nothing fancy, but I threw together some stir-fry—”
For the second time Zen cuts himself short, realizing that something isn’t right. It’s the shaking of Yoosung’s shoulders that must tip him off. The sounds Yoosung are making might be muffled, but he can’t hide the motion no matter how much he wants to.
A plate is quickly set down. “Yoosung?” A hand on Yoosung’s quivering shoulder. “What’s wrong?!” The pillow is tugged upwards. Yoosung tries to tug it back down, but it’s yanked right off again. When he’s rolled onto his side he curls up into a ball so Zen can’t see what a wreck he probably looks like right now.
“Leave me alone,” Yoosung says to his knees.
“No way! Come on…” Zen sits, pulls Yoosung upright like he weighs nothing, and leans him against his side. “What’s wrong? Don’t brush me off this time, dude.”
Yoosung stays stubbornly curled up, but he can feel Zen’s bicep against his cheek and it’s ruining his focus. He wants to be mad. Being mad would be so much easier. “You wouldn’t get it,” he huffs wetly. And what would Zen even say if Yoosung told him? ‘Oh no, my beauty was so strong it ensnared you too?’ Yoosung would punch him.
“What? How would you know?” Zen ducks his head trying to catch Yoosung’s eye. “Try me.”
Yoosung sniffs, but it doesn’t help much. Try him. Well, fine . He slips under Zen’s arm, hugging him tight and pressing his teary face into Zen’s shirt, completely unsurprised when Zen tenses up again.
“Woah, hey! What are you doing?”
They’ve done this pseudo-cuddling thing a few times actually, probably more times than Zen ever wants to admit, but it’s always been when Yoosung was acting tipsy and maudlin, or acting tipsy and clingy in a sleepy sort of way. He’s never had the guts to do it completely sober before.
“Yoosung, get off.”
“You said you’d comfort me,” Yoosung accuses like he always does, not budging an inch. If he looks at Zen right now he might actually die.
“You’re getting my shirt all gross,” Zen accuses back, but after a long, unsure moment his hand comes up and cradles the back of Yoosung’s head.
Immediately Yoosung’s stomach erupts into butterflies. He did not expect to get this far. A part of him is panicking—what is he doing ? This isn’t the way to get over a stupid crush—but most of him just wants to squeeze all he can out of the moment. Zen really does let him get away with a lot. Yoosung tries to cut off the budding hope before it blossoms, but he can’t help it. How much, exactly, would Zen let him get away with? And why? If Yoosung asked would Zen give him a straight answer?
Before he can start to overthink it Yoosung presses his palms flat against Zen’s back, scooting in closer and uncurling a little. This time he can hear the hitch in Zen’s breath, can feel the slight flex of the muscles on his back as he tenses again. Yoosung’s heart thuds hard, and he chances a peek upwards.
Zen’s blushing.
Yoosung’s heart stops. Blushing? Does Zen blush every time Yoosung gets snuggly? Has he just always been too busy exaggerating his drunkenness to notice before?
Before he can say anything Zen spots him looking and yelps, grabbing Yoosung’s face and fretting again over the state of it. Yoosung endures it with minimal grumbling, mind a million miles away as Zen wipes his tears with a monogrammed handkerchief—what is that, Zen’s very own merchandise? A fan gift? Whatever.
How do you ask a guy how he feels about you when you’re pretty sure he’d rather dive out the nearest window than answer you? But every time Yoosung convinces himself he should give up Zen does something like this. And yeah, maybe it’s annoying getting his face cleaned up like Zen doesn’t think he could do it himself, but even worse than that… it feels good.
Yoosung’s gumbling fades out entirely and he relaxes, eyes mostly closing while he lets Zen do his thing. Eventually Zen’s hands slow and then stop. A minute passes with Zen’s hands still on his face, and Yoosung cracks open his eyes.
Zen’s blushing again. Looking at him and blushing.
The moment Zen catches Yoosung staring back he jolts and yanks his hands away from Yoosung’s face. “Ahaha, sorry, guess I got distracted—”
“What are you doing?” Yoosung asks, his verbal filter getting jettisoned right out of his brain and into the atmosphere.
Zen freezes.
“And why haven’t you been doing it sooner?” Yoosung continues grouchily.
“... Huh?”
“So many times in the chatroom you’d see me gloomy and be like ‘Yoosung, throw that ratty old hoodie away,’ ‘Yoosung, stop playing LOLOL and get serious,’ ‘Yoosung, drink more water,’ when this whole time you could have been doing things like this instead?!”
“W-What?!” Zen sputters. He groans and puts a hand over his own face. “Stop, stop, okay I get it. Maybe I go a little overboard. I just want to help, you know?” He begins sliding to the side, intending to get up. “Sorry, I’ll leave you alone—”
No, he is not getting away this time. Yoosung scrambles to straddle his lap before he can move any further. “That’s not what I meant!”
Zen’s hangdog expression bursts into embarrassment again. “Yoosung!”
“You could keep being nice to me.”
Zen’s hand goes to Yoosung’s chest like he’s going to push him, but there’s no pressure behind it. “Yoosung, knock it off.”
“I like it.”
And if Yoosung thought Zen’s face was red before it turns absolutely crimson now. Zen sputters, lost for words, but Yoosung doesn’t budge. After a long moment of internal struggle Zen frowns at the bedsheets and mutters, “I’m not supposed to be that kind of nice.”
Heart in his throat Yoosung inches closer. “Says who?”
Silence.
Yoosung doesn’t know what to do. Should he keep pushing? Hold back? Confess? Is he even reading any of this right?
But before he can spiral into self-doubt Zen speaks again, so quiet Yoosung has to lean in to hear it, “It’s too much. It’s way too much. I always want to do things like this when you’re sad.”
“I’d let you,” Yoosung says back just as quietly.
The moment rests there, heavy and full of potential. Yoosung feels the tremble of Zen’s hand against his chest and sees the way that Zen swallows, throat bobbing. Before the silence might have scared Yoosung, but he knows now that he’s not the only one with feelings here. He can’t be. He’s done with telling himself he’s delusional. Done with constantly dismissing every charged moment they’ve ever had just because he felt like he could never measure up.
Yoosung pushes at him, using his body weight to tip him down on the narrow dorm bed, and Zen yelps in surprise. Yoosung follows, hovering above with his hands braced on the mattress, and Zen stares up at him, eyes wide and dark with a flush still on his cheeks.
This feels like jumping off an airplane with no parachute.
“Yoosung—”
“I like you,” Yoosung blurts, breathless with adrenaline. “I’m sick of you acting like an older brother because I like you.” Yoosung’s so nervous he feels like he’ll throw up, but the adrenaline carries him through and he lays a peck on the corner of a stunned Zen’s mouth. When there’s no response Yoosung falters. “Is… Is that okay?”
Zen stays locked in place, absolutely poleaxed, but in the next instant something snaps and he surges forward, hand pulling Yoosung back down by the back of his neck to overwhelm him with the most intense kiss of his life. (...Not that he’s had anything else to compare it to.)
“Is that a yes?” Yoosung pants when they part. When Zen grumbles, he just giggles, too giddy to do anything else. He was right . “You liiiiiike me. You think I’m cuuuuute~”
“Shut up,” Zen says, not sounding unhappy about it at all. “Think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”
Yoosung kisses him again, just because he can. “Yep!”
One kiss turns to two which turns into too many to count, and by the time they remember the food it’s long gone cold.