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Geonhak couldn’t sleep.
This was a recurring thing, so he wasn’t surprised. Every time their group’s busy schedule came to an end for the day, they’d be exhausted down to their bones, the weight of sleep dragging them down to dark places that sometimes weren't their beds. But even with all that sleep in his system, Geonhak still couldn’t close his eyes and lull himself into the dimension of oblivion.
Through their thin walls, he could hear the other members fast asleep, some snores, and he also caught the sound of Keonhee kicking the ceiling in his sleep, having the misfortune of occupying the top bunk and having long legs that couldn’t stay still. It wasn’t the noise from the other rooms that kept Geonhak awake. Frankly, he had no clue why sleeping was made so difficult for him when just over an hour ago, he’d been dozing off in the van.
If he kept tossing and turning, he was sure he’d stay awake all night, but he wasn’t laying around to find out. Kicking his covers off, he slipped off his bed with his pillow in hand and stood by the bed by the door, debating on whether it was better to wait for his presence to be acknowledged, or if he was allowed to wake up his supposedly sleeping roommate.
When Seoho and Geonhak first found out they’d be roommates, Seoho had used it as a mechanism to tease Geonhak, more leverage for him to crawl under his skin. The idea of it sounded an awful lot like Geonhak would be sentencing himself to hours of torture with Seoho keeping him up all night—as if he didn’t already know most of Geonhak’s habits and used it to his advantage. It was highly unlikely that he would find more dirt on Geonhak to use against him, but then again, this was Seoho, and he could pick out things about Geonhak that he hadn’t even noticed about himself.
Geonhak learned that it was not how he’d imagined when they’d become roommates, though. Contrary to his beliefs, Seoho was quiet when they were alone together with nothing but one another’s presence to accompany them—not an uncomfortable silence, but a peaceful one. It was always peaceful with Seoho. Sometimes the older man would initiate the conversations, and other times Geonhak would, or they would simply sit in silence, both doing their own thing.
Geonhak liked it that way. Despite acting irritated at the newfound discovery that they would be sharing a room, he actually looked forward to it. He told himself it was solely because he was sharing a room with whom he was closest to, but Young Jo could see through the facade he’d hastily put on.
Of course, he had. Young Jo always paid attention to the little details of each of their members, and he’d been the one to tell Geonhak that even if he didn’t realize it, he always gravitated towards Seoho naturally as if he was the moth, and Seoho was his blazing flame. At that moment, Geonhak had chosen to play the oblivious card, but he knew that even if he could filter his words, his actions and expressions were things he couldn’t contain.
Now, standing by Seoho’s bed where he was facing the wall, his back to his roommate, Geonhak waited with his pillow in hand for a bit. After about a minute, he saw Seoho stir, his shoulders rising as he inhaled sharply, and then released it. “Hyung?” Geonhak whispered.
“What is it now?” Seoho grumbled, his tone drowsy with sleep. People who didn’t know Seoho would think that he’d been woken up from his sleep, but Geonhak knew better, knew he had still been awake this whole time.
He was like Geonhak, having difficulty falling asleep even when the dark sheets of slumber called.
What is it now? It wasn’t the first time Geonhak had found himself standing by Seoho’s bed with the excuse that he couldn’t sleep. More often than not, Geonhak burrowed next to Seoho, much to the other’s feigned distaste, to fall asleep, curling up against his back and waking up the next morning with no knowledge of when he’d fallen asleep. Some days were an exception, though, like the days when their schedules were too packed, and they all returned to the dorm drained with their limbs dragging across the floor. On those nights, Geonhak would have no energy to make a beeline to his bed, and he’d crash next to Seoho on his bed because it was the first one he always saw, and on those nights, Seoho wouldn’t make attempts to move away—would let Geonhak curl up against his back and pass out.
“Can I lay next to you?” Geonhak asked.
Seoho flipped onto his back, and he gazed up blearily at Geonhak, not that he could see him that well, anyway, in the dark. “Can’t sleep again?” Geonhak never had to say anything because Seoho always just knew , and it was probably one of the things Geonhak was most thankful for.
Geonhak nodded. “Move over.” He poked Seoho with the corner of his pillow, and the latter groaned but flipped onto his side again to the face the wall and threw his covers off himself. It was Seoho’s non-verbal way of inviting him into the bed. Trying to mask the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, Geonhak placed his pillow next to Seoho’s and wiggled under the covers before pulling it over them.
The sheets smelled of the vanilla laundry detergent they’d washed the blankets with the other day—the one Hwanwoong had bought from the convenience store nearby because, in his opinion, it was the one that had the best scent and he wanted his clothes to smell nice. It also smelled of Seoho’s sweet signature scent, a scent that Geonhak could never quite put his finger on, and yet, he constantly found himself seeking comfort in the warmth of the familiar smell that belonged to someone Geonhak could never stay too far away from.
Chasing after that scent he could never get enough of, Geonhak scooted closer to Seoho and wrapped the arm that wasn’t trapped against the bed around his waist, burying his face in between Seoho’s shoulder blades.
Seoho flinched at the unforeseen physical contact before relaxing. “Maybe a little warning next time?” he said, huffing, and Geonhak let out a breathy laugh that he muffled into the thin material of Seoho’s shirt. In the dark, he couldn’t see the colour of it, but he swore he’d seen Seoho pull out a cream-coloured shirt from his drawer before Geonhak had turned away and waited for sleep to turn up at his front door, in vain.
“Sorry,” Geonhak mumbled, not really apologetic, and he knew Seoho knew that by his tone. He curled his hand into the front of Seoho’s shirt, nuzzling the side of his neck with his nose, right where he could feel his pulse. He liked to see it as a simple act of affection that he blamed on his drowsiness because it caused him to do things he normally wouldn’t do when he was fully aware of the reality. In the mixture of scents that floated around Geonhak, he caught the whiff of something else, and when he nuzzled closer, his nose a few inches away from Seoho’s face, he confirmed his suspicions. “You used my cleansing oil again, didn’t you?”
“How could you tell?” Seoho stiffened, clearly not expecting to be caught.
“I can smell it on you.”
When Seoho wanted to remove his makeup, he would sometimes use Geonhak’s cleansing oil with the excuse that he ran out of makeup wipes. At first, Geonhak had given off the impression that he wasn’t pleased with it, but he let it slide after a couple more times. Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t steal Seoho’s things, too, like when he used up all of Seoho’s facemasks when the other wasn’t around and then pinned the blame on Dongju.
“Your shirt’s soft,” Geonhak pointed out, twisting the material around his index finger.
“Are you deliberately trying to keep me up?”
Geonhak tightened his arm around Seoho’s waist, snuggling farther into his back. “...Maybe.” It hadn’t initially been his intention, but now that he was pressed up against Seoho in his bed, he wanted nothing more than to stop time so he could treasure this moment forever. “I just can’t sleep.”
Seoho snorted. “What, you want me to sing you a lullaby to help you sleep?”
“I’m not exactly opposed to that,” Geonhak responded.
At that, Seoho sighed, a soft yet heavy sound, and Geonhak felt a little bad that he’d kept him up when he was clearly tired. “Geonhak, I spent hours singing today. My throat needs rest.”
“Am I not special enough to receive private services?” Geonhak pouted, not that Seoho could see it, but he most definitely heard his whine.
“If you want private singing, then you might as well eavesdrop on me showering,” Seoho deadpanned. “I do plenty of singing in there.”
“But you’re not singing for me specifically,” Geonhak said, and he rested his cheek against the base of Seoho’s nape, where the skin was exposed. He nuzzled a little closer in seek of his warmth despite the blanket providing more than enough heat.
Reaching a hand back, Seoho attempted to smack Geonhak’s thigh, missing by a mere few centimetres. “Stop sticking so close to me. The blanket is warm enough, yet I have a giant heat pack sticking to me. And why are you so intent on having me sing to you?”
“I like it when you sing for me. Your voice is soothing.”
Hearing Seoho sing wasn’t a rare occurrence; all Seoho ever did was sing if he wasn’t talking, just to fill the void of silence. If Geonhak wanted to hear Seoho sing, he could always listen to their discography or Seoho’s covers, but it was never the same. There was something special about having Seoho sing to him and knowing that it was for his ears only, like the rare occasions where he would sing songs for him in hopes that the mellow tone of his voice carried along with it remedies for Geonhak’s sleeplessness. During those times, Geonhak would plop down with his head on Seoho’s thigh, and the latter wouldn’t have the heart to push him off because he knew Geonhak was too exhausted.
“You’re really going to stick to me like this all night, aren’t you?” Seoho sighed defeatedly.
“Yep,” Geonhak replied, making a show of hooking his leg over Seoho’s hip to further prove what he’d been seeking when he crawled in next to him. He breathed out against Seoho’s neck, his hand tightening the hold it had against Seoho’s stomach. It was to reassure himself that he still had Seoho pressed against him, even if he wasn’t going to try to escape at this ungodly hour. The heat of Seoho’s body that Geonhak felt from where his cheek was still pressed up against his nape was embracing, calming, and he couldn’t hold himself back from planting his lips against the warm skin.
“Did you just kiss my neck ?” Seoho asked, mortified.
“Yeah, is that okay? If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t do it again.”
For a few seconds, Seoho was silent, and then he choked out, “Whatever, do as you please. I don’t care.”
If Geonhak closed his eyes, he could easily picture the blush that had probably prettily dusted over Seoho’s cheeks, as well as the reddening of his ears as he was left feeling flustered. It was a shame the room was too dark for him to see. Seoho was always gorgeous when he blushed.
Unable to stop himself, Geonhak left another kiss against the nape of Seoho’s neck, and then one that nestled right under his chin. His heart strangely fluttered despite being on the giving end, and he wondered just how big the fluttering in his chest could grow. A part of him desired to push a little further, just for research purposes.
He was fearful of going too far, though, and Geonhak didn’t want to be pushed off the bed. He wasn’t going to risk losing the feeling of Seoho’s body against his, so he settled for just scattering the surface area of Seoho’s neck with more kisses until he heard Seoho let out a meek whine.
Never, though, did Seoho try to shove him away, only letting out little embarrassed noises. Seoho wasn’t ever the type to indulge others if that left him in an uncomfortable position, even if they begged. So the fact that Geonhak wasn’t lying on the floor yet served as enough proof that Seoho wasn’t totally against being showered in affection.
“Is this how you’re going to keep me up all night?” Seoho asked.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop now,” Geonhak said, but then couldn’t resist the temptation to leave another kiss on the junction where Seoho’s neck and shoulder met. His nose eventually made a trail from the base of Seoho’s nape up to his orange hair. “Why does your hair smell like my shampoo?”
“Mine ran out, so I had to use yours, why?” Seoho replied.
“No reason, your hair just smells nice.” Maybe it was because they were roommates, but Seoho was slowly beginning to smell more like Geonhak, and the realization brought back the butterflies in his stomach, this time stronger.
Seoho let out a resigned sigh in his exhaustion, and he placed a reluctant hand over the hand that laid on his stomach, shyly running a thumb over the back of Geonhak’s palm. “Is this enough for you to finally sleep?”
Geonhak pursed his lips, pretending to think. “Hmm, no, maybe a little more.”
Pushing Geonhak’s fingers apart, Seoho intertwined their fingers and let it rest against his clothed torso again. “Is this better?”
“It’s perfect,” Geonhak murmured, and his long-lost sleep finally made its way back to him, settling into his system. He sagged into the sheets, and farther into Seoho. “Goodnight, hyung.”
He didn’t understand how Seoho did it—lull him to sleep so easily while doing the bare minimum. Laced into each of his actions, his words, was something that Geonhak always sought, something that left him coming back for more. It was just his effect on him, and each of his actions gently washed over Geonhak as lightly as the tides of the sea. Even when Geonhak tried to savour the moment for a little longer, the gentle waves coaxed him to let go.
Right when he was on the brink of tipping into a restful sleep, he felt Seoho let go of his hand, and if he weren’t too far gone already, he would’ve let out a disapproving whine. However, Seoho turned around in his arms, and soon, Geonhak felt soft cotton lips press against his forehead, and a quiet goodnight whispered into his ear.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face.