Work Text:
“Ten points for getting it into the second dumpster.”
“I already got it into that one.”
“I didn’t see, so it doesn’t count.”
“That’s a dumb rule.”
“You can’t be mean to me. I’ve just come back from tour, I need love.”
Changing your aim from the dumpster to Taeyong’s head, you flick the popcorn kernel at him instead. “You came home three days ago, and you got plenty of love, mister.”
He good-naturedly throws a kernel back at you, before pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
You’re about to engage in a kernel fight that you’re sure you’ll win, seeing as how Taeyong’s aim sucks big time, when you’re interrupted by the doorbell ringing.
Settling for a kick to his feet that are hanging next to yours through the grills, you clamber up to climb back into your room through the tiny window from the fire escape.
When you re-enter the landing with a box of pizza, Teayong’s moved from the edge to the small, ratty, old couch you had put out there a couple of months back, when this became a regular occurrence.
It’s a specific kind of aesthetic, you think. Not sad, not happy, just very particular, how you two end up here nearly every night he comes over, with a blanket and a big bowl of popcorn, and on one memorable occasion, a bottle of green-apple flavoured vodka. Talking is minimal and what is talked about stays in the lane of frivolity and inconsequence. Just the miscellany of the city around you, neighbours fighting, a cat meowing in the back alley that you overlook, muted sounds of vehicles honking in the street.
Dropping the pizza box in the centre of the sofa, you take a seat on the other end, back resting on the arm, cross-legged to mirror Taeyong’s posture.
The two of you eat in silence, as the playlist that you’ve chosen fills the night. In a bit, the old man who lives in the flat directly underneath yours will probably stick his walking cane out of his window and shout at you to turn it down, but for now, you let the calmness of routine and the security that darkness provides wash over you.
“When do you have to be back at the dorms?” you ask.
He swallows a large, cheesy bite before replying, “Not until tomorrow morning.”
Humming in satisfaction at his answer, you finish up your own slice before closing the empty pizza box and getting off the couch, moving towards the edge.
“How many points do I get if it lands in the third dumpster?”
You turn around to look at him, now fully, comfortably spread out on the couch, one hand on his stomach, one hanging off the edge, a lazy, satiated smile on his face, and relaxed eyes that glimmer in the yellow light from your room that spills out into the landing.
“I thought my points system was stupid?”
Scoffing at his childishness, you reply, “No, I called your rules stupid. The points system is entertaining enough.”
“Oh, that’s much better, thanks.”
With a roll of your eyes, you turn back around, and aiming carefully, you drop the empty pizza box.
Ten points.
You make your way back to Taeyong, unceremoniously letting your body fall on his, your knee landing on his stomach. He lets out a pained “Oof,” as the breath gets knocked out of him.
“Sorry,” you mutter, as you shuffle around, trying to find a comfortable position under the blanket, before finally settling between him and the back of the couch, your eyes level with the top of his ear, giving you a perfect, uninterrupted view of the thin, breaking, silver hair on his head.
Throwing a leg over his thighs and an arm around his neck, you snuggle closer. The side of his chin digs into your neck when he turns and lifts his head in pursuit of your lips, an arm snaking around your waist.
His kiss just about misses, hitting the top of your chin, and he lets out a petulant whine, neck craned backwards.
With a soft chuckle, you shuffle down a bit so you’re at a convenient position and lean towards him, unable to stop the fond smile from taking over your face.
“Stop laughing at me,” he mumbles into the kiss.
You’re about to reply, (something along the lines of, “You’re just a big baby,” and, “I wonder how much money I’ll make if I leak to the press how soft you really are,”) when, as promised, you faintly hear a window slide open and a cranky voice saying, “Turn that music down!”
Giggling, Taeyong pulls away, eyelids fluttering open, as he ruefully cocks his head and asks, “Inside time?”
With an affirmative nod and a firm pat to his chest, you sit up, beginning your extraction process, as he leans down, picking his phone up to stop the music.
Ten minutes later sees you in front of the bathroom mirror next to Taeyong, brushing your teeth as you watch him dry his face, patting at his cheeks with a fluffy towel.
He pulls his hands down, revealing his soft skin that probably smells like the citrus face wash that you’re particularly partial to, strands of his hair falling onto his forehead, brown roots starting to become obvious.
Under the light indoors, you can’t bring yourself to be as affectionate as you were in the darkness, the brightness making you feel exposed, thoughts laid bare, but you can’t stop yourself from reaching out with your left hand and letting it gently rest on the back of his neck, just sitting, thumb lightly stroking the bottom of his head.
He looks up from his toothbrush that he’s squeezing paste on, soft eyes meeting your own in the reflection, and the two of you share a small smile.
You know that soon, he’ll get caught up in the studio and choreography and practice and comeback preparation, but post-tour Taeyong is easily your favourite. Spending calm, domestic nights in your apartment as he lets himself relax, away from the spotlight.