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Ten loves Taeyong’s dorm, even if that’s not a sentiment he often expresses. It’s just so peaceful there, with Taeyong’s perfectly made bed and his beautifully cultivated fish tanks; the hand-drawn art on the walls of his computer room and his rows of organized shelves, lined with figurines. So much about Taeyong is peaceful. He’s quiet and contemplative and so big-hearted it hurts to see sometimes. He moves through life with a deliberateness that Ten often envies and he’s been much better at filing down his sharp edges over the years, even if the occasional one still rises to the surface.
(Mostly around the company staff, but Ten will never begrudge him that.)
All that peace is probably why he likes going there so much. Well besides Taeyong himself. And the fact that the ghosts hate him.
Taeyong’s dorm is the least haunted place possibly ever. Ten sees ghosts in the practice rooms of the SM building, in the hotels they book for tours and schedules, in his own dorm, even in the back of the fucking van once—seated between Xuxi and Kunhang with her long, tangled hair obscuring her bone-white face, and Ten nearly had a fucking heart attack when he turned to ask Kunhang a question.
Look, he’s used to them. They don’t scare him like they did when he was a kid and new to this whole world that so few other people can see. (Though why the ability to sense the supernatural had to run in his family, he’ll never understand.)
He can’t exactly get rid of them—not unless he does a lot of legwork for them that he frankly doesn’t have time for as an idol—but they can’t hurt anyone if he’s around. They just lurk like sad shadows in the corners of the places he frequents and he ignores them as best he can when he’s with other people. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he’ll ask what they think of his dance routine or the food he’s trying to make or the movie he’s watching, and every now and then the more coherent ones will give him an answer.
(They’re very hard to impress and they have terrible taste in cinema, in case anyone’s wondering.)
They’re either annoyed by or scared of the cats so that’s given him some peace, but it doesn’t keep the more persistent ones away.
So he goes to Taeyong.
Taeyong, the peaceful, comforting void that all the ghosts leave alone for some reason. It’s been years and Ten still doesn’t know why. He’s searched Taeyong’s entire room (in three different dorms) for charms or talismans, asked him several times (much to his bafflement) if he ever had some kind of ritual performed on him as a child, and done research (probably a little too extensively) on his family history, but … nothing.
Taeyong is perfectly, completely ordinary (from a supernatural standpoint) and the ghosts stay away.
(Do you just like him and respect his privacy or something? He once asked a woman with no eyes sitting at his dining room table. Or can’t stand to be around him?
She sighed at him and that was the only answer he received.)
This week has been a long one. This month has been a long one. He feels like he barely stepped off the exhilarating but exhausting rollercoaster that was NCT 2020 before jumping right onto another one for WayV’s comeback. And he enjoys roller coasters, really, but before NCT 2020 there was a larger societal and global one, and before that there was a SuperM one, and he’s tired.
Like a cherry on top of the whirlwind that is his professional life, a particularly clingy mul gwishin has been hanging around the dorm since emerging from the fucking bathtub, projecting so much chill and gloom into the air that Dejun, with his little spark of Sense, has picked up on her prescence and is trying to flush her out, roping Yangyang and Kunhang into the antics. So far all he’s managed to do is piss her off, which means she alternates between hovering furiously by his bed and by Ten’s.
After the third morning in a row of waking up to her glaring at him with black, pupil-less eyes and dripping water all over his floor and sheets, he packs an overnight bag and flees, leaving instructions for Yangyang on cat feeding. He doesn’t care if the mul gwishin eats the others or something, he wants peace.
Therefore, Taeyong.
The man in question opens the door still looking half asleep—dark hair sticking up in a fluffy riot and baggy sweater nearly hanging off one shoulder. He squints blearily at Ten, as if trying to decide whether Ten actually is in the hall outside his apartment at seven a.m., and it’s then that Ten realizes he may have forgotten to text him on the way over. Oh well, they’ve been planning to spend a day together soon anyway.
“Hi, babe,” he says in English with a little wave.
“Hi,” Taeyong echoes back, rubbing sleep out of one eye. His voice is morning rough and the sight of him squeezes something in Ten’s chest while settling something else in his bones at the same time. It’s ridiculous … what Taeyong does to him. Has been doing to him for years now, ever since they were wide-eyed trainees fumbling their way through a giant, disastrous mutual crush.
“Can I come in?” Ten asks, switching to Korean.
Taeyong seems to register that he hasn’t really opened the door all the way because he blinks, then startles and shuffles to one side, slippers squeaking a little on the hardwood. “Yeah, sorry.”
The apartment is quiet when Ten crosses the threshold. He suspects that Doyoung, Johnny, and Donghyuck are still asleep so he tries to be as quiet as possible as he takes off his shoes and damp outer coat, hanging it up in the entry cupboard. The rain’s picked up in the time since he left the dorm and he can hear the rhythmic splatter of it against the windows—the fifth floor view blurred by thousands of lingering water droplets.
“Ten-ah,” Taeyong murmurs, radiating concern. “Are you okay?”
Ten wonders how pronounced the bags under his eyes are right now. Or how obvious it is that he didn’t brush his hair before he left and this is definitely the same outfit he was wearing when they FaceTimed yesterday.
“Dejun keeps pissing off a ghost,” he mutters back, because Taeyong’s one of the few people who knows about Ten’s Sense and after a rather explosive fight in early 2019, they made a pact not to lie to each other. “So she’s being a nuisance and making sure I don’t sleep and I’m tired, hyung.” He lets his voice go whiny and dramatic at the end, just for the automatic, affectionate smile that flits across Taeyong’s lips in response.
“Couldn’t you banish her?” Taeyong asks, even as he takes Ten’s bag from him and leads the way to his bedroom.
Ten flicks a dismissive hand. “Too much effort when I have a perfectly good boyfriend I can crash with. Who even has his own room and plenty of space in his bed.”
Taeyong arches an eyebrow at him. “Wow, lucky guy.”
“He really is,” Ten says, slipping past Taeyong into the bedroom, pausing briefly to kiss Taeyong’s cheek on his way. Once inside, he waves at the fish he can never remember the names of (though he does try) and makes a beeline for Taeyong’s closet to find drier, cleaner clothing than what he’s wearing.
“Why did you pack a bag if you’re just going to just steal from me?” Taeyong asks, setting said bag down on the floor so he can return to the warmth of his bed.
“What makes you think I brought clothes in the bag?” Ten asks, because honestly. Eight years of living together, several tours—Taeyong should know by now that Ten can rarely be bothered to pack enough outfits. Why bother when other people’s (specifically Taeyong’s) fit just as well and are just as comfortable?
Taeyong huffs in amusement from his spot on the bed, lying on his stomach with his face mushed into that giant rabbit plushie of his. He’s cute. He’s many, many other things, too, but right now Ten wants to snap a photo and add it to the folder on his phone he has labeled as “sad animals.” (His nineteen-year-old self thought that was a brilliant title to keep people from snooping and he hasn’t bothered to change it because so far it’s actually worked.) Eight years of pictures live in there, curated and collected from their trainee days until now.
But for now he resists the urge to document the way that Taeyong has managed to burrow deeper into the rabbit plushie, focusing on changing instead. He forgoes pants entirely, flopping onto the mattress in just boxers and his pilfered hoodie. Pulling the duvet over them, he presses up against the warmth of Taeyong’s side, cheek resting on his bony shoulder, and sighs in contentment.
“Peace,” he mumbles in English. “Peace at goddamn last.”
Taeyong wriggles around onto his back, sliding an arm under Ten’s head, and tangles their legs together—the fabric of his worn sweatpants soft against Ten’s bare skin. Ten expects him to fall back to sleep, but he just tips their heads together and says into the rainy morning stillness, “you’re really okay?”
“The ghosts can’t hurt me,” Ten promises for probably the thousandth time. “They just like me because I can see them. I make them feel less alone.”
When he realized that, he became less bothered by their gruesome appearances and contorted features, stopped being afraid of the way they lurked in the darkened corners of rooms, no longer wanted to scream when they’d make the lights flicker or spill phantom water and blood over the floor or hiss and snarl things he couldn’t understand. Ghosts are lonely, frightened creatures who used to be human. In life, he’s always hated to be alone. He imagines he’d loathe it even more in death. He’d cling desperately to any flicker of light or hope, any person who could acknowledge his tortured, continued existence.
“I wish I could do more for them,” he confesses. “Sometimes.”
It’s not an obligation, his family told him when he was a child. Just acknowledging them is enough.
And it seems to be. They all move on eventually, usually within a couple days. That doesn’t stop his desire to offer more help, though, as frustrating as their presence in his life is.
Taeyong hums, fingers playing with flyaway strands of Ten’s hair. “I think you do plenty,” he says after a moment. “Not many people would be as kind to them as you are.”
“I’m not always kind,” Ten argues. “And besides, getting mad at them just pisses them off and then they start fucking with your heating or your lights or trying to catch your apartment on fire.”
Taeyong freezes. “Has that happened?”
Shit. Ten hides his wince. “There was, uh, maybe … one incidient a few years ago. In the Dream dorm. That, um, involved very small amounts of fire.”
And any and all candles were indefinitely banned after that.
He twists so he can watch Taeyong’s brow furrow as Taeyong flips through memories. “Wait,” he says, “you told me you knocked a candle over and it caught the curtains on fire. That wasn’t you?”
“No,” Ten admits with another wince. “That was a very angry teenage ghost who was throwing a bit of a temper tantrum. Fortunately, all he could move was the candle. Don’t know why.”
Taeyong frowns at him, probably also recalling the scolding Ten got from management for his supposed carelessness. “Why didn’t you say that? At least to me.”
“You were new at all this,” Ten says, a little defensive, leveraging himself up on one arm. “What would you have done if I’d let you know that ghosts can sometimes move objects around and catch things on fire?” He points a finger at Taeyong and switches to English. “Be honest.”
Taeyong sighs in surrender. “Probably broken up with you and quit the company in terror.”
“And that’s why I didn’t tell you.” Ten pats his cheek and lies back down. “But I promise I’m fine. Just let me sleep and crash here for the day.” He pauses, checking his mental copy of their schedule. “And maybe come to my dorm tomorrow for a bit.”
Taeyong blinks at him. “Are you hoping that my presence will chase the ghost off somehow?”
“Yes,” Ten says. “And Leon and Louis miss you.” They often seem to like Taeyong more than him, which he isn’t bitter about at all. At least they still like him better than Yangyang.
Taeyong snorts but his mouth is twitching. “Buy me food,” he says, rolling onto his side to face Ten, “for dealing with your ghost problem.”
Ten was going to buy him food anyway, as a thank you letting him crash at seven a.m. ... and because he missed him and might love him a little. Or a lot. But he’s not about to cave too easily. Where’s the fun in that? “Dude. All you have to do is go stand in my dorm. That’s no effort.”
Taeyong pokes him in the side. “You’re in my bed right now, at seven-thirty a.m ., on our day off.”
“Because I’m your boyfriend and you love me and you’d do this for me anyway.”
“And I’m your boyfriend and you love me, so you should buy me food.”
“Fine,” Ten huffs, dramatic and put upon.
Taeyong laughs, a low sound bordering on a cackle that’s still somehow endearing, and curls around Ten like a four-limbed, lanky octopus, pressing his nose to Ten’s neck. It’s suffocating. And wonderful. Ten cups the back of his head and exhales long and slow, closing his eyes.
_ _
“What do they look like?” Taeyong asks him in 2018, in a hotel in Thailand. They’re sitting cross-legged on Ten’s bed, clad only in underwear and matching bathrobes, and this thing between them is new and bright, still taking shape but solid enough for Ten to trust Taeyong with his darkest secret.
And Taeyong didn’t call him crazy. Or flee. Or lash out. He’s just asking questions, in that steady, pointed way of his.
“It depends,” Ten answers, fiddling with the tie on his robe. “Some of them look almost normal. Some of them have been … twisted up. Deformed. They have too-long arms or no facial features or gaping mouths with fangs.”
Taeyong shudders violently, squeezing his eyes shut, and Ten thinks of the way he folds himself into a ball during horror movies, how jumpy he gets in haunted houses. It makes him reach for Taeyong’s hands, lacing their fingers together. “Not around you, though,” he says in reassurance. “They’re never around you, for some reason.”
Taeyong’s eyes blink back open. “Never?”
“Never,” Ten confirms.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He laughs, rueful but affectionate. “It’s a mystery, baby.” He keeps his voice light, especially on the baby, because he has no idea if they’re at the Pet Names Stage of whatever this is.
Taeyong just smiles at him, though. “That’s … a relief.” He pauses, contemplative. “Is that why you were glued to my side when we were trainees?”
Ten smirks, leaning into suggestiveness to hide how flustered he feels deep down. His crush was so big, even back then. “Among other things.”
Taeyong lets out a short bark of laughter, shaking his head. He looks gorgeous in the muted, golden light of their hotel room and for once, no spectres loom to ruin the beauty of this scene. Of Taeyong. Of them.
Ten thinks: I’m gonna love him for the rest of my life.
And it’s ridiculous. Melodramatic. Cringey and overly sincere.
But it feels true.
_ _
It’s 2019 and Ten is curled on the floor of an SM practice room with his hands clapped over his ringing ears. Near the mirrors, which somehow haven’t shattered, a tall, distorted ghost stretches her mouth open in an ear piercing scream. It’s been going for minutes, maybe even hours, and Ten’s powerless against the horrible sound. It’s emptied his head of any commands and rituals he knows. Kept him pinned to the shoe-scuffed floor like a butterfly on a collector’s mantle in Victorian films.
Normally, ghosts can’t harm him. Much. There’s some kind of barrier that keeps them from killing him or doing serious damage—though most don’t want to, content to just follow him around like sad, terrifying puppies. Once in a while, he’ll get an object thrown in his direction or the lightbulbs in a room will burst or his sink will overflow and coat the bathroom floor in an annoying layer of water. But never anything like this. He didn’t even know ghosts could be this loud and for the first time in a long time, he’s genuinely afraid.
The scream changes pitch, climbing what seems like a whole goddamn octave higher and Ten swears he can feel it in his teeth, his skull, his bones. What if this thing deafens him? What if his entire career is about to be ended by a ghost throwing a temper tantrum because he ignored her for too long?
(It seems fitting, in a terrible way.)
“I’m sorry!” he tries to yell but though he can feel his mouth moving, he can’t hear his own voice over the fucking endless scream.
(God, why can’t ghosts grasp the concept of comeback? Or idol schedules? And why must they be so dramatic all the time?)
You need help, the tiny part of his brain that’s still functioning helpfully informs him. Taeyong.
Only Taeyong is on tour thousands of kilometers away. Taeyong is in Houston or Chicago or maybe even California and Ten’s only managed to speak to him twice in the last month. But WayV is flying to Nanjing in two days and this ghost is going to blow his eardrums out and his brain can’t think of a single other person to call.
Gasping, he pries one hand away from his ear and fumbles blindy for the phone in the pocket of his hoodie. The scream adds a screeching, almost metallic noise to the cacophony, like nails grating down a chalkboard over and over again. Ten squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it out as much as possible as he pulls up Taeyong’s contact with trembling fingers and presses call on the FaceTime symbol.
He drops the phone immediately after so that he can cover his ear again, curling around it like it’s some kind of treasure he’s trying to protect. He can’t hear it ringing, but he sees through blurry eyes that it connects and Taeyong’s exhausted face fills the screen. He has no idea what time it is in Houston or Chicago or LA, right now he doesn’t care. From the way the phone is positioned, he knows Taeyong’s only going to be able to see the ceiling and part of his body. He’s purposely keeping his wet, grimacing face offscreen because no use sending Taeyong into even more of a panic than he’s about to.
“Ten-ah?” Taeyong mumbles, raspy. “Is that you?”
Time to test a theory, Ten thinks, half-hysterical.
“Taeyong,” he says, still unable to hear his own voice.
“Why are you yelling?” Taeyong asks, brow furrowing. “Are you okay?”
“I need you to keep talking,” Ten gasps. “Please.” He has no idea what language he’s speaking, his brain feels like it’s being disintegrated the longer the noise goes on, but he hopes that Taeyong can understand.
“What?” Taeyong says. “Talking, why? What’s going on? Are you hurt?” When Ten doesn’t answer right away—too busy wheezing and wondering if it would be better to try to crawl to the door or if the ghost will block him—Taeyong’s voice rises in panic. “Chittaphon!”
“Just trust me,” Ten manages. “Talk about anything. Loudly. Please.”
And Taeyong trusts him, because he’s Taeyong and he’s good. He starts talking, voice pitched up so that it carries through Ten’s phone speakers, which he turns in the direction of the ghost. Ten only picks up a few snatches here and there, but he thinks that Taeyong is rambling about the tour and hotel food he ordered for dinner, while pacing anxiously back and forth in his room.
After a minute or so, the screaming … starts to die down. Ten gasps in amazement as the ghost gets quieter and quieter until the noise stops completely, and when Ten glances over to the mirrors, he sees only empty space and his own pathetic, balled up reflection. Slowly, he takes his shaking hands off his ears. They’re still ringing, but he can feel it fading, everything returning to normal.
Taeyong is still talking, now describing the view of Chicago from his hotel room and the trip he took around the city with Johnny the day before.
“They have this giant bean sculpture. It’s so weird, but kinda pretty? You can take cool photos—”
“Oh my god,” Ten hiccups in English, cutting Taeyong off. “Oh my god, you’re magic, baby.”
“Ten-ah?” Taeyong asks, switching gears immediately. “Are you with me?”
Ten sits up with a groan, scrubbing his messy face with his sleeve and picks up the phone, lifting it so that his face is in view. “I’m with you,” he says in Korean. “Sorry.”
Taeyong’s expression is pinched and worried. He’s turned on all the lights in the hotel room and it makes the blond highlights in his messy hair look almost golden. “What was that?” he asks. “Did you—were you having a panic attack?”
(Like the ones Taeyong sometimes gets, shaking apart and unable to breathe.)
“No,” Ten says, tucking his knees into his chest. “It was a really angry ghost. You made it go away.”
Taeyong blinks, surprised. “I did?”
Ten’s lips twitch in a smile. “Yeah,” he says softly, with more warmth and vulnerability than he usually allows, even between them. “You did.”
Taeyong mouths wow and shakes his head. “And you’re okay now? Do you need to call someone?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ten promises. He’s still rattled and he’s probably going to sleep with all his lights on and several talismans under his pillow for the next couple nights, even if the magic in them gives him a headache. But he’ll be okay. He’ll always be okay, in the end.
“Okay,” Taeyong says, dubious, and sighs. It’s a sound full of unspoken words: I hate being so far away; I miss you; I wish there was more I could do to help; I miss you I miss you I miss you.
Ten blinks back a sudden, unexpected rush of tears. They’re used to long distance. It was built into their relationship from the beginning because of their careers and only got worse once Ten was pulled into WayV. But it’s still hard sometimes. It’s hard today, when all he wants is a hug and a kiss from his boyfriend. He dabs at his eyes quickly, embarrassed, but the tender understanding in Taeyong’s smile says he still noticed.
“Ah, it’s probably late there,” Ten says. “I should let you go back to sleep.”
Taeyong shakes his head. “No it’s okay,” he insists. “I can stay up a little longer.” He settles back on his bed, seated upright against the dark headboard. The edge of a boring, abstract hotel painting—swirling blues and reds in a pattern that hurts Ten’s eyes—pokes into the frame, a riot of color behind Taehyung’s head.
Ten immediately gives up on making him rest because he’s missed him and he wants every scrap of time he can snatch from their schedules. “Okay,” he says, scooting backwards across the hardwood floor until he’s pressed to one of the walls. “Talk to me again, then. About Chicago and that weird bean.”
Taeyong laughs. And Taeyong does.
_ _
“Are you ever afraid of them?” Taeyong asks him in 2020, on the couch in the WayV dorm with a sleeping Louis curled up in his lap. It’s early summer so all the windows are open to welcome a rare breeze sweeping across the city and for once the dorm is quiet—all the other boys out practicing or sleeping in their rooms.
Comeback is upon them, barreling down the tracks like a bullet train, and Ten feels the churning mixture of nerves and excitement grow with each day it ticks closer. Of course, between Awaken the World prep and Neo Zone promotions all through the spring, this is the first time he’s actually seen Taeyong for more than five minutes in weeks.
It wasn’t even really planned. Taeyong just showed up at his front door with snacks and immediately absconded his cat, who usually hates strangers. Ten stares at Louis in amazement and it takes a moment to register the question.
“The ghosts?”
Taeyong nods and Ten chews his lip, wondering if this is because of the story he texted Taeyong last week—about a new ghost that was following him with his face burnt and his stomach gashed open. He looked like he was a student, little more than a kid, and he dripped phantom blood all over Ten’s floors and clothes for four days before he finally left. Ten saw a news headline not long after: a teenage boy’s body was found in the woods outside a rural northern town, police still investigating the murder.
“No,” he says to Taeyong now, thinking of the heaviness he felt reading that story on his phone. About how the boy was being raised by his grandmother. About how everyone at his school loved him. “They make me sad. And frustrated, sometimes. But I’m not scared of them anymore.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Taeyong mutters, petting a hand down Louis’ back. Louis purrs like a jet engine. “I’d go insane.”
“I mean, I’m pretty insane,” Ten says and Taeyong laughs. “But you get used to it. They’re just … a part of my life. A feature of my personal landscape. Like dorms and practice rooms and airplanes and hotels. Sometimes, it’s even easy to pretend they’re not there. Though I can’t do that for long or they’ll get mad.” He shakes his head, rueful. “Drama queens.”
“Are they always going to be a part of your life?” Taeyong asks. “This isn’t something that will … fade?”
“Nope.” His grandmother still sees ghosts all the time and she’s in her eighties. “I was born with it and I’ll die with it, probably.” Leon emerges from the bedroom to meow at the lack of attention, rubbing his head against Ten’s arm. Ten scratches behind Leon’s ears and shifts his position on the floor, crossing his legs. “I could probably go see a shaman? There are rituals that can remove the Sense, I think, but they’re risky. I could end up brain dead or something.”
Taeyong’s eyes widen. “Brain dead?”
“Yeah. In a permanent coma. So that option’s out.”
“No shit,” Taeyong mutters, looking rattled. Ten curls a hand over his knee, touching the bare skin peeking through the hole in his jeans. “But I’m seriously fine. I know you worry about me a lot. You shouldn’t.”
“You always tell me you’re fine, though,” Taeyong argues.
Ten huffs at him. “So do you! You tell me you’re fine when I know you’re tired or feeling down or anxious or your old injury is flaring up.”
“I don’t want to burden you,” Taeyong mumbles defensively.
“And I don’t don’t want to burden you, either,” Ten fires back.
They stare at each other for a moment before Taeyong’s shoulders slump and he laughs, short. “We’re bad at this.”
Ten waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a learning process.” That’s what he’s been trying to tell himself, especially on the days his insecurities don’t want to believe it. “It’s a lot of work, loving someone.”
“It is,” Taeyong agrees. “But I’ve never regretted it.”
“Never?” Ten asks. “Not even once?”
Taeyong tilts his head to the side as he thinks. “Okay, yes, I regretted it when you decided to tell Doyoung about our sex life.”
“He asked!”
“Not for the graphic detail you gave him.”
“He should have known that was coming.”
Taeyong laughs in disbelief, eyes crinkling up, and Ten’s chest pulls tight in that familiar way it does. He thinks that a hook just lives permanently in your heart, once you fall in love with someone.
“Seriously, though,” he says. “You’ve never regretted it? Out of all the people in the world, you got me.” Loud, abrasive, impatient, competitive Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. “And all my creepy ghost shit.”
“You make it sound like I got stuck with you or something,” Taeyong says in amusement. “Instead of being an active and willing participant in this relationship since the beginning. I asked you out, remember? And I knew about the ghost shit”
“You didn’t really.” Ten has no idea why he’s being so obstinate and contradictory about this. It’s just an insecurity that’s always lurked in the back of his mind. That the ghosts would become too much. That he would become too much. It’s why he never had any serious relationships in school—never letting any boy in past surface level physical connection and emotional infatuation. Taeyong was the first because Taeyong kept pushing in that insistent, gentle way of his and Ten realized that suddenly all of his carefully constructed walls were made out of paper.
“Chittaphon,” Taeyong says, setting a very disgruntled Louis aside so that he can put his hands on Ten’s shoulders.
“Stop,” Ten says, because Taeyong has that look on his face that means he’s about to say something sincere and heartfelt and disgusting.
Taeyong doesn’t stop. “I love you very much.” Ten makes a disgusted noise, staring at him in horror. “And you’re not a burden. Neither is the creepy ghost shit because I know that’s a lot for you to carry so I want you to lean on me when you feel like it.”
“Is that all?” Ten asks a little desperately. This is far, far too much sentiment. “Are you done?”
“And,” Taeyong continues. Ten gags. “I’m happy in this relationship. I want it to continue for a long time. Even if it’s not something we planned or expected, I’ve never regretted it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ten echoes. Then takes a deep breath, curling his fingers around Taeyong’s arms. He can do this, if they’re being too-honest with each other. Just once. “And you’re not a burden either, Taeyong-ah. I know you carry a lot too. All the time. And I’m not—like … the best?—at emotional support sometimes. But you can always come to me because I love you very much too.”
“I really like the way you said that through gritted teeth,” Taeyong teases.
Ten pinches his arm. “I’m being sincere!”
Taeyong’s face softens and he squeezes Ten’s shoulders. “I know,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
Ten nods, jerky. His face feels hot and his stomach is all shivery and tied up in intricate, painful knots, but his heart’s warm and he kinda thinks he could fly, at this moment. God, being in love is so fucking confusing. “Let’s never do that again.”
Taeyong laughs and slides further off the couch so he can hug Ten properly—arms around his neck, lips at the corner of Ten’s mouth. The tips of his ears are red, too, so at least Ten’s not the only affected by all these feelings.
“Deal,” he murmurs.
Ten shifts and seals their mouths together, reaching up to cup the back of Taeyong’s head. Taeyong sighs against him, sinking deeper into the kiss, and it’s good. It’s more than enough.
_ _
In 2021, they manage to doze for several more hours before Taeyong’s phone alarm starts beeping at ten thirty. Taeyong makes a creaky noise of protest, flopping a hand around on his shelf to silence it. It’s still raining outside, the sky dark enough that it barely feels like morning, and Ten has no desire to leave the warm cocoon they’ve created.
“Stay,” he whines when he feels Taeyong sit up, snagging the back of his sweater and pulling.
Taeyong lets himself be dragged back to the mattress with a grunt. It’s Ten’s turn to octopus him, pinning him down and tucking his head under Taeyong’s chin as he wraps around him.
“Ten-ah,” Taeyong complains, voice still slurred with sleep. “I gotta pee. And feed the fish.”
Fuck the fish, Ten almost says but he knows that’ll land him in the metaphorical doghouse. He’s never seen anyone who loves fish as much as Lee Taeyong loves his aquatic babies, and normally he’s supportive of that because it’s sweet and it was a bit of a revelation, watching Taeyong conduct hours of research and meticulously turn each tank into a thriving underwater habitat in spite of their crazy schedules. (Sometimes, he thinks that Taeyong must be magic, in some way.)
But the support vanishes when said aquatic babies are interfering with his warmth and desire for morning laziness.
“Ten-ah,” Taeyong says again and tickles the back of his neck. “Let me up.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Ten mutters in English, but allows Taeyong to extract himself from the covers.
“Mm,” Taeyong agrees with astounding conviction, bending down to kiss the top of Ten’s head before he pads off to the bathroom.
Ten burrows further under the covers, listening to the steady drum of the rain, the hum of the filters in one of Taeyong’s tanks, and the low buzz of voices from the main room as Taeyong greets whoever is awake. He thinks he can pick out the low tenor of Johnny’s voice, mixed with the slightly higher one of Doyoung’s. Knowing Donghyuck, he’ll probably sleep until well into the afternoon. Which is usually Ten’s plan for a day off but it’s been so long since he and Taeyong got to actually spend a decent amount of time together, he wants to make the most of it.
He still luxuriates in bed for a while longer, basking in the quiet. It’s not often that he needs it. He’s always liked noise, bustle, life but every now and then, a break is good. He’d probably go completely insane otherwise. His phone buzzes on the shelf next to Taeyong’s, lighting up with Kun’s name. He sighs and checks to discover that yes, Bella has peed on their carpet yet again and for some reason Kun is whining to him about it instead of going to Xuxi, the actual technical owner of the dog, even if he’s still in China. Or Dejun, the other owner, whom Kun literally shares a room with.
He swipes ignore with relish because today, none of his members exist, as much as he loves them. In the main room, the front door opens and closes—Johnny or Doyoung leaving—and the stove clicks on. Suspicious, Ten finally peels off the covers and shoves his feet into Taeyong’s extra pair of fuzzy slippers. He slips out of the bedroom to discover that yes, Taeyong is cooking breakfast. He’s half humming, half singing to himself—a string of cute noise that’s entirely Taeyong— and Ten’s chest goes all tight and squeezy (as usual) at the sight of him.
And at the fact that he’s cooking breakfast after insisting Ten buy him food only a few hours ago. He’s just so nice sometimes that all Ten can do is flail in his direction in response. This morning, he forgoes the usual flailing in favor of slotting himself against Taeyong’s back, wrapping careful arms around his waist. Only a few centimeters separate their heights and Ten’s always liked how they fit together. How easy it is to bend down a little and rest his chin on Taeyong’s shoulder.
“You’re not supposed to cook for me,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“What makes you think this is for you?” Taeyong fires back.
“There are two omelets.”
“One’s for Johnny.”
“Is Johnny even here?” He pokes Taeyong in the side. “You can’t fool me, baby.”
Taeyong flips one of the omelets. It smells delicious. “You’re still buying me lunch or dinner,” he says.
Ten nods, cheek rubbing Taeyong’s shoulder, and closes his eyes against the fluttering in his stomach, twining up through his lungs. “You’re too nice to me,” he mutters in English, half-hoping that Taeyong won’t understand him.
He’s always been bad at accepting compliments and coping with praise even as he craves it. He presents a bold and confident face to the world not only because he’s comfortable with who he is, but because it means he doesn’t really have to be vulnerable. He feels squirmy and itchy, like his skin’s too small, when someone takes care of him. Taeyong likes taking care of people, though, so he’s tried to learn to accept it.
It’s a whole process.
Taeyong elbows him, but gently. “I’m not,” he says, also in English before switching back to Korean. “I’m the perfect amount of nice for the person you’re dating, Ten-ah. Accept it.”
“Yah, turn your leader voice off,” Ten huffs, but kisses Taeyong’s clothed shoulder in wordless thanks. Taeyong will understand.
The omelette is delicious, because Taeyong is a great cook on top of everything else (it’s incredibly unfair). They eat on the sofa with Ten’s socked feet in Taeyong’s lap and once they’ve finished, Ten insists on doing the dishes because he is a good boyfriend, thank you.
(It’s not a competition, you know, Johnny said once and Ten stared at him in disbelief.)
Taeyong stays on the couch, curled under a blanket and watching the rain that’s still falling outside the big living room windows. He seems tired, but they’re all tired these days. In one form or another, they’ve been tired for years. Still, Ten runs gentle fingers through Taeyong’s hair as he rejoins him.
“What were your plans for today?” he asks. “Before I came crashing in.”
Taeyong arches an eyebrow at him. “Calling you and seeing if you wanted to come crash.”
Ten lets out a peal of laughter, leaning into Taeyong’s side. “Well we’ve checked that off, so what’s next?”
Taeyong shrugs. “Didn’t think that far. What do you want to do?”
Ten knows that if he wasn’t here, Taeyong would most likely spend the day napping or playing games. And while he’s usually not a patient or quiet person—constantly feeling like he’s buzzing with energy he needs to move to expel—around Taeyong it’s always been easier to slow down. He’s been looking forward to a peaceful day, just spending time in each other’s company. As sappy and domestic as that sounds.
“I brought drawing supplies,” he says. “I might do some sketching.”
“Are you going to draw me something?” Taeyong asks, eyes lighting up a little.
“Maybe,” Ten hedges and means yes.
Taeyong grins at him, seeing right through his attempt at dodging. Ten rolls his eyes and goes to dig his iPad, sketchbook, and pens out of his bag. He usually draws on the tablet, but sometimes he still likes the feel of physical paper and he decides that’s what he wants today.
“Come here,” he instructs Taeyong, who’s retrieved his Switch from the depths of his bedroom. He folds Taeyong’s legs over his own, pushing them up so he can use Taeyong’s knees as a resting place for his sketchbook. “Perfect, stay like this.”
“Yes, sir,” Taeyong says in English, mostly focused on his game.
Ten sighs at him, but this is perfect. No ghosts, no schedules, no chaos. Just him and the rain and the cute commentary Taeyong mutters as he fights whatever monsters the game is throwing at him.
Everything Ten wanted.