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“Oh come on, that’s gross.”
Taeyong blinks at him, fingers pausing from where they’re holding the clipper. “What?” He asks, like he doesn’t know .
“Hyung, that’s gross,” Doyoung whines from the door. He’s one second away from stomping his foot like a child.
“I put a piece of tissue underneath it, see.” Taeyong points to said tissue, almost crumpled underneath his foot.
“But it’s my bed.”
“Tissue, Doyoung-ah.”
“You’re so gross,” Doyoung huffs.
“Don’t say that,” Taeyong comments, continues clipping away his pinky toe. “I’m almost done.”
Doyoung shuffles into his own room and snatches the eucalyptus oil bottle from his window sill. He plunks the butt of the bottle against Taeyong’s head.
“Clean up when you’re done, and that includes tucking the corners in, thank you.”
Taeyong grins at him, shows all his teeth and by god Doyoung knew they were all good-looking but Taeyong is otherworldly.
“Aye-aye, mother hen.”
“Don’t call me that,” Doyoung whines again, and slams the door on his way out.
-
“Do you have a problem?”
Taeyong looks up from his phone, and looks at Doyoung confusedly, like Doyoung is the one being absurd here.
“Do you have a problem,” Taeyong throws back at him.
“I want to sleep.”
“So do I.”
“You’re in my bed.”
Taeyong rolls his eyes, and Doyoung barely resists the urge to hurl his phone at his stupid-dumb-attractive pink head. Taeyong scoots closer to the wall, leaving a space barely big enough for another person next to him.
“So sleep,” he says, pulling his phone back up, “it’s not that hard.”
“Hyung .”
“Doyoungie .”
Doyoung swallows down a scream. Fine. Two can play this game. He goes and determinedly lies down on the narrow strip of bed, his arm pressing against Taeyong.
“Wasn’t so hard now, was that,” Taeyong comments. He sticks his phone underneath the pillow and turns on his side, throwing his arm over Doyoung’s stomach. “Sleeping with Doyoungie!” He singsongs.
Doyoung elbows him deliberately on the ribs. “You’re so loud,” he hisses.
“Ouchie.” It’s Taeyong’s turn to whine, his breath hot on Doyoung’s cheek. “Don’t be so rough on your hyung, Doyoungie,” Taeyong croons, low and husky, right into his ear.
Doyoung’s response to that is to flail so hard he falls off the bed and lands squarely on his ass. Taeyong laughs himself into sleeping; Doyoung invades Johnny’s bed that night, much to the chagrin of one Lee Donghyuck.
-
“You’ve barely touched your food,” Doyoung comments, “is your stomach hurting again?”
The corner of Taeyong’s mouth lifts up in a half-smile. He looks down at the white surface of the table, drawing a pattern on it with his index finger. “Not hungry, is all.”
Doyoung frowns. “You have to eat,” he says, putting his own chopsticks down. “Let’s buy some cake, Baskin Robbins, do you want that?”
“No, I’m okay, you’re already eating anyways.”
Doyoung stares at his food. He’s halfway through the dakgalbi auntie made for him. But that can wait. Or Jungwoo will finish that for him. Doesn’t really matter. Someone in the dorm will eat it.
“No--I’m--I want ice cream now,” Doyoung stutters out lamely. “Coffee. I want ice cream cake and coffee.”
“Ice cream cake and coffee?” Taeyong grins for real this time, eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s weird.”
“No, affogato exists,” Doyoung counters. “Go get your coat, tell hyung we’re going out.”
Taeyong gets up from the table. “Alright,” he says. “Thanks, mother hen.”
“Don’t call me that!”
They end up in a Starbucks, Taeyong ordering the most obscene frappe they have that Doyoung doesn’t want to know the ingredients of, and four packs of his favorite sweet potato snacks scattered around his cup. Doyoung himself ends up with a chocolate cake and an americano in front of him.
bring back 2 americanos for me and jh when ur done with ur date pls thx
Doyoung makes an indignant sound at the text, and leaves Johnny on read.
“Mark asked us if we could take back a Java Chip for him and an americano for Donghyuck,” Taeyong says. There are crumbs on the corners of his mouth, and Doyoung’s hand itches to wipe them off.
“No,” Doyoung says, “we’re not on a coffee run.”
Taeyong blinks at him, and juts out his bottom lip. It shouldn’t be adorable but it is. Doyoung blames it on Taeyong’s glasses. “But he said please.”
“But he said please ,” Doyoung mocks him, pushing and pulling on his straw, “you’re too soft on the maknaes, hyung.”
Taeyong chuckles. They both know that’s a lie. It’s Doyoung who buys everything Donghyuck asks for, and showers Mark in hugs and kisses even though he’s twenty-two.
“I’ll pay,” Taeyong says, “I’ll pay for Johnny’s and Jaehyun’s too.”
Doyoung gapes. “Did he--did he send you the same text?”
Taeyong leans back against his chair, and tilts his head, ever the picture of faux-innocence. Doyoung’s face warms.
“What text?”
Doyoung barely tamps down the urge to squeal. Only god knows how he hasn’t pulled out all of his hair yet.
-
“Do you feel better though?”
A pause, both in steps and chatter. Doyoung’s breath suspending in the cold night air of February.
“Yeah,” Taeyong says, voice quiet. He slinks closer to Doyoung. “Yeah, I do. Thank you Doyoungie.”
Doyoung grunts, and the steps continue.
-
“Where’s the neck brace,” Doyoung says, rummaging through Taeyong’s room. “Where the fuck is your neck brace.”
Taeyong doesn’t lift his head from his pillow, lying on his belly with his head buried in his pillowcase. He simply points to his wardrobe, and Doyoung finds the thing hiding behind Taeyong’s branded jeans. He sits next to Taeyong on the bed, and sighs.
Doyoung fishes out the hot patch package from Taeyong’s nightstand, and lays a hand on his bare back. Taeyong’s skin is cool under his touch, smooth and soft from moisturizer. He smells mildly of mangoes, like the body wash he stole from Doyoung’s bathroom.
“Sit up, please.”
Taeyong does as told, gives his back to Doyoung. Doyoung doesn’t say anything even as he peels the patches from their paper and sticks them on Taeyong’s neck. He fastens the brace around Taeyong’s neck, taking care not to make it too tight. Doyoung arranges Taeyong’s pillows so it piles up high behind him, and helps Taeyong to lean against it.
Taeyong avoids his gaze studiously for a while, and the roiling, sticky worry eating away at Doyoung’s stomach finally quiets down.
“You should’ve gone home,” Doyoung says softly. “We wouldn’t have minded.”
“Sorry,” Taeyong croaks out miserably.
“Dumbass,” Doyoung says. “Rest if you’re tired.”
Taeyong meets his eyes, finally, and gives him a small, hesitant smile. “Aye-aye, mother hen.”
Doyoung looks at Taeyong’s open palm, and puts his hand over it. “I told you not to call me that.”
Taeyong hums, his hand closes over Doyoung’s. His fingers are knobby and long over Doyoong’s pointed ones. “Stay?”
Doyoung sighs, rubs his free hand over his face. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “but I’m playing the sims on your PC.”
Taeyong grins, and opens his mouth. “Aye-aye mo--”
“I said don’t call me that.”
Taeyong gets a pillow to the face. Neck injury or not.
-
See, the thing about comfort is that you don’t realize you needed it until you’re wrapped up in it completely. Cocooned inside and almost suffocated in its warmth. Doyoung stares at Taeyong’s face, mouth slack and slightly open in his sleep. He curls himself around the pillow he’s taken from Taeyong, and breathes in a lungful of Taeyong’s conditioner.
Taeyong passed out like a light ten minutes in, sprawled over his queen-sized bed without a pillow under his head. His face is slightly puffy, cheeks pushed up by the collar. It’s endearing and somewhat alarming that he sleeps around Doyoung like this, when Doyoung knows him not to sleep at all.
And see, the thing about comfort is that when it’s exchanged, it brings a piece of the other person inside of you. Stays there like a persistent pest and becomes a point to ground yourself on. Doyoung should know. Doyoung has known.
He thought he’s always been giving, all these years. After. That no pieces of other people’s hearts would stay in his again.
But here is Taeyong, asking Doyoung to keep a piece of himself inside him. Constantly.
Doyoung reaches out, and pinches Taeyong’s cheek lightly.
“You’re so annoying,” he mutters.
He tangles his fingers with Taeyong’s, closes his eyes, and falls into a deep sleep.
-
Doyoung blinks against the sleepiness threatening to take him under. He doesn’t know how many times he’s tried to stay awake. Doyoung yawns, jaw cracking and tears squeezing out of the corner of his eyes. He leans back against the couch and looks up at the dim lighting of the studio. He’s so tired, but he has to stay awake.
The couch dips next to him and fingers are in his hair. Doyoung doesn’t bat them away.
“Go home, Doyoung-ah, I’ll still be here for a while.”
Doyoung shakes his head stubbornly, and latches onto Taeyong’s arm, leaning his forehead against Taeyong’s shoulder. “I wanna keep you company.”
“You’re barely conscious.”
Doyoung whines from behind his throat.
Taeyong sighs. “Fine, be that way.”
Taeyong makes to stand up but Doyoung tightens his hold on Taeyong’s arm.
“No, no, no, don’t go, don’t go, wait--wait--”
Taeyong pauses, and sits back down.
“Thank you,” Doyoung says, “take a nap with me, please, it’s like 1AM.”
Taeyong levels him with an unimpressed stare. “I’m almost done,” he says, “why don’t you sleep here, I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”
Doyoung makes a noise of protest, but Taeyong is already getting up, going to fetch him a blanket from the closet. He folds his own jacket and puts it under Doyoung’s head.
Doyoung sprawls on the couch, curling under the blanket. It’s warm, and smells faintly like Taeyong’s perfume. He can feel himself already slipping.
“I’ll wake you up when I’m done, okay?”
“M’kay,” Doyoung slurs, eyes already closed. “D’nt take ‘oo long, hyung.”
Doyoung thinks he hears a fond laugh, and something warm pressed into his temple. But that might just be his grogginess talking. After all, Doyoung would be able to distinguish a kiss, wouldn’t he?
-
“Not again.”
“Hand nails, Doyoung-ah.”
“Stop clipping your nails in my room!”
“I have a tissue underneath, it’s fine.”
“It’s literally not.”
“You haven’t slept here in what, a month? My bed is too comfy, right?”
Doyoung whips his head around, staring at Taeyong, his mouth open in a gape.
Taeyong is smirking at him. Too arrogant and too knowing and too goddamn attractive.
“C’mere,” he says, with a tilt of his head.
Doyoung, as if pulled by a leash, complies. He sits on the bed, and Taeyong scoots forward, cradling Doyoung’s face in his hands. His nails are short, but still raw on the edges, and they scrape slightly against his skin. He still smells like Doyoung’s body wash, and Doyoung’s aloe moisturizer.
Taeyong leans forward, and pauses an inch from his face. He’s too fucking close but Doyoung feels like he’s frozen, pinned in place by Taeyong’s eyes flitting down to his lips.
“Okay?” Taeyong whispers.
Doyoung nods.
Taeyong kisses him. It’s a simple, chaste kiss, but it’s enough to have Doyoung reeling, his face warming up for no apparent reason.
Taeyong pulls back, his hand starts stroking Doyoung’s cheek lightly. He grins. “Okay?”
Doyoung, against all odds, nods.
“Cool,” Taeyong’s smile widens. He leans back on his hands properly, and grins up at Doyoung.
“We’re dating,” Doyoung blurts out. “I don’t fuck around, hyung. We’re dating, okay?”
Taeyong laughs, and takes Doyoung’s hand in his. “Of course,” he says, gently, “like we could be any other way.”
Doyoung lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, feels all the tension bleed out of him. Something loosens inside his chest. Of course. He should’ve given more credit to Taeyong. He’s his hyung, after all. And he knows. He knows Doyoung. He knows him.
Doyoung places his free palm on the bed and leans on it, and pricks of pain shoots up his hand. He snatches it back up like it burns.
“Your fucking nails!”
Taeyong just pushes him down and away from the nail clippings, and kisses him breathless, giggling and laughing into the scant space shared between them. Against all odds, it’s super effective.
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