Work Text:
One may say; tissues are for tears that haunts you by night, in any shape of the room as long as its illuminated by the abyss of oneself's mind, it'll be a tool for a tear to be dried on.
The dramatic silent cries conjured by the presence of the heart that has been doing the thing it has memorized — break. Of course, one may say it once, nevertheless once will always be a number, it'll continuously raise at twice, thrice to quadrice until who knows.
But for Jihoon? Tissues are not only for the darkened souls that was jailed and trapped between the remorses of their vices; they're also for the tears that has been settled since his eyes have read love letters from the man he'd sealed his heart onto for the past decade.
It is also for the joyful tears — the ones Jihoon are letting stroll all over his face as he smiles over a simple letter of his man on the tissue paper at his work room.
That is in fact, the reason why tissues are never for dreadful tears or its despair; they're also meant for Jihoon to cry on where his man's simple words were plastered for 6 hours now.
“That man,” he whispers, once. “He sure do know how to make me cry, huh.”
Of course he does, dear man whom had been working since midnight without minding the worried eyes peeking over the bottom shelves; lips downturn while holding a piece of tissue paper he sneakily placed on the table of his husband.
Of course, he does, Jihoon.
He's your first crush — the one you had given your first love letter that took you a year to confide the feelings you had been whispering through the thin air of the rusty old door of the public library near your house where he always read his favorite poetry book: The sun and her flowers. The library, where your first stares had been set on to the man wearing his rimmed glasses, all suited in formality while murmuring unique words not for your ears and mind to understand. That's when you realized that love letters are for the weak, but for the ones that takes courage to let their love be known. So yes, Jihoon, was you so brave.
He's your first love — him, whom you had dropped your dramatic confession as you finally took the courage at 17, the age when teenagers go and play around the feelings of one; but never you, Jihoon. Because your love was never surrounded with teenagers who plays around, never the ones that'll constantly remind you that life is more than puppy loves, paper airplanes, and sunflowers at the field. But oh, you were so certain that your love consists of the ages when you can play with the drawing books, and at the same time, you can defend it like an adult — certainly knew about your love that won't age, so you wanted to spend it with somebody that you'll age with. Lovely.
He's your first kiss — yes, the one you shared your first kiss in the middle of the nightsky, in front of the... who knows where? Because the moment your lips touched, your beats built their own realm where they can skip a lot of times, where they can beat as fast as your lover's fingers tracing your features; meant to say that you have the features of love that no star could ever outshine, sad supernovas, they never and could never outshine the moment your lungs grew out of breathe as you slowly took the time of your lives looking at each other in your most vulnerable state.
Jihoon, tell them. Tell the stars. Tell them they could never outshine the love you built a monument only for him to enjoy the dramatic heartbeats within that authentic place. Tell them about you and your first kiss.
Jihoon stopped working, eyes tracing back to the clock of his room wherein he realized what time is it since he ignored his man because of the hoard of works to do for overtomorrow's presentation. He felt bad. His husband might have felt a little sad for his treatment. He knew.
Of course, he does, Jihoon.
He's your first audience — him, whom you serenaded in front of the massive crowded auditorium of your university. At 19, was you so impulsive. And in love. That you sang your love song, lure people to listen to you in your lowest note, but your eyes while strumming the strings; they're on your first lover whom you have surrendered up your heart as if it's his' to get swap for, only for him. Him. Right, was you so impulsive. In love. The strums speaks in your own language of authenticity kind of love — a leap into a studio room where both of your pulchritudinous heartbeats drastically dances in the air, unknown to the whole auditorium.
He's your listener — I have weave a lot of words; but Jihoon, you're aware with the aforementioned word, I do know. It has a space in your mind's memory shelves, written in an old scroll, I memorise every word of it as it says; he, whom listened to you on your downfalls. He listened to you like the first song in the radio every morning; all tamed and sympathetic over the lyrics of your whispering despair. He listened to you like the first rain; the irony is just like the rain, your temporary falling isn't the one that'll forever remain. He listened to you, more than the times he had heard your heartbeats; he listened to your cries, whispers of the riping August when you lost a family. He listened, and stayed with you.
The man finally got up, gripping on the piece of tissue paper on his right while happily walking towards the exit of the room enveloped with nothingness but only silence after the sets of typing noises. Finally, Jihoon got up from his seat, heart all filled with smiling face of his man remains as his firsts in everything. Jihoon hopes his man still loves him after ignoring him for hours.
Of course, he does, Jihoon.
He's your first heartbreak — the one and only man you got your heart be continuously in pain that one time in December when he decided to break things onto you that he'll go and study away from you, from the things you do, from the things you planned to do with him. In sync of the words from that night of december, you heard your heart cracking in different ways; lined, parallel, zigzags, and everything you could name. His shoulder, whose you found yourself crying, afraid with the separation that'll cause the longing of your soon to outstretched hands, the sadness on your soon to be gloomy eyes, and the tears that were meant to cry for joy were scared to be turned into sequential pain ones — only for your heart to break it onto you that you still have the love that won't age, and will always be ready to age once shared.
He was your first heartbreak, and he was your first certain in every uncertainties. Who are you to let him go, when you wanted to share your love and age with him?
You are just Park Jihoon.
And out of all the people, you still have the love that don't age alone.
In shortest terms, you still have your man; sleeping across the room of your bedroom while holding a pair of pajamas as if he had forgotten to put it on the bed and slept on the couch while a glisten of drool can be seen.
Jihoon smiled.
Of course, he does, people. He's in love.
He walked his way towards the sleeping beauty, staring with his all might while fighting the drowsiness, his smile never fade. Jihoon sat beside his man, caressing his hair before kissing the tip of his forehead, smilingly. A piece of crumpled tissue on his grip, he placed it on the side table before holding his man up to their shared bedroom they both painted with blue.
The room was filled with nothing but the things the shared over the years of being together. The films, frames, the old stuff toys and his grey hoodie from his 17. Once was held out, Jihoon took his man's side, letting the moonlight illuminate the whole room and his hand over his lover's chest as it breathes up and down. Under the sheets, he let the warm establish something in his complexity his skin touches his man's while scooting closer to the cinnamon-like man, sniffing the mint perfume he bought for his man.
“I told you,” he whispers, nose on the crook of the man's neck while eye were solely closed. “I'll sleep once I'm finished. You don't need to make me feel guilty for not letting you in, love.”
He felt his man's body moved, he thought it'll get himself off of Jihoon's hold, only to feel an arm around him while hugging him tightly. Well, it was his' to engulf anyway.
Jihoon smiled, just before he let his mind drift into slumber, he whispered to his man the words he once confide and take courage to say when he's at 17.
“I love you,” he repeats. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, but can you stop playing with my earlobe? It's ticklish, Jihoon-ah.”
The night ended with a voice coming from his half asleep man, face on Jihoon's neck, struggling to talk his words only to hear Jihoon's giggles before taking his hand off of his man's earlobe.
“I love you.” He repeated, for God knows how many times. He loves his man. Of course, he does, people.
He's his first in everything — he perfected the tormented youth before his man break things onto him that pitch black isn't the only color he'd see in life. That the gigantic hues, and vibrant colors of life is meant for him to enjoy. That his undermine happiness he concealed for years will have its own breaking point in a positive way. That cicatrices can be healed in a matter of time, without the anguish of his void.
Right. He's his firsts.
Without the means of waking up by the wind coming from the unsealed closely window, the tissue paper on the right side of the bed found its way on the indigo colored couch.
The handwritten by the small paws were visible by the moonlight for the stars to read, and it says,
“Take your time. I'll get you a cup of coffee, watch over the dogs while you work, and cook you breakfast for your heart's content. I love you, but please, don't ignore me when I asks you how are you. Okay?”
— Choi Hyunsuk.
Jokes on the stars when they missed to read the little handwritten fonts on their little forms as it says a quote from his favorite book: The sun and her flowers.
“this morning,
I told the flowers
what I'd do for you
and they blossomed.”
He loves Jihoon as much the other guy does.
Of course, he does, people.
He's Choi Hyunsuk, Jihoon's first in everything. Of course, he does.