Work Text:
I guess I'll always be this way
Swallowed up by the words and halfway to space
But there by the fire, you offered your hand
And as I took it, I loved you, the boy with the plan
Soonyoung moves Jihoon’s furniture when he isn’t looking.
They’re drawing close to three o’clock in the morning, and sleep is starting to seep in like whispering tendrils of fog on a Monday morning, clouding up Jihoon’s ability to think straight. He’s been staring at the screen for too long – unfinished lyrics and snippets of music that aren’t adding up the way he wants them to – and he’s thinking he should probably just call it a night, get some sleep and work better in the morning, but he’s also stubborn, and part of him refuses to go to bed until he knows he has something he can work with. He gets so engrossed in this that he temporarily forgets the other boy in the room.
Soonyoung must have shown up a couple hours ago, rattling into the studio with a kind of quiet, gentle energy that Jihoon would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy, and has been keeping him company. Jihoon appreciates his presence, truthfully (though he would never admit it to anyone out loud); Soonyoung watches him work diligently, he’s curious, asking questions here and there, asking if he can help, and otherwise just sitting quietly and letting Jihoon focus. Even in the silence, Jihoon thinks he likes the feeling of Soonyoung being in the room with him. Not just anyone. Soonyoung.
“Jihoon.”
“Huh?” he responds, not turning.
“Look at me.”
“Yeah, uh, one sec. I’ll be done soon.”
“No, look.”
“I promise I’ll sleep soon, I just – “ Jihoon starts to say, swiveling in his chair to face Soonyoung, and then he stops. The words fizzle out in mid-air when he sees Soonyoung standing in the middle of the room, feet planted firmly on the carpet where the coffee table should be, but has instead been pushed to another corner of the room. The sofa is at the back of the room instead of where it usually sits, shoved against the wall so it’s completely out of the way. Soonyoung reaches out a hand and, without really thinking, Jihoon grabs it.
He feels himself get pulled up and out of his chair, joints aching from having sat in virtually the same position for the last five hours, until he’s almost flush against Soonyoung’s body.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, quietly mumbling against the cotton of Soonyoung’s t-shirt.
“Thought you needed a break,” Soonyoung answers. “Dance with me.”
And then he feels Soonyoung’s hands come to rest lightly on his waist, holding him comfortably. Jihoon’s own hands are loose fists pressed against Soonyoung’s chest, but, slowly, he lets them unravel, sliding up to Soonyoung’s shoulders. They stay like that a while, swaying back and forth while the latter hums a tune that Jihoon doesn’t recognize. It’s quiet between them. It’s nice. Jihoon lets any earlier stresses and discomfort melt off his bones like snow thawing on the branches of a tree, replaced by something warm and sweet. He feels secure, he realizes. Safe.
Gingerly, he asks, “What are we doing?”
Soonyoung laughs lightly, a warm, happy rasp that stirs up something fluttery in Jihoon’s gut. “I told you. Dancing.”
“Yeah, but. Why.”
“Why not?”
Neither of them says anything for some time after that. Jihoon can feel himself starting to slip off into sleep, a heavy drowsiness crashing over him. His cheek is pressed against Soonyoung’s chest and he can feel a steady heartbeat reverberating throughout his own body. It’s strange, he thinks, how he so willingly gives himself up to Soonyoung, when he’d never do it for anyone else. In some ways it makes sense – they’ve known each other for so long, been through nearly everything together since they were kids. They’re best friends.
In another, much more unsettling way, Soonyoung makes Jihoon feel so different to anything else he’s ever experienced. It’s all butterflies and twisted nerves, a desire to show off and impress that Jihoon has never really felt around anyone else; he likes knowing that Soonyoung is paying attention to him, likes it when the boy compliments him. He likes it when Soonyoung laughs at his jokes, and is disappointed when he doesn’t. He dwells on the feeling of having him nearby, even when they aren’t talking. Something about Soonyoung makes him nervous and excited. It’s pure. It’s genuine. It strikes him down and terrifies him, but also fills him up with something good and sweet and worth holding on to.
“You work too hard,” Soonyoung murmurs, bringing Jihoon back down to Earth.
“Hm?”
“You push yourself too hard. Forget to eat, forget to sleep.”
“I’ll sleep soon.”
They’re still swaying back and forth, and you could hardly call it dancing, but in his exhaustion-induced reverie, Jihoon thinks they may as well be waltzing. With a little smile, Soonyoung takes his hand and turns him in a slow, sleepy circle. When Jihoon faces him again, they’re standing a little bit apart, suddenly still. Soonyoung doesn’t let go of his hand and Jihoon doesn’t want him to.
“You stay up too late,” Soonyoung continues.
“You stay up with me.” Soonyoung opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. “Why do you do that?” Jihoon asks. “I don’t need looking after.”
“I’m not babysitting you, Jihoon. I like being around you.”
“Oh,” Jihoon falters. He hadn’t expected that. “Oh.” The room is dark, save for the colorful LED lights on the wall and whatever’s emanating from his computer screen. Soonyoung’s face is lit up in soft pink, the gentle curve of his cheek gleaming, rose-like.
Soonyoung is still holding his hand, pulling him closer and closer, so slowly that Jihoon doesn’t even realize it until their faces are just centimeters apart. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Soonyoung says. Jihoon swallows.
“I can take care of myself,” he retorts, but it has no bite.
“I know that. But I like taking care of you, too.” Soonyoung pauses, and Jihoon can practically feel the air go still around them. Quietly, he murmurs, “I like you.”
He says it so lightly, just a tumble of soft, pillow words, but something in them feels very, very heavy.
“Me?” Jihoon asks, dumbstruck.
“You.”
He goes back to his earlier question: What are we doing? He can dwell on it, mull it over as long as he likes, but he doubts he’ll ever come around to an answer that makes sense. Instead, in this moment, he thinks: them, together. He and Soonyoung, alone in the night, their shapes pressed together until they’re nothing more than a single silhouette. Love-shaped.
He thinks: he’s been doing this for years . Songwriting. Producing. Genius composer! – But he doesn’t feel like a genius. He feels like some guy in his twenties who makes music for fun and – as an add-on, an extra responsibility, part of the job – has to put on a suit for the public every time he gets on stage. With Soonyoung, he’s just that. He’s someone normal. Human. Sentimental and affectionate and raw and unfiltered. He gets anxious and crinkled at the edges and a little smudged here and there; and Soonyoung, oversized t-shirt, sparkling eyes, keeps him grounded. Soonyoung stays up late because he wants to be there. Soonyoung takes care of him because he wants to.
Jihoon knows he’s a little spacey. A little intense, sometimes he gets away from himself. He thinks that’s what he always has been and always will be. And that’s okay.
Again: “You like me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
It’s okay. Soonyoung holds his hand and pulls him close, lulling him closer and closer to the edge of openness. He tells himself it’s okay. It feels nice.
“Good,” he whispers. “I like you too.”