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JENO
Jaemin Na realizes it at twenty years old, but he reckons he’s been in love with Jeno his entire life— or at the very least, been falling in love with him his entire life.
Sometimes love is a long time coming, he’s read once.
And oh, he thought. That’s what it is.
For other people, love comes in epiphanies, in ground shaking moments, in the explosions of stars, in the collision of planets.
But for Jaemin and his Jeno, love came slowly— quietly.
Jaemin thinks of this as he lays in Jeno’s arms, temple pressed against the elder’s bare collarbone— listening to every beat of his heart— lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Jeno has one hand pressed to his lower back, rubbing slow circles against Jaemin’s skin. It’s a habit he’s grown into when Jaemin’s back started becoming a problem.
The younger man traces slow circles on his lover’s skin— on his arm, then on his stomach, then on his chest, then on his neck, then on his cheek.
Until he settles on circling around the mole under Jeno’s eye over and over.
Their eyes meet and Jeno smiles at him— with the smile Jaemin feels like he’s known for thousands of years.
And still— he melts under it, body sagging in absolute comfort— in something they couldn’t describe as anything but love.
“Jeno,” He whispers, like a question.
“Jaemin,” Jeno whispers back, like the answer to everything Jaemin has ever asked.
Jaemin has no memory of any life without Jeno Lee. He’s known him fifteen years out of the twenty he’s lived.
And yet— Jeno still says his name the same.
Maybe not entirely, since five-year-old Jeno had trouble with the letter n, and settled for calling him Jaemie until he turned ten.
But the way he says it is still the same to Jaemin.
Careful, not because he was cautious— but because he was loving and gentle and soft.
Jaemin, he always says. Tenderly, like the name has made a home out of his mouth.
Jaemin loved Jeno Lee with all the kinds of love he learned through the years.
Jeno catches the tips of his middle and pointer finger with his teeth, making Jaemin gasp.
The elder makes a show of growling and acting like he’s munching down on Jaemin’s fingers, which in turn makes the other giggle.
It makes Jeno’s eyes turn into the moon crescents his best friend loved so much.
Pulling his fingers from the other’s mouth, Jaemin shifts to move upwards, just to give the other a swift kiss on the lips.
He settles in an oddly comfortable position, head turned sidewards to face Jeno, barely an inch between their noses, as most of his body rests on top of him.
Jeno moves closer just to rub their noses together.
“Good morning,” Jaemin finally greets him, “don’t you have morning training?”
Jeno immediately groans, pouting, “few more minutes, please.”
The pink haired boy hums, “This would be more believable if you didn’t always end up late to your training whenever you ask for a few more minutes.”
“It’s not my fault I have a beautiful boyfriend in my bed who makes it hard for me to get up.”
Jaemin giggles, “no I think you’re just being lazy.”
“Hmmph,” Jeno dramatically breathes out, pulling Jaemin impossibly closer by the waist, “just a few more minutes, baby.”
And he melts at the use of that damn pet name, like he always does.
“Just a few more minutes,” Jaemin repeats, firmly, closing his eyes, and wrapping his arms around Jeno’s shoulders to keep him close.
The bare shoulders underneath his hands are broad and warm, the arms around him strong.
These days he finds himself wondering when his Jeno turned into the Jeno he was now.
When did the cute little boy, who was so shy he used to hide behind Jaemie and never not held his hand, turn into this man.
Built and devastatingly handsome.
Jeno still held his hand every chance he got, but all the shyness and the fear were gone. He was more intelligent now— surer.
But he was still the kind and sweet boy Jaemin. Still Jaemin’s Jeno.
Steadfast and reliable.
And maybe that was what this love was.
The kind of love you can only learn when you grow together.
The kind you learn in playgrounds, fingers interlocked as you discover the world. The kind that kisses your bruises to help them heal faster. The kind that whispers their silly dreams to you in the dark.
This love is licking the ice cream that melts on your fingers; the makeshift homes you make with branches and leaves and rocks and each other; the love that calls you pretty when you smile even when you have two missing teeth.
This love is sticking by each other sides as you fall in love with the world; This love is trying out singing, dancing, basketball, baseball, hockey, volleyball, soccer, swimming, writing, photography, theatre, and everything there is to try— until you’ve settled on something that feels like home (It’s easy to recognize for both of them, even in their young age, they know exactly what home feels like).
This love is fighting when they realize they made homes out of different places, refusing to speak to each other for two whole weeks even when their parents grew concerned. This love is making up when Jeno won his first hockey match and Jaemin won a writing competition, both of them so proud of each other and so full of love. This love was realizing that they can make homes out of different people and different places— ones they don’t share— so long as they always come back to each other.
And they always do.
Even when this love turned into getting to know each other’s demons; turned into watching each other go through their worst; turned into seeing each other in their messiest dirtiest lowest.
Because this love was accepting and kind. This love holds you close in the dark. This love keeps you together when you want it and lets you go when you need it.
Because this is the kind of love the universe reserves especially for you— the one in a million kind.
The one that can only be given.
The kind of love that looks you in the eye and says I know you.
Eight months after they get a new roommate, Jaemin wakes up to Jeno already watching him, hand caressing his cheek.
“Jaemin,” he says, like a question.
There was no smile on his face and not softness to his tone, but the way he says Jaemin’s name is still the same— and that was all Jaemin ever really needed.
“Jeno,” he answers.
They look at each other— for seconds, minutes, hours, days, years.
“You love him,” Jeno says, because he knew Jaemin better than anyone in the whole world.
I love you, Jaemin wants to say, but Jeno already knew that. It wasn’t the reply Jeno was looking for.
So he settles for “yes.”
Because he was nothing if not completely honest with Jeno.
When Jeno closes his eyes, it’s Jaemin this time who cups his cheeks with his hands.
“I love you,” Jaemin says, tears welling up his eyes, “You are my person.”
“I know,” Jeno says, eyes still closed, “don’t cry, Jaemie.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jen. I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Jaemin leans in to press their foreheads together.
And they stayed like that, for as long as they both needed it.
Later, when Jeno has finally opened his eyes.
They stare at each other, breathing in and out and in and out.
“We can try to make it work.”
There were so many things they could’ve told each other. But he was Jeno and he was Jaemin. And they were nothing if not honest with each other.
Because this love was realizing that they can make homes out of different people and different places— ones they don’t share— so long as they always come back to each other.
“We don’t know how.”
And Jeno smiles, in the way he always smiled.
Steadfast and reliable.
“We can learn.”
MARK
It wouldn’t have mattered if it was anyone but Mark Lee.
But he was—
Like most things that make Jaemin’s world tilt away from its axis, it was Haechan’s fault.
Haechan said one of his childhood friends from his little old hometown needed a roommate once he moved into the city—
Which was surprising for many reasons.
First was that Haechan never really talked about his little old hometown without his words being laced with spite.
But this time, he was looking at his phone, eyes scanning a text that made his lips curl up into something that astonishingly looked like fondness and— Jaemin dare say, nostalgia.
Second was that when shown a picture of Mark Lee, who made even Jeno curious when Haechan suggested that the two take him in since Jeno never really uses his own room— Mark Lee wasn’t quite what they expected.
All of Haechan’s friends outside of their little circle were always older, cooler, and slightly (Taeil) to very (Yuta) questionable.
But the Mark Lee in the picture had a lopsided smile on his face, sitting in front of a desk filled with scattered papers— scribbled with things Jaemin couldn’t quite decipher.
Jaemin wonders how someone can come off as so sincere and earnest through a single picture— perhaps it was a talent, seeming so harmless.
Haechan had said he was older than them by a year, but Jaemin thought he could’ve passed off as much younger.
“So?” Haechan had asked, “You’ll think about it?”
Truth be told, Jaemin and Jeno didn’t really think much about it.
They were both the designated passive pair of their group of friends after all— chill as fuck as Jisung liked to call it, infuriurating as hell as Renjun did.
He was Haechan’s old friend, who was not only shifting to a music major but moving to a whole different university, in need of a place to stay.
And so that was that.
Three weeks after the conversation, and smack in the middle of the school year, and Mark was moving in.
It really wouldn’t have mattered if it was anyone but Mark Lee.
But it was—
Hockey training was running late the day Mark was moving in and so Jaemin had, instead of waiting for Jeno to finish and having dinner at the pizza place nearby like they usually do, had come home to clean and cook a homemade meal for their new roommate.
And Mark, almost poetically and quite literally barged into the doors of what used to be Jeno and Jaemin’s home alone— of Jaemin’s life—
“I am so sorry, oh my god—” was the first thing he heard Mark Lee say, eyes wide and frantic, giggle too nervous and too shy to belong to someone with such wide shoulders— someone who, as Haechan made them listen to, rapped like he meant it— arms full of bags and various items,
“I didn’t want to come up and down for my things and guilt you into helping me bring them all up here— and anyway I’m Mark. You must be Jaemin.”
Jaemin stood there, eyes still wide and mouth agape from surprise at the intrusion, pink frilly apron that Chenle bought for him as a gag gift that he grew very very fond of tied around his neck in a neat ribbon— spatula gripped in both hands like he was about to use it as a weapon.
They stared at each other for a while— unblinking—
A heartbeat. Then two. Three.
Until the dam breaks and Mark bursts into hiccupy giggles that make Jaemin laugh a laugh that was a little bit embarrassing— the one he only ever lets Jeno and his Mom hear.
He has no idea how Mark has become privy of his windshield giggle so easily.
“I am Jaemin. How’d you figure?”
Mark rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, bags and all, “Haechan said you were pretty boy and the other was intimidatingly handsome jock.”
Jaemin raises his eyebrows at the description, “So I’m not an intimidatingly handsome jock?”
A little spark of something appears in Mark’s eyes then, as his lips turn into a line first, and then curl up into something Jaemin couldn’t quite pinpoint, “Nah, you could be. You’re just really pretty.”
It makes Jaemin laugh, how honest Mark’s words seem.
They shook hands after that, then began talking as Jaemin prepared the table for them, “Jeno won’t be home for a while, he likes to take his time in the shower when I'm not waiting for him.”
And they don’t know it yet, but something in the apartment (besides the fact that they were gaining a new roommate) shifts that night.
It’s not that Jaemin wasn’t good at keeping conversations— it’s just that he likes the quiet— likes the way comfortable silences settle.
He doesn’t know why it’s different now— why the difference seems so easy to take in stride.
Doesn’t know why it’s too easy for Mark to launch into a story then, about a funny experience in the shower with one of his old basketball teammates in high school.
Why it was so easy for Jaemin to tilt his head in curiosity, asking for more as he smiles widely.
They talked for two hours straight— a feat for Jaemin, considering he was never much of a talker to new people— was never one to even try.
He had never been interested in anyone else enough to ask about them or their life— never cared enough about other people beneath the surface to ask why or how or any variation of tell me more.
Jeno had come home to that— and when he quietly unlocked the door with his key, duffel bag immediately disposed of on the sofa, dark eyes meeting Jaemin’s in the midst of his chatter— and Jaemin didn't quite understand then why there was a little tinge of guilt in his stomach.
But Jeno simply smiled warmly at the two of them— simply clasped Mark’s hand like he was one of his teammates and weaved into their conversation like there was nowhere else he could have belonged— simply took the seat next to Jaemin and rest his palm a little bit above the younger’s knee.
Jaemin sags a little bit— wonders why he’s relieved.
Jeno meets his gaze, smiles softly and sweetly, before he turns to Mark and talks to him about anything and everything.
Mark Lee made it so easy, Jaemin initially thought.
But that wasn’t quite true.
Learning to live with Mark was difficult.
Because Jaemin was too used to his world just being his and Jeno’s.
He was too used to comfort and familiarity— too used to the ease that came with knowing someone his whole life.
He wasn’t used to awkwardly stepping into each other’s ways, making a throwaway comment that ended up hurting where it landed, making an elaborately beautiful and delicious meal just to find out Mark was allergic to one of the ingredients—
Because Jaemin hadn’t known Mark the way he’s always known Jeno—
He didn’t know Mark’s habits like the back of his hand— didn’t know what meals were to be cooked or to be bought for certain moods— didn’t know what the right words to say were— didn’t even know the wrong ones.
Until he did.
Until he learned that Mark always prayed quietly, almost shyly, before every meal—
that Mark liked to pinch people’s cheeks, at least his and Jeno’s, whenever he finds them cute—
that Mark almost always sings under his breath—
that Mark couldn’t cook to save his life— that he’d sooner burn the whole kitchen before he learned to make a proper sunny side up.
Until he learned that Mark didn’t really like the pizza in the pizza place Jeno and Jaemin frequented (Jaemin has started bringing him to Jeno’s practices to wait whenever it ran late so they could all have dinner together right after), but Mark liked the feeling the place gave him.
“Feeling,” Jeno says, questions, head tilted in a way that Mark and Jaemin insisted made him look like a puppy.
Mark simply reaches out to pinch his cheek with two fingers.
Until he learned that cupcakes were best in days when the lyrics can’t seem to come to Mark— that chicken and pasta were best in days that Mark had important tests or presentations—
that Mark, to Jaemin’s horror, is an avid fan of Justin Bieber—
that Mark had no clue how to cook (or do anything in the kitchen, really), but liked watching Jaemin work.
Until he learned that when Mark tries to hide his tears, it was better to pretend he never saw it.
For Jaemin who never felt the need to look for deeper relationships with anyone else— because he has Jeno— because he has Haechan and Renjun and Jisung and Chenle, Mark Lee came as a surprise.
Because Mark Lee wasn’t easy. But Jaemin wanted him anyway.
Mark was the love Jaemin learned on purpose.
Mark is the kind of love you can only have if you work for it yourself, Jaemin thinks. The kind of love where chance is not given, but grabbed.
I don’t know you, but I’d like to try.
Within the walls of their little home, Jaemin watched Mark— learned him— known him.
He watched Mark watch him right back.
“Jaemin,” Mark always calls his name like it means something else.
Later on, he realizes Mark always says Jaemin like he’s saying something precious and pure— like he’s saying angel.
And Jaemin always calls him back, "Mark."
Like he's saying— I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how much I want this.
They both know— maybe have always known— even when the words weren’t said aloud.
It was in the ease of the way Jaemin talked to him— cautious, but honest— always honest.
The way Mark’s gaze softens when Jaemin is under his gaze.
It was in the shared soft touches, tender words— gazes so sincere it made Jaemin’s heart ache.
It was in the way Mark looked at him when he had a little bit too much to drink, voice deep, blinks slow, words sincere— so so sincere.
Jaemin was laying on the couch on his back when Mark slumped into him, face forward.
Jaemin simply huffs under him, already used to Mark's version of physical affection.
“You’re so pretty,” Mark had said, almost reverently, chin resting on Jaemin’s chest, shakily reaching out just to gently touch Jaemin’s jaw with the back of his hand, “the prettiest.”
His words were sincere, but there was something else he was holding back on .
When it came to Jaemin, Mark always looked like he wanted to say something else.
In the end, like most truths in Jaemin’s life, it’s Jeno who breaks it to him.
“You love him,” Jeno says, because he knew Jaemin better than anyone in the whole world.
Jaemin could have smiled, could have tilted his head and played dumb, could have said “of course I love him, he’s our friend.”
But Jaemin was never much of a liar— especially not to Jeno— especially not about Mark.
“And he loves you,” Jeno says, simply.
Because Jeno has always been the smartest one out of the three of them.
While Jaemin and Mark had been watching each other, he had been watching them.
It really wouldn’t have mattered if it was anyone else but Mark Lee.
But it was—
Mark Lee who came to Jeno’s trainings, asked him all about hockey, and genuinely listened to his responses.
Mark Lee who came with Jaemin to his games and cheered wholeheartedly.
Mark Lee who rubbed the back of his neck when he was particularly tired— who taught him, as they giggled to each other back and forth, how to rap.
Mark Lee who had weaved himself into their lives like there was nowhere else he belonged.
What Jaemin was to both of them was different to what they were to each other—
But it wasn’t less— just different.
Jeno had said the name once— playfully— offhandedly— honestly.
Mark had just come out of an evaluation that he passed with flying colors— and Jeno was the one who was waiting for him outside.
Mark grinned— that one wide lopsided grin, “I got a fucking 97!”
And Jeno had embraced him, clapping his back, “my brother.”
I love you, Jaemin wanted to tell him, but Jeno already knew that. It wasn’t the reply Jeno was looking for.
There really was no other answer.
“Yes.”
JAEMIN
If you’d ask Jeno what Jaemin was to him, he’d say Jaemin was everything.
If you’d ask Mark, he’d say Jaemin was Jaemin. He couldn’t be anyone or anything else.
If you’d ask Jaemin, he’d say they were both right.
As Jaemin laid on Mark’s bed, he wondered how it was as easy as this.
With the way the people in their campus, students and teachers alike, eyed them oddly.
How he hears whispers of “that’s not gonna last,” “that’s not fair,” and some words much much harsher.
This really should’ve been a problem, he thinks.
With how Jaemin and Jeno were known and loved as childhood sweethearts (even when they only got together during freshman year)— unbreakable and unyielding.
And then comes Mark Lee, holding Jaemin’s hand to his class and kissing his cheek hello and goodbye always.
People thought it was the end for Jeno and Jaemin then— but they were still what they always were. Something unbreakable and unyielding. Something bulletproof.
The only difference was that now, Jaemin had Mark too.
This really should’ve been a problem.
With how possessive Jeno can get with the things and the people he truly loves.
With how stubborn and determined Mark could get with his desires.
He wonders how it became so easy for them.
To share something they both loved so dearly.
To make a home out of the same place and manage to not tear it part.
If you asked Jeno and Mark how it became so easy, they’d say it’s because it was Jaemin.
Because Jaemin was kind and earnest and honest and true. He was a beautiful boy with a beautiful heart.
Jaemin truly loved only a few, but he loved them deeply— f iercely in the most quiet and gentle of ways.
He laid there limbs tangled with Mark and Jeno, until none of them knew where one started and where one ended.
Mark was gently caressing Jaemin’s hair as Jeno rested his temple on the youngest’s collarbone.
Times like this were rare— most of the time it was Mark and Jaemin in Mark’s room— or Jaemin and Jeno in the other— and so Jaemin kept it close to his chest.
Jaemin drowsily laughs at a joke Jeno says, Mark giggling next to him in the hiccupy way he always seems to giggle when he’s around them.
He was engulfed in so much warmth and love and tender adoration, it was nearly painful.
It really shouldn’t be as easy as this.
“You like this?” Jeno asks later in a whisper, when the sun rays drifting through the windows have bid their goodbyes and were replaced with light of the moon.
“Yes,” Jaemin replies. There really was no other answer.
“What’s this?” Mark asks.
“This,” Jaemin whispers, “the three of us together like this.”
The eldest hums— and it’s quiet for a while.
“Then I think we need to get a bigger bed,” Mark says, mimicking their whispers, the curl of his lips heard through his voice.
Jaemin is quiet.
Wonders why, wonders how— how can he ever deserve this.
“I think you’re right,” Jeno answers.
At once, it didn’t matter whether it should’ve been easy or hard.
It didn’t matter how many odd looks they get on and off campus— even from their own damn landlord.
All that mattered was that in a less than average apartment, smack in the middle of a busy city, Jaemin loved— irrevocably, sincerely, wholeheartedly.
and he was loved — irrevocably, sincerely, wholeheartedly — back.