Work Text:
blind spot achilles heel
longshot
left field
vertigo, vertigo
--
Jaemin takes in the curve of Renjun’s figure, gaze latched on because he’s too tired to look away. Renjun has always been handsome- high cheekbones, nice lips- and Jaemin has let himself notice for a long time now.
There’s a sort of stunning incongruity to it, a crisscross pattern of noticing and not noticing, of noticing and pretending not to notice. Renjun sweeps his gaze over Jaemin’s thighs after practice, and Jaemin makes sure to look up and away, letting their game of cat and mouse drag on. Jaemin presses his knee against Renjun’s thigh with too much force, and Renjun lets him. There are fingers that hover just a beat too long, lines blurred during photoshoots, late night conversations where Jaemin bites back fragile words so as not to shatter this thing between them; they’re playing at being oblivious, being each other’s blind spot. The game is over if Jaemin catches Renjun’s gaze, acknowledges what they’ve both been tamping down with heavy hands and heavier hearts.
Renjun holds his mug with both hands, soaking up the warmth from his tea. He’s always up late, curled into a sweater too big for him and leaning over the kitchen island with an empty look on his face. Sometimes Jaemin wants to ask him what he’s thinking about- or not thinking about- but he’s afraid he’d already know the answer by the time Renjun brushed his hair back from his face and looked up at him. They’re both worn down, he knows, and in more ways than one.
Jaemin spends more time pouring over choreography details than he does under the covers of his bed, and Renjun taps out melodies against whatever surface he’s closest to, too conscious of the standard of idolatry they have to meet. Renjun is beautiful when he smiles for the photoshoots, the v-lives, the fansites- even when exhaustion bleeds through at the corner of his eyes and all Jaemin wants is to reach out and cup his face in his hands, press their foreheads together, and breathe. Instead, he settles for curling a hand around his arm, a gentle squeeze that says I’m here, I know. Sometimes Jaemin will dig into the playfulness of his affections and pull out something to make Renjun laugh, something to make him swat Jaemin’s hand away but give him an excuse to pull him closer anyway, a faux-intimacy tendered in doubling over at Jaemin’s antics.
But there are nights when Jaemin knows not to pull at the strings of Renjun’s patience, watching him wear thin throughout the day from too much pressure and too many sentences directed at him. In a way, he and Renjun are similar; too much socialization grates on their nerves. But where Jaemin’s weariness turns to apathy, Renjun’s turns sharp and icy, a kind of irritability with dangerous potential.
This is one of those nights, precarious, and Renjun is staring into his mug like it might divine something sinister when he takes his last sip. Jaemin scuffs his feet purposefully on the floor when he walks in, giving Renjun time to pull himself together, or to run. Renjun just tightens his grip around the dark green ceramic, joints white from the pressure.
If it was anyone else, Jaemin would say something- offer an offhand remark to drain the tension in the room- but this is Renjun. Only Renjun, just Renjun. Renjun, who has learned to read between the lines of Jaemin’s bouts of silence and disjointed sentences and make him feel understood despite it. Jaemin settles into the bar stool next to him, scoots it closer with his tiptoes, and leans his head against Renjun’s shoulder. The thick wool of his sweater is coarse against Jaemin’s cheek, and when Renjun takes a deep breath he feels the fiber dig into his skin.
This is enough, even without opening his mouth and confessing, pleading, denying. This is enough, just the two of them.
And it’s only this: closeness without closure, a spark without a conductor. They’d traded sloppy hand jobs in Jaemin’s room once when they were still too young to consider the consequences, and Renjun had cried afterwards, shaking in the corner of Jaemin’s bed and pushing Jaemin’s clumsy embrace away. They had already known- had always known, really- that this was not something they could have. So instead they have this middle ground of knowing and not knowing, of touching and not taking, of holding and not having. They both feel the tension between them, but it’s Jaemin who resists, pulling the string taut. It’s fragile, fraying, and Jaemin knows that it’s about to snap. He wants to hold on a little longer, though, whatever Renjun will give him.
“Jaemin,” Renjun says, and Jaemin has to cut him off before he says it.
“I know.”
“You don’t.” There’s a terrible exhaustion in Renjun’s voice, something buried under care and caution. “Jaemin, we can’t do this anymore.” Renjun pauses, like he’s waiting for something, maybe listening for the sound of a gunshot going off in Jaemin’s chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”
And Jaemin does know, despite Renjun’s conviction. He sees it every time Renjun hesitates to touch him, sees it every time Renjun starts to look at him with soft eyes before remembering where they are, or who they are, or what they are. Renjun loves him, awfully, deeply, truly, even if he can’t say it. And Jaemin loves him back, even if he only gets to say it in a saccharine voice in front of the cameras.
Renjun has tried, pushed and pulled at all the barriers Jaemin put up, but Jaemin is stubborn. He’s more careful, maybe. More experienced in heartbreak. He doesn’t talk about it, but the dorm knows. It’s hard to reconcile unrequited affections when you’re in the middle of promotions, but he isn’t the only member who’s learned to feel in intervals. Mark is the best at it, golden boy on stage and miserable off, but he’d made up with Jeno since then and expelled the breath that the rest of the dorm held around the two of them.
And now that he and Renjun have started their… thing, well. Mark has noticed. Jeno has noticed. Chenle has noticed, which means the rest will either figure it out from a few suggestive jabs on vlive or from the bitter silence that creeps between him and Renjun.
It’s been too much of half-truths and not-quite confessions, and Renjun is like a pane of ice, cracks spreading along the surface with every step Jaemin takes. Renjun deserves more than he can give him, more than lips that stop at fingertips and words just shy of honesty. Jaemin wants to be with Renjun, honestly, openly- but something stops him. Something in the glances between him and his reflection, something dark and murky churning beneath the surface. If Renjun is scared, Jaemin is terrified.
So when Renjun looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, Jaemin says, “Okay,” and uncurls himself from Renjun’s side, sits up straight. The wooden stool is uncomfortable in a way that makes Jaemin feel like a scorned child in timeout, alienated and a little shy.
The world doesn’t shatter like Jaemin expects it to when Renjun stands up to rinse his mug out, but it shakes. A shockwave born from the irregularity of Jaemin’s heartbeat. Renjun leaves, and doesn’t look back. Jaemin is alone, at the kitchen counter, hands pressed flat against the marble to ground him.
He breathes.
--
Jisung and Jaemin spend more time together, these days. Jaemin will drift out to the hall in the middle of the night, sleepy habits urging him to find Renjun hunched over the kitchen counter, or sprawled across his bed, or waiting outside Jaemin’s door to tug him into a quiet embrace that they won’t talk about in the morning. Now, though, Jaemin will loiter in the living room, not sure where to go from there.
Jisung finds him like that most nights, standing in the middle of the threadbare carpet and staring at nothing, really- a point of light, an empty screen. Jisung has the same late night proclivities as Renjun, which is equal parts concerning and comforting, and he bullies Jaemin onto the couch with a thick blanket, or back into bed with a hyung, seriously, go to sleep. Jaemin feels like a terrible hyung, but makes up for it when he cooks for Jisung, pulling apart pieces of chicken and layering them over his rice.
He keeps Jaemin entertained at least, letting him crash in his room while he yells at the screen of a game Jaemin doesn’t know the rules to. He splits late night ramen with him, stirring in enough tteokbokki that the managers will yell at them tomorrow. Jisung is a steady presence, non-judgmental by virtue of his own weirdness, and doesn’t press when Jaemin stares at the single mug in the kitchen sink for too long.
Jisung is safe, but it’s Mark who sits him down one afternoon and says, “You’re moping.”
Jaemin takes offense to that, even if it's true. “No I’m not,” he says, aiming for convincing and landing in petulance.
“You are, Jaem. Your focus is off, you keep wandering. I never see you anymore, and Jeno says you stopped replying to his texts. You need to fix things between you and him.”
Jaemin isn’t naive enough to think that the him Mark is referring to is Jeno. “I don’t really think this is something to fix, hyung. Maybe it just fades.”
Mark looks at him, a little sad. “Just talk to him.” He puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “I think there is something to fix.”
And Mark would know, really.
“Mark-” and Jaemin stops, wishing he could explain it all to Mark with a shrug, without divulging all the secrets that go unspoken even between him and Renjun. “I can’t- I can’t.” He can’t, because it would mean admitting something out loud that he hasn’t even admitted to himself. He can’t because there’s too much on the line- the synergy of the group, their performances, their careers, their friendships born of a share circumstance. It would be selfish, to take a chance on something he can’t even confront. But it’s also selfish, to ask the rest of the group to stagnate while he works on boxing up his feelings.
Jaemin falters, and Mark pulls him in against his chest, his head tucked into the space between Mark’s neck and chin. Mark squeezes him tight, like he always does when he hugs, and rubs a gentle thumb in circles on his back. “Just talk to him,” he repeats, and Jaemin exhales against Mark’s collarbone.
--
When Jaemin knocks on the door, he expects silence. Or, really, he hopes for silence, an excuse to slink back to his room and bury himself under the covers, dead to the world for a few more hours on one of their rare days off.
Instead, he hears a muffled yeah? through the door. Jamein stands there for a beat too long, staring at the wood grain of Renjun’s door and wondering what to do next, how to raise his hand and wrap his fingers around the brassy doorknob, twist it open and look Renjun in the eyes. Yes? Jaemin hears him repeat, louder now, or maybe closer.
He takes a step back, a coward again, but it's too late. Renjun opens the door himself.
Jaemin watches the expression on his face shift from minute irritation to surprise, before melting into impassivity.
“Jaemin, hi.” His voice is smaller than Jaemin remembers, resigned where it used to be brash. “Did you need something?” Even as he asks, he steps back, opens the door wider, like he knows exactly what Jaemin is here for. Renjun has always been the more intuitive one, not just between the two of them, but in all of dream. He’s careful, calculating- filing away little bits of information that he pastes together later, a little paper mache version of each of them walking around in his head. Renjun only gives away the bits of himself that he means to, a shimmery facade between idol and member and self. That’s something Jaemin has always admired about him, how he can be both reticent and bold at the same time- a balancing act Jaemin hasn’t quite mastered, always existing in extremes.
Renjun can admit things to the camera and make them feel like confessions, holy privacy laid bare, sacred details that the fans parse and thrust their own narratives onto. Really, they’re just layers he shrugs off. There are some things Renjun has said that are outright lies, things they’ve been able to tease him for in front of an audience and fluster him over; there are other things Renjun has said that they don’t know enough to deny, little anecdotes that might be true, but are probably not. The Renjun each of them knows has holes in it, things he keeps for himself. He’d offered Jaemin the chance to fill in those gaps, slowly, together, at their own pace- and Jaemin had brushed it off like a snowflake, the delicate attempt at intimacy melting against his skin.
“I wanted to talk,” he says, matching Renjun’s muted tone. About what? Renjun doesn’t ask, pursing his lips instead to spare Jaemin the shame of answering. Neither of them are cruel or callous; there’s no need to pretend this isn’t about- well- them. Or not-them.
Renjun tilts his head to beckon him in and shuts the door behind them with a deafening click. For a moment, Jaemin just stands there in limbo. He doesn’t know how welcome he is anymore, whether he’s allowed to sit, at Renjun’s desk or on his bed, or if he should stay there, hovering by the door.
“Don’t make it weird, Jaem. Sit down.” Renjun pats the space on the bed next to him, exasperation in the quirk of his mouth. “You’re still welcome here, even if-” Renjun sighs. “We’re still friends, you know.”
And Jaemin did know, just didn’t know how to go about it. The way he existed with Renjun before was always intimate; he’s used to curling up with other members too, limbs sprawling and hands teasing, but with Renjun it was different- charged.
He sits on the bed, pulling his legs up. Jaemin feels precarious, trying to figure out where the line between them is, a spinning top on the edge of a table.
“What did I literally just say?” Renjun nudges him with a bare knee. “Don’t. Make. It. Weird.”
And Jaemin finally smiles, just a bit, the tension in the room bleeding out. There’s a running joke between all of them about Jaemin’s own personal brand of weirdness; about Jaemin, aloof. Renjun gets it, though, teasing as he may be. Sometimes he traces the shell of Jaemin’s ear when they’re alone, and asks him about something he did earlier; Renjun is attentive like that, making sure Jaemin’s antics aren’t just another reaction to stress. There have been long days of filming, long days where the camera never stops blinking that sinister red light, and sometimes Jaemin’s only outlet is simply shutting down. His reclusivity translates to overstimulation, his strange phrases a product of feeling untethered. But also, sometimes Jaemin is just like that, and Renjun just wants to check in.
Jaemin doesn’t say sorry for being nervous, because Renjun would smack his arm with an annoyed huff and tell him to shut up. Instead he settles back against the wall, squeezes Renjun’s knee. Jaemin lolls his head to the side when he looks at Renjun, locks eyes with him and lets the air around them simmer. Renjun meets his gaze, not expectantly, just openly; he’s been so patient with him, much more than Jaemin deserves.
“Renjun,” he says, and at least it’s a step. “I think-”
Inhale, exhale. Renjun has waited this long, and he deserves an answer, and an explanation. No more sidesteps or redirections. Just honesty, he plain and to the point.
“I think we should try.”
Renjun blinks at him, face carefully blank. His expression doesn’t change, almost like he didn’t hear him. “Why?”
Why? Jaemin wasn’t prepared to answer that question. Wasn’t prepared for any of this really, just held his breath and knocked, heart in his throat.
“I miss you,” he says, the first thing that comes to mind. “I miss you.” It’s reverent between his lips, an open-mouthed supplication, but it’s not enough. Jaemin isn’t used to half-lengths or stumbling towards what he wants- he’s used to just getting it. This is new for him, trying.
“I’m sorry for pushing you away. I like being around you, being with you. I just didn’t know how much until- until you weren’t there anymore, Jun. And this isn’t about, like-” Jaemin waves his hands wildly, looking for some way to explain it, “missing routine, or something. This is about you. Us.”
Jaemin leans forward, too much intro Renjun’s space, not that he cares. He’s no good with words, but maybe Renjun can see the emotion in his eyes, the honesty he wants so badly to convey without his mouth getting in the way.
“I just want a chance, Renjun.”
Renjun tenses, pulls away. It’s not by much, but it's enough that Jaemin notices.
“How, Jaemin? You’re right. We’re idols. We don’t get-” he waves a hand between them, spastic, “this.”
Jaemin had said that to him, once. When they were still young and this thing between them was delicate, a gossamer wing. Renjun had put his hands in Jamein’s hair and tugged his head back, bearing his neck for him to mouth along and murmur sweet things against. He moved up, kissing the corner of his mouth, hovering over his lips- and Jaemin had pushed him back, startled.
It’s too intimate, he didn’t say, but Renjun understood anyway. They’d been building up to it all this time, heavy gazes and hands that trailed a little too far up the inside of thighs. But when the camera was on or the others were around, Jaemin shut down, kept himself perfectly distanced. No use trying to make something real when it was bound to fall apart anyway, when the foundation was made of imaginary freedoms and slighted sincerity.
Jaemin had been okay with lingering touches and stifled breaths, but the idea of kissing Renjun made it too honest, a step closer to the intimacy he would deny craving to his last breath. I’m sorry, he said instead, it’s just that we’re idols, Jun. We have to be realistic.
Renjun had looked at him for a long time. Jaemin had let him. When he reached out to form a link between their bodies, red hot with want and tinged with rage, Jaemin let him. When he took shuddering breaths in the curve of Jaemin’s neck and guided his hand to his cock, Jaemin let him. When he pulled the covers up over his head and cried afterwards, Jaemin let him.
Jaemin had let himself be deluded by Renjun’s fierce exterior, assumed he’d be fine with whatever rules Jaemin decided on his own. He wasn’t, and it showed in the way Renjun pulled himself away from Jaemin bit by bit, until the fine line between them hardened.
Renjun is right- they’re still friends. But after that had happened, sometime in between debuting and Mark graduating from the group, they changed. It wasn’t easy to mend their relationship, to be okay with being alone again, to be okay with invading each other’s space again. Renjun never really healed, parroting Jaemin’s words back at him.
Jaemin thinks he could help Renjun heal, if he gave him the chance. He’s learned to be the sort of mediator between members, though he might stoke the fire on purpose sometimes. Jaemin cares- deeply, truly- even if he’s distant at times. He’s had his fair share of fights within Dream, some cold, some hot, and all the while he’s cared for each of them. It’s almost easier to admit his true feelings on camera, where he can be teased but still wave away accusations of being mushy- as Donghyuck would say- under the guise of it being for the views. The sincere love and friendship that's grown between them is thicker than blood, a bond that Jaemin knows won’t be broken by a misguided attempt at romance- but maybe watered down.
And then of course there’s Mark. Mark Lee, Jaemin’s first love and subsequent heartbreak. It was just a silly thing at first- a crush on someone he looked up to, who he could rely on and tell his secrets to and lean his body run ragged from practice against. It blossomed into something larger, though, the more Mark made stardom look like that- like glitter and gold and starlight, like adoring fans with his name cut and pasted on cardboard signs- all the things Jaemin was promised as a trainee.
Jaemin had tried to kiss Mark one night, in the middle of an empty dressing room. They were high on stage lights and chanting crowds, giddy from the success of a performance they’d worked so hard to perfect, tangled by interwoven fingers and trembling legs. In the privacy of their little space, NCT DREAM printed on the sign taped to the door, Mark had looked so beautiful and Jaemin had pitched forward, smitten. There, between the shimmering costumes and folding chairs, Mark had twisted Jaemin open and poured him out, spoiled milk from a now empty carton. Not that he had meant to, of course. Mark had been gentle, pressing a hand against Jaemin’s chest and telling him no, I’m sorry, I don’t want this. And Jaemin had smiled weakly under the combined heat of Mark’s stare and the harsh makeup lights, agreeing that it was just a mistake, a consequence of the rush that comes with success.
Doubtless, Mark didn’t know how deep Jaemin’s affections ran. Maybe it didn’t seem spectacular enough- a crush scorned, a kindhearted refusal- but it was. In a whirlwind of confusion, Jaemin tripped over rejection and tumbled, down, down.
It wasn’t until much later, after Jaemin had taken his own hiatus from the crushing pressure of fame, that Mark opened up to him, let him see past the idol persona he wore like a second skin. It’s hard, Mark confessed, shoulder to shoulder with Jaemin on the floor of a pitch black practice room.
I looked up to you, Jaemin had said, quiet. I still do, but it was different back then. Thank you for still being there for me, even after that.
You were never a burden to me, Jaemin.
A shuffle, then Mark’s head on his shoulder. Jaemin heals, one moment at a time.
Renjun doesn’t know that, but he will, if he’ll let Jaemin try.
“I don’t care, Jun. I don’t care that we’re idols.” This is Jaemin being honest, and it's terrible. It’s raw and unfiltered, a want he drowned for so long that it’s gasping for air now that it’s out in the open. “We should get to have this, anyway we can. Renjun, don’t you want to try? With me?”
Silence settles between them, stretching its terrible wings.
Renjun finally looks at him, his face, his lips, his nose, his cheeks. His eyes. For a long moment, Jaemin thinks that this is it- this is the breaking point, this is him pushing too far and for too long. This is him losing whatever it is he created with Renjun, because he waited too long to want it.
Renjun reaches out, still too far away, and cups a tiny hand Jaemin’s cheek. And then it's both hands, and Jaemin’s face is cradled in Renjun’s cool embrace.
“Jaemin-ah,” he says, carefully. Jaemin feels like a helium balloon untethered. “Jaemin. Do you really want this? Us?” Renjun pauses, takes a measured breath. “Tell me this is about more than you missing me.”
Jaemin leans heavily into the palm of Renjun’s hand, looks at him. “It’s not just about missing you, Jun. It’s about something here, between us.” Renjun brushes a thumb over Jaemin’s cheek. “I think we can be something, if you’ll let me try. For real this time. No hiding. No running.”
Renjun’s hands tighten slightly around his face, a reaction he can’t hide. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Jaemin’s smile spreads across his face, slow and thick like sunrise. He leans forward, feeling Renjun’s breath ghost over his lips.
He gives Renjun the chance to pull away, if he wants. But this is a step Jaemin has to take. To show Renjun that he means it this time, that he’s capable of taking what he wants and holding it in both hands. He puts a careful set of hands around Renjun’s waist, squeezing gently and rubbing a thumb over the muscle that reacts to it.
When he kisses Renjun, it’s chaste. Soft lips, chapped.
Renjun makes a small noise that makes Jaemin smile against him, kissing him again. He moves his hands from his hips to his hair, brushing over the delicate shell of his ear and tugging Renjun’s head back.
Renjun is perfect, from the way he parts his lips for Jaemin to the whine that reverberates against his tongue. Renjun is perfect, letting Jaemin take his time- not just in the way he kisses, but in the time it took for him to understand his feelings. Jaemin holds him tightly.
--
Later, with their legs overlapping tangled sheets, Jaemin traces the curve of Renjun's cheekbone with his thumb. Renjun looks like he wants to say something, the gentle quirk of his brow, the open-shut of his mouth. Jaemin won’t have Renjun hesitate around him. He wants all of this, up front and openly. He wants Renjun, fierce and demanding. He props himself up on one arm, leans down to kiss the tip of his nose.
“Ask me,” he says, voice still raspy.
Renjun huffs, scrunches his nose, petulant. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Yes you were.” Jaemin leans in, kisses him slow, deep. Renjun whimpers into their kiss, languid with a want already sated. “Ask me.”
Renjun looks at him shyly, and Jaemin takes his chin in his hand to keep him from looking away. Renjun bites his lip, a terrible thing that makes Jaemin want to lean down the last half-inch to bite it himself.
“Will you stay?” Renjun asks, quiet.
“Hm? What was that?” Jaemin is grinning at him, wolfish.
“Oh my god.” Renjun pushes him impatiently onto his back, one leg thrown possessively over Jaemin’s waist. “Stay. With me.”
“Okay.” Jaemin smiles again, this time slow and sweet. “I’ll stay.”