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The golden luminance from the small mushroom lamp on Jongseong’s desk is still enough to make Heeseung glow. It illuminates the slope of his nose and highlights the cupid’s bow that Jongseong so desperately wants to touch with his fingertips.
Jongseong wonders what it would be like to be able to brush his lips along Heeseung’s jaw and to press soft kisses against his throat, to slip his fingers through the hairs that brush his neck, to press a hand against his stomach underneath the soft fabric of Heeseung’s favorite hoodie.
Heeseung causes a lot of wonder but there’s one thing that Jongseong knows without question—there’s something magnetic about him, something about Heeseung’s gravity, something about him that is so inevitable and Jongseong just can’t pull himself away.
Jongseong’s ear is starting to ache a little bit. They’ve been lying here side by side on Jongseong’s bed and sharing a pair of old wired earbuds for what feels like hours now, listening to one of their shared playlists.
The pair are lying so close together that if Jongseong so much as twitches his pinky, they’d be touching. Jongseong wants to take Heeseung’s hand in his and intertwine their fingers. He wants to take his hand and study the lines of his palms and trace them with the rough pads of his fingertips. Jongseong wants to press a kiss to those palms and curl his fingers over them, wants to let Heeseung keep those kisses and save them for later.
The music that filters through the tiny earbud feels far away. Jongseong feels like he’s been submerged in a pool, noises muffled and otherworldly. He’s sinking lower, lower in the depths of these feelings and he doesn’t think he can ever claw his way to the surface, doesn’t want to—not when it’s Heeseung, not when it fills his lungs and he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s drowning and he doesn’t want it to end. There’s no respite, not when Heeseung hooks his pinky around Jongseong’s.
The touch is so simple yet it sends Jongseong’s thoughts in a frenzy, makes him feel like he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and drowning out the music.
When Jongseong turns his head, Heeseung is already looking at him. Their eyes meet, and Heeseung smiles a little. It’s soft, barely a quirk of the lips, but it’s enough to take Jongseong’s breath away.
When it comes to Heeseung, Jongseong finds it hard to breathe. Something as simple as meeting Heeseung’s eyes is enough for the air to get caught somewhere between his throat and his chest, enough to still his movements and make him hyper aware of himself and hyper aware of the spark that ignites into a flame, makes him hyper aware of the warmth that crackles over his skin like an inevitable forest fire, a natural disaster.
How he feels about Heeseung consumes him, turns him into ashes in one fell swoop.
The golden lamplight highlights the sheen on Heeseung’s lips, and Jongseong can’t look away. He sees the older boy’s lips move, but it isn’t until Heeseung waves a hand in front of his face that Jongseong is jolted out of his reverie. He can feel his skin warm a bit with embarrassment.
“Jongseong, did you hear me?”
He likes the way Heeseung says his name, likes the way the soft musicality of his voice curls around the syllables, the gentle rise and fall, the lilting, like a song.
“No, sorry, I was distracted,” Jongseong admits, honest as ever, although maybe not honest enough. Heeseung laughs softly, the melodious tinkle of it making his heart squeeze from somewhere underneath his sternum.
“I asked you why you were staring at me,” Heeseung whispers, and amusement is coloring in the lines of his smile, makes his eyes sparkle, and Jongseong feels breathless again.
“Because you’re pretty,” Jongseong says simply, liking the way a soft pink flush colors Heeseung’s cheeks.
Because I love you, he doesn’t say. Because I’m in love with you.
“Why do you always say stuff like that?” Heeseung is embarrassed—Jongseong’s honesty makes him shy, soft.
“Because it’s true,” Jongseong says, untangling their pinkies. Instead, he takes Heeseung’s hand and intertwines their fingers, the warmth of the other boy’s palm grounding him. “And I like the way you look when I say it.”
Heeseung squeezes his hand, eyes flitting over Jongseong’s face.
“Yeah? How do I look?” Heeseung’s voice is whisper-soft, and Jongseong realizes that he’s inched closer. If he closes his eyes and focuses, he’d be able to feel the older boy’s breath on his skin.
Jongseong doesn’t think it’s all in his head the way that Heeseung is looking at him now.
There’s a softness to the rounded out corners of Heeseung’s eyes, a different kind of warmth that they hold, a sweet sparkle to them. The way the lamp light illuminates the edges of Heeseung and makes him look as if he’s glowing.
Mine, he wishes he could say, you look like mine. The rational part of Jongseong’s head cringes.
“Pretty,” Jongseong says again, and he laughs as Heeseung rolls his eyes and turns his head so he’s looking up at the ceiling again.
“You’re so annoying,” Heeseung says, but Jongesong can hear the smile in his voice, can see the flash of teeth as he smiles, big and helpless.
“You love me,” Jongseong laughs, and he revels in the way Heeseung smiles over at him again.
“Maybe I do,” Heeseung says, his voice barely louder than a whisper again. His smile softens into something more intimate, like it’s meant just for Jongseong. “Maybe I do.”
Jongseong can feel the breath get caught in his throat again, watches as Heeseung pulls his lower lip between his teeth like he’s contemplating something, weighing something over in his head.
That’s the thing about Heeseung—Jongseong has always been able to read him. But there’s quieter moments like this, when the older boy is looking at him like he’s something that he can’t quite figure out and Jongseong has no idea what he’s thinking.
There’s a jump in the rhythm of Jongseong’s heartbeat, a leap in his chest that feels a lot like hope that Jongseong never allows himself to grasp for too long, never allows himself to hold onto it like a lifeline because he knows it would be his ruin, it would be the end of him.
“Jongseong.” There’s something different about the quality of Heeseung’s voice.
This whole time, the music they’ve been listening to has felt like it was coming from far away, but now Jongseong can’t hear it at all. Not with the way Heeseung is even closer now and their noses are nearly touching and if he wanted, could count his eyelashes.
“Hyung,” Jongseong manages to murmur.
“I love you,” Heeseung says after a moment, and Jongseong doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so serious. “I love you.”
Jongseong has never gotten tired of hearing him say it, those three little words that carry the weight of the world and more to him, but he’s always gotten tired of pretending that his heart doesn’t jump and then sink pathetically every time.
“I know you do,” Jongseong says, swallowing around his frozen breath.
“No,” Heeseung says, and he smiles again. “I’m in love with you.”
Jongseong thinks that in all his moments of honesty, it had never occurred to him to ever take a chance like this. He’s never allowed himself to even contemplate it, because one spark of hope, just a single moment of imagining what could be if he was just a little more honest would destroy him. Jongseong doesn’t like lingering on what-ifs, doesn’t like to allow himself those moments of pause.
But now, in this moment, he thinks maybe he should have.
“You’re in love with me,” Jongseong repeats, and he realizes his voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been screaming, and he feels like maybe he wants to.
“I’m in love with you,” Heeseung confirms, and he’s still smiling, still soft around the edges and so, so pretty.
“You’re in love with me,” Jongseong says again dumbly.
In his head, it’s hard to know whether he’s having too many thoughts and he can’t latch onto a single coherent one, or if there are no thoughts at all. There's a rushing, roaring sound in his ears muffling everything, and even Heeseung’s voice sounded far away.
Heeseung laughs, and the sound of it has a calming effect on Jongseong, quelling the urge to get up and run away. Because never before has Jongseong ever considered the fact that maybe the other boy felt the same, it never occurred to him that it was possible.
“Why are you saying it like that?” Heeseung asks, and there’s a furrow between his brows now, and Jongseong feels badly that he’s the cause of it.
“Because you’re in love with me,” Jongseong whispers, and he’s staring at the stray thread that sits on the neck of Heeseung’s hoodie.
“Jongseong.” For the first time, Heeseung’s voice is sharp, edges wrapped in thorns.
Jongseong meets the older boy’s eyes and is surprised to find frustration in the narrowing of Heeseung’s eyes. He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat.
“You are not difficult to love,” Heeseung says, his tone softened again. He shifts so he’s lying on his side, their intertwined fingers between them. He uses his free hand to push Jongseong’s hair out of his face, his fingers gentle, his skin warm against his when it brushes his forehead. He smiles. “Even easier to fall in love with.”
“Oh,” Jongseong says dumbly, because this has never occurred to him either.
“Are you going to say it back?”
“I—” Jongseong stops, feeling his skin burn white-hot.
“You’re not subtle, you know,” Heeseung says, huffing out a soft laugh. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Park Jongseong, it’s one of the things I love most about you. And you’re honest and genuine, and you’re earnest—so painfully earnest.”
Jongseong doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bare before, so seen, and it makes sense that only Heeseung would be the one to make him feel like he’s been exposed and read. And to think that he’s been an open book to Heeseung this whole time, to think that everything was out in the open for him to see. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or humiliated.
“You’ve never made me doubt for a second what you felt for me,” Heeseung says, and he’s cupping Jongseong’s face now, fingers soft on his skin despite the rough pads of his fingertips. “I’ve never felt anything but loved and adored by you. You’ve made it so easy for me, Jongseong. Loving you is like breathing. And I’ve always known how to breathe.”
“So what are you saying?” Jongseong manages to say, and he realizes he sounds breathless.
“I’m saying I’ve always been in love with you,” Heeseung says gently, and his cheeks flush that pretty petal pink again, a color that Jongseong realizes, belatedly, is his favorite.
There’s a tightness in the back of Jongseong’s eyes, and humiliation floods over him again, because like Heeseung, the tears that are coming are inevitable.
“I love you,” Jongseong says. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m in love with you.”
Jongseong thinks that no matter how many times he says it, it will never be enough. Not when they have a whole lifetime’s worth of I love yous to catch up on. They’ve always said it to each other, but without the knowledge of the weight those three little words hold, Jongseong thinks they’ve been wasting too much time. He’s wasted too much time.
“I know.” Heeseung smiles, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together, nudging Jongseong’s nose with his own. He uses his thumb to wipe away the tear that slips down Jongseong’s cheek, and the laugh he huffs out is more a soft exhale than anything. “Don’t cry, baby.”
And when they kiss? Jongseong doesn’t think he has any more metaphors to describe the way it feels as if they are in their own universe, like they are the catalyst for the creation of other worlds.
Jongseong doesn’t think he can describe Heeseung as anything but his world.