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The member’s voices echo in his head, over and over in a loop. Saying his name, teasingly, as if they weren’t making Doyoung reel with the implications.
Doyoung, Doyoung, Doyoung — and they were joking, of course they were. Right?
Logically, he knows there’s more between them than the average friendship. The rings, the promises, there’s no other person— let alone friend— that he’s ever been like this with, of course not, it isn’t normal. But Doyoung has always simply taken as much as Taeyong had been willing to give him, has never considered— dared — to ask for more. For the people outwards looking in, Doyoung has always been aware of the push and pull dynamic they seem to have, wherein Doyoung pushes and Taeyong pulls. He knows the members, the fans, when they look at Taeyong and him, they’re sure that someday something will snap, but it isn’t like that. They fit, slot together like puzzle pieces; even if that wasn’t how they’d started out.
Even so. There are some lines that have never been crossed. That cannot be crossed. Obviously.
Right?
🐋
He’s fuming.
Internally, but fuming all the same.
Taeyong knows, technically, that this hint, like all the others, will fly over Doyoung’s head, but what the fuck. You’d think after years of confiding in his friends, they’d maybe have learned how to shut up, but no.
The timing isn’t right, but Taeyong promises himself that the next time he finds himself alone with Johnny, he’s chewing him out. One of these days, Doyoung will pick up on the horribly unsubtle hints, and then where would they be? It’s taken seven years for them to get to where they are, for Doyoung to become confident and sure about their relationship, for both of them to lose their doubts about what happens to us after…
To throw a wrench into the whole system, to confess— it means rethinking their whole dynamic, it means uncertainty, and with their careers, with the lives they lead, there is already too much, far too much uncertainty.
Whatever; he has a show to put on now. This will be a problem for post-concert Taeyong.
Taeyong finds comfort in the constant that is Doyoung. He knows Doyoung feels the same. It just isn’t the right time, and it hasn’t been the right time; not for years.
🐋
Throughout the ride back to their hotel, it’s all Doyoung can think about.
Taeyong, with his icy blonde hair, so reminiscent of when they’d started this journey, of their debut days, of wide eyes and a unique innocence he’d hidden away from a fear of being mocked. He’s freer now, no longer held back by fear, and it shows; it shows in everything, from the way he performs to the initiatives he’s taken to create his own space as an individual, and Doyoung is proud; always has been. The Taeyong he met seven, eight years ago, he’d be in pure awe of what he’s become today, of what he’s managed to accomplish all on his own. It’s all he can think of as he replays the scene in his head; of Taeyong, his eyes shimmering with mirth as he got ready to set up whatever silly and most probably cringy line he’d come up with to make the fans feel special, appreciated, loved. Doyoung thinks, as he does with many other things, that Taeyong does this best. They all care, but no one cares like Taeyong does. No one loves like he does, either.
Doyoung closes his eyes, letting the memory wash over him, letting himself think, freely for once. The drive back to their hotel is a long one, and Donghyuck is already asleep on his left shoulder, Mark getting comfortable on his right.
Taeyong, coyly setting up his silly, flirty little line. His voice, all shy, the way he’d get when he knows he’s about to say something he’ll regret. And here, Doyoung allows himself to be honest for once.
He thinks about the way Taeyong’s words had made his heart sink, his palms sweat.
There’s someone who I’ve wanted to confess to for seven years.
It felt like everything had suddenly faded away. Cut to black, members gone, the fans snapped away. A spotlight, on just the two of them, as Doyoung stared at Taeyong with a smile glued to his face, watching him address an ocean of darkness, mic in hand, the sweat sticking to his forehead making him shimmer under the light. Mirthful, mischievous; there’s someone who I’ve wanted to confess to for seven years.
The sickening urge to lift Taeyong, to take him away from the light, to hide him in their own little corner of the world, to shake his shoulders and ask, who? Who is it? Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me?
The way he’d had to pause, drink some water from the bottle in his hands, just to find something to do, to ground and bring himself back into reality, to remind himself that they were at a concert, that this was one of the most important moments of his life and he needed to be present, only to hear his own name. Whipping up to look at Johnny, he realized what had happened. The way Taeyong protested, blushing furiously, the maniacal look in his eyes, it was all a bit too much. The members, joking around on camera about them being best friends, calling it couple dancing and telling them to get married when he’d pulled Taeyong up to dance with him, they were all jokes, and both of them usually laughed it off, because it was funny, right?
But there’d been something in Taeyong’s eyes, a flash of something. It’d made Johnny move on, change the focus by repeating Taeyong’s confession line, shift the attention away from Doyoung back to Johnny and Taeyong, and it’d all been too shady.
Doyoung would’ve ignored it; he really would have. He would’ve chalked it off as another fanservice moment. Had Taeyong not gone on later and said his solo song was written with Doyoung in mind, given into the teasing, and. Well.
Doyoung knows Taeyong. Knows when he’s lying, in the way he avoids eye contact, the way he punctures his sentences with short bursts of nervous, guilty laughter, and the way there’s a certain defensiveness to his body language. But this, this wasn’t a lie. No, he’d been sincere, as sincere as one could be on a stage in front of thousands when he’d agreed, later, that his solo song moonlight, had been written with Doyoung in mind.
“I wrote this song for Doyoung” .
He’s insane, crazy. To say something like that, and mean it. To say it, laugh it off like he hadn’t said it with the same sincerity he does when they’re alone together; when he’s all wrapped up in Doyoung’s arms, playing with his fingers and chattering away about all the things we’ll do once we’re…
The implications, the implications, they make Doyoung’s head spin, but the car stops and they’ve arrived, and that’s when he realizes— if he doesn’t confront Taeyong about whatever he’d said today, he’d never get another chance; Taeyong would laugh it off, pretend there’s nothing to be said. It’s easier to avoid conflict once you’ve had enough time to come up with the right thing to say, and Doyoung is not about to give Taeyong that privilege; not this time, not when it feels like there’s just too much on the line.
🐋
Taeyong promises himself not to think about it. He repeats it over and over to himself on the drive home; don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Don’t think about Doyoung, don’t think about how he’d looked when Taeyong had admitted to Moonlight being… somewhat inspired by him. For him. He’d been so… unreadable. Taeyong couldn’t tell if he was about to laugh or cry, if he’d taken it seriously or as a joke…. God, what if he’d felt uncomfortable?
You’re thinking about, he chides himself as he dries his dye-damaged hair. Once they’d arrived at their hotel for the night, he’d sauntered right up to his room, planning on a nice, warm shower to help soothe his tense muscles, his tense mind. Of course, throughout the entire shower, he’d been oscillating between not thinking about it and thinking about nothing else, so it’s more than safe to say that no, the shower had not helped. There have been times (many, many times) when Doyoung being on his mind while he’s in the shower had been helpful, to say the least, but; This isn’t the same, obviously.
What helps even less, though, is the knock on his door right when he’d finally slipped into his favorite bunny pajamas (originally purchased for Doyoung), all ready for his bedtime routine— watching a few silly cat videos, scrolling through TikTok, and, finally, passing out all before two am. He frowns at the door uncertainly. He knows he can’t not open it, because what if it’s one of the members, looking for advice, comfort, reassurance; something only a leader can provide?
Internally sighing to himself, he tries to remind himself that it’s a sign of good leadership if people feel comfortable coming to you regardless of time or consideration, Taeyongie.
When he pulls open the door, he’s met with a familiar, yet daunting sight: Doyoung, clad in his favorite loose, thin white t-shirt (of which he owns six pieces), and comfortable (short) gray (short) shorts (short). His hair is wet and dripping down his forehead, his neck, and Taeyong knows how uncomfortable the feeling is for Doyoung, which tells him one very important thing: Doyoung’s here for something serious, something urgent.
“Doyoung? Is everything alright?” Taeyong asks, and it comes out a little squeaky, not half the leader tone he needs it to sound like.
Doyoung hesitates, not meeting Taeyong’s eyes directly as he thinks about whatever’s on his mind, then shrugs. “I just wanted to talk to you about something, hyung.”
Oh. The use of the honorific, when they have a relationship informal and comfortable enough for Doyoung to usually forgo the use entirely is… a bit terrifying, if Taeyong’s being honest.
“Of course, Doie,” he stammers as he moves back to allow Doyoung space to enter his room.
🐋
Before heading up to Taeyong’s room, Doyoung decides to change out of his post-concert outfit, to give Taeyong some time to get comfortable too. Throughout the whole process of changing his clothes, pulling out his favorite, most cozy clothes, and taking a shower to clean all off the sweat accumulated over the show, he thinks about what it is exactly that he wants to say to Taeyong. It doesn’t help, because here he is, standing in front of Taeyong, completely unsure of how to start.
“Doie?” Taeyong prompts, gently, and there’s an edge of concern, of panic in his voice that makes Doyoung ache with longing.
“Taeyong, I— I just, I wanted—”
Doyoung’s heart is stammering in his chest, and it reflects in the way he speaks. Taeyong places his hand on Doyoung’s arm as if to soothe him, and it makes Doyoung take in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Today,” he starts off, properly this time. “What was all of that about?”
Taeyong laughs, averting his eyes. “What was what, Doyoungie?”
Doyoung frowns because he knows. The familiarity is grounding, so he speaks, more firmly this time. “You know what I’m talking about. The whole confession thing, what was that about?”
Taeyong pulls his hand away from Doyoung, and the loss of contact doesn’t sit right with Doyoung as he stares anxiously at the other boy, waiting. He plays with the end of his shirt— those stupid bunny pajamas, Doyoung’s never been able to control his thoughts when Taeyong wears them— and it seems like he’s gathering his thoughts, so Doyoung lets him.
“I don’t know why it’s something you need to ask about, Doyoungie,” Taeyong answers eventually, trying to laugh the whole thing off.
Doyoung raises his eyebrow.
“It’s not? Look at what you’re doing right now.” He replies, gesturing at the way Taeyong’s wrapped his arms around himself, the way he does when his head is too heavy, his thoughts too loud.
Instantly, Taeyong drops his hands to his side and shrugs.
“It was just an automatic reaction. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“And what you said today?” Doyoung presses. “About the song being for me?” About seven years?
He glances at the lamp behind Doyoung. “Yah, it didn’t mean anything. It’s just fanservice, you know it is.”
Doyoung, in his humble opinion, calls bullshit. He takes a step forward, observes silently as Taeyong takes a step back, almost subconsciously.
“Is that all it is, Taeyong?” He asks, his voice dangerously low. He’s not sure where this is coming from, but something’s taking hold of Doyoung; something dark, demanding. And he’s in no mood to hold it back.
Taeyong’s eyes are wide, shining with the slightest tinge of fear; not of Doyoung, but of the moment itself. He’s afraid, there’s something he’s holding back, and Doyoung will get it out of him. One way or the other, the lying stops today.
His voice is quivering as he says Doyoung’s name, softly, almost begging now. “Please, don’t do this,” he asks, but Doyoung doesn’t feel like himself, doesn’t feel like accommodating.
“Was it all fanservice, Taeyong? How you like it when I get jealous of Baekhyun-hyung? The way you looked at me, when you put that lipstick on me, for that video? The way you glanced down at my lips, was that fanservice, Taeyong?” He says, lowly, taking another step forward. Taeyong steps back, too, and Doyoung is curious to see what he’ll do once there’s nowhere left to run.
“Was it fanservice, when you traveled for hours to visit me on set, buying coffee for the staff, pulling my head into your lap after I fell asleep on the drive back, was that fanservice, Taeyong? I don’t remember that making the cut.” Another step forward, another step back. Soon, Taeyong’s back will hit the wall, and something in Doyoung is delighted to see him cowering.
“Was it fanservice, when you asked me to come back home days early because you felt afraid alone; the way you didn’t ask anyone else but me, was that fanservice? Hm?”
Taeyong stutters, moving back another step, almost flinching as his back hit the wall, the cold seeping into his thin bunny pyjamas. Doyoung smirks, his eyes darker than they’ve ever been, and he marvels at the new sides of himself he never realized were hidden away. He brings his hands up to cage Taeyong against the wall, and the other boy practically quivers. The sick pleasure he’s getting from seeing Taeyong like this— for some reason, it doesn’t feel wrong. To see him trembling, to be the reason why he’s blinking rapidly, nervous.
“Every time we’ve taken care of each other, the nights I’ve spent holding you, comforting you as you cry about how stressed you feel, how overwhelmed you are. Fanservice, all the presents we’ve gotten for each other, every little memory we have littered across each others’ rooms, is it all fanservice, pretty boy?”
Taeyong’s eyes flash, and there’s something satisfying about this too; about riling him up, seeing him get mad. In his eyes, Doyoung finds, in Taeyong’s eyes, something else to mention;
“What about the rings, Taeyongie?” Doyoung purrs, leaning in closer, close enough for their breaths to mingle. “The painting you made, all our plans. You want to stay together, end up in a nursing home together, all for fanservice? ”
Taeyong’s breath hitches when he mentions the ring, stutters at the mention of the painting, but it’s when Doyoung speaks of their plans that his eyebrows knot together, an expression of anger Doyoung’s never seen directed at himself, but it feels good, it feels right. His hands move to rest on Doyoung’s chest, and he pushes, with all his strength. As Doyoung stumbles back, Taeyong glares at him, breath heavy, eyes as dark as Doyoung’s.
Something in the air tells Doyoung that this is it; today will make or break them. He straightens himself up, running his hands through his hair to make it look better; a habit born out of having cameras on you nearly all the time.
“Speak up, Taeyomie,” he croons, knowing how much Taeyong will hate him for this. “Use your words, baby. ”
“Fuck you!” Taeyong screams, and oh, this is new. Doyoung likes it, likes this too much to be good. Suddenly, he understands why the other guys are up his ass all the time, trying to make him pissed. If he looks half as pretty as Taeyong, he understands.
“That’s all you have to say?” He asks, snarkily. He’s pushing, he knows he is, but it’s finally getting good, and Taeyong looks beautiful, and Doyoung is sick and tired of the lies, and if this is how they’ll come out, then it’s worth it.
And yeah, he’s enjoying it too, sue him.
“Fuck you.” Taeyong spits out, hands balled into fists at his side. Whatever’s taken hold of Doyoung, it stirs with interest. Wants to see Taeyong try to throw a punch. Wants to see him bleed; would he look just as beautiful with blood dripping down his face?
Doyoung crosses his arms and waits.
Taeyong’s still breathing erratically, and Doyoung knows it’s just a matter of seconds before Taeyong truly, truly explodes. He’s never seen this side of Taeyong before, not to this extreme, but he likes it all the same. Call him crazy, but there’s nothing Doyoung dislikes about Taeyong, not really. Not even this.
“Fine,” Taeyong says after a few heartbeats. “Fine. You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth.”
He steps forward now, and even with the height difference, he manages to look something intimidating. It’s too bad, then, that Doyoung is enjoying this on an absurd level. Gripping Doyoung’s thin white shirt, he glares.
“Seven years, six months, and fifteen days.”
Doyoung frowns, confused. This… is not what he was expecting. He uncrosses his arms, right as Taeyong lets go of the front of his shirt, and he asks, “What?”
Clenching and unclenching his jaw, Taeyong turns back towards Doyoung, fury set deep into his eyes.
“Seven years, six months, and fifteen days. That's how long I've been in love with you, is that what you want to hear, you bastard?” He speaks through gritted teeth as if every word is a punch to his gut, which is, ironically, how Doyoung feels.
In love? With me? Doyoung thinks, bewildered.
“It isn’t fucking fanservice, you know it isn’t. You know it’s never been about that, but you just couldn’t fucking drop it, could you?” Taeyong continues, his voice rising.
“No, you can’t ever let shit go. Can’t let me wallow by myself in peace when I’m having a shit day, can’t fucking leave me alone, can you? Taking care of me like you actually give a fuck, I’m so sick of your shit, Doyoung. Best friend my fucking ass, you know. You know how I feel, why else would you do this? Ask me all of this, make me feel like this, you complete fucking bastard. ”
Doyoung listens, quietly, even though he wants to interrupt, to kiss the furious boy in front of him, kiss him silly, lick into his mouth, bite his way down the other’s neck until it sinks into his skin that Doyoung wants him too, loves him back, needs him. He listens despite it all, because he knows Taeyong, knows that he needs to let this out. Holding all of this back for seven years, six months and fifteen days— Doyoung knows what Taeyong needs, always does, knows that he needs to talk, scream, let everything ugly out, so they can build something beautiful, new, better in its place.
Taeyong, unaware of his thoughts, keeps going, loud enough now to alert the other members, but Doyoung knows they won’t interrupt, won’t even realize; they all must be asleep now, dead to the world, exhausted.
“You want to make a fucking joke out of me, go ahead," Taeyong says, desperately, and there are tears in his eyes, but Doyoung doesn’t move, blinking, absorbing, denying everything over and over again in his head, waiting, waiting.
“Of course, it isn't fucking fanservice, but I thought you were kind enough to let me use it as an excuse. To let me keep pretending. Why would you do this to us, Doyoung? Why not drop it when I asked, what’s going to happen to us now, what will we do? You weren’t supposed to find out, you weren’t, oh God.”
With a gasp, Taeyong’s tears finally spill from his eyes, and that’s when Doyoung moves. The other boy sways a bit on his feet, the strength needed to spill his heart out clearly having drained too much from his already exhausted body, and Doyoung catches him right before he falls to his knees; of course he does. He always will.
The tension seems to seep out of the room as Doyoung sits down on the floor and brings Taeyong down with him, pulling the other into his lap. The heat, the anger, the energy; practically everything drains until there’s just two boys, sitting on the ground, hearts glowing a bright pink.
Taeyong’s trembling in his arms, and Doyoung’s heart softens, the beast inside him curling away, dormant once more as he lifts his hand to stroke Taeyong’s hair, gently, softly. Taeyong nuzzles his way into Doyoung’s neck, his head fitting into the crook of Doyoung’s shoulder perfectly, as it always has, as it’s meant to.
Doyoung kisses the top of his head, gently, his hair still a little damp at the ends. Taeyong breathes Doyoung in, exhales shakily, and it is this act, familiar and innocent that makes Doyoung chuckle.
At his voice, Taeyong tenses up, and Doyoung can feel his eyebrows scrunching up in a painful expression at his neck, and it’s odd, but still so familiar.
“You silly, silly boy,” he murmurs into Taeyong’s hair, and the other tenses up further, before letting go entirely, loose and pliant in Doyoung’s lap, head still tucked into the other’s shoulder.
“How could you ever think,” he starts, opening up his heart and sprinkling it over Taeyong like fairy dust. “Even for a moment, that I wouldn’t fall for you, too?”
Taeyong stills in his arms, and Doyoung holds back another chuckle, crazily endeared.
“Years, Taeyongie, of telling you you’re beautiful, one of a kind, as close to perfect as possible, and you still don’t understand.”
On some level, he knows they should have a better, longer conversation about this. That he should probably make Taeyong get up, eye contact is always necessary with him, but this is them. He knows that isn’t what Taeyong needs right now; he needs comfort, and Doyoung will always deliver.
Taeyong takes another deep, shuddery breath, and Doyoung feels eyelashes, brushing up against his neck, little butterfly kisses combined with tears, slowly sliding down and seeping into his shirt. It isn’t much different from his still-wet hair, so he finds he doesn’t mind it all that much; a shoulder to cry on, for Taeyong, always.
Doyoung moves his hands from Taeyong’s hair to his back, stroking little circles and patterns into it. He kisses the top of Taeyong’s head again and shushes him gently. When it doesn’t work, he starts rocking the other boy back and forth as if trying to soothe a child terrified of the thunder outside. Taeyong cries, openly, as if his heart is folding in on itself, and it makes Doyoung ache, too, even if he knows that this is temporary, that now, after today, they have time. Years, to do the things they’d been too afraid to; to go on dates, to hold hands, to kiss, to kiss. They’ll have to hide, sure, but— things will be okay now, Doyoung knows it.
It’s okay, he thinks. It’s okay, it’s okay now, he sings into Taeyong’s ear, and it makes him giggle, wetly, and it’s just so absurd, so silly, so Taeyong, to be crying and laughing all at once, that it makes Doyoung grin too, his smile forcing him to stop mid-lyric.
“Using my own lines on me… you’re so lame, Doie.” Taeyong says, his voice a bit hoarse, from the shouting, and the crying, presumably. Doyoung thanks his stars, suddenly, that their next performance is two days from now, hopefully enough time for Taeyong’s voice to recover.
As he’s thinking this, Taeyong stirs in his lap, finally shifting back to look up at Doyoung, and the second he meets Taeyong’s eyes, every thought is wiped from his mind. His eyes are shimmering with tears, and he is beautiful. He’s smiling, even as tears continue to pour down his cheeks. His eyes are shimmering, and they’re too large, awfully large for his head, and Doyoung has a flashback of the same boy, eight years ago, staring up at him with glassy eyes too big for his head, a heart too big for his body.
He thinks back to something Taeyong had said, almost two years ago, about the first time he’d seen Doyoung as a trainee. He’d been talking about how he’d seen so many other trainees had left, opened up about how much it’d hurt when they’d left the agency, one by one, leaving him by himself, how he’d gone from the youngest trainee to the oldest. How he hadn’t wanted to befriend any of the new trainees, too scared of being left alone again, of loss.
But you felt different.
That’s what he’d said, Doyoung remembers it clearly. Tucked away, in the depths of his mind, there’s a locked chest, stuffed full of each of his treasured moments with Taeyong. There’s one for every day he’s known him, one for each day, all two thousand and seven hundred of them.
When I saw you first, you had that thing. He’d been vague, careful of his words being heard by millions, but Doyoung understands now. As he stares into Taeyong’s eyes, he thinks back to the wide-eyed, lonely boy he’d seen all those years ago, and he feels the same way he did back then, the first time he saw Taeyong. Love; pure, overwhelming, unadulterated love.
Consumed by it, he places his hands on Taeyong’s cheeks and squishes. His silly little boy blinks up at him, and Doyoung’s eyes soften further, if possible.
“I love you, my darling Taeyongie.”
Taeyong’s eyes fill up with more tears, and Doyoung chuckles, wiping them away with his thumbs first, then his lips. He plants soft kisses all over Taeyong’s face; soft, tender blooms of reassurances, of love. Taeyong’s eyes flutter shut as he breathes, drinks it all in, all of Doyoung’s gentle affection. He holds onto Doyoung’s shoulder, and that’s enough for Doyoung to understand that he’s tired now, too sleepy for anything more. Sure enough, the second Doyoung leans back to look at him, Taeyong’s head falls forward with a soft thump onto Doyoung’s shoulder, his eyes closed. He’s not asleep yet, just unwilling to hold himself up.
Recognizing this move, Doyoung sighs. “Alright, you big baby,” he says, moving to pick him up. He’s so light, and Doyoung’s done this one too many times, so it takes practically no effort to tuck him into bed. At the very last second, Doyoung hesitates. Should he stay? Or do they still need to talk about this?
“Doyomie…” Taeyong mutters, his eyes closed, his sleepy voice activated. “Don’t be silly,” he continues, pulling the covers back and patting to the space next to him. “Stay with me.”
Doyoung’s eyes soften as he clambers into bed with Taeyong, making the bed shake a little with his enthusiasm, causing Taeyong to whine in annoyance.
“Stop moving.” He states, before yanking Doyoung closer by his arms (he yelps, which Taeyong conveniently ignores) and saying, “Hold the baby.”
Gladly, Doyoung thinks. Forever, always.