Work Text:
What is the greatest gift?
Could it be the world itself—the oceans, the meadowlark,
the patience of the trees in the wind?
Could it be love, with its sweet clamour of passion?
Something else—something else entirely
holds me in thrall.
That you have a life that I wonder about
more than I wonder about my own.
That you have a life—courteous, intelligent—
that I wonder about more than I wonder about my own.
That you have a soul—your own, no one else's—
that I wonder about more than I wonder about my own.
So that I find my soul clapping its hands for yours
more than my own.
– Mary Oliver
🌊
Chan digs his heels into the rough sand.
He sniffles. A seagull squawks overhead, its wings flapping against the salt air. He watches the trajectory of its flight, the bird swooping up towards the high skies, before dipping low amidst the crests of the waves in the distance. He stares blankly at it until the outline of its figure vanishes further beyond his sight.
Someone walks towards him from behind, sandals flopping against the pebbled shore. “We’re having dinner soon,” Changbin announces. “Wanna head back inside?”
He lands a firm hand on Chan’s shoulder. His touch burns through the fabric of his shirt. Chan swallows. “Yeah,” he mumbles. When he tilts his head, he meets Changbin eye-to-eye. “Yeah, sure. What’re we having?”
“Samyeopsal,” Changbin grins. “C’mon. Noona started the grill already.”
Changbin walks, but not before curling his hand around Chan’s wrist and tugging him forward. And Chan follows him, a ship sailing to harbour under the glow of his trusted lighthouse.
🌊
At the time Changbin reached out to him, they hadn’t talked for months.
Perhaps it was only natural. While Changbin was working towards taking over the family business, Chan was preoccupied with producing and composing music for up-and-coming artists. Even on the days when inspiration slowed to a crawl, Chan still kept his phone turned off and tucked away in the drawer of his studio room, too hesitant to shoot the occasional What’s up? or How’s work?, let alone the uncommon Wanna grab dinner together? to his long-time friend.
The last time they’d had a meal together was eight months ago.
Chan recalls it as clearly as yesterday: down the street from his office building, two left turns before reaching a run-down, rickety shoplot. The neon signboard with blinking lights reading Home’s Kitchen, the last hangul letter left unlit . The warm aroma of grilled meat and smoke punctuating the light conversation between them. The stories they regaled and the jokes they shared over two beers and cheap eomukguk. The swell of Changbin’s cheeks shaped around his grin when Chan offered him the last fish cake stick.
In the back of his mind, Chan wonders who Changbin has been eating with ever since.
He narrowly misses setting the pork belly on fire. He curses, flicking the meat over on the grill before it goes up in flames. Changbin notices and chortles lightly at the mishap.
His sister walks past with a bowl of cabbage and nudges it against Changbin’s arm. “Yah. We all know you’d be worse at it. Remember that time we had dinner with appa’s friends?”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about it again,” Changbin grunts. He snatches up the bag of seaweed snacks lying on the picnic table and pops one of the crisps into his mouth. Chan gazes absent-mindedly at the bulge of Changbin’s cheek as he chews.
The feeble light of the sunset gleams down on the balcony of the chalet, owned by the Seo family for holiday getaways. When Changbin had asked him if he had any plans for the summer, Chan almost couldn’t believe it when his friend later offered for him to tag along.
“It’ll be so boring,” Changbin sulked. The whine in his voice had been audible even through the crackly feed. “I see my parents and sister every day at work, and now I have to see them on vacation. Isn’t there a thing as too much family time?”
Chan gets it. Sort of. He hasn’t seen his family much in the past year, save for the odd FaceTime call and the string of text messages with his sister whenever they sent each other crude memes and stupid videos. He’s not sure when he’ll have the time to return to Melbourne for a visit. Or if he’ll have the time.
When the last of the pork belly is grilled, the family of four along with Chan settles down at the table. It’s decked out with an assortment of side dishes, from pickled radish and salted anchovies to seasoned bean sprouts and stir-fried cucumbers; a bowl of fresh, juicy prawns preens next to a plate of perilla leaves. Chan hears his stomach rumble with the anticipation of the feast, and Changbin laughs again. His booming voice thrums underneath Chan’s skin.
“Thank you for the meal,” he mumbles, before clinking his chopsticks together and digging in.
Directly opposite of him, Mrs Seo places a piece of pork on top of his bowl of rice. “Eat up, Channie-ah,” she says, smiling softly. “It’s so nice to have you here with us.”
“Ah, it’s my pleasure to be here,” he says politely. “Though I have Changbin to thank.”
Beside him, Changbin puffs out his chest proudly. “I told you bringing him along would be good.”
“Yeah, because then our meat wouldn’t be chargrilled,” his sister retorts, to which Changbin sticks his tongue out at her childishly. “What? It’s the truth!”
Upset, Changbin juts his lower lip out in a pout. In a brief moment of instinct, Chan almost reaches out to touch along his lip. Almost. “The truth is sometimes too harsh to accept, noona.”
Chan glances down at his bowl. He scoops up a spoonful of rice and eats the rest of his dinner in silence.
🌊
The only thing that irks Chan to no end is how natural things are between them.
They can go weeks upon weeks, with no calls or text messages in between, but show up here at Changbin’s family chalet and crack the same jokes they used to laugh at when they were still in their early twenties, unbeknownst to the dreadful politics of the society awaiting their looming presence.
It irks him as much as it pleases him. A juxtaposition to define the ages. It’s in these moments that Chan wishes he weren’t in love with Changbin at all.
🌊
It’s not until after they clean up the kitchen that Chan realises he’ll be sharing a bed with his long-time friend.
“The guest room is all dusty and shit,” Changbin explains. He tugs his t-shirt off with one swift arch of his back, revealing tanned skin. Chan feels his throat dry up. “And I know your sinus issues get pretty bad in the spring. Wasn’t sure if they’ve let up by now, but you know what they say. Better safe than sorry.”
“Yeah.” Chan wrinkles his nose. “It’s cool that you remember that.”
Changbin turns on his heel, shirt slung over his arm. “Of course I remember,” he says. “Don’t tell me you forgot about the SNU Spring Festival of ‘21. We had all those flowers arranged around the end of the stage. You wouldn’t stop sniffling and sneezing, and your nose was all blocked.”
Chan chuckles. He does recall the tragedy back in their university, when both of them had been on the Event Management team for the dance, the countless tissue boxes stacked in the control room and the handkerchiefs tucked into the pockets of his jeans. “Right. Though I think that was my hay fever, really.”
“Same same.” He still doesn’t have a shirt on. “D’you want to shower first?”
“No, you can go ahead.”
Chan perches on one of the patterned armchairs, pretending to scroll through his phone. He lifts his gaze slightly, just to catch sight of the muscles in Changbin’s back rippling with every motion. A shot of adrenaline slithers through his veins, his heart jackhammering against the ribs of his chest as Changbin closes the door to the adjacent bathroom shut behind him.
He returns his attention to his Twitter feed.
By the time both of them have freshened up, it’s nearing midnight already. Chan settles onto the bed with his laptop, bed sheets tucked up to his armpits as he scrolls through his email inbox. Even though he’s used his vacation days for this getaway, his work hasn’t let up in mercy. He’s halfway through typing a reply to one of his clients when Changbin’s hair pokes up from behind the laptop screen.
“Are you doing work right now?”
Chan sighs. “Yeah. Just answering a few emails.”
He stares as Changbin rolls over onto his side. “Lame. You should be ignoring your pile of work and relaxing. Get that well-deserved R ‘n R.”
“Hard to do that when my boss isn’t exactly my parents on vacay with me,” Chan teases. Still, he saves the draft and shuts his computer off. There’s a distant look on Changbin’s face. “What’s up?”
“It’s been a while since we shared a bed.”
With a shrug of his shoulder, Chan asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, “Why? Do you miss that awful flat we shared? The one with the broken AC and the windows that never opened?”
“I don’t miss that,” Changbin says. Even quieter, he adds, “I just miss you.”
At the sound of those words, something carnal inches its way closer to Chan’s heart. It’s raw, undulating in its pursuit as Chan tries desperately to tampen it down. He wrings his wrists around the sheets. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck, before vanishing underneath the hem of his shirt in trepidation. “Really?”
Changbin nods. He peers up from where he lays down on the pillow, eyelids halfway to a close. “Yeah,” he says, drowsily. “Your body was always so warm. Even through the winters.”
“I have been told that my body runs hot.”
“It does,” Changbin sighs.
Aside from the chirping of the crickets outside and the rhythmic clickclickclick of the fan overhead, the silence is frightfully deafening. It scares Chan almost as much as the thought of Changbin curling his body around his own, leg thrown over an ankle, arm wrapped loosely over his hips. He pushes the thought down into the depths of omission, hoping it never resurfaces to mind.
As Changbin slips into a slumbering dream, Chan lifts the duvet to the other’s chin. His fingers graze the skin of Changbin’s neck ever so slightly, with all the gentleness in the world, but he eventually lowers his hand back to his side. He releases a breath caught in the cage of his chest, turns over and wills himself to sleep.
🌊
He found out the night of Changbin’s graduation.
As soon as his work meeting had drawn to a close, he rushed to the florist to pick up the bouquet and hailed a cab to the university, narrowly missing the ceremony held in the grand hall. Chan recalls seating himself beside Changbin’s parents, watching with a beaming smile as Changbin stumbled up the steps and bowed before the principal, a ribboned scroll in his hand. When the ceremony was over, Chan weaved his way through the awning of the crowd, before finally catching sight of Changbin’s cap.
“You made it!” Changbin exclaimed, his voice booming above the chattering din.
The smile on Chan’s face was immovable. “Yeah. I did.”
He handed the bouquet of roses to Changbin, who received it with a gracious smile. “Aw, how sweet of you, hyung,” he said jokingly. “Guess I didn’t need to dream up a boyfriend who’d get flowers for me after all.”
He puckered his lips at Chan and blew an air kiss in his direction. For a brief moment, Chan had imagined those lips pressed against his cheek, a hand firmly placed on his shoulder, a warm glint in Changbin’s eyes as he leaned his forehead against Chan’s own. He had imagined their future years spent together in the humble abode of a shared apartment, basking in the glow of Changbin’s jokes, pillow-fighting each other to the pits, a truce sealed within the curves of a kiss.
The dream went away as swiftly as it had come, and Chan had been left rooted to the ground, wordless, as he watched Changbin leave his side and pounce into the arms of another friend.
In that moment suspended in time, Chan had wished he’d never come to see Changbin at all.
🌊
Days pass.
The two of them busy themselves with their childish antics. Building sandcastles on the beach in a daring competition of whose sculpture was tallest. Shoving each other into the waters in the diurnal tides of noon. Gathering seashells of all sizes and shapes before tossing them back into the sea. Lazing around in the comfort of the chalet, binge-watching shows and movies they aimlessly queued up on the wall-mounted 50” television screen.
As the credits of the film appear on-screen, Chan lifts his head with a groan. “Jeez,” he mumbles, rolling out the kinks in his shoulders. He yawns lazily before turning to Changbin. “Should we put up another one, or do you want-”
He remembers, belatedly, that Changbin had fallen asleep long ago, on the couch next to him.
Changbin sleeps with the demeanour of a rock, his mouth agape around his soft yawns, his arms draped down by his sides. The fabric of his shorts rides up his thighs, leaving ever so little to imagine. Chan swallows the ball of nerves knotting in his throat and turns to look away.
A moment passes.
He looks back with abandon.
There is a kind of serenity in gazing at his sleeping friend. Seeing Changbin lean back against the cushions makes Chan’s smile soften in the corners. Cautiously, he props a pillow behind Changbin’s head to avoid clamminess building up in the other’s neck and shoulders, but as he does so, Changbin stirs awake.
“Is the movie over?” he croaks. His voice rumbles with lethargy, low and resonating, and a chill rushes down Chan’s spine.
Nonchalant, Chan plasters a smile on his face. “Yeah. Sorry. I hadn’t realised you’d fallen asleep.” He hopes the subtle inflection of his voice doesn’t hint on how he’d been staring at Changbin for the better half of the film.
“What’s there to be sorry about?”
As Changbin shifts his weight on the couch, Chan lays the pillow back down in his lap. He closes the lid of his laptop conclusively, mulling over a wavering thought in his head. “Do you… Do you want to get something for dinner?”
Changbin lets out a noncommittal noise in reply. “Sure. Where’re the others?”
“They left for early dinner,” Chan explains, shoving his laptop into its case. “They’re attending this art exhibition at night. Are you planning on going?”
“Not really. Pretty tired right now, actually.”
“What? From our little swim just now?” Chan teases.
Changbin gasps. “Yah!” he shouts. He elbows Chan’s arm with a pout. Chan wants to kiss it off of his face. “How dare you imply that I’m out of shape, old man.”
“…We’re only two years apart, Bin.”
“Still.”
With that, they settle into a round of bickering, which ends with Chan relenting on Changbin’s choice for their dinner that night. Delivery comes a half hour later, and the both of them tuck into their rose pastas over the light music that Chan plays over his speakers. They exchange stories and plans for the days ahead, easing into a conversation that both of them know the melody to: calm and quiet and reminiscent of their halcyon days.
🌊
Shortly after Changbin graduated, he immediately went to work at his family company.
That was the starting point of their decline. As work became busier on both ends, neither of them could muster the effort to initiate a FaceTime call or schedule a Saturday brunch. As Chan became more well-renowned for his producing and songwriting work in the music industry, so did Changbin with his expertise in leading the Marketing Department of the corporation and socialising with clients from across the world.
Both of them, it seemed, had been destined to go down different trails in life.
To Chan, it was nearly impossible to imagine his life without Changbin. From bumping into him in the music room of their university campus and lunch breaks between lectures, to shedding tears together over failed internships and job interviews at midnight, Changbin had been there for him, every step of the way. He’d been there for every final paper, every success, every song that Chan has written in his life.
Every boat he’s sent off to the world had been anchored by the everlasting presence of none other than Changbin in these last few years of his youth.
He knows that Changbin will soon step up to his rightful place, managing and organising the company all on his own. To imagine Changbin walking down the path his parents had sought out for him, away from Chan’s own, seemed eerily similar to an abandoned ship in the high seas with no light leading to bay.
🌊
“Which flavour would you like?”
It’s a sweltering summer afternoon. As the both of them boiled under the radiating heat of the sun, they made a pit stop by the ice cream parlour down the street from the chalet. They were welcomed into the store by the blast of the air-conditioning, with matching sighs of relief, before marching up to the front counter.
Chan glances at the tubs of ice cream with their labelled tags. “Uhhh… I’ll get a scoop of pistachio chocolate with almond and walnut shavings. Bin?”
“Vanilla.”
The cashier quirks an eyebrow at the reply. “Okay,” he drawls. He punches their order into the machine. “Just wait by the side over there. They’ll be done in a few minutes.”
Chan receives the change, the coins clinking as they’re dropped into the palm of his hand, and turns to Changbin with a chuckle. “Seriously?” he chortles. “Your taste hasn’t changed since college.”
“What? It’s a perfectly sound decision,” Changbin huffs. “You don’t see me questioning all your nutty choices.”
“…Hey.”
“It’s fine, hyung,” Changbin argues, patting his shoulder. “We both know you’re nuts about nuts.”
It’s a ridiculous joke, the kind that only Chan would crack against the pained chagrin of their friends, but his heart melts at the fullness of Changbin’s laughter.
They collect their orders, and the two of them trudge outside with their respective ice cream cones. Changbin lays his tongue flat along the circumference of the ice cream, licking one long stripe with a satisfied hum. Chan can’t look away. “Mm. Good.”
“It’s literally frozen milk,” Chan says, with not an ounce of fight in his voice. He’s still fixated on Changbin licking his ice cream, the pink of his tongue. He bites down on his own. “Which makes you a baby.”
Changbin guffaws. “Better a baby than a grandpa like you.”
Before Chan can say something in protest, he notices the smudge of ice cream on the corner of Changbin’s lips. Instinctively, he fishes for the complementary napkin, but Changbin beats him to it. He laps away at the cream with his tongue, wetting his lips as well until they gleam with gloss. Chan almost lets out a mortifying squeak.
“Thanks for looking out for me, granddad,” Changbin says, nodding at the forgotten tissue in Chan’s hand. He walks ahead of Chan, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans as he sings an aimless tune.
The grip that Chan holds on his cone almost crumbles the biscuit beneath his fingers.
🌊
Some days, against his better judgement, Chan dreams of a life far from his own.
He dreams of Changbin pursuing a career in songwriting and composing, as he'd relayed to Chan once over a drunken conversation. He dreams of Changbin clambering into the passenger seat of his car every morning, pecking his cheek with an awfully bright gleam in his eyes before Chan drives them both to work. He dreams of coming home to Changbin, of cooking together and showering together and falling asleep side-by-side in bed together, laughing at each other's jokes until exhaustion draws them to sleep.
And when Chan awakes from each dream next to Changbin every morning, he lets himself be ruined by the throes of reality. At the end of the day, it's the better alternative to letting the last of his resolve crumble and watch Changbin leave his life for good.
🌊
On one of their slower days, as they stroll down the pier together, Changbin blurts, “Eomma set me up with someone last week.”
At this, Chan’s heart drops to the floor. The cogs in his head squeak to a halt. “Huh?”
“Blind date,” Changbin states matter-of-factly, as if it could explain the predicament he’s just pushed Chan into. “She’s been pushing me to find someone, since I’m taking over the company soon. I don’t know."
Apprehensively, Chan fidgets with the bracelet on his wrist. He hangs his head low, gaze directed to the wooden planks under their feet. “How was it?”
“It was fine."
Chan gives a casual nudge at his friend’s side. “Yah. That's all?”
“That’s all,” Changbin nods. “Sure, she was nice, but there was no… spark? Damn, that sounds cringy as hell, but it just felt like a normal conversation with a friend.”
Something odious swells in Chan’s chest. He realises, pettily enough, that the sensation is one of relief. He shoves down the tickle in his lips, pursing them instead to ask, “What do you think it should feel when you talk to someone you intend to marry?”
“Isn’t marriage taking it too far?” Changbin snorts. He shrugs, saying, “I mean, if it’s someone I like, I want to feel comfortable around them. I want to feel giddy around them, too, like a child with a treat. I want to feel like I can share everything with them—my thoughts, my childhood stories, my opinions—without any judgement.”
“Have you met that someone, then?”
Changbin raises his eyebrows. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” he says, forlornly.
“You’d better tell me when you find that person,” Chan huffs.
A wind in the distance kicks up. Leaves fall, enveloping around the both of them in their stupor. “I will,” Changbin says. His smile is riveting against the summer sun. “I definitely will.”
🌊
If Chan could tell Changbin the truth, he would.
Yet, he’s a man of many talents, one of them being his astonishing capability of pressing down on the wounds of his affection for Changbin. Every touch is smothered over with the curl of his fist, every word of tenderness swaddled underneath the nerves clogged in his throat. His wounds remain bared open, the chances of scabbing zero to none.
Because even if his wounds sting with the salt of his resolve, he would rather they never heal than to let them obliterate the years they’ve spent together into demolition.
🌊
The pitter-patter of raindrops pelting down on the roof is thunderous against Chan’s ears.
“Damn,” Changbin mutters. He tugs the curtains aside, divulging the scene before them. The chalet overlooks the shorelines, and from here, the two of them can see the tossing waves, towering over the surface of the sea, before pummelling into the waters in a theatrical descent. A bolt of lightning slices through the greying skies, before thunder booms in the near distance. “Looks like it’ll rain for longer than we expected.”
Chan lowers his mug of jujube tea. “Will your parents and sister be alright?”
“They brought their umbrellas out with them in the morning. I’m sure they’ll survive a bit of rain.”
The weight of his footsteps creak against the floorboards as Changbin settles down on the couch beside him. The beach house is shrouded in the downpour, shielded from the drafts by the slate rooftops and double-glass windows. It’s a haunting scene, but rather than uneasiness, Chan feels serene enclosed in the same space as his friend.
“Is the tea any good?” Changbin quizzes. He lifts his own cup from the tabletop. “Eomma brewed it before she went out.”
“It’s bitter,” Chan admits, “but good.”
Changbin snorts. “Riiiight. Channie-hyung, you’re always too nice. You don’t need to lie if you don’t like it, you know. I tell her to add sugar all the time, but she refuses. She insists on drinking it as ‘authentically’ as it is.”
“And you listen to her?” Chan muses.
“No,” Changbin scoffs. He takes a sip of the tea, a smirk hiding behind the rim of his mug. “ It’s bullshit. I add the sugar into it behind her back.”
“How Changbin-like of you.”
Grinning, Changbin waggles his eyebrows in delight. “You know it, hyung.”
Their conversation ebbs away into a solace, like a tide to the beach, natural in its ministrations. Wordless, Chan tilts his head to the windows. He admires the sight of the sea, a Romantic painting caught in motion, and he sighs. “I like the view here,” he admits.
There’s a prolonged silence, before Changbin clears his throat. “Yeah. I like it, too.”
The sentence ends with an upturned tone, a sentence not quite finished in its words. Chan turns back to face Changbin, whose cheeks have blossomed into a pair of pinking splotches, whose hair is tousled from a hand running through the strands far too many times to count.
Realisation rises to Chan’s chest. A pause, and then: “Though I like you more, hyung.”
The cup in Chan’s hand almost slips from his grasp. He sets it on the counter, an unceremonious thunk splitting through the humid air. “What?”
“I like you, Channie-hyung,” Changbin states, louder, bolder this time. He rounds his shoulders with an air of confidence, the ghost of a tender smile on his lips. “I’ve always liked you.”
His vision blurs over. Chan swallows. A gaping wound tightens around the four words, throbbing to the beat of his anxious heart. “Do you mean it?’
Changbin frowns. “Of course I do. Why? D’you think I’d lie about that?”
“No, I just…” Chan blinks. A tear leaks from the corner of his eye, dripping into a river down his cheek. A hand curls around his cheek, thumb swiping over the falling star of his tear. He laughs dryly. “I just never thought you’d say that to me.”
“Why not?” Changbin asks, genuinity heavy in his tone. He turns, his body facing Chan’s on the couch, both hands now cupping the other’s face. The callouses of his palms scrape lightly against his skin. Chan wants to die. He wants to die right now in Changbin’s arms, too terrified to push another word into the empty space between them both. “Why would I not like you, hyung, when you’ve always been so kind to me? To everyone?”
“You could have anyone,” Chan whispers. “We’ve barely even talked or seen each other all these months. Surely there’s someone at work, at your dad’s company, at all the department dinners you go to… An heir to share the company with, even.”
Amused, Changbin pinches his cheek playfully. “You’re funny, hyung-ah,” he says. He plants an open-mouthed kiss on the tip of Chan’s nose fondly, and a part of his soul ascends to the heavens. When Changbin reels back, he’s adorned in the most gorgeous of smiles. “Seeing you again right here made me realise I needed to tell you just that, even if it was a shot in the dark. And come on. There’s no option for me to choose, hyung, when it comes to you.”
The words sink in Chan’s stomach. He bursts into a fit of giggles. “Gosh, you’re corny.”
“Well…” Changbin leans closer until their foreheads are touching. “It’s the only way for me to go head-to-head with the cheesiest of them all, just to win his heart, don’t I?”
“You don’t need to,” Chan affirms. Slowly, he loops both arms around Changbin’s shoulders, a small smile tugging on his lips. “You already have, Changbin-ah.”
A dip of his head, a graze of his ear, followed by the softest of first kisses.
They kiss, quietly and tentatively. Chan presses his mouth against Changbin’s own, heavy with the heady daze of a daydream come to life. No words come after, only the wisps of a sigh caught in his throat as Chan relishes in the heat of the evening rain, of the other’s embrace. He nips down on Changbin’s lower lip, pillowy to the touch, and dives into another kiss. Their lips are slick with bitter tea and saliva, but neither of them waver in their exertions as Chan crawls into Changbin’s lap eagerly.
Carefully, Changbin’s back topples against the cushions. He giggles against Chan’s lips, eyes curved into a pair of moony crescents. “I take back all the granddad jokes,” he whispers. He pecks along the other’s jawline, much to Chan’s delight. “You’re too cute, hyung. As cute as a button. Or a kitten. Or however the saying goes.”
“...Shut up.”
“Cute,” Changbin insists. He cranes his neck to meet Chan halfway in his ascent, another kiss sealed in their books. Meanwhile, his hands wander down the plane of Chan’s body, planting themselves on his hips and squeezing lightly. He lets out something between a squeal and a gush. “Shit, you’re gorgeous.”
Chan flushes all over. “Says you.”
Sometime in between their declarations of love, their shirts find themselves in a heap on the floor. Chan pants, head buried into the crook of Changbin’s neck out of sheer embarrassment. “Can we go somewhere else?” he pleads. He would die of remorse if Changbin’s family walked into them right now. “The bedroom, maybe?”
“Uh huh.” Unhurried to lift himself off of the couch, Changbin leaves a smattering of kisses on Chan’s left pectoral. “We’ll go in a bit.”
“Changbin.”
Changbin grunts. “Jeez, fine. You the boss, boss.”
As Chan helps Changbin to his feet, their eyes never leave each other’s face. Against the backdrop of the clouded skies, Chan slips his fingers between Changbin’s own and lets himself be led to the vacancy of their bedroom, away from their mugs of tea left to cool in the drowsy air.
It’s fine, Chan thinks, as he kisses Changbin once more. There’ll be more to come after this.
🌊
The sun beckons them outside again on the last day of their getaway.
As warming hues of burnt umber and ochre shroud the setting sun, Chan leans his head steadily on Changbin’s shoulder. He hums. “This is nice.”
“Yeah.” Quietly, Changbin tilts his head, pressing a chaste kiss atop Chan’s head. “This is quite nice.”
Out on the porch of the chalet, the both of them let the sea breeze ruffle up their hair. The laughter of young children from the shorelines lifts through the drafts, and Chan smiles at the sound of it paired with the crashing of the undulating waves. “What will you be up to when we return?”
“Hm.” Changbin retrieves his phone from his pocket and taps over to his calendar. “There’s some work meetings to attend, a few clients to call… Oh, I forgot. Eomma scheduled another blind date for me.”
That perks up Chan’s ears. He leans surreptitiously over Changbin’s lap, wrestling against his brute strength to glance at the screen. “You’re cancelling it,” he says, frowning. “Right?”
“Maybe.” When he catches the sad curl of Chan’s lips, Changbin chuckles. “You’re silly. Of course I’m calling it off.” He discreetly deletes the event from his schedule, grinning back at Chan and smothering him with a kiss on the cheek. “Mm. You’re a very, very silly man.”
Chan winks, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to ham up the comedy. “Yes, I am,” he agrees. “And I’m yours.”
Shocked, Changbin fakes a gagging noise. “Fuck off.”
As he grumbles away in agony, Chan embraces his boyfriend with his arms around his waist, shaking him with all the might in his body. “Sorry!” he says, a not-so-sorry smile on his face. “You’re stuck with me now.”
“Yes, I am,” Changbin says. Then, cheekily, he adds, “And I’m yours as well.”
Regardless of the uncharted waters ahead of them, there lies serenity in knowing of each other’s shared affection. As the last of the breeze beckons August through the open doors, Chan nuzzles his nose against the curve of Changbin’s jaw. He laughs when the latter turns and blows a raspberry on the space between his eyebrows. Slowly, Chan twists his body around until they lock eyes with mirrored smiles. With a gentle hand cradling the back of Chan’s head, Changbin closes the distance between them, a lighthouse reeling his ship back to harbour, and lets their mouths meet once more under the waning light of the day.