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Yangyang had heard Dejun’s footsteps in the dark behind him, sometime after midnight, when the evening wound down, and Yangyang was finally over trying to call Dejun’s attention over to him from Renjun’s kitchen to the living room, for whatever reason— and being ignored by him, for whatever reason.
Yangyang was half-awake at that point but he pressed tighter against the couch he had passed out on. He wasn’t ready to stop being bratty about being slighted— wasn’t ready for Dejun to either shake and nag him out of tonight’s cold war, or maybe, for Dejun to simply kick him awake and not even recognize it taking place at all. Yangyang didn’t know which would be worse.
He felt Dejun looming above him then, and Yangyang screwed his eyes shut tighter to will his presence away. He heard him tiptoe over lumps snoring on the floor— Guanheng among them, no doubt— and hoped Dejun would just cut his losses, trying to corral everyone home and let them face the hungover consequences as a team tomorrow, in the safety of Renjun’s living room, before Renjun took it upon himself to kick everyone out.
Dejun seemed to consider it, in a space of three slow breaths, in and out. Yangyang had no clue what else Dejun could have been thinking about at that moment, leaned down close enough that Yangyang could feel them brush against his cheek. He let out his own in tandem, controlled to keep up the facade of still being asleep— direct his attention to that one point of focus, and nothing else. His back was uncomfortably warm. The rest of him was as warm a moment after.
“Slob.” He heard Dejun mutter above him finally. Yangyang almost blew his cover then to snort out a retort, and maybe, after, some thanks for the blanket Dejun had just draped over him. It was fucking freezing that night.
He really almost blew his cover entirely in a swift span of a second where fingers brushed his unkempt fringe back and something pressed against the bare skin of his temple. A kiss.
Yangyang’s mind didn’t entirely register that until the next day, not long after Renjun did, indeed, kick them all out. The rest of him had caught on quick, when he laid rigid and wide-awake for half the night after the fact.
—
It took Yangyang a couple more days to think back on the night with a clearer mind, and come to terms with the fact that he was still currently wrestling the after-effects of. A forehead kiss. At 22 years old. The kind his grandmother would give him now. Two weeks after continued contemplation, Yangyang doesn’t think he even thought about the first time he had actual, adult sex for this long.
Because of this, Yangyang doesn’t consult any of their friends about this, opting instead to recreate the conversations that would take place in his mind in stunning detail: Ten’s own slobbery attempt at one-upping Dejun, Guanheng’s semi-ironic “Well, what’s a little smooch between bros anyway?—”, Sicheng’s silence on the matter. Kun’s brow quirked incredulously— “You’re panicking. Over a forehead kiss. From Dejun.” Which Yangyang would have nothing to argue against. Out of the entire group, this type of old-fashioned motherly affection would lay aptly in Dejun’s territory.
But Dejun is not motherly with Yangyang. That’s always been reserved more for underclassmen, his beloved Bella, and Guanheng. Yangyang wouldn’t think twice about his specific type of affection from Ten. He probably wouldn’t even blink too hard at it from Guanheng, if they were drunk enough.
But Dejun’s always cared for Yangyang in different ways. Ways that Yangyang’s always felt put them on equal footing, despite the one year-difference. Where Dejun would command a certain level of seniority with anyone else, he’s let Yangyang get away with a certain level of familiarity from day one, partnered together for some boring gen-ed class Yangyang can’t even entirely remember the subject of at this point.
The only thing he does remember is paying for some cheap sandwiches for the two when Dejun had forgotten his wallet, the way his eyes rolled fondly at how smoothly Yangyang flashed $5 dollars for the two, letting Yangyang puff out his chest a bit at it all— special treatment, Yangyang teased publically between them and everyone else. Indulged in thinking, enjoying, privately, maybe.
Either way— Dejun’s definitely never kissed any part of Yangyang, until that night. And Yangyang should’ve been offended by the sudden action, if anything, at being so— infantilized! They were equals! Yangyang’s a good inch taller and bench-pressing a good 50 on him at this point— he should be kissing Dejun, if anything!
“Dude, are you good?” Guanheng asks, two steps away from unleashing the Heimlich maneuver on Yangyang after he choked on his drink in his room.
Later that night of the two of them hanging out, a measly two beers in, Yangyang decides to press an experimental, sloppy kiss on Guanheng’s cheek— “AWW, my dear Liu Yangyang, what the fuck’s your problem—“ and he does not experience a crisis. Guanheng pats Yangyang’s hair after, the way Dejun might occasionally too, after a night of casual drinking, at the point of the festivities where Yangyang usually likes to bask in some attention. It’s nice as always, except now Yangyang is forced to consider the character of the touch. Guanheng’s physical affection, always warm and free-flowing. Dejun’s measured, sincere, fleeting.
The kiss so casual in stark contrast, so specifically warm still, on the spot at Yangyang's temple as he’s brushing his teeth later that night. It could perhaps only mark a shift in their relationship, towards something more outwardly, commonly affectionate. It’s a possible direction that leaves the rest of Yangyang cold, in even newer, more frustrating ways he can’t place.
—
Months later, when Yangyang is in a familiar spot on Renjun’s couch, and there’s a familiar presence bearing down on him in the dark, Yangyang opens his eyes wide before he can stop himself. He relishes a little in Dejun’s own eyes widened, a hand clutching a blanket trailing atop Yangyang’s shoulder, the other hovered above a familiar spot on Yangyang’s head. He regrets it immediately after— what the hell is he supposed to say now.
“‘Sup.” He settles on.
“Hey,” Dejun whispers back. This night is much warmer than the last, with just a temperate breeze coming in through a crack in the window. There’s only familiar snoring around them, the hum of the fridge not far in the kitchen, and slow, controlled breathing. It brushes against Yangyang’s cheeks and eyelashes. His own eyes wide open track Dejun’s eyelashes fluttering just as slowly. He’s warm.
“Can’t sleep? Grandma?” Dejun snorts then, not unfondly, dropping the blanket unceremoniously on Yangyang’s shoulder.
“Just making sure you don’t freeze to death, but alright.” Dejun moves back until he’s just a silhouette in the dark now, wrapped in his own blanket next to Yangyang at the foot of the couch. No one around them stirs, it’s so quiet.
“Not even cold anymore.” Yangyang bites back. Then, “Thanks, though.”
“Mm.” Three more breaths, and Dejun’s settled in the quiet now too. Somewhere, sometime, passing in the dark, Yangyang can only feel his own fingers slip out from under his blanket to reach out into it. They wander until they pause, just above Dejun’s temple, brushed against a soft lock of hair before the rest of Yangyang’s senses catch up and they’re snatched back, up and under.
Yangyang sleeps well enough after, better than the night months before, and he experiences no crisis— just a nagging, persistent feeling that settles in the quiet for now.