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It’s sort of a truth universally acknowledged that birthdays progressively get more mundane as you get older. A few years after someone enters the teenage stages, birthdays stop becoming something anticipated and start blending in with the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. Personally, Taeyong doesn’t mind. He’s accepted by now that birthdays aren’t really anything special in the grand scheme of things; besides, as a member of NCT, he’s busy enough to feel content with mundanity every so often.
Though, this isn’t to say that he doesn’t welcome a change in the familiar with open arms.
What sets Taeyong’s twenty-eighth birthday apart from his others was the fact that he wakes up next to Kim Doyoung in Taeyong’s bed, which… well. He expected it in full, since Doyoung did spend the night, but it’s still pleasant to know that he slept, and he stayed. When will I ever get a chance like this? Taeyong finds his vision blurry with sleep, yet manages to roll over and watch Doyoung’s chest rise and fall with every breath.
His hair is getting longer. It curls around his neck and spreads unrulily on the pillowcase; Taeyong weaves a finger through the locks, pushing the younger’s bangs out of his eyes, and wrapping his arms around Doyoung to gently pull him closer. He’s warm. Taeyong is not, so with nobody around, he can be a little selfish, can’t he?
In the presence of others, it always ends the same: Taeyong placing his hands on Doyoung’s hips and Doyoung gently slipping away, Taeyong reaching up to brush his cheek and Doyoung swatting his arm. He knows that Doyoung doesn’t harbor ill intentions, and that’s fine— they’re idols with dainty public images. Taeyong is satisfied solely with the reminder that he’s there. For right now, however, he’ll take Doyoung’s peace as an opportunity to love him in the silence.
Plus, it’s been a while. With Doyoung’s unit promotions alongside their Jaehyun and Jungwoo, Taeyong’s solo debut, and Doyoung’s invitation to a fashion show representing an Italian luxury brand… Ah. Taeyong doesn’t remember the last time he was able to doze off to the sound of Doyoung breathing.
Doyoung stirs in his sleep, blindly feeling around for Taeyong’s hand. Taeyong extends it to him, and Doyoung lets out a blissed hum before wrapping his fingers around the other’s wrist and dozing off again.
How long has it been since he first saw him in the company hallways? He remembers being appointed the leader of NCT 127 and accepting the position wholeheartedly, but doesn’t remember how his and Doyoung’s relationship molded into their today. Or, maybe: there’s no official way to mark the beginning of a more gradual development, which leads them to share warmth so easily nowadays.
All he can really account for is Doyoung’s ability to know when something shifts in Taeyong’s mood, and somehow be at his side two seconds later. Taeyong’s natural instinct to open up whenever Doyoung is around, to be easily flustered by any word coming from Doyoung’s lips. They’ve both changed over the course of god knows how long it’s been since the beginning, and Taeyong wants nothing more than to watch Doyoung flourish into something impossibly perfect. (Impossible in the realistic sense, of course. Taeyong believes that Doyoung could achieve the end of a universe if he puts his mind to it.)
Doyoung smells like sandalwood and rose — intimate, clean, safe — and Taeyong is a moth to the brightest lamppost. Taeyong doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at him, noting all the details of his being to memory until Doyoung wrinkles his nose and makes some sort of displeased noise.
“Hi, pretty,” Taeyong tells him, and laughs when Doyoung kicks him under the blanket, but Doyoung pulls him back in almost immediately.
“It’s your day,” Doyoung sleepily mumbles, shifting to curl his hand behind Taeyong’s neck and kiss his forehead, the top of his nose, the corner of his lips. Not good morning, or happy birthday, but it’s your day. Taeyong smiles— he knows what Doyoung means. To say happy birthday would be to celebrate someone’s first breaths, but to wholly acknowledge the day would be to celebrate their entire existence. To honor the fact that they are still here, breathing, living.
Oh, but if only Doyoung knew that Taeyong felt honored enough simply by having Doyoung curled into his side, a mess of limbs underneath the sheets. He’s enveloped by the quiet love Doyoung emits in the dark and wraps himself in it, hoping to suffocate.
The sun peeks through cracks in the blinds and signals a new day, yet Taeyong pulls the sheets further over their bodies. In an hour, the other members will pound on his door, demanding him to get up to start his birthday celebration— somehow, he doesn’t care a bit.
If Taeyong can’t guarantee a life where Doyoung’s fear to love is extinguished, nor a life where they stall in the kitchen over coffee before heading to their jobs, trading kisses; he’ll settle for one morning to gather Doyoung’s limbs in his own and take in the smell of his existence. That, in all of its entirety, is worth the mundanity of life.