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After tonight’s round of pre-enlistment parties, Taeyong had invited (read: dragged) Doyoung back to his place with the promise of his mom’s home cooking and a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine.
Both of them were still mildly drunk from earlier shenanigans when their manager dropped them off, but it was nothing a quick trip to the toilet and a heaping bowl of auntie’s spicy soft tofu stew couldn’t fix. Now they’re both considerably sober with stomachs full for the third time tonight.
They’re stationed at the couch with Doyoung’s arm stretched over the backrest. The back of Taeyong’s head is pressed against his bare forearm, the beanie he’d worn consciously the whole day lying forgotten on the coffee table. Some old drama Doyoung has seen a billion times is playing on TV but it’s doing a terrible job at keeping his attention, especially when Taeyong is breathing and existing so close to him.
It might seem funny to an outsider how they’ve known each other for more than a decade yet this level of nearness still hasn’t lost its novelty. Doyoung should be used to it by now. They’re best friends. They used to see each other every day. What’s a little elbow touch or a slip of the fingers? What’s a hand around his waist that lasts for a few seconds compared to years of wistful conversations and whispered consolations? With friendship as intimate as theirs, skinship should be second nature. Sometimes it is, when Doyoung lets himself relax. But most times it’s a conundrum of should and should nots.
It really shouldn’t be a debate when right now the clock is ticking and Doyoung is trying very hard not to regret every single one of Taeyong’s touches he’d rejected or failed to reciprocate in the name of self-preservation for the last twelve years.
So Doyoung decides to touch Taeyong’s shaved head without any preamble. His hand moves slowly and deliberately, fingers spread out like he’s trying to feel each individual strand of hair except they’re not really strands—nor are they really hair. They are more like bristles. They’re barely even that. It feels tingly and weirdly satisfying for a few minutes until it doesn’t anymore. Doyoung quickly retracts his hand then, struck by the reminder of something imminent. He really shouldn’t touch it so much, lest he gets accustomed to the sensation and yearn for it when it becomes unreachable.
Taeyong had sat still the entire time, head tilted down on his phone screen as he focused on writing heartfelt messages to colleagues and fans alike.
“Don’t stop,” he suddenly whines, like a belligerent but adorable cat. “It’s relaxing”.
“It’s better if I stop. You’ll like it too much. Who’s going to do it for you when I’m not there?” It’s a rhetorical question, yet Doyoung dreads hearing an answer.
“Fair enough,” Taeyong relents. Doyoung finds himself smiling.
“What are you going to do without me?”
“I wonder about that too.”
Taeyong is not necessarily bad at taking care of himself. It’s just that Doyoung likes to think he does it better. He remembers what Taeyong usually forgets—like stretching after being hunched on his computer for hours on end, like drinking water and having lunch on time. Doyoung takes it upon himself to remind him that he’s human too, contrary to what industry news outlets and gossip columns suggest (Netizens Believe that NCT Taeyong is Too Stunning to be Human). They’re not wrong, Doyoung supposes. Taeyong is unfairly stunning.
Yes, even with the shaved head.
“You’re going to be fine, hyung. I just hope you don’t spend too much time worrying about us that you lose sleep,” Doyoung says this while quietly, shamefully, praying that Taeyong’s inevitable sleepless nights be just about him instead.
Taeyong sets his phone down and looks at him inquisitively. “Us as in Ilichil or us as in you and I?”
Doyoung knows he knows what he meant. Who else could he be referring to aside from their tight-knit team? The only reason Taeyong would even ask is if he wanted to hear a different answer. The other answer.
Perhaps he wants for once, for Doyoung to be completely honest.
“Hyung,” Doyoung tries to resist the other man’s gaze but it’s unrelenting.
The curse of knowing Taeyong too well is knowing how his mind works and working extra hard to pretend not to so as to avoid confrontations. Doyoung wishes Taeyong gave him the same courtesy.
The inside of Doyoung’s chest feels fluttery, like every intake of breath is on the brink of escaping prematurely. He’s not usually this nervous around Taeyong, but their predicament looms over their heads like a cloud of storm and there’s nowhere to run for cover.
“Why would you even worry about you and I?”
Taeyong shifts his position so he’s sitting on the couch sideways, facing Doyoung fully. Those eyes leave Doyoung no room to escape. Looking at that face makes him want to die each time so it’s the last thing he sees. Doyoung gulps.
“I worry about a lot of things, but I worry about you and I almost everyday,” Taeyong admits. “Each day I don’t see you I worry about you. And then I worry about me. It’s an endless cycle and it’s driving me crazy.” He rubs a hand over his buzzcut, a newly acquired habit.
Now that was something Doyoung didn’t know about Taeyong.
“Taeyongie-hyung, what the hell are you saying?” Doyoung asks, almost too shakily.
“I just wish I had a reason to not worry,” Taeyong looks away like he’s sulking. It’s not an unfamiliar sight. He does this when he wants something badly. His face is redder than it was a minute ago. Doyoung tries not to touch it.
It hits Doyoung then, that he tries too hard. He tries too hard to resist. He can’t even count the amount of times he’s spilled his guts to Taeyong and fought the urge to collapse into his arms after. In front of the camera or behind closed doors, he fought that desire in equal measure. And where did that get him aside from lonely nights crying into his pillow? What was the point? Was he afraid that he would lose Taeyong? It’s been almost a dozen years and Taeyong is still here. He’s never left and he probably never will. Even when he has to go away he’ll find a way to stay with Doyoung.
So at the very least shouldn’t Doyoung do the same? Shouldn’t he also find a way to stay with Taeyong and lessen his worries? After all this time he owes him that much.
There is really only one way, Doyoung surmises.
He reaches over and hurriedly takes Taeyong’s hand like he’s scared he’ll change his mind in a split second. This is stupid. He’s so, so stupid. Years of pent up feelings and wants are bubbling inside him like a pot of boiling hot jjigae waiting to spill out in a scalding mess. This moment is the culmination of every instance he’d chosen self-control over desire.
Just like that, he decides, Fuck it. He clings to the very last drop of liquid courage in his system like his life depended on it. He uses his hold on Taeyong’s hand to pull him closer and finally presses his lips against Taeyong’s pouting ones. He can tell the other man is shocked by the way his fingers jolt in Doyoung’s hand, but Doyoung doesn’t care anymore. He’s cared for too long and has lost too many chances.
Taeyong almost immediately gives in to the kiss, his lips slotting into Doyoung’s like they’re a two-piece puzzle.
One of his hands finds purchase on the back of Taeyong’s neck, thumb brushing along the stubble there. The other one grazes Taeyong’s thigh purposefully, eliciting a soft, rewarding moan.
Kissing Taeyong is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He’s kissed other people but those times were never quite like this. Kissing Taeyong feels like breathing in unison with someone without having to count or overthink. It feels like something he was always meant to do, some kind of prophecy, his birthright. Why did he ever think he could live without his lips touching Taeyong’s?
They kiss for God knows how long until Doyoung feels something wet on his cheeks and a sob reverberating in his mouth.
He promptly pulls away. “Hyung, are you crying?”
Taeyong doesn’t answer and just lets out another sob.
“Hyung, please, don’t cry,” Doyoung half-chokes.
“Fuck you,” Taeyong grumbles, swatting away Doyoung’s hand. “Let me have this. Let me cry for this.”
Neither of them were criers, especially in the last few years wherein they had both grown thick, impenetrable skin. There were some emotionally-heightened moments on stage where they had let themselves unravel in each other’s arms, but those were as rare as shooting stars. This moment right now, is gold dust.
“Okay,” Doyoung relents, and settles on wrapping his arms around Taeyong instead, holding him until he’s all cried out.
“I’m so fucking happy,” Taeyong mutters, “and so fucking sad at the same time.”
”I know, hyung. Me too. I’m sorry.” Doyoung is beyond apologetic. If he could circle the earth and turn back time ten, eleven years, he would in a heartbeat. “But you wanted a reason not to worry about us and this was the only way I could think of,” he burrows his face on the curve between Taeyong’s neck and shoulder.
Taeyong’s nose crackles as he sniffs. “Well it’s better late than never I guess.”
It’s quiet for a while until Taeyong speaks up again. “So what does this mean for us?”
It would feel like a loaded question if he was the Doyoung of yesterday (or five minutes ago), but now he feels at ease. “Come to think of it, haven’t we been in a relationship for many years now?” He half-jokes.
”If Donghyuck heard you say those words he would be on the news,” Taeyong snorts and Doyoung laughs. Both of them are giddy.
They didn’t have the conventional relationship where they kissed and were all over each other. Doyoung has only ever done those things and more in the confines of his mind. But he would like to believe they’ve always been in a relationship in ways that make relationships important. They still have plenty of time to catch up on the physical aspect. They have waited this long. A couple of years is nothing.
Maybe he’s in way over his head. Maybe he’d always been so desperately in love that he had unknowingly committed himself to this person. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before everything crashes and burns like he had always feared.
Well, whatever happens, they still have the nursing home. That’s a promise as good as a blood compact.
“It goes without saying but I’m going to miss you,” Taeyong tells him.
“I’ll miss you too. Don’t worry anymore, yeah? I’ll try not to worry as much too,” Doyoung punctuates with a soft kiss on Taeyong’s lips. “We’ll talk about us on your break. We’ll have plenty of time.”
”And then it’ll be your turn to go.”
”We’ll make it through that too.”
Taeyong nods with a resigned smile. “Yeah, okay.”
-
It’s raining on the day of Taeyong’s enlistment. Reporters and fans line the street outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of Taeyong’s departure. He’s visibly on edge, and Doyoung wants nothing more than to give him comfort.
Just before they trudge into the rain, Doyoung reaches for his hand, decidedly not his wrist, and pulls him in for a tight hug. “We’ll see each other again soon,” a brief pause, “I love you,” Doyoung whispers, inaudible to anyone other than Taeyong. The embrace they share lasts for only three seconds, but the moment lingers days after.
When Doyoung lies in bed after a long day of promoting his album, he feels the ghost of a kiss on his lips and a phantom brush of shaven hair on the palm of his hand.
And really, what’s twenty or even forty months to a lifetime of us?