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It’s not like Eunho’s lacking all self-awareness. The problem is, in fact, that he’s fully, mortifyingly aware of how enthusiastic (pathetic) he’s being all the time on every platform available, public or otherwise. No, the real problem is that he just can’t seem to physically make himself stop.
“What the hell was all that about?” Bamby grumbles, his hand tightening into a fist in Eunho’s hair, just mean enough to pull at his scalp. The way Eunho likes it. “What’s gotten into you lately?”
“Dunno,” Eunho lies, not very convincingly at all.
Bamby’s eyes narrow in the dark and that’s something, at least. Much better than a monosyllabic response on Weverse. Better than rolled eyes and—
“Open up,” Bamby says, letting the lie slide, and Eunho obeys gratefully so he doesn’t have to talk and embarrass himself any further. He's done enough of that today. Bamby’s thumb pulls on the corner of his mouth, chastising. “Mind your teeth or I’ll kill you.”
It’s good like this with the curtains drawn, the soft whir of his CPU (always G♯) settling over them like a blanket. Past the stretched-out waistband of Eunho’s old workout shorts, Eunho’s hands fit perfectly over the slim jut of Bamby’s hips, his nails and callouses leaving pink half-moons of irritation across his skin. Bamby sighs (C♯ this time) and runs his thumb over the curve of Eunho’s ear.
“Did I hurt you earlier?” Bamby murmurs, so warm, so familiar, so knowing that it takes Eunho’s breath away sometimes. It’s not really a question – they’ve known each other for far too long for that – so Eunho doesn’t bother to grace it with an answer. He concentrates, instead, on the ache in his jaw. On making it good for Bamby, his slack mouth sloppy and wet around Bamby’s cock.
“I’m sorry,” Bamby says later when they’re both under the covers in Eunho’s unmade bed. “I was too harsh during our live earlier, wasn't I.”
“It’s okay,” Eunho says, stretching out across his side of the mattress. The motion tugs at the tightness in his chest.
They’re quiet for a while, their breathing slowing and syncing in the gloom, their fingers barely brushing in the gap between them. Eunho thinks he’s in the clear until Bamby rolls over and ends up taking half the covers with him as he sits up, eyes a little wild.
“No it’s not,” he accuses, looking Eunho up and down and scowling. “You’re still upset.”
Eunho grabs at the blanket for something to do but Bamby refuses to budge. “No, I’m not,” he insists. It sounds a little childish even to his ears. Petulant. He feels a thread pop in the seams of his comforter, the worn cotton stretched taut between them. “I know it’s part of the bit.”
“Well, what is it then?” Bamby presses, shuffling closer on his knees, and Eunho winces at the rising urgency in his voice. It’s stupid and it shouldn’t even be a thing. Anxiety spikes and twists in his gut. “Eunho-ya, just tell me –”
“I told you, it’s nothing!” Eunho snaps.
Bamby falters, stricken. Eunho catches the flash of hurt and feels awful for being the cause of it.
“Hyung,” he tries again, softer this time, fatigue suddenly catching up to him. He reaches for Bamby’s wrist. “It’s been a long day. Can’t we just sleep?”
Bamby’s jaw is set. “How am I supposed to sleep knowing that you’re mad at me?”
“I’m not—!” Eunho stops and takes a deep breath. He chooses his words carefully. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I promise.”
Bamby’s gaze thaws. “But you’re upset about something,” he says, just as shrewdly. Nevertheless, he lets Eunho arrange the covers over them both again.
Eunho sighs, picking his battles. “‘Maybe.” Just admitting this feels dangerous. The familiar shadows around them feel like they’re closing in on him suddenly. “It’s stupid.”
Bamby leans his cheek against Eunho’s shoulder, lashes fanning delicately against his cheekbones. “Can I help?” he asks. Softly. Sweetly. And that does it for Eunho somehow — pushes him right over the edge — because he probably can , but it feels. It feels like he shouldn’t have to ask.
It’s humiliating that he has to ask.
“Why don’t you talk about me more often?”
Bamby stills. If he hears Eunho’s breath catch, he doesn’t say anything about it. Thank god for small mercies. “Would you like me to..?”
Eunho clears his throat and swipes at his eyes. “No, it’s fine. Told you it was stupid.”
“Eunho-ya,” Bamby whispers. “What is this about exactly?”
It’s about everything and nothing all at once. It’s the awareness of being so incredibly annoying and yet completely unable to stop himself, like he’s having an out-of-body experience outside of the cringe, watching himself bend over backwards for attention — any sort of attention at all.
“It’s just —”
A thousand little cuts, probably.
It takes a while for Eunho to force the words past the ache in his chest.
“Sometimes it feels like I like you a lot more than you like me,” he says finally, feeling petty and needy and hideously ungrateful.
The A/C (E♯) hums in the wake of their silence.
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Bamby says eventually, sounding a little hollowed out himself. He reaches for the back of Eunho’s neck again, clumsy in his apprehension, relieved, almost, that Eunho still lets him.
“You know that I like you a lot, right?” Bamby says. “Even if I’m bad at saying it?”
Eunho doesn’t answer for fear of what might come out of his mouth.
“ Right? ” Bamby says, despair seeping into his voice. “Eunho-ya? I like you so much, you know that, right?”
And Eunho does know. There’s no way Bamby would have followed him into all of this if he didn’t. He’s processed all of this in his head, knows Bamby like the back of his hand, has learned the measure and cadence of their relationship over the years and come to an undeniable conclusion. But Eunho can memorize choreography in his head and still get it wrong; the disconnection between knowing and doing is so vast and impassable at times that he and Bamby might as well be speaking a different language.
Eunho swallows and it sticks painfully in his throat. The sound that he makes is as small and wretched as he feels and Bamby, ever the sympathetic crier, echoes it as he clings even harder.
“Sorry,” Eunho says wetly, after what feels like an eternity later, embarrassed for his own heart.
“Why are you saying sorry?” Bamby grouches, tone devoid of any bite. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Still,” Eunho says, arguing just to argue.
Bamby sniffles and it’s an entirely snot-filled inhale. He’ll have a sinus headache later if Eunho doesn’t make him barley tea.
“I’ll be better about it,” Bamby promises, and Eunho struggles to follow the conversation through the wave of exhaustion breaking slowly over his body. “Saying it more even if it’s kind of cheesy.”
Eunho groans and presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids until he sees stars streaking through his vision. “It sounds so lame when you put it like that…”
“But will it help?” Bamby asks. He slaps at Eunho’s hands. “Stop that — you’ll hurt your eyes.”
“Ah, hyung,” Eunho whines.
Bamby nods. “I’ll say it more often then.”
It’s almost silly how simple Bamby makes it sound. He only had to ask.
Eunho stifles a jaw-cracking yawn as Bamby throws a skinny leg over his hip and squirms into a comfortable position, jostling them both in the process.
“If you get your snot on me, I’ll kill you,” Bamby says, manhandling Eunho’s head onto his chest.
“It’s my damn shirt,” Eunho mumbles, already drifting into a dreamless sleep. “I’ll get all the snot on it I want.”