Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s Friday night, so the place is filled to the brim. It used to be a hot spot, but now the noise has died down, the average customer age has risen, and nothing about the bar strikes you as exciting anymore. Even so, it’s comforting in an inexplainable way—not trying to impress, it doesn’t ask for anything. The interior is quite outdated: dim orange lights, wooden furniture, and exposed concrete here and there—they’ve been there maybe once a couple of years ago, and not a single thing has really changed: the menu remains unaltered, even the waiters’ uniform is still the same, old fashioned black and white. It reminds him of the months during the second year of university he spent taking orders and scrubbing plates in the back of the kitchen, wearing an almost identical crisp apron. Simpler times? Debatable.

This week work has taken a toll on him. Drafts, changes, mock-ups, meetings, deadlines on fire, changes again. As a senior graphic designer, he has it all for the team to adore him. Working for a small independent studio is nice: cool colleagues, unrestricted creativity, you don’t have to wear a button-up, and the coffee shop is right on the first floor. The but comes (aside from mountains of urgent tasks) in the form of the inability of said colleagues to mind their own business. Because, apparently, they’ve noticed how romantic his recent layouts have become, whatever that means. He tolerated all those nonsensical comments last week, but now he’s fed up. He vividly remembers his coworker cocking her head to the side with a smile so sympathetic it almost extracted a sob out of him: “Did you fall in love?” He checked all his moodboards trice, comparing, but couldn’t detect the treacherous change. Where’s the clue? What gives him away? The fact that they can see through him even in things so cryptic and obscure is nerve-racking; it means somebody else could, too.

Frankly, in almost thirty years of his life, he doesn’t remember feeling exactly like this: mouth full of feelings he cannot chew.

So, it brings Taeyong here: in a godforsaken bar with paint chipping above his head, dissolving his troubles in liquids so strong they will hopefully strip him out of his wits and turn his eyes blind to the slush of sentiments puddling his guts. With Johnny. Because Johnny, oblivious to his secret motives to get piss drunk, is the one who actually suggested the idea to de-stress after a rather long week and celebrate the start of a new bright-looking project at the radio he DJs for. His sweet flatmate also agreed to pay and drive them there. He didn’t need to think twice.

He has no idea what they’re drinking. Johnny brags about his new gigs, reciting jokes made by his coworkers. After two shots Taeyong finds them funny too, even without the context. They talk about mundane stuff, complain about work and how everyone seems to be losing some sanity since the new season started, about new vitamins Johnny’s been prescribed by his esthetician, taxes, and gas prices. Taeyong got his license only a year ago, and it still feels new to him. They reminisce about the past—a dangerous path that can crack his disguise, so he tries to pivot Johnny’s attention around the safest parts. He desperately wants to immerse himself in this chirpy chat and loud music so he won’t have to listen to his own thoughts that want to stray far, far away from here.

They met at university, at the same elective no one wanted to attend, and were required to write a paper for. The lowest grade they’ve ever got, in whole four years. They shared notes to re-do it, then shared a friend circle, and after graduation shared their first proper apartment, rented on their first adult money. It was by no means glamorous, but still felt homely. The one they currently live in is a drastic step forward from that: no holes in the walls, two separate bathrooms, and windows overlooking the park. No flickering lights, no moldy tiles. Though they still had to do the whole renovation thing and fill it with furniture. They sigh simultaneously at the memory of endless boxes flooding the shared space. Right around that time he was also introduced to Johnny’s best friend. Before Johnny can chime in, Taeyong changes the topic.

The night rolls forward. Drinks are being served, and food is being consumed. Eventually, they fall into silence both of them don’t mind. Taeyong mindlessly observes the surroundings and watches people come and go, not really thinking of anything. That is until he tries to crack a joke about someone’s wonky order, something about the name of the drink, nothing grand, really, but it falls on deaf ears. No response comes from the other side. Swallowing leftovers of his pride, he repeats it in the same tone. What for, he’s not sure—it wasn’t even that funny in the beginning, and now it just doubles the humiliation. Still being fed the silent treatment, Taeyong wipes imaginative foam at the mouth and turns to see Johnny being occupied with his phone. Whatever it is in it seems to be much more interesting than his stupid quip.

“Something important there?”

He’s a little bit pissed—it was supposed to be a distraction, a round of drinks to forget his sorrows and meaningless talk to pretend he has it all under control, and his sleep schedule is not messed up, his hopes are not deflated, his façade is not see-through. And now here he is, neglected—no, abandoned! and already drunk, thanks to his low alcohol tolerance.

Johnny doesn’t pay even the slightest attention to his bitter tone. He hums, tapping the screen. “New post from user jeong jaehyun.”

Ah, that user jeong jaehyun. A pain in the ass.

Taeyong’s ears ring. He can hear blood thumping in his temples, rushing through his whole body. His mouth opens before he can stop himself.

“Show me.”

“What?” Johnny catches Taeyong’s expecting gaze. “Open the app on your phone, you follow him anyway.”

He does. Taeyong’s phone died twenty minutes into their meeting, if not for that he would’ve definitely got a notification.

“Just show me the picture,” Taeyong repeats impatiently, embarrassment creeping up his spine. Why make a big deal out of it?

“What, why,” Johnny laughs. “Miss him much?”

“I said show me his stupid face,” he grunts and bends over the table to snatch the phone from his hands, a bit too aggressively than necessary.

Johnny lets him have the thing, bewildered. “Jesus, the kind of FOMO you have, calm down.”

Taeyong hiccups victoriously and immediately sucks a sharp breath in.

Because there, staring at him from the screen—all sharp angles and high cheekbones, glorious features, feline eyes half-lidded and lips slightly pouted just in a way Taeyong likes it—is Jeong Jaehyun. A thorn he cannot possibly take out of his side. Every little thing about him makes Taeyong’s stomach twist in something unexplainable. So much for trying to escape his thoughts.

He stays still for a solid minute, studies the photo precisely, squinting his eyes and pinching the screen to grasp every minuscule detail. Under the square frame a freshly commented series of flirtatious emojis, signed by Johnny’s username, looks at him mockingly. Taunting him. Calling him a coward.

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, and Johnny shoots him a raised brow, face tight with poorly disguised amusement. There’s already some level of tipsiness in him and he’s enjoying it too much to let Taeyong get away with it easily.

“Ugly,” Taeyong concludes loudly, faking disgust and startling the waiter cleaning a table next to them. “He looks ugly,” he repeats, pleased with his revelation.

“Who are you trying to convince with that?”

Now Johnny doesn’t even mask the amount of fun he’s having, guffawing indiscreetly. Taeyong just growls and tosses the phone back. When he closes his eyes in exasperation, the image burns behind his eyelids.

“What’s with the face?” Johnny asks, suppressing the laughter building up in his throat.

“Nothing,” he bites the inside of his cheek.

And really, how to put it easily? Taeyong himself hasn’t been able to wrap his head around it for quite some time.

He pours new shots, one for himself and then one for Johnny, filling them full. Spilled liquid forms a sticky rim under the glass. He sighs and downs both in one swift motion. His throat numbs immediately—his eyes sting and his temples throb, while a tingling warmth floods his chest. His senses short-circuit. That’s too much—too overwhelming; the thoughts pin him to the spot and tie beautiful knots in his brain when he wants to move on, to not fall into chanting a certain name wistfully.

It was supposed to be a distraction, so why does he feel like crying?

Taeyong buries his burning face in his hands, mumbling something else, and the aftertaste is like a whimper. His mood fluctuates with every passing second as he tugs his freshly bleached roots with force to regain some consciousness. His head swims, and everything blurs for a moment before dipping to the side. There’s nowhere to hide now. He chuckles dejectedly.

“Right,” he slurs, “I’m screwed.”

“What are you talking about?”

Taeyong can’t find it in himself to shut the fuck up.

“I’m crushing on your besty, that’s what,” he says deliberately slowly, trailing vowels.

Johnny chokes on his shot, almost snorting it all out.

“Yeah, right?” Taeyong rolls his eyes, meaning duh, to the look the other is giving him across the table. Saying it out loud feels somewhat liberating, especially when you’re yet to realize the consequences. He shifts all of his weight to the side to support his rapidly fuzzing head with his arm, but his elbow misses the table and he almost bonks his skull on the hardwood.

Johnny wipes his chin. “I mean, I’m not surprised, with the amount of love songs you’ve been adding to our shared playlist recently…” he huffs, remembering corny titles. “And there's always been some kind of homoerotic tension between you two, especially heavy on your part, but you’ve been hardly sparing him a glance lately. Were you in denial?”

“Shut up,” Taeyong leans deeper into the seat, dizzy. “You have no idea how disturbing it is to meet someone who’s exactly your type.”

“If you say so.”

He definitely has been in denial for a couple of weeks before he could man up and put a too-careful name on it, and a couple of months before he actually admitted that something has indeed been going on. Maybe it would be easier to deny the mess of his feelings if the image of moles on the base of Jaehyun’s neck could be carved out of his mind, if the echo of the deep voice could leave him for just a brief moment. If he wasn’t spiraling into it madly.

Maybe he can’t help but mind the age gap, the six years lying between them like a lunar mare. He feels insecure, old and groggy—uninteresting, and the fact that almost all of Jaehyun’s closest friends are older than him anyway doesn’t ease it.

He hardly ever calls Taeyong (or anyone for that matter) hyung. It bothers him, but definitely not in the appropriate sense of the word.

To pick at his own wound, Taeyong draws parallels with their ages—he does it very well with every number, like mental gymnastics—until the fear transplants into the misery. Count one: when he was born, Jaehyun wasn’t even in the project. Count twenty-eight: the boy he’s into attends lectures from Monday to Friday (Comparative Literature sounds complex but sexy), and he himself usually needs a moment to remember what he has a degree at.

He gets to see Jaehyun once a week if he’s lucky and deities are merciful. It’s honestly devastating.

Yet everything charms him: his blabberings and funny faces, furrowed brows and sharp knees; how his voice goes up when he parrots Johnny, and how his hips sway to the rhythm of a song. Between all of Jaehyun’s maturity and cool looks, there are boyish laughs with pretty teeth and clumsy gestures that draw Taeyong even closer, denying him peace. He concludes it probably has something to do with moon phases and tides, some cosmic business that pulls him like gravity, because otherwise, damn.

And when he’s sober and Jaehyun’s not around, it’s almost possible to delude himself (and maybe Johnny) into thinking that he can handle it all. But now, with all his limbs feeling heavy, slowly drowning in the soft fabric of the seat, and head cloudy as it’s ever been, it’s not something to speak of. Thoughts of soft dimpled smiles are about to take over every part of his quickly losing awareness brain. Encountering no resistance.

“Can’t believe I haven’t connected the dots earlier. All those stares… Thought you held a grudge against him, but you just were your idiot self. Is that your idea of flirting?”

“So comforting,” Taeyong mutters under his breath.

Johnny shrugs and asks knowingly, “I’m guessing this is serious, huh?”

Not really, Taeyong wants to lie. But actually, he says, “I bought an e-copy of that poetry book he’s been carrying around.”

His head’s about to burst at the seams at the sound of Johnny’s nasty whistle half swallowed by a hyena chortle.

He downs another drink, and it tastes bittersweet.

“So,” he starts.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Johnny says nonchalantly to his intense glare. Taeyong presses again, still staring.

“Does that mean there’s something to tell?”

Johnny only snickers. “Dream on.”

“At least tell me what kind of men he fancies. You two totally talk about stuff like this.”

He knows Jaehyun’s bisexual (the source being Yuta gossiping) and not seeing anyone right now; otherwise, it would end in tears.

“I’m not having this kind of conversation with you. That’s under NDA.”

“Come on, I’m your best friend too! You ought to help me out. That’s like, bro code, or whatever.”

Johnny sighs dramatically. “Okay, you know,” and for a moment Taeyong actually believes him, “like really tall, ripped, ass of a figure skater.”

“Fuck you.”

Taeyong shoves a breadstick in his mouth and chews furiously. When the sound of laughter dies down, he catches Johnny’s eyes.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Who am I even going to tell?” Johnny sighs again. “Yuta? I’ll just make a fool out of myself. He’s gonna tell me he’s looked into your charts and knew five months ago, or something. And Doyoung can’t keep a secret, so Romeo will get the memo that same second.”

The thought is dreadful. Taeyong clicks his tongue. “I’m so sorry you can’t go gossip around.” He wants to say something else, but the words don’t add up, falling completely apart, and he forgets what it’s all about.

They drink more. Taeyong idly pushes the remaining appetizers around the plate; the room sways slightly in his eyes. After a while Johnny’s back to being busy with his phone, what looks like twenty fingers are typing fast.

“Who are you texting to now?” Taeyong asks without a jab this time, trying to win a bit of his working brain back, as the windows behind Johnny twirl in peculiar shapes.

“It’s Jae,” Johnny says simply. “Asked him to pick us up. He’s on his way now.”

“Oh, ‘mkay,” Taeyong watches his mouth move, not really understanding a word. “Um, wait—“

Without even processing what that means, the name itself sends some kind of tingling sensation all over his skin. It awakes glitches in his brain, and every corrupted part one by one fills with images of delicate fingers and pouting lips, of contemplative eyes and dark hair tucked behind the ear.

“Oh my god,” Taeyong whines, syllables sticking together. “Why, when? Did I do something to you? I look like a fucking mess, why didn’t you tell me he’s coming?!”

He runs an unsteady hand across his forehead, frustrated with his dull choice of wear. His jumper never looked wrinklier. Should’ve worn that new wool sweater—green would make his features stand out more. Now it’s up to his wilting charisma only.

“It was way before your… confession. And what would you wear, a suit?”

“Shut up—and he’s probably tired after the practice, and you—“

“You want me to send him off?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Even if deities do test him, even if he looks like he’s put on the first things that fell out of the closet in the morning, and even if his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, it’s still a chance to see the special person he yearns for the most. And he won’t trade it for anything.

The universe does work in mysterious ways, after all.

♡ ♡

Taeyong feels sentimental—must be the alcohol speaking.

He tries to recall the first time it happened, but does it actually matter now, when every time his head touches the pillow a memory of his name drawn out of a sensual mouth flows to the surface, leaving him restless. Alone in his bed.

Maybe it was when Jaehyun fell asleep on the couch in their living room after helping to repaint the walls in their freshly new apartment—barely the third time they met. The tremble he felt in his hands when he put a blanket over him must have been a sign. A forewarning. The next morning they had takeout on top of outdated newspapers scattered across the floor, the kitchen being in havoc, and Taeyong avoided looking him in the eyes for the rest of the day.

It was so long ago that it almost feels surreal. He was but a friend of a friend.

He still is but now Taeyong knows by heart the manner in which Jaehyun squints his eyes to read those high-brow articles from his phone, specs long forgotten, or the way he bends and crosses his fingers behind his back, hands half-hidden by the fabric, tempted and conflicted.

It definitely has already started when the three of them plus Johnny’s cousin Mark decided to spend a couple of vacant summer days away, soaking up the sun and the sand at the beach. They were so late to catch the train they had to run through the station, through the echo of heels clicking on tiled floors and luggage rattling hastily. Stressed and tired, Jaehyun started laughing, and that obnoxious and youthful sound was contagious enough for Johnny and Mark to catch his strange joy. Taeyong was mesmerized by how lovely he was, surrounded by an inexplicable summer gleam that must have been just a sheen of sweat on the side of his nose.

And it hit him like an arrow. He almost tripped over his feet if not for Johnny to catch him by the collar of his shirt.

In senses literal and figurative, he was falling.

There’s a really humiliating artifact from this trip, buried in the back of Taeyong’s bedside drawer: four identical copies of black and white snapshots. Stuffed in a tiny photobooth and pressed cheek to cheek, they took multiple attempts, making silly faces—one of them completely doomed, because Mark’s head kept blocking the camera’s eye the whole time. Being in charge of supervising the result, Taeyong didn’t allow anyone to see the second set, saying it got blurry because they were moving too much. In reality, all of the traitorous squares captured Taeyong in a scandalously compromising position: staring completely enamored at Jaehyun, who’s sporting a sweet lopsided smile that really, really suits his face. He’s never seen himself like this. The poster boy for lovesickness.

Maybe he’ll show it to their children one day.

“Are you listening?” Johnny taps the side of a bottle to gather his attention. The memory fades slowly, and Taeyong swallows another hiccup. “I said—oh there he is.”

Taeyong knows it before Johnny says anything, before he can see him, before a bell above the door can announce his arrival. He knows it by the way a fluttering feeling in his stomach blooms, twisting his insides, by the way the air changes around, the way his mind goes blank in a speck of time. The way he holds his breath without realizing it.

He gets now what Pet Shop Boys meant when they sang every time I see you my heart starts missing a bit.

Taeyong turns his heavy head to the entrance and all the lights in the room spin violently, dancing grains, leaving lightning traces under his eyelids. He sees Jaehyun eyeing the room, looking for them, and his mind shuts with a snap, every tab closes and every wire disconnects for it to be filled with just one person.

Oh how he missed his annoying face.

Everything sticks together in an unreadable mess except for him. He’s the only sharp thing making sense in Taeyong’s dazzled eyes, crystal clear amongst the myriad of overlapping bits.

“You alright?” Johnny asks, seeing his melting face. Taeyong answers something inadequate, lips barely moving.

How much longing can human chests bear before their ribs crush to dust?

Jaehyun lowers his big silky headphones to the neck and runs his fingers through the jet black fringe that gets into his eyes, chin up in the usual manner. He looks tall and broad against the doorframe, dressed casually in loose blacks, a big nylon bag bouncing against his hip bone.

Shallow bar lights hit the high points of his bare face. In Taeyong’s eyes he’s glowing.

What was that about not spiraling? Forget it.

“’m about to cry,” he croaks. Johnny mouths no and kicks his shin under the table.

It takes Jaehyun a solid minute to spot them huddled in the corner before he makes his way to their table, not without knocking a few chairs over and folding in bows of apologies. Hands in pockets, he beams, offering them a soft hey and bringing the faint, clean and disarming smell of cold air, of shower gel and gym floors with him. Feeling himself flush from the chest to the temples, Taeyong just nods and tries not to stare too much. Best friends talk about something, switching between languages so fast he gives up on following. When Johnny squeezes Jaehyun’s forearm fondly and the younger smiles down at him, Taeyong forgives himself the fleck of envy, because he’s so terribly drunk there’s no place for guilt in his body. It’s better to just focus on staying in one piece. Dazzling heart-shaped sparks start filling up the air around quickly, and he resists the urge to swat them away.

Somewhere a fork meets the floor with a clang. He snaps out of the trance; his eyes leave the hazy outline of Jaehyun’s profile through his half-full glass. Faded colors whirl in multiple reflections of it. He’s not really capable of drinking any more. Johnny gets up to pay for their order at the front. Before disappearing behind the column with the wallet in his hand, he sends Taeyong a pointed look: behave.

Jaehyun slides into Johnny’s seat and for a moment Taeyong lets himself imagine they are the only people in this stupid, crammed bar, intended to see each other.

“Had fun?” Jaehyun asks chirpily, unzipping his cropped jacket. The sound of his voice doesn’t reach Taeyong’s ears; it gets lost somewhere midway, leaving only the enchanting curve of his lips to grasp. Whatever you say, sugarplum. Stupefied, he lowers the guard that was built with such rigor and makes a fatal mistake: he looks Jaehyun in the eyes. From this distance he can see his pupils dilate, swallowing the irises, as they adjust to the darkness.

Fffuck.

Jaehyun has this strange effect on him, symptoms of which should be studied precisely in psychiatric wards: his legs become jelly, his brain turns into mush while his heart palpitates at the mere sight of him. Unfortunately, it seems like his inebriated self is not immune to this peculiar disease, and maybe, just maybe, is prone to suffer even more.

Internally, he huffs, pitying himself. Just a moment ago he was ready to hold a proper conversation. He wanted to ask how was the practice? and have you had dinner already? did the coach give you a hard time again? but now his tongue feels so fucking heavy in his mouth.

“You look good,” he manages to say.

“You think so?” Jaehyun laughs; a prominent canine catches the side of his lower lip. Hoops in his ears sway slightly, causing Taeyong’s vertigo. He wishes for the velvet of the booth to swallow him whole.

“I must look gross, I had to rush so I barely had time to shower.”

Oh shut up, Taeyong thinks. Running through the scraps of his grey matter for a response not so shallow, he only finds a rowdy echo of his heartbeat.

“You look really good,” he repeats like a moron.

At that Jaehyun flashes him a sincere smile, nose scrunched and dimples prominent—an overgrown cat tucked into high wasted cargo jeans. There’s not a hint of allure in it yet Taeyong feels allured, bewitched.

Johnny shows up briefly, chewing on a toothpick. He says they will be ready to go in a moment and excuses himself to the restroom. Jaehyun stands up.

“Let’s go find your coat?”

Following, Taeyong grabs his heavy work bag and peels himself off the seat. Immediately, the room tips, sloping up and down, down, down in front of him. Legs wobbly, he stumbles forward, losing balance. To prevent plastering his forehead to the floor, he grips the side of the table. Now, the alcohol is indeed starting to speak.

“Taeyong—“ Worried, Jaehyun rushes to steady him by the shoulder. The touch is warm and comforting, but even more disorienting.

Stunned, Taeyong runs his mouth with no filter.

“Can you hold me?”

He will think about how it must’ve sounded later. He sure will. But now that he feels a strong arm wrap around his slim waist, pressing him closer, closer, nothing actually matters. Nothing but this. The soft fabric of his jumper tightens under the firm hold. Taeyong’s knees buckle. If he faints right now, no one gets to blame him.

He lets a shaky breath out. “Oh wow.”

As mortification draws on him, surging through miles of blood vessels in his body, he purses his lips so no more bullshit can come past them. A miracle that his flatmate is not around: he would keep mentioning it tirelessly until they’re both grey and retired. Like the gentleman he is, Jaehyun says nothing even if he badly wants to, only takes the bag from him and guides Taeyong’s arm around his shoulder. When Taeyong lifts his gaze from their shoes, the younger is already looking at him in concern. He assures that he’s okay, even though his heart threatens to leap out of his throat. The feeling engraves itself on the waves of his brain.

Together they make it safely to the wardrobe. There Taeyong has to go through another round of embarrassment as Jaehyun helps him into his cashmere coat like a drowsy child after a family gathering because, evidently, he’s unable to stick an arm into the damn armhole.

When Jaehyun volunteers to button it up, Taeyong’s eyes sparkle.

♡ ♡

Outside the air is bracing, though it makes him lightheaded, dozy, and he forces the sleep away. He wants to remember it, even if he can comprehend nothing, so later the memory can nurture his delusive dreams. They stand in front of the bar, amber splotches of its sign and tall windows pooling to the pavement. It’s only the beginning of autumn, but nights are steadily getting darker and colder. In the back of his mind pops up a line from the recently approved project, a set of wine bottle labels. Kiss on a cold night.

Faded music, stifled by the door, purrs into the street. He notices it only now but, judging by the choice, the curator of today’s playlist was in a tender mood too. Next to him, hand still draped over the small of his back, his favorite boy hums to the tune of Let Me Roll It. (I can’t tell you how I feel, Taeyong repeats the lyrics, my heart is like a wheel). It must be tiring to hold both Taeyong and two hefty bags, but his infuriatingly attractive face shows no complaint.

Taeyong swallows a yawn. Not now, c’mon.

Jaehyun almost jumps when slender fingers invade the front pocket of his jeans.

“What are you doing?”

“Need a smoke,” Taeyong puffs, hand roaming thoughtlessly. He’s not much of a smoker anymore, but he used to return from uni parties with pockets full of cheap lighters. As usual, the old habit can be reawakened by a single droplet of liquor in his system.

“What’re so many pockets for?” he mumbles to himself.

Knowing Jaehyun, they’re full of trinkets: a library card with a bonny picture (comma hair and all) from his first year and a heart-shaped lighter, rings he took off during the game, an old receipt shoved into a tiny notebook, maybe a candy in a funky wrapper—he always has one when Taeyong asks. The back ones are big enough to fit a paperback; he saw it with his own eyes and it was ugh, hot. Anyway, in which one does he keep Taeyong’s heart?

Will it fit a love letter?

“You really shouldn’t, it might make you sick,” Jaehyun looks at him disapprovingly. “Also I don’t have any, I’m quitting.”

Taeyong can’t contain his affection as the corners of his mouth curl upwards. His chest swells with pride. The first time Jaehyun was caught by his coach, the latter promised to show him hell on earth if he’s to hold a cigarette again. It added to the intense level of academic stress he was already deluged with (Taeyong was alarmingly close to having a word with the said coach when he found downhearted Jaehyun camping in front of their door). Needless to say, he didn’t even last a week. But this time, no doubt, he’ll get what he wants.

Absentmindedly, Taeyong bends the arm that lays on the other’s shoulder and gently scratches Jaehyun’s nape right where silky hair touches the skin.

“Good. I’m sure you can do it.”

Up close Jaehyun’s smile proves to be spellbinding.

By now he must think Taeyong’s mad drunk and won’t look too much into his fuddled actions, shaky hands, and glassy stares. Certainly, he won’t mind him twirling a lock of dark waves around his finger, will he? In Taeyong’s dictionary it means I’ve missed you. It brings him relief as much as crushes his spirit that Jaehyun is illiterate in its language.

He shall make the most out of it since tomorrow he’ll be back to square one, pretending to be indifferent.

Ignoring Jaehyun is never easy; still, one must choose what hurts them less, and looking at him without being able to have him, to hold him, hurts abnormally worse. A martyr in the love department, Taeyong can never look away: every fiber of his being is hyper-aware of younger’s presence. He avoids communicating with him directly like the plague: in the same place he’ll take the furthest seat; if the opportunity strikes, he’ll lock himself in the next room, not without stealing the last glance and pressing his ear to the door. Unless he wants to be caught in the process of his pupils forming into blatant little hearts. Whenever Jaehyun’s schedule allows him to drop by their apartment for a regular bonding time with his best friend, Taeyong just makes them coffee and escapes into his room. And when he’s ‘forced’ to join the activity (which he does very much willingly) he sticks to talking to Johnny. Yes, it’s excruciatingly painful. Yes, Jaehyun looks like a kicked pup and wails to Johnny afterward about how Taeyong must despise him (another reason to beat himself up about). Nevertheless, he follows the routine; otherwise, these feelings will make sure he’ll pop like a soap bubble in midair.

The song changes, picking up the pace. Behind them someone opens the door, entering or leaving, and momentarily the sound gets louder and clearer. Jaehyun softly drums his fingers on Taeyong’s side in recognition. The beat reverberates in his core.

“It’s Johnny’s favorite, he swears it’s the ultimate love song. Always plays it on night airs.”

They listen to muffled sounds of what’s supposed to be a looped chorus, the words mushed together, indecipherable. Taeyong can feel the warmth of Jaehyun’s shoulder against his own. His perfume and the scent of his skin mix with the brisk night air. Taeyong loses himself in the sensation: he wants to lean in and bury his face into the crook of the younger’s neck and stay like that until some merciless force tears them apart.

“Can’t get you out of my head”, Jaehyun says, looking him in the eyes.

“Huh?..”

“The name of the song,” he smiles. The wind ruffles strands of his hair gently.

Taeyong almost lets out a pathetic whine. He can’t find what to reply even when the next track starts.

♡ ♡

Johnny gets an unlimited source of entertainment in Taeyong’s state. When he found him glued to Jaehyun’s side, hand in the other’s pocket, he didn’t comment on it but the impish glimmer in his eyes indicated that he could read every flimsy thought racing through Taeyong’s head. He kind of regrets confiding to him. Can’t really take it back, can he? Already enlightened, Johnny sees through each tilt of his head with the clarity optometrists would be envious of. It’s a child’s play to put two and two together now. The formula reads as one chaste wink from Jaehyun equals a raving mad blush spreading across both apples of Taeyong’s cheeks.

He’s a hopeless case.

The parking lot is half-empty when they get to Johnny’s car which sits lonely in a shallow pool of lamp post light. Johnny presses the key to unlock it.

“Get in, big baby.”

He opens the rear door, and Jaehyun lets go of Taeyong’s waist, stepping aside. Reluctantly, Taeyong releases his grip on the hem of the younger’s jacket. It seems like the night just got colder.

When he notices Jaehyun’s hand covering the roof of the car, here to prevent Taeyong from smacking his forehead on it and scoring a concussion, he gulps down a scream. Why create a man so fucking nice if not for him to hold his hand?

Taeyong dives inside, crouching and then curling up on the seat, ready to nap, while Jaehyun makes sure his wriggling ass won’t fall out of the car. Johnny watches the scene with obvious mirth.

“You sure you won’t get sick on the backseat? You’ll pay for the cleaning.”

Taeyong waves at him dismissively.

“Stop teasing him. Tell us if you start to feel unwell, Taeyong. Alright?”

He nods and contemplates using his bag as a pillow, but not only it’s literally rocklike, he’ll either crush something inside or get stabbed with the sharp edge of his laptop. The arm will do for now. As soon as his cheek touches the leathery seat, he crashes out. The last thing flashing on the forefront of his mind is the image of Jaehyun in his fire red basketball uniform, number 14.

“He’s quite something tonight”, Jaehyun says as the door closes.

Johnny snickers. “Had to ask the staff to water down his drinks or else he would knock himself out before you even stepped a foot inside. He’s more sure he’s drunk than he actually is. Probably feels invincible though.”

Jaehyun rounds the hood. “Is he alright? Did something happen at work?”

Johnny throws him the keys over the roof before hopping on the shotgun seat. “He’s totally fine, don’t worry. Felt rather courageous.”

Adjusting the seatbelt, Jaehyun glances at already snoring Taeyong through the rear-view mirror. Dark blonde fringe shyly touches his long eyelashes.

”He’s being nice today,” Jaehyun says sotto voce.

Johnny turns to the window to hide a grin in the palm of his hand. “I told you he doesn’t hate you.”

Though Taeyong hasn’t seen him in action that much—it’s usually him or Johnny in the driver seat—Jaehyun is a careful driver when he wants to be. So Taeyong doesn’t wake up for the thirty-minute drive through the murmuring midnight city.

He stirs from sleep once, when the car stops at a red traffic light, bright neon signs dripping inside through the windows. After the static dies down in his ears, music and voices fill the interior. The image and the sound fall together as he unstacks his heavy eyelids. Rejoiced, Jaehyun and Johnny are singing along to Slave to Love playing on the radio, passionately belting out high notes after Bryan Ferry and making full use of their vocal chords. It’s surprisingly pleasant, in tune even, but most of all it’s touching. It tugs at some undiscovered stings, especially when Jaehyun makes out adlibs and his whiskers pop up charmingly in the flashing shadow of light changing to green.

And he can't escape, indeed.

The car moves. Taeyong forces an exhale through the mouth as if something inside him has inflated, and falls back to sleep. The memory, ghost of a moment, will stick with him for decades.

♡ ♡

He knew karma would bite him back eventually for that time he laughed at sleepy Mark when he got out of the cab with all his belongings flying out of his backpack, landing on asphalt. So now, while his friends toss his things back into his bag and he prays there’s nothing exposing in it (would be funny if his notebook dropped to the ground and opened on one of the pages of dear diary, today Jaehyun smiled at me three times), Taeyong takes the time to come to his senses.

Holding a phone with a flashlight on so Jaehyun and Johnny won’t miss one of his airpods, he muses on feelings circulating in his body. He’s not that woozy anymore, can tell right out of left, but his head feels unusually light, even more than before, as if there’s no brain in it—just plain air.

Pale hands move in a hazy circle of light. This next stage of intoxication is akin to a lucid dream. He digs his nails into the palm of his free hand to confirm he’s awake. But something buzzes in his ear, daring him to do things only being inside a dream would justify.

He tails Johnny to their apartment complex, Jaehyun following close behind. All three floors up he holds both walls of the narrow staircase for support, lest he falls and causes a commotion. When they step into the flat and take their outerwear and shoes off, they don’t even turn the lights on, knowing their way around naturally, until Jaehyun trips over the cord in the dark and almost topples them all like dominoes.

Taeyong detests himself for turning profusely red from the fleeting touch Jaehyun’s hand leaves on his shoulder blade.

Johnny cackles, then assigns Jaehyun the task of watching over Taeyong and instantly disappears in the shadows of his room before anyone can object or ask a question. It’s only fair: Taeyong’s known for persistently passing out in weird places while under the influence. He has fallen asleep at the restaurants’ tables, on creaky couches, and on strangers’ shoulders, and plenty of times friends have had to prevent him from slumbering in the corner of a bathroom or in the den of a closet.

He doesn’t clarify that he’s passed that state, because he’s also past the state of denying how terribly he wants just a morsel of younger’s attention.

He rubs the side of his face to get rid of the heat enveloping it. He’s going to bring Jaehyun to his bedroom.

Mind in the gutter, Taeyong closes the door behind them. Mechanically, he flicks the lamp atop the wooden dresser and does the same with the one on the side of his bed. It does little to illuminate the room, but doesn’t hurt his sensitive eyes. Leaning on a chair that faces the wall, Jaehyun observes the setup. He’s never been there before, and though the room does mirror Johnny’s on blueprints, their personalities color their private spaces differently.

It’s not big—he can make it to where Jaehyun stands next to the threshold in two steps from the foot of his bed. That is partly because his closet eats most of the space; Johnny finds it very Carrie Bradshaw-esque, with a permanently cluttered desk in front of the window added to the picture. It’s the only thing that’s allowed to be in constant disarray. He has a bad habit of taking extra work home and spending hours hunched over the ipad, which results in piles and piles of stray papers, scraps and samples.

Jaehyun’s eyes skim over the stack of sketchbooks on the side. Taeyong would give an excursion but not tonight: though he’s a good stylist, it might not be enough for the other to not find some characters eerily familiar. And since he doesn’t have either an explanation or an excuse, these things will have to wait for the right moment.

His voice comes out of him husky. “Are you staying? It’s late so you should just sleep over.”

Taeyong casts a glance at the watch on his wrist. Just a little past one, an odd, uneven hour for them to be alone together. He realizes it, this frangible matter of the night, tranquil and intimate, blurs already bleary lines of where they stand with each other in the gameboard of his mind. It’s harder to slip back into his aloof persona than to answer the buzz inside his head when the whole room seems to shrink to the wash of golden hues across Jaehyun’s cheekbone.

When Jaehyun speaks, it’s hushed too, as though there’s something to disrupt.

“Mhm. Johnny made me promise I’d stay.”

“Right.”

Turning his back to Jaehyun, he tugs his jumper off, throws it on the bed and straightens a black tank top bunched up on his stomach. He can’t see but he knows Jaehyun’s politely looking away. Not sure what to do next, he fumbles with the belt of his pants: something’s amiss with the prong or the buckle or Taeyong’s proximity to the other that rearranges his DNA to make him loopy.

“What’s wrong?”

Taeyong pushes his hair out of his face only for it to fall back and stomps towards the younger. He points to the problem, “Can’t do.”

Gingerly, Jaehyun brings him closer by the belt loops. “Let me.”

Let me, he said. Let me. Let me kiss that mouth of yours.

Long, poised fingers work through the notches of his belt. Jaehyun’s handsome countenance, enhanced by concentration, can be used to perform hypnosis as its magic surely works on Taeyong better than any heirloom. Pliant under a spell, he mindlessly holds onto the other’s long-sleeve shirt. Jaehyun’s waist fits perfectly into his hold. Like they were made for each other, his mind supplies.

It’s addictive, and all of his bones ache, craving more.

“All done.”

Coy, he meets Jaehyun’s gaze. This lightning paints him too solemn, stern even, or is there something else that hides in the veil of furtive shadows, about to speed the collapse? Taeyong’s molten brain screeches, but those brakes work no more.

“Do I make you nervous?” His fingers follow a seam, pressing it into pads. When the answer doesn’t come, Taeyong repeats, tone even lower, “Do I, Jaehyun?”

“Hyung,” he utters in cadence, all breath. There goes his hyung card. Jaehyun draws back, and the top rail of the chair digs into his spine. “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not.” Taeyong’s thumbs trace gentle circles on his sides, smoothing a crease. Inhale, and avid hands trespass the hem of Jaehyun’s shirt. Firm muscles tense under his caress.

How unfortunate it is the room is so dark; he wants to see if Jaehyun’s ears are blushing.

“You’re really drunk.”

Tips of their toes touch. He leans in, and their noses brush against each other, skin over skin. Jaehyun’s exhale hitches above his upper lip, causing goosebumps all over, a shot of electricity waking hairs on its way.

There’s no music, just shallow breaths mingling, his own pulse raging, trapped in the shell of his ear, but it’s alike a tantalizing rhythm that will change him irrevocably once done to the last beat.

And all at once Taeyong is aware of the obvious change in the atmosphere, of how hot and thick the air is, heavy with palpable static, sizable charge. His skin burns where it touches Jaehyun’s. He wants to do something reckless, impetuous, to switch his intelligence off and submit blindly to the itch. He’s never been good at making decisions on the spot, and this boldness with a tang of liquor makes his power of reasoning go slack, redundant.

His eyes fall to the other’s mouth as he moves forward, tilting his head. He might get cross-eyed but fuck when he notices Jaehyun—sober, six years younger, Johnny’s best friend, sober, sober, sober—glide his chin down, when his spiky lashes flutter and mauve lips part as if about to meet his midway, it sends him over the edge. Jaehyun’s next words land straight between his teeth, scratching his gums.

“You have a really pretty mole here.”

There are rapid footsteps in the background, but Taeyong can’t hear anything behind the deafening beating of his heart, like a drum echoing in every part of his being, not when he’s millimeters from finally kis—

Johnny’s head pokes out of the doorway, and just like that the moment is lost forever.

“Just making sure there’s no funny business going on.”

Jaehyun’s hands fly up in alarm as he opens his mouth to defend their virtue. Taeyong pushes an obscene curse down his throat before it can slip off his tongue.

“Jae, buddy, it’s definitely not you who I’m worried about.”

Taeyong follows Johnny’s line of sight; it lands on his hands hidden underneath the other’s shirt.

Well, guilty.

Johnny turns to him, the lilt in his voice is that of mischief. “Shouldn’t you be asleep already, my friend?”

Taeyong snarls, “Get out.”

When Johnny doesn’t budge, just stares back, he curses—this time aloud and ugly—and retreats. Tight-lipped as if scolded fairly, he backs off and plops on the edge of the bed. The dream was so close, just for it to slip through his fingers and shatter like a glass slipper. He’ll certainly dwell on it later.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Jaehyun relax, dismay dissipating from his posture. Johnny pats his shoulder. “Blankets and pillows already await you in the living room.” Jaehyun returns his smile. “You two should get going if you don’t wanna wake up with a splitting headache.”

A ray of light seeping out of the entrance gets cut short again; once more, they are left alone together.

For some time they sit in silence, not really looking at each other. He’s not sure what would be appropriate to say; a wrong move can turn things awkward and ruin something—something that almost happened, almost turned out to be. But then, what exactly does one consider a wrong move? Seems like the answer can be obtained solely empirically. Taeyong reclines on the bed, sliding to the elbows, and it successfully catches the other’s attention. One leg stretched, he can almost nudge Jaehyun’s foot with his own.

He hopes to reintroduce the formula: a beautiful expanse of Taeyong’s neck multiplied by the sight of his wide and bare shoulders must equal a smitten Jeong Jaehyun in his arms.

(There’s a high chance he’s only woolgathering).

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks just to say something.

“Why?”

Taeyong shrugs. He taps the space next to him on the covers, cocking his brow playfully—a suggestive gesture both of them can break.

One beat late, Jaehyun lets out a short laugh; but in that brief second of delay Taeyong recognizes a glint of contemplation flicker across his eyes—a mirror of his own impulsiveness, hot and dangerous. A new wave of scorching heat crashes over his body. It’s enough to push him into a reverie, to cast the fervent vision: a breathless, moaning mess, tangled in his crumpled sheets, riding the peak of pleasure—

Jaehyun shakes his head.

“You won’t remember any of it in the morning anyway,” he says with an amused yet slightly defeated chuckle.

They both wish he was sober so there was no need to guess what’s going on between them, striking hardwired sparks. He wishes he was sober so Jaehyun could take him seriously and see beyond the masquerade of empty jests and fragile courage.

“I will.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and Jaehyun turns to leave. Just when he pulls the door handle down, Taeyong stops him.

“Jaehyun.”

The name comes out desperate, and maybe Jaehyun’s able to hear it too.

Taeyong wants to tell him everything, anything, to make the time stretch, to make him stay for longer, to see him for another second. He’s ready to get down to his knees to plead if it’s for another fleeting look.

“Can I kiss you good night?”

That is not what friends do—Yuta would gag at him and say that’s so cancer and aquarius of you, no boundaries. But well, he’s been emitting mixed, confusing signals all night, since Jaehyun showed up in the bar all bright and blinding, which really do not align with the being just friends agenda. He’ll blame it on the stars’ alignment, on houses and charts, all that stuff, if he has to. And Jaehyun doesn’t need to know he’s practically shaking all over—he can keep believing Taeyong’s so silly right now he would flirt with the chair he’s leaning on for the fun of it. This time it’s better he’s not aware of how honest Taeyong is.

He almost doesn’t expect it when Jaehyun walks back to him, all of his edges smooth and gentle, torturously beautiful, and levels their faces. Hands on his knees, resident darling. White sheets crumple under Taeyong’s fingers; his adam’s apple jumps. For some reason he feels shy now, his cockiness’s long gone, vanished into thin air. He hesitates, wringing his hands, wanting to cup younger’s cheeks, to touch him, but decides against it and only grips the fabric tighter—to find some solid ground for when his head gives up on him for good.

Jaehyun’s eyes are opaque opposite his. Does he have any idea what he’s doing to him?

He moves further and places a weightless kiss on Jaehyun’s cheek, above the corner of his mouth. Somewhere near the supposed dimple. He lingers close, the feeling of Jaehyun’s skin still there, still on his lips, tingling, numbing sea of nerves, fibers, capillaries. He’s not ready to let him go—wait, not yet—to let the night move on. He forces the words out of his mouth.

“I’m giving you the green light. It’s for you to remember.”

Whether Jaehyun understands what it implies (here’s my heart, have all of it) or not, he shows no sign of it. He’s immensely and unusually hard to read now when Taeyong’s cranium is as good as an empty room with a lone picture of Jaehyun’s face taped to a wall. Though there’s something, he’s not fast enough to catch it.

“Go take a shower. I’ll fetch you some water and painkillers.”

Taeyong nods like a bobblehead dog and buries himself in the blanket as soon as Jaehyun’s out of sight. He wants to think, to make sense out of it all, but not a single thought comes, licked off by a low tide, and all his willpower goes to stopping himself from tracing the outline of his lips, chasing a whisper of a touch. Nothing, nothing, nothing but a warm, tickling feeling whirling his insides. He stuffs his face further into the blanket to muffle his shriek until it’s hard to breathe.

To distract himself from the howling void of his mind, Taeyong plugs his dead phone in to charge up to the pitiful 2%—just enough for it to turn on in his hands. He ignores how hard everything lags, patiently waits for his instagram feed to stop buffering, and just like a couple of hours prior a too-familiar face takes his breath away. Defined cheekbones, perfectly sculpted slope of a nose and full, attractive lips—he doesn’t even have to look for it; it’s the first recommend post on the page. Those scary artificial intelligence algorithms do know their job. Somewhere from above comes a sound between a sigh, a moan and a groan, startling him; belatedly, he recognizes his own voice.

With bated breath he taps twice—a like—and opens the comment section. He would like to write something clever, striking, so flirty and sharp it would sweep Jaehyun off his feet instantly and introduce him to the taste of feelings he spikes in Taeyong, but… Still empty. No pulitzer-worthy pickup line graces his tongue and doesn’t plan to anytime soon. Maybe he should go with some lyrics, but that must be too much for a casual start.

The insertion point blinks repeatedly.

So, emojis. He types a black cat one (adds a sparkly heart, then deletes it right away) and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

Because, truthfully, Jaehyun’s just that—a kitten.

Taeyong’s still a bit tipsy.

♡ ♡

From the bathroom mirror a slightly disheveled version of himself stares back at Taeyong. Cheek bulged by a toothbrush and arms pressed to the edge of the sink, he observes the signs of yesterday’s night. Prominent under-eye bags, slightly puffy face, severe headache and brief flashes of a horny morning dream starring, obviously, a certain actor. Well, he’s not seventeen anymore, which means, naturally, there’ll be consequences to actions.

Speaking of actions. Or rather not, let’s not speak of his actions at all because it intensifies the headache and deepens the state of shame he’s in. Yeah, tried to make a move on a guy while smelling straight up like a bottle of vodka, no big deal. Taeyong remembers it all, but he refuses to be weird about it.

He spits foam into the sink, wishing unpalatable thoughts could go down the drain just as well.

A white silk robe—the one that shows a little bit of his chest in a very complimentary way—over pajama pants, and he hopes there’s still enough suave left in him to pull this undone look off. He tugs the knot of the belt tighter and steps into the heart of the apartment.

He likes this flat. It feels like home, with memories of all the important people in his life being here at some point in time. Of his parents, dropping by on a Saturday in the late spring, bringing fresh flowers and homemade jam; his mother taught them how to properly run all the cycles of their new fancy washing machine (so different from the rattly tin can they got used to). Of his friends, sticking their heads out of the windows and counting down the seconds till the start of a new year; Jaehyun’s hair was wet from the snow, and Yuta was persistent in trying to kiss Mark. Of them, ripping ugly wallpaper off the walls and putting lame group photos on the side of the fridge. Everything’s of sentimental value here.

He cares, even when he pretends he doesn’t. And since his cool, calm and collected image partially flew out of the window yesterday (good grief, can we not talk about it?), he can say that there’s somebody in particular about whom he cares just as much as Johnny rightfully does. Traces of affection are scattered all around their place. There’s a Marimekko mug in the kitchen, bought by Taeyong spontaneously and never used until one day it found its way into Jaehyun’s hands—by unspoken rule it has become Jaehyun’s ever since. A cabinet in Johnny’s bathroom holds a spare toothbrush for him, and by the door is his own pair of house slippers. Their microsuede anti-scratch couch has been welcoming Jaehyun almost as often as his dormitory bed. Deep in its creases are lost pencils, fallen out of academic books. And the TV was bought only because Johnny thought 16” of his laptop screen weren’t enough for learning choreography to Raffaella Carra’s classics and their occasional poor attempts at new way voguing. Taeyong can’t even pretend to find it cringe—out of the three of them he’s the best at tutting. And maybe he’s not boring at all.

In the living room, curled up in a lounge chair with feet pressed to an armrest and knees close to the chest, sits Jaehyun. Nose deep into the pages of a printed-out book, blue ink running through the pages of it, overlapping, pen behind his ear. He’s wearing a sweatshirt twice his size (likely courtesy of Johnny) and a pair of very small, very short sleeping shorts, which Taeyong believes he put into the laundry basket the other day. His roommate has probably fished them straight out of the freshly done batch. Jaehyun’s toned thighs stick out of thin linen.

Taeyong’s a weak man. In his drained brain there’s not even a relic of the word that can describe the way he makes him feel.

Or maybe there is one.

He clears his throat. His voice is still rasp from sleep and yesterday’s nightmarish decisions.

“Good morning. What are you reading?”

Jaehyun wishes him a good morning too and voices a tongue-twisting title. Interpretation, analysis, criticism—words fly over Taeyong’s head. Cool, and certainly won’t fit into his hungover brain at this fine ass o’clock in the morning.

“Sounds really interesting. Will you lend it to me when you’re done?”

Jaehyun chuckles, pillowing his dimpled cheek on his palm.

“Doubt you’ll like it. I can recommend you something better if you want.”

He tries to sound as calm as possible but it’s like a breath got stuck somewhere in the wrong part of his throat. “Yes, please. Do you want some coffee?”

“Oh yes, definitely, thanks. Yours’ the best.”

Taeyong pads to the fridge, finding it appropriately empty: they’ve fumbled the grocery day again. Somewhere in the hallway a weekly task stares forlornly from its circle on an A3 calendar poster. He settles for a pack of jello and grabs a bag of coffee beans from the cabinet.

Jaehyun’s already by his side, watching him pouring the beans into the grinder over the kitchen island between them. Because of it Taeyong can’t see his model-like, mile-long legs and thus not risking to grind his fingers into a fine powder.

“Sorry, we’re out of mylk,” he says, pressing the start on the coffee machine. It roars quietly into the morning. When he chances a peak, Jaehyun’s looking somewhere at his shoulder that’s wrapped into the smooth silk.

“‘sfine, anything’s good,” he hums. Taeyong notices he’s still a little bit sleepy, a little bit tired in the way he blinks slowly from under his fringe, a knitted print of their cushion sliding from the corner of his jaw down, and here’s that unmistakable sting of guilt, side by side with the urge to reach and smooth a wild tuft of hair sticking out to the side. He looks so right—so in place here beside him, making coffee in the morning in their tiny open kitchen, all warm and mellow, unguarded, that Taeyong once again dips into the fantasy.

Bee Gees were right: go crazy is what I will do; if I can't have you, I don't want nobody.

The sound of Jaehyun’s voice stirs him out of it too soon.

“How are you feeling?”

Should be the one asking ‘cause I was in bliss and you had to deal with my mess, but instead Taeyong waves his hand vaguely, hoping the other will catch up to the meaning, and garbles a thing that must be glossed to an even vaguer could’ve been better. He places the Marimekko mug in front of Jaehyun.

“Here’s your coffee.”

“And my good morning kiss?”

It’s a jest, he knows, from the coquettish dip of his tone to the generous spark in a slit of his eyes like he was trying hard not to say it but still did, as though testing the depth of waters between them, yet Taeyong’s pulse skyrockets anyway, his blood pressure points probably all fucked up because there is no hazy foam anymore for words to stick to before truly getting to him.

He shrugs but steps closer until his knees hit the side of the island. Jaehyun braces his hands on the counter, their knuckles missing each other by a hair’s breadth, and grins rather sheepishly. Taeyong reciprocates the smile involuntarily with half a mind to fool him—to yank him by the shirt and kiss him first, properly, square on the mouth, meaning it. If only. He would no doubt throw the future Taeyong under the bus for that kind of moment.

It ends frustratingly fast.

“Such a good morning, isn’t it,” chips in Johnny, materializing in front of them, and Taeyong so wants to haul his nosy, cockblocking ass outta here to another neighborhood.

Completely unfazed by Taeyong’s scowl (that’s what being regularly exposed to the threat in small dosages does to him—he’s immune), Johnny reaches between the two to get a sip of Jaehyun’s coffee. The other is a second too late to slap his hand in protest.

“I’m so sick of you, Suh,” Taeyong whispers angrily, as Jaehyun—mug safe in his hand—goes to check his phone that’s slowly sliding off the coffee table from constantly buzzing. He pretends his gaze doesn’t linger.

“Easy, tiger, he’s not going anywhere. Yet,” Johnny whispers back. “Can I have some coffee too?”

“I guess you can,” Taeyong crosses his arms over his chest surly. “You know how to start the machine.”

Johnny snorts. “You’re so unfair.”

“You deserve it for blowing all my chances.”

“Chances for what, to embarrass yourself? I’m literally doing you a favor.”

Taeyong’s about to hiss something radically offensive when Jaehyun cuts in.

“It’s almost nine so the cafe should be open already,” he says, referring to their frequented place down the street. “How about some bagels for breakfast? I’ll pick ‘em up,” he’s already putting his sneakers on. “John? Avocado and egg?”

Johnny throws a piece sign over the couch armrest. Maybe Taeyong should buy him a bell or something so he’ll finally be able to hear him move around and prevent him from spoiling something important yet again. “You know me so well. Add a cold brew to it, since no one’s making me coffee in this house.”

Jaehyun turns to him, “One strawberry Danish and a canele?”

Taeyong’s innards are starting to thaw—this is his order. He lifts his still-sealed hangover jello, “No, I think I’m good.” Then, he adds, “Actually, Jaehyun.”

Oh Lord Almighty, here it goes.

He regrets it immediately when he meets Jaehyun’s innocent eyes.

“Are you free this Sunday?”

“Tomorrow? Yeah, why?”

“Do you—um—want to go for a walk? We can grab lunch later as well. Just you and I,” he goes on when he catches the younger looking in the direction of their couch.

Jaehyun visibly goes through three different versions of shock in a span of a second but eventually nods, slightly breathless. “Sure, uh, yeah.” He steps back towards the door, tripping over some shoes and knocking over an umbrella stand. He scurries to shove everything back. There’s definitely a blush on his confused face, pairing well with his lovely red ears. “You—you sure you don’t want anything?—okay—I-I’ll go.”

He grabs the first coat off the hanger and dashes out of the flat, foot catching on the threshold.

Johnny scooches over so Taeyong can throw himself onto the cushions next to him. “Bold. Knew you had it in you.”

“Did he realize that it’s a date?”

“Didn’t you see him run away just now? He’s probably freaking out, sprinting and freezing his legs out, and I’ll have to deal with that later, thanks to you.”

Sighing tiredly, Taeyong cranes his neck to look at the ceiling. That headache comes back tenfold stronger. He’ll no doubt freak out soon, too, if he’s so much to think about thinking of tomorrow. Everything in him whizzes with adrenaline like he’s just stepped out of a Russian mountain.

“So, a date.”

“Please don’t—don’t even say anything you’re thinking of saying. It was impulsive, I don’t know what came over me.”

Johnny shoves his hands deep inside the pocket of his bright yellow hoodie, and Taeyong knows he’s itching to have a smoke before breakfast. “Dunno, maybe it somehow correlates with you suddenly liking his content and commenting on it.”

“Fuck off you stalker, I was drunk—y’know, whatever. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not like I’m in love with him or anything.”

“Totally. Just a crush.”

“Just a crush.”

“Certainly. Not like you dedicated 2 months worth of comic panels for a bookstore newsletter to him.”

“…how did you know.”

“Oh, I’ve got you all figured out. Kitty’s donned in baggy jeans, a set of headphones bigger than his fluffy black-and-white head and this week is really into rediscovering Charles Baudelaire. Foolin’ nobody. Or remember that time you almost died of jealousy when a girl walked up to us at the movies to get his number. You said your head was hurting so much we had to drop the Exhuma queue for the re-release of Notting Hill.”

Taeyong pops a spoonful of his sorry breakfast into his mouth. It tastes like nothing. He politely doesn’t remind Johnny that he’s been oblivious for months. “Okay, mister know it all.”

“More like mister know the first signs of Lee Taeyong’s turmoil,” Johnny points to where he’s picking on his nails. “I’m serious. That face—I can see you worrying yourself. What’s up?”

He grunts. “Should I start with me doubting that the interest is mutual,” Johnny rolls his eyes, but he just brushes him off, “or do I go straight to the part where he’s twenty-two?”

Elegantly, Johnny chokes on his spit like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. “C’mon, you can’t be—really now—you do realize he’s already done with military? You are both adults, and the gap is not that dramatic at all.”

“What if I’m just not cool enough—“

“That’s not true. You know he’s always mopping about you never showing your awesome drawings for your badass projects and refusing to share your playlists—oh sorry, you were too busy acting like he doesn’t exist.”

Taeyong bites his cheek hard yet it does nothing to calm that hopeful bastard of a heart.

“Please, don’t make it more complicated than it really is, Yong. Allow him to like you, and yourself to like him.”

They sit in silence for a while; Taeyong slowly chews on his bland jello, and birds chirp outside their windows like they do only in the early days of autumn. When Johnny finally speaks, he sounds so sure it takes Taeyong aback.

“You’re gonna make a great pair.”

Taeyong doesn’t want to know how much raw pining his eyes let out. “You think?”

“I know that.” After a pause, he continues, “I’m gonna cry on your wedding, when you’ll cite Frank O’Hara in your vow for him.”

Taeyong shoves him—shut up!— and flushes up to the hairline. Johnny just laughs, jolly. “And why is that?”

“Well, stupid, two of my best friends are going to marry each other. What do you think I’m supposed to feel? I was surprised at first when you dropped the bomb on me last night—like, you barely talk with each other, and it must’ve been a huge bitch of a feeling if you’ve decided to let it out, even drunk—but now it’s so clear I feel idiotic for not noticing and losing my chance to use it against you, damn. You always tip-toe around each other, but then I leave you for two minutes and you fall together like puzzle pieces as if you were meant to do that from the start, already familiar. Like it couldn’t be any other way.

“Also, he gives this face only to you,” Johnny tucks his chin a little bit and, smiling, looks dumbly from under his brows. The only things missing are two dimples on his hollow cheeks.

At last, Taeyong laughs, feeling somewhat pacified. “He’s much prettier.”

The other snorts. “I’ll let this one slide in the name of love.”

Somewhere downstairs, the street hums peacefully. It’ll take an hour or two for the life to start filling up their part of the neighborhood. Rays of warm sunlight catch onto Taeyong’s hair as he wanders off to his tangled thoughts. Maybe it will be alright, after all. Or maybe he’ll go into a frenzy later trying to pick what to wear and where to take Jaehyun and what to talk to him about. Yeah, that’s likely to happen. Might as well go see the end of that dream, while he’s still able to fall asleep.

He scrambles to get off the couch. “Alright, I think I’m going to go catch up on sleep since, apparently, I’ve got myself a hot date. Need all my allure restored by tomorrow.”

Shrugging apathetically, Johnny picks up Jaehyun’s book from the chair and pretends to recognize some letters of the alphabet.

“Drop in for the father talk when you’re up. I know you’re not planning to hurt my precious boy but it’s a part of the protocol, you see. Bet you’ve already thought on the name for your future dog.”

Taeyong turns to look at him, offended, hands on the hips. “And what if I have? It’s a cute one, but I’m not telling you now that you think you’re so witty.” The next bit goes almost inaudible, but Johnny still catches on it, “And he can decide on the breed.”

As the door to the bedroom closes, Johnny fishes out his phone and sends a quick text to the adults group chat (the one, that for the obvious reason excludes Jaehyun and Mark). Given Taeyong’s about to be out like a light, he won’t see it for at least a couple of hours, and by that time it’s going to be too late for him to intervene.

What a massive fool.

john [09:12]
TAEYONG JUST ASKED JAEHYUN OUT

john [09:12]
ON A !DATE!

Not even a full minute later his phone blows up with notifications. New messages are rushing in, rich in question marks. And he thought some of those (2, there are literally two besides Taeyong and him) people were supposed to be asleep.

yuta [09:12]
HE WHAT

Accompanying the text is a set of flushed emojis that expresses Yuta’s genuine and pure surprise.

doyo [09:12]
???????????????????

yuta [09:12]
FCUK

doyo [09:13]
long overdue but still holy ???????

john [09:13]
BECAUSE HES IN LOVE WITH HIM

The messages keep flooding, their amount and speed bordering on hysteric. Well, he said nothing about the crush, did he? And if Taeyong cannot admit his real feelings even in his thoughts, that’s none of Johnny’s problems.

He scrolls down his chats when a particularly distressed unanswered text catches his attention.

hyun [08:47]
im freakibn OUtT rn ddid hhe mean izs A daTE

Ah, this. This right here, on the other hand, is going to be the problem he’ll have to deal with, for sure.