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“And I thought Wonwoo-hyung was good with cats.”
Seungkwan glances up from his position on the sofa, eyes following Chan as he collapses into the chair opposite him. Despite himself, a grin creeps its way across his face. “Think he’d be jealous?”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with himself,” Chan laughs. “He’d be like—” he pantomimes sitting stock-still, hands hovering helplessly over his lap. Matching Seungkwan’s grin, he asks, “What’s it like to be the chosen one?”
Seungkwan snorts, nothing short of fond. “It’s not that serious. I just got lucky.” With a feather-light touch, he brushes a stray hair from Jihoon’s forehead. Jihoon doesn’t so much as stir, and his heart swells with affection.
It’s a little bit of luck and a little bit of patience, but mostly the fact that he takes every chance he can get to coddle his least-cuddly hyung.
He’s gotten quite good at it, if he says so himself.
Being with Jihoon is strange, in a way. If you’d told him ten years ago that this is where they’d end up, he’d never have believed you. “Jihoon-hyung? No way, he’d never—”
Jihoon has an undeniable magnetic pull about him, though. Something about him makes one want to wheedle their way into his heart to build a home, sticks and twigs and scraps of fabric like a bird settling into a nest. And it’s easy. Jihoon is easy to love, and he loves back even easier, affection deep and wide with room for twelve and more. Having a special place reserved just for him is an honor that makes Seungkwan almost dizzyingly happy.
By virtue of their relationship, he’s Jihoon’s favorite dongsaeng, although the competition is understandably fierce. They slot together with the kind of perfect harmony Seungkwan is aware baffles those who only know them in passing. Their partnership is a well-oiled machine, a melody, a constant state of negotiation built on years of sincerity and consideration for each other’s feelings. It’s natural—simple, even—after all this time. Seungkwan nags and adores Jihoon in the same breath, and Jihoon has a soft spot for Seungkwan large enough to be seen from outer space. Seungkwan sees Jihoon for what he is and does his best to understand, even when they don’t see eye-to-eye.
As much as Seungkwan is Jihoon’s to protect, Seungkwan wants to care for Jihoon with everything he has.
And that’s why Jihoon is sleeping in his lap right now.
One.
When the schedules are packed, they’re packed.
Music video filming is always a grueling process, right up until it’s time to monitor the final take. It’s funny how, in those final moments, the exhilaration of seeing themselves onscreen—realizing how precise their movements are, how every component falls into place, how each of them brings their very best to the table for the sake of the team—never gets old.
They’d ended right on schedule, and Seungkwan is satisfied to check off another item on the list of back-to-back-to-back-to-back schedules Seventeen has lined up. Being booked and busy is a luxury not granted to every group, and this is something he will never take for granted.
He is tired, though, and not looking forward to the flight to Kuala Lumpur. The tour, yes, he’s very much looking forward to that, but if he could skip the airport, the plane ride, the line to get through customs, and the ground transportation—if he could blink and wake up in his hotel room, ready for bed and settled in for the evening—he would be perfectly happy to do so.
But he’ll take what he can get. He needs space, he needs quiet, and, seated across from Jihoon in the backseat of the company van, he’s blessed to have both of those things at the moment.
In the row in front of them, Seokmin and Joshua are out. Joshua’s head is hanging awkwardly to the side, and Seungkwan has to resist the urge to wake him in an effort to fix his posture. It isn’t worth it, he tells himself—not with how long and exhausting their day had been. A half-hour of uncomfortable sleep before the airport might be the only thing keeping Joshua upright by the time they're ready to board.
He doesn’t have a clear view of Jeonghan from his current vantage point, but he imagines a similar scene in the front seat.
Beside him, Jihoon is awake, but only barely. The vocal unit had filmed their first scene in the dawning light, and the sun has long since set over Seoul. Their flight doesn’t leave until nearly nine, so it’s a guarantee that they’re all going to sleep on the plane.
He glances over at Jihoon now. He looks calm, thoughtful, but definitely tired, staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand. He’s pretty like this, with the streetlights flickering over his face in a slow, muted strobe effect. Photoshoot lighting can be dialed in, artful and pristine in every way, but Seungkwan is certain he could take his phone out right now and snap a photo to rival every professional studio in the city.
He doesn’t try.
Jihoon is pretty, though. Very pretty.
In fact, maybe a bit too pretty…?
Seungkwan squints, then has a sudden realization. “Hyung, didn’t they get your makeup?”
Jihoon turns to him, briefly surprised. “Oh,” he says, “No. I said I’d do it.” He shrugs. “I was supposed to go last, but I didn’t wanna make everyone sit and wait for me.”
Seungkwan’s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, but…” it’s not like they’re going home. They’re headed to the airport right now. Does he intend to fly like this? “Are you just gonna leave it until we get to Malaysia?”
There’s a long pause. “I didn’t really think about it.”
Right.
“Oh, hyung…” Seungkwan sighs. He’s going to end up with a spectacular breakout if he doesn’t do something about it now. “Hang on, I have stuff in my bag.” He rummages around in his backpack, producing a bottle of micellar water and a small packet of cotton pads. Always prepared for anything, with good reason.
“Seungkwan-ah…” Jihoon sounds exasperated, but it’s not exactly a warning.
“Your skin’s gonna throw a fit if you don’t take care of it,” he says, already in the process of sliding into the middle seat. “I know you don’t care, but I care. Close your eyes.”
Jihoon looks off to the side, clearly weighing the pros and cons of compliance. Admitting Seungkwan’s nagging is right = bad… Having a clean face = good… Not having to do it himself = very good…
He turns back toward Seungkwan and closes his eyes.
Mentally, Seungkwan pumps his fist.
Physically, he says, “Stay still.”
He dampens one of the pads, letting it soak through, then dabs it lightly by the side of Jihoon’s eye. Jihoon doesn’t flinch, so he swipes it delicately across the closed eyelid, taking with it a streak of shimmering red eyeshadow. He repeats the process meticulously, taking his time and stopping whenever the car hits a bumpy section of pavement. He gets one eye cleared, then the other, and spends another minute removing every last bit of foundation from Jihoon’s skin. Ever the perfect canvas, Jihoon stays still for him even as he wipes the remainders of gloss from his lips.
He sits back, satisfied, and gathers all the used pads into a neat little pile in his lap. “Done.”
Jihoon opens his eyes, then tilts his head to the side, catlike. “Done?” he asks as though he hadn’t heard.
“Done,” Seungkwan repeats. Then, partly to complete the task and partly because he’s pretty sure he can get away with it, he adds, “I have moisturizer too, hang on.”
When Jihoon only nods, Seungkwan knows he has him right where he wants him.
Tucking the garbage to the side, he retrieves the moisturizer. He dispenses a dot onto his fingertip and looks up to find Jihoon has already obediently closed his eyes again. He smiles and dabs it gently onto Jihoon’s cheeks, works it in, and repeats the process on the rest of his face. With his left hand, he mirrors the actions of his right, running two fingers down the bridge of Jihoon’s nose, across his cheekbones, and along his jawline down to his chin.
Pushing his luck a little further, Seungkwan brings those same fingers to Jihoon’s temples, rubbing small, firm circles. What little of the tension remaining in Jihoon’s expression drops all at once, and Seungkwan has to bite back a giggle. He’s just so easy.
He keeps it up for a few minutes more, methodical strokes turning to carefree, whimsical doodles as Jihoon melts into putty in his hands. When his wrists finally get tired, he whispers, “Alright,” and cautiously pulls his arms back.
Jihoon’s chin droops to his chest and stays there.
Seungkwan does giggle now, just to himself, and pulls Jihoon in to rest against his shoulder.
Jihoon remains there until they reach the terminal.
Two.
“Jihoon-ah, do you need someone to walk you back?”
Seungkwan’s head snaps up.
For the past ten minutes, he’d been half-eavesdropping on Soonyoung and Mingyu’s lighthearted bickering, but this new line of conversation pulls his attention into the foreground. His eyes flit over to Wonwoo—who had just spoken—and then to Jihoon.
Jihoon is seated directly to his left, resting with his chin pillowed atop folded arms. He looks hazy and unfocused, but he smiles a little dazedly as he declines, “No, m’fine.”
So, that’s a resounding yes.
It’s getting late, the evening air wafting, humid and sticky, through the open door of the bar. Condensation drips down the empty bottle in front of Seungkwan, trickling slow like sweat on a fevered brow. It’s rare for the entire group to gather like this after a show, but they have the next two days off, and they’re making the most of it. Dinner and drinks are a must. They should, by all rights, be sick of each other after nearly four hours onstage, but it's different when it's just the group. No fans, no cameras, just thirteen people holding ten different conversations at once, noisy and boisterous and exactly the way it’s meant to be.
If you tried to convince the average person that a gathering of thirteen makes for an intimate affair, the chance that they’d agree is slim to none. For Seventeen, it’s the perfect number—no more, no less.
Now, Seungkwan rewinds through the past hour-or-so in his head, trying to count the number of drinks Jihoon had consumed. Not that many. Not enough to be worrisome. But he is, upon closer inspection, very flushed, and looking very drowsy, so Wonwoo’s assessment is a fair one.
“I’ll walk with you, hyung,” Seungkwan offers. “I’m getting tired anyway.” It’s not a lie. He’s pleasantly buzzed and very much looking forward to collapsing into bed and sleeping for the next twelve hours. If Jihoon is ready to go, he’ll take it for what it is—the perfect excuse to call it a night.
Jihoon tilts his head up, eyes drifting to the ceiling like the correct response might be written on the cracked tile overhead. “Okay,” he agrees after a long moment, “I’m tired, too.”
There’s a slight breeze outside, a welcome relief as soon as they step through the door. Jihoon is a little wobbly—just enough that Seungkwan feels compelled to guide him, one hand on the small of his back, as they head down the sidewalk toward the hotel. The street is, for the most part, empty. They’d chosen their spot well, away from prying eyes and ears. To go unnoticed and unrecognized in the wake of a concert is a rare treat.
It’s not a long walk, and Seungkwan feels no need to fill the silence with idle chatter. The restaurant had been, as places often are whenever Seventeen is around, loud, and the buzzing streetlights overhead and soft whoosh of each passing vehicle are soothing in the wake of so much noise.
Jihoon stumbles as he misjudges the first stair leading up to the hotel entrance, and Seungkwan’s arm snakes around his waist automatically to steady him. He smiles up at Seungkwan gratefully, eyes pressed into tiny, happy crescents, and Seungkwan’s heart aches with the fullness of it.
The lobby is quiet, and their floor, even quieter.
“This place is so nice,” Jihoon observes, wandering over to the couch as soon as Seungkwan keys open the door to his room. He sits with a little “Oof,” and Seungkwan watches as he takes in the view outside through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Traffic lights on the street below, headlights from passing cars, and office lights in a nearby skyscraper flash, rush by, or wink on and off as night deepens over the city.
Seungkwan turns on the lamp on the end table, and the reflection in the glass mutes the light show outside. Jihoon looks up at him now, face filled with no less awe than it had been while watching the wide world go by.
Seungkwan doesn’t want to break the silence—would like to stay in this moment forever, basking in the glow of Jihoon’s serene expression—but there are earthly conditions in play that can’t be ignored. “How are you feeling?”
This is enough to cloud Jihoon’s expression. “I’m—oh,” his voice falls flat, and he looks abruptly uncomfortable. He considers the question carefully, like there’s a single correct answer that he needs to puzzle out. Finally, he says, “I think I’m drunk, Seungkwan-ah.”
His tone is so sincere that Seungkwan can’t bear to laugh in his face, so he turns away, faking a series of coughs into the inside of his elbow.
As soon as he gets himself back under control, he responds, “You might be, hyung.” When Jihoon nods, he asks again, “But how do you feel?”
Once more, Jihoon ponders this like a philosophical question, then his expression twists into something abjectly miserable. A spike of worry shoots through Seungkwan’s heart at the thought that he might be feeling sick all of a sudden, but then he whines, “It’s too hot in here. I’m hot.”
Oh.
It really isn't hot in this room, especially compared to the outside temperature, but there’s still an easy enough solution to Jihoon’s problem. “Here, hyung,” Seungkwan says, reaching for the hem of Jihoon’s t-shirt. Jihoon lifts his arms, well-accustomed to being undressed in such a manner, and Seungkwan tugs the offending article of clothing over his head.
The flush high on Jihoon’s cheeks extends down his neck and all the way across his chest—it’s no wonder he’s too warm. The sudden rush of cool air against his skin must come as an immense relief, because he immediately slumps back into the couch cushions with a sigh. “This was a bad idea.”
“Which part?”
“Drinking,” Jihoon looks up at him with a pout, “I don’t know why I—” he’s cut off suddenly by a sharp hiccup, and he grimaces, pressing a palm flat against his chest. “Ow.”
Seungkwan can’t fight back a wry smile. “You’re gonna be sorry tomorrow morning.”
“Remind me next time,” Jihoon grouses, flopping sideways onto the couch. Seungkwan has to bite back yet another laugh at the childish behavior. For all the exposure they’d gotten during Nana Tour, tipsy Jihoon is still a novelty. As far as Jihoon is concerned, the reasons not to drink still generally outweigh the reasons to drink, but if he gets to let loose and make a poor choice every now and then, that’s not such a bad thing in Seungkwan’s opinion.
Historically, Seungkwan hasn’t always gotten tipsy Jihoon all to himself like this. His doting side—the side that wants to fuss whenever Jihoon looks like he could use some extra attention—doesn’t mind at all. “Are you gonna sleep right like that?”
Eyes closed, Jihoon nods.
“Are you comfortable?”
Another nod.
Seungkwan doubts it. The couch is upholstered in a sticky, unbreathable pleather, the cushions are incredibly firm, and Jihoon’s neck is currently lolling at an angle that gives Seungkwan a crick by proxy. With an incredulous huff, he steps over to the bed, grabs the plushest pillow from the headboard, and taps Jihoon on the shoulder. “Here.”
Jihoon cracks open one eye, sees the pillow, and obediently lifts his head.
He’s so funny like this, uncharacteristic in his expectation to be pampered, that Seungkwan can hold out no longer. He gives in to the temptation to pinch Jihoon's reddened cheeks, noting the temperature differential between his cool fingers and Jihoon’s overheated skin. This, finally, gets a scowl out of Jihoon, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners despite his best efforts to look grumpy, and all is well.
“Do you want me to stay?” Seungkwan offers.
Jihoon shakes his head. “M’good. You’ll sleep better by yourself.”
He’s not wrong, although Seungkwan would, in a heartbeat, stick around if he asked. He grabs the comforter from the bed, drapes it over the back of the couch, and announces, “I’m leaving this here for you in case you get cold. Call if you need anything?”
“I won’t.”
“Fine, don’t.”
Eyes still closed, Jihoon grins up at him, face flushed with half alcohol, half mirth.
Seungkwan leans in, intending to press a kiss to Jihoon’s forehead, but Jihoon tips his chin up instead.
Their lips connect.
It’s quick, chaste, lasting no more than a second. Jihoon’s mouth is soft and warm against his, and he’s still smiling, a little fuzzy around the edges now, as they pull apart. “Night, Seungkwan.”
Seungkwan’s cheeks heat for no reason, giddy in a way that has nothing to do with the few drinks he’d had. He doesn’t know why—muscle memory could match Jihoon’s lips to his in a thousand lifetimes—but the simple ease of the action fills his heart every time. Like a crow with a collection of shiny objects, he hoards moments like these, filing them away for safekeeping. Each memory, for all its familiarity, is new, and he never grows tired of turning them over in his head, marveling at each glimmering facet of their constant affection.
Although Jihoon’s eyes remain shut, the ghost of a smile lingers on his lips. Seungkwan hopes he sleeps well.
More to himself than to Jihoon, he murmurs, “Goodnight, hyung.”
He stands, steadying himself against the arm of the couch, and grabs the small trashcan from the corner of the room, placing it gently by the sofa—just in case.
He leaves a glass of water on the coffee table.
Three.
Seungkwan is going to make sure Jihoon enjoys the U.S. this time.
He tells himself this, full of determination, as he raps his knuckles against the closed hotel room door.
No response. He knows Jihoon is in there—they’d been texting only a short while ago, and Jihoon had promised to go out with the rest of the vocal unit this evening. There's no excuse. None. And he will not be deterred.
“You’d better not be naked,” he grumbles, tapping the master keycard against the door sensor. It doesn’t really matter—he’s certainly seen Jihoon naked often enough—but he isn’t in the mood for surprises right now. No distractions. Nothing to deviate from his mission. He pushes the door open, announcing himself again with a quieter, “Hyung, I’m coming in,” in case Jihoon is, in fact, in a state of undress. Or asleep.
He’s asleep.
With a sigh, Seungkwan lets the door swing shut behind himself. The room is dim, curtains closed, and Jihoon is an indistinguishable—but certainly present—lump beneath the blankets. He should have expected this. Joshua, Wonwoo, and Seokmin had apparently talked him into a trip to the boardwalk that morning, and considering last night’s concert had Aju Niced its way to nearly midnight, it’s no shocker that he’d be wiped out.
“Hyung,” he repeats, “we’re trying to decide where to go for dinner. You gotta wake up.”
“’M not sleeping,” the lump retorts.
Oh?
Seungkwan stops in the center of the room, pleasantly surprised. “You look like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m resting.”
Reaching the bed in a few more steps, he sits on the edge, plush mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. More gently, he asks, “You’re still coming out with us, right?”
“…Right.”
“Come on,” he cajoles, “it’ll be fun. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, and we were thinking seafood, maybe?” That should be a pull. “It’ll be fun,” he repeats.
“I said I’d come,” Jihoon insists, “I mean it. I’ll come. Whenever you’re ready.”
Celebratory fireworks and confetti cannons go off in Seungkwan’s head. “We’re planning to leave in an hour or so. Shua’s showering now,” he reaches out to pat what he approximates is Jihoon’s shoulder—
—then his hand hits something…soft.
Confused, he pats it again. Definitely not Jihoon’s body. A pillow, maybe? As his eyes adjust to the lighting—as he really examines the bed now—he realizes that the lump beneath the blankets is much too large to be just Jihoon. He also realizes that, next to the wild tuft of dark hair he assumes is the top of Jihoon’s head, there’s something brown and fluffy poking out from beneath the covers. “What’s this?” he tugs at the blankets. Jihoon puts up no resistance, and Seungkwan uncovers the mystery object.
It's…a bear?
A massive teddy bear, chocolatey brown, with big, dark eyes and a nose shaped like a heart.
He blinks. “Where’d this come from?”
Jihoon doesn’t lift his head. “Wonwoo gave it to me.”
Even more baffled, Seungkwan asks, “And where did he get it?”
“Arcade game on the boardwalk. It’s soft.”
Seungkwan doesn’t know what that has to do with anything, but he reaches out to touch anyway. It is soft. “Why’d he give it to you?”
“I told him the crane games were all rigged so it’s impossible to win. He said he was a crane game expert. I said bullshit. He said if he won something, he’d give it to me. And now I’m stuck with it.”
He doesn’t particularly look like he’s “stuck with it.” In fact, he looks completely content to have this giant stuffed bear tucked into bed beside him. If he didn’t want it, it would have been deposited onto the couch or the office chair on the other end of the room, but instead, this big, goofy boardwalk prize had apparently earned its not-insubstantial piece of real estate on the king-size bed. And, given the state of Jihoon’s mussed hair and the pillow creases on his cheek, he had absolutely been sleeping until just now.
Curled up next to the bear.
Seungkwan finds this abruptly funny and tries but fails to suppress a snort.
“What?” Jihoon demands, opening one eye to appraise him.
“Nothing,” Seungkwan holds up his hands placatingly, “Lucky you.”
“C’mere,” Jihoon pats the space beside himself, “lay down for a minute.”
This wasn’t exactly the plan. Seungkwan is really only here to get Jihoon’s input on their restaurant choice. Yet, who is he to refuse such a simple request?
He lies down on the only free part of the bed—opposite the bear.
In one motion, Jihoon grabs the bear and relocates it to the end of the bed. Taking this for the invitation it is, Seungkwan scoots over into the vacant spot. Jihoon rolls over until they’re face-to-face, and Seungkwan presses a quick kiss to his lips. He’s warm, pliant, and very obviously only half-awake, and when he snuggles close, tucking his head beneath Seungkwan’s chin, Seungkwan gives him a tight squeeze.
“Better than the bear?” he can’t help but ask.
“Less soft,” Jihoon replies. “Noisier, too.”
“But better, right?”
Jihoon pretends to think about it. He’s a terrible actor. Finally, he agrees, “But better.”
It’s so, so silly, but delight bubbles up in Seungkwan's chest anyway, and he kisses Jihoon again.
Four.
“I really am sorry, hyung.”
“Stop,” Jihoon orders, eyes closed. “I’m not mad. It’s fine.”
It certainly doesn’t feel fine—either physically or emotionally—but Seungkwan should probably count his blessings. This would be a million times more difficult if Jihoon was upset with him.
Jihoon ducks his head to the side, arm coming up to cover his face, and sneezes.
“Let me feel a little bad about it,” Seungkwan grumbles, turning his own head away to cough roughly into the crook of his elbow. With his other hand, he fumbles for the tissue box lost somewhere in the blankets. “Here,” he manages to unearth it, holding it out like an offering.
Jihoon blows his nose with a nightmarish sound, crumples up the tissue with a look of disgust, tosses it toward the overflowing wastebasket, and misses by a country mile. He looks tired.
This isn’t exactly Seungkwan’s fault, but it’s not exactly not his fault, either. Two days ago, he’d thought he was just tired after their performance. Two days ago, he’d assumed his scratchy throat was just the result of hours of singing and dancing, and that he’d feel better by the next morning. And two days ago, he’d believed that the best way to recoup energy was to stay in for the evening, order delicious takeout, and cuddle up next to his most favorite person in the world.
The full-blown cold he’d developed twelve hours later had proven just how wrong he was.
And thirty-six hours past that revelation, here they are.
Honestly, he isn’t suffering so terribly. If anything, this was the opportune time to get sick—a week-long period between concerts, during which the group is scheduled to make a handful of appearances on Japanese television. He and Jihoon can miss those small activities without a huge logistical nightmare, and they’ll almost certainly be on the mend by the time of the next show.
It’s a shame to miss out, though. Seungkwan genuinely enjoys the challenges posed by foreign variety shows—language struggles and all—and he loves having the opportunity to win over non-fans in the audience. As for the studio performances, it’s easier to fill in gaps from missing members there than it would be in a whole concert, but it's not ideal for the other members to have to adjust to any absence at the last minute. This fact stretches Seungkwan’s guilt about the whole situation further, beyond his role in getting Jihoon sick. He’d gladly pick up slack for another member at a moment’s notice, but it’s not easy to watch them do it for him.
Mind apparently on the same topic, Jihoon comments, “They’ll probably be leaving for the NHK taping soon.”
Seungkwan glances over at the clock on the nightstand to find that he’s right. “Think they’ll come say goodbye before they go?"
Jihoon shrugs, flopping back down onto his mountain of pillows with an exaggerated groan. Before Seungkwan can apologize again for every ache and pain, he says, “Stop. I’m not dying. We’re exactly the same.”
Seungkwan reaches over anyway, making a big production out of tucking Jihoon in. He pulls the covers up to his chin, pats his chest, and quickly goes to work smoothing out every last crease from the comforter. He’s trying to be a pest—or, at bare minimum, to get a laugh out of Jihoon—and he’s not sure if it’s better or worse when Jihoon just lets it happen, smiling up at him, completely content to be fussed over despite his protests ten seconds ago.
It’s almost too much for Seungkwan’s heart to take.
“How’d you get to be so cute?” he demands.
It’s mostly a joke, but it’s amazing how prettily this cold has painted Jihoon’s features. Jihoon is cute—all drowsy and bundled up in bed, cheeks and nose flushed, eyes a little puffy from coughing and sneezing and lack of sleep. He’s obviously uncomfortable, but something about it makes Seungkwan want to squish his cheeks and pepper his face with kisses. He should star in advertisements for cold medicine.
He’s gross, too—all phlegmy, with a runny nose and chapped lips—but he’s also Seungkwan’s, which ups his prettiness by about a thousand all on its own. The balance is impeccable.
“Think your eyes are broken,” Jihoon responds, although he positively preens when Seungkwan gives up on fixing the blankets to focus on petting his hair instead.
A soft knock on the door drags them from their moment of affection, and Jihoon issues a rough, “C’min,” the effort of raising his voice grating harshly across his sore throat.
Seungcheol pushes the door open. “We’re leaving now,” he says, “I just wanted to drop this off.” In his left hand, he holds up a small paper bag.
“What is it?” Seungkwan asks. Jihoon, semi-interested, pushes himself into a sitting position for a better look.
“One of the staff ran to the pharmacy for you.” From within the bag, Seungcheol produces a small bottle of what appears to be liquid medicine. “There’s a little measuring cup attached. Fill it to the line and take a dose every six hours.”
“What’s it do?” Jihoon wants to know.
“It’s for coughing and congestion. She said it’ll make you sleepy.”
“Is it gross?”
Seungcheol snorts. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Your nose is so stuffy you won’t be able to taste it anyway,” Seungkwan points out. To Seungcheol, he says, “Thanks, hyung.”
“Sure,” Seungcheol passes over the bottle. “Do you guys need anything else before we go?”
“I think we’re okay,” Seungkwan says, watching Jihoon flash a thumbs-up from the corner of his eye.
“Okay,” Seungcheol gives them one last pitying look. “Get some rest. Text the group chat if you think of anything.”
As soon as the door closes behind him, Seungkwan turns to Jihoon and says, “You should take some of this.”
Jihoon looks at him like he’s stupid. “You want me to sleep for the rest of the day?”
“Yes.”
“Are you that sick of me?”
“No,” Seungkwan gives him a playful shove, breaking into a grin when Jihoon laughs. “If you sleep well, you’ll get better faster, and I won’t have to be wracked with guilt every time I look at you.”
Jihoon, clearly not expecting such a response, positively cackles for just a moment before breaking off into a fit of loud, hacking coughs. Seungkwan pats his back with all the false solemnity he can muster, cooing and fussing when he finally collapses back, exhausted, onto the pillows.
“Cough medicine?” he offers cheekily.
Jihoon gives him a look.
Without waiting for a proper response, Seungkwan cracks the seal on the bottle, sets the cap aside, and measures out a dose into the little plastic cup. He holds it out, fixing Jihoon with his most sorrowful “do it for me” expression.
Jihoon sighs—hook, line, and sinker. He stares at the cup with mild apprehension, then accepts it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He downs it like a shot, pulls a horrible face, then hands it back. “Super gross,” he provides, then helpfully adds, “You should take it, too.”
“In a minute.”
The look returns.
“I will,” Seungkwan holds his hands up placatingly, “I promise.”
Jihoon’s unimpressed expression doesn’t dissipate in the slightest. “You’re such a—” he begins, then loses the rest of the sentence to a yawn. No way is the medicine working that fast. All of his tossing and turning last night must finally be catching up to him.
“Hm?” Seungkwan needles, “I’m a what?”
Jihoon blinks up at him. “You’re something,” he decides. “Definitely something.”
Seungkwan leans in and presses a kiss to his temple.
Five.
“Are you busy?”
The question is calm, casual, yet something about it makes Seungkwan’s brow furrow. He turns up the volume on his phone, pressing it tighter to his ear. “Is something wrong, hyung?”
A moment of hesitation, then, “No, it’s just—I miss you?”
They’ve been home for less than two weeks, and it’s already come to this.
He could tease Jihoon about being clingy. Ask where his desire for alone time went. Say that he thought for sure the roles would be reversed—that he’d be the one staring longingly at his phone, grateful to be home but missing the proximity like nothing else. It’s funny—he really could joke about it.
But he won’t.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“In the studio. Where are you?”
“At home. We have the day off, remember?”
There’s a pause. Seungkwan smiles. It might be a schedule-less day, but when it comes to Jihoon, time off rarely translates into time spent away from work. In all likelihood, he’d forgotten as soon as it was announced.
“Give me twenty minutes, hyung.”
“Oh—okay,” Jihoon sounds relieved, and Seungkwan’s loss of a lazy afternoon at home becomes immediately worth it.
Within three minutes, he's dressed and slipping on his shoes by the door. Eighteen minutes after that, he’s pulling into the company parking garage. And two minutes later, he’s knocking on the door to Jihoon’s studio.
He half-expects Jihoon to complain about him being late, but before he can even let himself in, he’s met with the door swinging open and Jihoon’s forehead thumping against his chest. Seungkwan catches him, arms rising automatically to encircle his body. “Hi,” he greets, mildly surprised, “is everything okay?”
“Tired. Sore. Wanted to see you.”
Those are three separate problems. Seungkwan mentally prioritizes them. “Sore from what?”
“Gym.”
“Are you hurt?” he pulls back to look Jihoon up and down.
Jihoon shakes his head.
Relieved, Seungkwan tows him over to the couch, pulling them both down with practiced ease. Jihoon fits into his arms perfectly, back to chest, eagerly taking the position of little spoon. Seungkwan rests his chin atop Jihoon’s head, inhaling deeply. He smells like shampoo, hair still slightly damp. He must have showered right after the gym.
With his arms around Jihoon’s waist, Seungkwan asks, “Why’d you push yourself?”
“I didn’t,” Jihoon protests, “not really.”
“You did a little bit,” Seungkwan counters, “otherwise you wouldn’t be like this.” He doesn’t expect a response, but he’s not entirely unsympathetic. “What’re you gonna do about practice tomorrow morning?” he asks, rubbing Jihoon’s stomach in slow, sweeping circles. That probably isn’t where the worst of the ache is, but it’s the only part of Jihoon he can reach.
“Sleep now,” Jihoon mumbles, “worry about it later.”
Seungkwan raises an eyebrow for an audience of none. “Is that why you called me?”
Jihoon nods.
“And what if I had plans for the rest of the day?”
There’s a beat of silence, then Jihoon says, “Oh,” like it hadn’t even occurred to him that he might not get to be the center of Seungkwan’s world today. “Did you?”
Seungkwan snorts. “Not until half an hour ago,” he gives Jihoon a reassuring squeeze. “Now I’m thinking of watching a movie and ordering takeout with my favorite hyung.”
“Better call Jeonghan, then.”
Seungkwan plays along, “Oh, right, where’s my phone…?” He pats around on his pockets, then the sofa, like he’s truly searching.
Jihoon tips his head back to meet Seungkwan’s eyes. “Did you actually have something? I didn’t really...I wasn’t thinking.”
Something about that simple statement—he wasn’t thinking—goes straight to Seungkwan’s heart. To Jihoon, this is a given. A reflex. He runs on distracted autopilot sometimes, and the fact that it would lead him here holds a significance not lost on Seungkwan.
“I don’t,” he replies sincerely. “I’m happy you called.”
This clearly pleases Jihoon, who makes an effort now to turn onto his other side to face Seungkwan. The couch really isn’t deep enough for that maneuver, so Seungkwan shimmies onto his back so Jihoon can lie more or less on top of him. He’s heavy—small, but dense. Seungkwan feels safe like this, pressed into the couch cushions with Jihoon smiling down at him. Their lips connect, easy as breathing.
When Jihoon deepens the kiss, tongue swiping over Seungkwan’s lower lip, Seungkwan is surprised, but he’d give Jihoon anything he asked for without a second thought. Despite making the first move, Jihoon kisses lazily, like they have all the time in the world. He tastes like mint, teeth freshly brushed, and Seungkwan wonders if he’d been planning this from the beginning.
When Jihoon breaks away, it’s to yawn, which is so ridiculous Seungkwan can’t quite stifle a laugh. Jihoon grins down at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says, because it is. “How early did you get up?”
Jihoon shrugs, scooting down just enough to rest his head on Seungkwan’s chest. “Four or five.” When Seungkwan makes an appalled noise, he explains, “I’m still on a weird schedule. I couldn’t sleep. Thought the gym would help. Then I figured I’d come here and work for a while, but…” another shrug, followed by a sigh. Seungkwan can picture him rolling his eyes. “Should’ve taken it easy, I guess.”
In this new position, Seungkwan can rub Jihoon’s back, so he does. He’s no masseuse—especially at this angle—but he can tell he’s hit the right spot when he splays a hand out on Jihoon’s lower back, because Jihoon groans.
Before he can ask, Jihoon clarifies, “I’m okay. Keep doing that?”
The eagerness in his tone is as transparent as air, and Seungkwan jolts with a little laugh.
With no other choice—because what else would he do?—Seungkwan gently massages the sore spot, smiling as Jihoon melts against him. When he yawns again, pointedly tucking his head beneath Seungkwan’s chin, Seungkwan asks, “You’re gonna fall asleep right like this?”
Jihoon nods.
“What if I said I have to pee?”
“Do you?”
This conversation feels like déjà vu. “No.”
“We can watch a movie and order food, like you said, I just—need a minute. Five minutes.”
“Okay,” Seungkwan agrees, “five minutes.”
He lets Jihoon sleep for forty-five.
(He thinks, not for the first time, that he might have Jihoon a little spoiled.)
(Of all the problems in the world to have created, he’s pretty sure he can live with this one.)