Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dejun isn’t homophobic.

He’s not gay, but he works in theatre, so most of his friends are. He thinks gay people should, like, be able to get married and have kids and whatever else gay people can’t do right now. He’s even kissed the odd guy at a party during one drinking game or another: mostly just a light peck, but if they want to take it further, he’s not gonna back off. He’s pretty sure he’s passing most ally benchmarks here.

But if he’s not homophobic, he’s not sure how to explain his reaction when Yangyang brings a guy home.

Maybe he’s just in a bad mood. The more he thinks about it, the more plausible it feels—he had a really hard day. His life is at the best of times a series of unfortunate events, so this isn’t uncommon, but today was bad even for him: he overslept, missed his train, arrived at rehearsal late, and got chewed out by his director. Kun said the director was too harsh but looked at Dejun like he thought he was irresponsible regardless, which was worse. Renjun canceled their evening plans because he caught the flu. On the way back it started pouring, so by the time he arrives at his and Yangyang’s apartment he’s less of a person and more of a sad, wet, human-shaped mass. All that’s keeping him going is the thought that after he showers, he can bother Yangyang until he gives in and watches some cheesy drama he’ll pretend not to enjoy, and then the night will at least end on a good note.

This plan goes out the window once he steps inside and sees Yangyang pressing some guy against the armrest of their couch.

Three things cross his mind in quick succession:

1. A guy?
2. Yangyang looks like a good kisser. Not that it matters much to Dejun, but the guy (guy) he’s kissing is full-on whimpering, and he gets why, objectively. Yangyang’s hand is fitted loosely around the back of his neck; Dejun catches a hint of teeth pressing against the other guy’s bottom lip. He’s always thought Yangyang had nice teeth. That must give him a pretty good advantage if people are into the biting thing. Dejun’s getting off track.
3. A guy?

He wonders if he can sneak into his room unnoticed. When he tries, he stubs his toe against the chair he’s always telling Yangyang he has to stop moving so close to the door and swears loudly enough that everything halts. 

“Uh,” says Yangyang. His lips are even redder than his hair, which is appropriately disheveled. Dejun doesn’t know where he’s supposed to look, so he settles on a spot right above his head. “I thought you were with Renjun.”

“Uh,” Dejun says back. “He got sick.” He shoots him a thumbs up and immediately regrets it. “I’ll be in my room. Just, um. Don’t be too loud. Or do.” He winces. “No, don’t.”

Yangyang opens his mouth and closes it again: lets his eyes flicker up and down as he takes Dejun in, which is a little weird for him until he remembers he’s soaking. “Are you… like, okay?”

The answer is not really, for a lot of reasons: he’s cold. He’s kind of nauseous. His stomach is twisting in an uncomfortable, annoying way, and he’s not sure why.

He says, “Yeah. Awesome. I’ll, um…” He inclines his head politely toward Yangyang’s—hookup? Boyfriend? Whatever—and then speedwalks into his room, closing the door and completely forgetting he’s still gross and drenched until he gets rainwater all over his sheets.

It’s not like Yangyang’s never been with anyone in front of him before. They’re both adults and they were friends for like, five years before they moved in together; it would be a little concerning if he didn’t. Nothing’s affected him like this, though—the knot in his stomach hasn’t let up, and he’s so distracted he spends ten minutes staring blankly at his dresser before he pulls out clothes to change into.

None of them have been with men, but it’s not like that matters. Dejun can’t figure out why he’d be so—so—whatever he’s feeling right now, though, or why he’s still stuck on the image of Yangyang pinning someone to the couch, his mouth dipping to his jaw.

The only thing that he can think of is that it does matter that he’s a man. He’s never had an issue with any of his other friends seeing men, though he guesses he’s never walked in on them doing anything with them in his home. But every other week he sees Ten making out with some guy at a house party and that never bothers him at all.

By the time he makes it out of his room, Yangyang’s hookup-date-boyfriend is gone. He’s standing over the countertop squinting at the final packet of the ramen they bought last week like it’s personally offended him. His t-shirt’s oversized, like always, and hanging low enough that Dejun can make out a faint bruise just by his collarbone.

He feels a little sick. What’s wrong with him?

“Hey,” Yangyang says, looking up at him. “About that—”

“You didn’t have to kick him out,” says Dejun. “I was just—” he gestures at his clothes, then toward the bathroom. “So I wouldn’t have interrupted anything.” He tries very hard not to think about what exactly he might or might not interrupt. It doesn’t work.

“Nah,” Yangyang replies. He laughs. It’s awkward and stilted, but Dejun appreciates the effort. “Kind of, like. Killed the mood a little.”

“Oh.” Dejun feels an inexplicable, mean thrill of satisfaction at that. “My bad?”

Yangyang shakes his head, which is weird; usually he’d take the easy opportunity to make fun of him. “It’s cool. I wasn’t super into him or anything anyway.” He pauses for a fraction of a second before he says him. Dejun’s pretty sure this is the part where he’s supposed to reassure him that obviously it’s no big deal and whoever Yangyang sees in his free time is his own business and whatever else he can think of that’s supportive but not overbearing.

Instead he blurts, “You looked pretty into him.”

Yangyang flushes, then smirks, which looks fascinatingly stupid when he’s still bright red. “You were watching?”

“I wasn’t—shut up; you were right there,” Dejun snaps, feeling himself turn red in response. He clears his throat. “You know I don’t… I don’t care, right? That you like guys.” The lie makes him feel itchy as he says it, which—why is it a lie?

Before he can dwell more on it, Yangyang rolls his eyes, though he looks relieved. “Duh. You don’t have to be weird.”

“Just making sure,” Dejun replies, running a hand through his hair and grimacing when it’s still damp. “I’m gonna…”

“Yeah,” says Yangyang. He blinks. “Dude, seriously, what happened to you?”

Usually, Dejun would take the opportunity to complain about his day while Yangyang makes his dinner, exaggerating every detail until they’re both doubled over laughing. Right now, though, he can’t even really look at him without zeroing in on his red mouth, his mussed hair, so he just shrugs. Takes a step back. Grins, halfhearted. “Long day,” he says.

Yangyang’s brows pinch together, but he doesn’t press it: mutters okay, turns to the stove and opens his ramen package with a loud pop. Dejun takes that as his cue to leave. He tries really hard not to think about Yangyang in the shower and fails. (Not like that. It’s still shitty.)

He has to work this out.

#

Dejun’s pretty sure ‘working this out’ doesn’t involve thinking extensively about Yangyang’s sex life, but knowing this isn’t helping him get back on task.

Part of it is just—he’s never seen Yangyang kiss anyone before. Even during parties, where everyone’s kissing everyone, Yangyang weasels out of drinking games. Takes his hookups to his room or goes to theirs before he does anything more than flirt. Dejun assumed he was really private, and he probably is, since he was only with that guy in the open because he thought Dejun would be out late, but now the image is with him forever.

There’s a line between curiosity and fixation, though, and Dejun’s on the wrong end of it. He keeps thinking about the way Yangyang’s hand was placed: almost possessive, almost tender. Then he starts wondering about if Yangyang kisses like that all the time, and suddenly he’s stuck imagining Yangyang making out with some beautiful, nondescript man, then Yangyang over him, Yangyang under him, Yangyang’s bruised mouth stretched around him—

—And that’s gross and guilt-inducing and sounds weird, and he’s not an idiot; it would usually make him reflect a little, but he doesn’t feel particularly pleasant. Mostly he just feels… angry. Uncomfortable. The knot in his stomach won’t let up.

Which brings him to his conclusion: he’s got serious homophobia issues to work through, and he’s only managed to avoid realizing this because none of the gay people he knows are his roommate.

It doesn’t help that Yangyang starts being really open about seeing guys—like, way more open than he was about seeing any of the girls he was briefly with. “I’m friends with most of them already,” he explains when Dejun tries to be subtle about asking what changed and probably fails. “So it’s no big deal to head over to their place. Or, like, go out and then decide it’s a date.”

“Cool,” says Dejun. “Yeah. Makes sense.” Is Yangyang sleeping with all his friends? Most of them? Why is it that it’s only Dejun who’s so undesirable that the idea of wanting him is a hilarious joke?

Not that he wants Yangyang to want him or anything; it’s just kind of a blow to the ego. He thinks he’s a good-looking guy. He works out. He takes care of himself. People call him pretty sometimes. He knows it would be homophobic of him to assume every gay guy’s into him, but is it homophobic to think every gay guy should be?

Yangyang’s not even gay; he’s bi. Is it homophobic to refer to him as gay in his head? Or biphobic or something? Probably. He makes a note to work on that, too.

“Hey.” Yangyang waves a hand in front of his face. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Dejun says, still faraway, and then he blinks. Adjusts. The only thing worse than being homophobic is Yangyang finding out. “I’m good,” he repeats, reaching for something that’s not quite a lie. “Uh, just busy. Rehearsals are…” He waves a hand. “Our director’s been kind of an asshole lately.”

“Oh,” says Yangyang, looking the way he always does when he’s trying not to let on that he’s concerned: mouth carefully even, fingers tapping a little faster than usual against the fabric of his sweatpants. It’s kind of sweet. “Fuck him.”

“No, I deserve it,” Dejun admits gloomily. “I’ve been so—” Distracted by Yangyang’s newfound bisexuality is the truth, but that doesn’t seem like it’ll land well, so he settles on, “tired and out of it, so I keep messing up my lines.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s fine, though; I can catch up.”

Yangyang hums. “Opening’s a while away, right? Not like it’s a huge deal yet.”

“Four weeks isn’t that long.”

“Totally is,” Yangyang says. He leans over and grabs Dejun’s shoulder companionably. “You’ll do fine, dude; don’t stress. You’re good at this shit. You wouldn’t have gotten lead if you weren’t.” 

Dejun squints at him. He rolls his eyes and says, “I’m serious.” Then, as if remembering he can make jokes at his expense, Yangyang grins and adds, “I can take you to dinner after opening night once you kill it. Like, woo you after your big day…”

“Ha ha,” says Dejun flatly. “I’ll order the most expensive thing on the menu. Three times.”

“See if I ask you on a second date.”

“If you’re not willing to pay for that you wouldn’t deserve one.”

Yangyang pauses like he’s thinking. “Then I’ll pay,” he says, and Dejun knows it’s a joke because it always is, but he sounds halfway serious. He’s so thrown off guard for a moment that all he can manage in response is an incredulous noise.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he replies, and Yangyang just smiles again. He really does have nice teeth. Dejun needs to stop imagining them on a stranger’s throat before he loses his mind.

He can’t for the rest of the night.

#

It’s not like Dejun plans Twilight nights on purpose; they just… end up happening pretty regularly. Look—he owns a limited edition box set, and it would be a waste of money to not make good use of all the DVDs and their perfectly nice TV at least once a month. Usually a few times a month. They’re in good condition, and they’re masterpieces, so.

Yangyang never gets the logic. “You’ve watched them so many times that I know the lines,” he complains, blatantly on his phone as the selection screen boots up. “I feel like I’m, like, enabling an addiction.” He grins down at his screen—taps something out and grins harder after he sends it. Dejun’s eye twitches.

“I always pay attention when we watch your picks,” Dejun says, snatching Yangyang’s phone out of his hands and holding it away when he reaches for it.

“You like my picks—c’mon, give me my—” Yangyang pulls Dejun down with one hand and reaches for his phone with the other—misses, because Dejun’s fast and not that much shorter than him, no matter how much he likes to brag about their five centimeter height difference—ends up wrestling Dejun against the couch, both of them laughing now, Dejun’s eyes shut, Yangyang not even trying to get the phone so much as he’s trying to press him into the cushions or something.

Before Dejun knows it Yangyang’s not trying to do much at all, which is weird. He opens his eyes and catches him staring down at him like—like—he doesn’t know. His left hand’s still circling Dejun’s wrist: a loose grip. His lips are parted. His eyes are dark, focused, though Dejun can’t imagine on what. What’s more concerning is that Dejun’s pulse is thrumming so hard he’s a little scared Yangyang can feel it.

“What?” he asks, just to say something. His voice cracks. He considers dying right there on the couch.

Yangyang snatches his phone from Dejun and sits up, lightning-quick. “I win,” he says smugly, and he snickers when Dejun smacks him. “Anyway, it’s not the same because you like everything I put on.”

“I don’t like everything,” argues Dejun. “Like when you wanna put on an old basketball game it’s always really boring—”

“This again—”

“We already know how they end,” he continues just to watch Yangyang’s eyes roll. “There’s no point if you can Google the results.” He grabs the remote and hits play. “And I still pay attention. So.”

“Fine,” says Yangyang, placing the phone facedown next to him and holding both his hands up. “If it’s that important to you.”

“It is,” sniffs Dejun like it’s a joke, but the relief he feels at keeping Yangyang away from his—whatever—burns through him so vividly he feels a little guilty.

It’s fine. Edward’s beautiful sparkly skin will take his mind off things.

As they settle into their usual routine (Dejun watches, enraptured, and Yangyang points out the same plot holes he does every other time like he’s coming up with something new), Dejun almost forgets things have been different. He knows they haven’t been, really; it’s just—that’s just Yangyang, right now. His best friend who gets really annoying about the movies they watch together. The only reminder that things have been different is the steady stream of buzzing coming from Yangyang’s phone, but he picks it up after a few minutes just to turn notifications off, and then that’s gone too. (And if Dejun thinks something incredibly stupid like take that, Yangyang’s hookups; he’s still first priority—that’s his business.)

“I wish Jacob was in this one,” says Yangyang. His mouth twitches into a barely-hidden smile like it always does when he’s trying to get a rise out of Dejun, but it’s working. “I like him.”

“And not Edward?”

Yangyang glances at the screen, where Edward’s currently stopping a car from hitting Bella with one hand because he’s cool and strong, and glances back at Dejun, unimpressed. “He’s okay.”

“Okay,” scoffs Dejun. “He’s way cooler. And more handsome. And a vampire, and better for Bella, if you cared about her at all—”

“Doesn’t he, like, abandon her to die for the entire next movie—”

“He’s trying to protect her,” Dejun hisses, and Yangyang dissolves into laughter—the really annoying kind, where he’s somehow managing to point while doubling over. Like always, Dejun’s still unfairly endeared. It must be really easy to get away with being infuriating when you have a cute smile.

He pauses. “Wait,” he realizes, a little touched despite himself. “You know the plot?”

It takes Yangyang a few seconds to stop laughing, but his eyes are still crinkled when he responds. “Duh?” He gestures to the screen. “I told you; I even know the lines. Watch: can I talk to you for a moment? How did you get over to me so quickly? ” Then, in a cartoonishly deep voice that sounds a little too much like his Dejun impression to be convincing: “I was standing right next to you.”

Before he can go through the whole scene (can he go through the whole scene?), Dejun holds a hand out. “I get it,” he says. “I didn’t know you were paying attention.”

Yangyang turns so red Dejun can see it with just the aid of the TV lighting. “I’m not,” he replies, too hastily. “Not on purpose. I just, like—if I’m absorbing twenty percent of it every time, and we’ve watched it fifty times, that’s, like, a thousand percent or something.”

“The math there doesn’t feel right,” says Dejun.

“Shut up,” says Yangyang, leaning over to shove him, which is normal except—part of Dejun’s brain is still latched onto the image of Yangyang above him, staring at him with that look in his eye, of Yangyang’s hand wrapped around his wrist—of Yangyang’s hand wrapped around someone’s neck—

—And he flinches away.

Yangyang’s hand falls back to his side. His smile’s fallen off his face. Dejun turns to the television and says, feebly, “Uh. I thought I told you to pay attention.”

“I know this part by heart, too,” Yangyang mumbles, pasting on another halfhearted grin. He doesn’t reach out for the rest of the night. Dejun pretends he doesn’t want him to.

#

Dejun’s perfectly capable of admitting when a guy is attractive. Like his old gym buddy in college who was about three meters tall and jacked beyond belief. Or that one member of crew for his last show who always smiled at him and had a really nice voice. Or Yangyang.

Well, he’s having a little trouble with Yangyang.

It’s not that he doesn’t know he’s hot—objectively speaking, Yangyang’s one of the best looking people in the world, probably, and the number of times people inform him he’s beautiful in public just for the fun of it is proof—it’s just… weird being faced with it so much all of a sudden. Every time they go somewhere people flirt with him. These days Yangyang’s flirting back where he used to mostly brush the attention off. Which is his prerogative and none of Dejun’s business, but it’s still hard to get used to losing him halfway through the night every night.

Today they’re headed to a club Ten’s friend works at. He’s not really sure what they’re celebrating, but he’s needed a distraction for a few weeks now, so he took him up on the offer and made Yangyang promise to go out with him. He looks—good. Objectively. He did something with his hair that made it really fluffy and he’s wearing a jacket that pulls in neatly at his waist. Dejun’s perfectly capable of admitting when a guy is attractive, but when Yangyang quirks his mouth and says, obnoxiously, “Like what you see?”, he still has to glance away.

“You wish,” he replies. Yangyang snorts. His hair’s already falling slightly out of place, but it looks more artfully disheveled than anything. The red is really flattering. Most colors are on him. Dejun doesn’t know why he’s thinking so much about it. “C’mon, let’s go.”

They’ve barely been there for half an hour before Yangyang’s talking to someone Dejun’s never seen in his life. To be fair, it’s not like he’s ignoring Dejun to do it—technically speaking, they’re on opposite ends of the bar, Dejun’s engaged in a conversation, and there’s no reason Yangyang shouldn’t be talking to whoever he wants to—but it still makes something low and angry start roiling in his chest.

The guy’s managed to tuck himself halfway under Yangyang’s arm, which is impressive because Yangyang’s not at all tall. His date’s shorter, though, by a little. Half the guys Dejun’s seen him with have been small. Big-eyed. Smiley. He wonders if that’s his type or just a coincidence, because not that many of their friends are small and big-eyed, but he has no problem hooking up with them either.

“You’re not even listening,” says Guanheng.

“I am,” replies Dejun, who hasn’t been listening. Guanheng turns all the way around in his seat to see where he’s looking—only turns back when Dejun yanks on his arm.

“Dude.”

“It’s not—don’t be weird,” Dejun warns.

”I’m not saying anything.” He’s smiling like he really, really wants to. At least that means he’s probably got the wrong idea; Dejun can’t imagine him being this excited that he’s secretly been homophobic all along. “Cool that he’s finally being open.”

“You knew?”

“Suspected.” Guanheng slurps his drink. Dejun winces at the noise. “I mean, like. Have you seen the way he looks at…” he trails off, seems to consider what he’s saying, then finishes vaguely with, “Men.”

“Uh,” says Dejun. “No?” Yangyang’s staring at the man he’s with like he wants to eat him: eyes focused on his mouth, hand splayed against his side, lip drawn between his teeth. Has he been looking at people like that the whole time? Is Dejun completely stupid? Was he just missing things he didn’t want to see?

Guanheng plays with his straw, jostling the ice around in his empty glass. “Yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “I guess it makes sense that you wouldn’t.”

Dejun frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of giving him a straight answer, Guanheng pats his back. “You’ll figure it out someday,” he says with the air of someone a decade older than him and not a month younger. “Don’t worry about it for now.”

Dejun just groans and orders another drink.

He tries to think about literally anything else: makes conversation with a really pretty friend of Ten’s, someone he’d easily find himself going home with on any other night. While he’s dancing with her, though, he spots Yangyang leaving with his date, eyes flickering vaguely in his direction before he does, and he feels so sick he has to pull back not even two songs later.

“Sorry,” he says—runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not really… I should go.”

By the time he gets to the apartment he’s a fair bit past tipsy, irrationally upset, and ready to more or less pass out and reflect on his behavior in the morning. But just as he’s about to tuck himself in, he hears a laugh from the direction of Yangyang’s room, and—that’s not Yangyang’s laugh.

Ah, he realizes when the laugh fades into something breathy, and then: shit.

Yangyang doesn’t really bring people home. Or—he does, obviously, because all this started when Dejun saw him on the couch that stupid afternoon, and sometimes he sees remnants of a one-night stand the next morning, but never when Dejun’s around. He might think he went home with someone else; he was quiet on his way in.

He should’ve been louder, he thinks miserably. It’s not pornographic, and the walls are thin but not thin enough for him to hear everything, but he can still hear some things. The bed creaking. The occasional soft, contented noise. An oh—not Yangyang—and then a low, encouraging murmur—Yangyang, though that’s a kind of voice Dejun’s never heard from him before.

It’s gross to hear any of his friends have sex. Back in college, when he and Guanheng roomed together, he walked in on him and his then-girlfriend and they couldn’t look each other in the eye for an hour afterward. He didn’t feel anything but overbearing awkwardness, though—not this quiet, simmering rage. Not a stupid, insane desire to barge in there and make it stop. And when Guanheng had brought it up after they’d laughed about it, and—and he can’t imagine laughing with Yangyang, not about this. Can’t imagine ever finding it funny.

He screws his eyes shut and goes to sleep, but not before he thinks that even worse than the sex is the giggling conversation after.

#

He wakes up with a headache that doesn’t go away by the time he’s made it out to the kitchen. It worsens when he sees someone that isn’t Yangyang with him at their shitty makeshift dining table. Before he can say anything, Yangyang sees him and clears his throat. “I didn’t, uh,” he says. “I thought you were out.”

Dejun should make a joke about it being the second time. Make a joke about anything, really. Instead he says, “I wasn’t.”

“Yeah.” Yangyang does something that’s almost a laugh. “I know that now.” He gestures awkwardly at his hookup. Date. Whatever. They usually don’t stay until the morning—they usually don’t have breakfast , and judging from the slightly charred eggs, Yangyang made it himself. He wonders if they laughed about it when he burnt them. Dejun’s usually the one laughing about it. “Uh, this is Jaewon. Jaewon, this is, uh—my roommate. Dejun.”

Jaewon’s hair is a little damp. So is Yangyang’s. So is Dejun’s, because he just showered, too, but he wasn’t—it’s not the same. Jaewon smiles up at him from his spot—leaning against Yangyang, chair pulled all the way in so his head can pillow against his shoulder—and says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Sure,” says Dejun, which is rude, and usually he can at least act better than that even with people he hates, but it’s all he can manage without feeling nauseous. Yangyang frowns at him and he looks away. “I’m gonna—I’ve gotta head out. Um, errands. I’ll see you later.”

“You’re not gonna eat?” Yangyang asks, and Dejun just shrugs at him before practically running out the door.

He doesn’t actually have any errands to run, so he just ends up pacing around the same block for an hour before he loiters at the grocery store for a few more. Yangyang hasn’t dated anyone seriously since they met. Hasn’t even come close. Thinking back, Dejun’s never so much as met a hookup. Obviously it makes sense that it would happen someday; Yangyang’s twenty-four, but Dejun didn’t think—he doesn’t know what he thought.

The more he thinks about it the more he scowls, which is stupid. It’s not like Yangyang in a relationship affects his life much more than Yangyang having the occasional one-night stand, logistically speaking, and he should be happy for him. Happy to see Jaewon laughing about his terrible cooking, going to the movies with him, slipping into his room at night and closing the door behind them.

He doesn’t feel angry anymore so much as he feels disheartened. He’s not sure if that’s a step up. In fact, it might be a step down—why is he depressed that Yangyang might be getting somewhere with a guy?

Maybe Dejun’s a terrible person. He’ll go back home and apologize for being cold and—and work on himself, until he doesn’t feel like his heart is trying to tear itself out of his chest at the thought of Yangyang being happy. It’ll be fine. It has to be fine.

He realizes it’s not fine as soon as he steps into the apartment and Jaewon’s still there. Dejun didn’t notice earlier, but he’s wearing Yangyang’s shirt, a faded logo emblazoned across his chest that Dejun’s seen a million times before. He feels kind of like he’s been punched in the gut. “Oh,” says Jaewon. He smiles again. It’s a nice smile. Not as nice as Yangyang’s, but up there. “I should probably get going, huh?”

“Probably,” says Dejun, a mean, ugly feeling rising up his throat and spilling out. “You’ve overstayed.”

Jaewon just blinks and then glances at Yangyang. The look on his face couldn’t read more like what’s his deal? if he said it out loud. Yangyang glances back and shrugs, and the tiny, nonverbal conversation makes Dejun feel so—so—something that he adds, “Are you headed out or not?”

“Uh,” says Jaewon. He toes his shoes on, ducks past Dejun. “I guess.” Before he goes he turns to Yangyang, shoots him another smile. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah,” says Yangyang, who’s staring at Dejun like he’s sprouted a new head. “For sure.”

As soon as the door closes he says, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” Dejun shoves his hands into his pockets. “Just—you know. Give a guy a warning before you have someone else over all day.”

“You invite people over all the time. Donghyuck was just here for like fourteen hours last week, and I barely know the guy but I didn’t act like a total dick about it—”

“I’m not sleeping with Donghyuck,” Dejun blurts. Yangyang freezes. His eyes are wide. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he stretches one of them out to grip the table like he needs it to balance him.

“What,” he says, slowly, “does that have to do with anything?”

Dejun should back off. Instead he asks, “Are you seeing him again?”

“I—I don’t know, maybe,” Yangyang says, and the stutter means he isn’t, and Dejun feels relieved because he has a problem. “It’s kind of none of your business. Is that seriously what—are you mad that I’m sleeping with people?”

There’s a note in his voice Dejun can’t make out and it’s scaring him, so he backtracks. “No,” he lies. “I’m not—you’re right; that’s none of my business. I just—”

“Of course it’s not,” Yangyang mutters, and now Dejun’s confused because he feels like that was the right answer. “You just… what, you’re mad you have to see it? When you had that thing with that girl, I—I didn’t say anything, and you guys were, like, all over each other.”

“We weren’t,” Dejun says, momentarily distracted. They barely touched when people were around; he felt too weird about it when they were casual. And it’s not like Yangyang would know anyway—while Dejun was seeing her, he’d all but disappeared. Dejun had begun to worry he’d fucked something up without knowing. “What are you talking about?”

Yangyang flushes a brilliant red. “We barely did anything either, and if I’d known you were home last night I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have. And it’s none of your business if I did; it’s not like you had to see it.”

Dejun tries really hard to put the vision of what exactly he didn’t have to see out of his mind. “It’s not about that.”

“You’ve been weird ever since you found out I liked guys,” Yangyang says. Dejun flinches. Yangyang looks somewhere between triumphant and furious: mouth drawn into a hard line, eyes bright and focused. “I haven’t pointed it out because I thought I was making it up, because that would—you’re not like that—but that’s what this is about, right? That I’m seeing men?”

“I,” says Dejun, and then, unconvincingly, “no.”

Yangyang laughs, incredulous.

“I’m not,” Dejun says. He tries again. “Seriously. I don’t care who you sleep with.” For some reason that makes Yangyang look more upset, and then Dejun’s just scrabbling blindly for something to fix it. “I’m just hungover. I was a dick; I’ll apologize to Jaewon if I ever see him again, but I don’t—”

“I’m gonna go stay with Ten-hyung,” interrupts Yangyang. “For a little bit. Until we both… until you can work out, like. Whatever this is. Text me when you do.” Before Dejun can come up with an apology, Yangyang grabs his keys and strides out the door, slamming it behind him.

#

Dejun spends three days ruminating on it before he gives up and finally seeks advice. “Do you think,” he asks, “someone could be homophobic, but… specifically to one person? Like, selective homophobia. But just for one friend. Person.” He laughs, too loudly. Less like a real laugh and more like he says the words ha ha ha. “Not necessarily a friend. One guy. Or girl. Or—person.”

Kun pauses in the middle of unpacking his lunch. “Dejun,” he begins. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Finish your food.” Dejun deflates and follows the order, but Kun makes it approximately two minutes before he cracks and sighs. “Why would you ask?”

He brightens. “Well,” he begins. “A friend of mine is having an issue with his friend.”

“A friend,” Kun repeats, looking incredibly unconvinced.

“A friend,” Dejun agrees. “He’s straight, but he’s never been— homophobic. At least he thinks so. But he saw his friend making out with a guy and he didn’t know he was bi and he feels really bad.”

Sometimes when Dejun talks to Kun he starts looking fifty years older than he really is through the depth of his frown alone. This is one of those times. “What exactly do you mean by bad,” he says, sounding as if he already regrets continuing the conversation.

“Like… mad?” Dejun cringes. “I’m—he’s not mad that his friend is into guys, probably. That’s cool. More like… thinking about the specifics makes him mad? And sad?” He fiddles with his chopsticks. “Like, he hates hearing about dates. Or when his friend brings people home—I mean. To places that they’re both at. And now his friend knows and he’s really pissed off about it.” Kun’s expression has gone through about twenty shifts so far. Dejun continues anyway. “But he’s fine with other people! A lot of his friends are—like, he’s seen them with guys, and he’s never had an issue with anyone except this friend. So even though it sounds like homophobia, it doesn’t apply to everyone, which means—”

“Selective homophobia,” Kun interrupts. “I get it.” He looks like he’s really considering it, which Dejun appreciates; he’s pretty sure if he went to Guanheng about this he’d get laughed out of the room. “Has your friend worked out why exactly he’s mad? Is he angry at his friend for liking men, or the men his friend is with?”

“Um.” Dejun pauses. “I don’t know; he’s never thought about it.”

“Think about it.”

“It’s my friend, not me,” says Dejun, but Kun levels him with a look so unimpressed he gives up and says, “Okay, fine.”

He’s not really mad at Yangyang, he guesses, or he would’ve yelled at him instead of Jaewon who was nice and didn’t do anything. Whenever he thinks about—all the stuff Yangyang could be doing, things that would make people he’s with say oh in that low, punched-out voice—he’s not sure he’s mad at all, but the tight feeling in his stomach and the ache in his heart can’t be anything else. “I guess,” he says out loud. “Uh. Probably his friend’s, like—dates, or whatever. More than him.”

“Okay.” Kun massages his temple. “Has your friend considered that he might be jealous?”

“Jealous?” Dejun supposes he has been going through kind of a dry spell, but that’s more by choice than anything else. “Not really. I mean, like. It’s not like I’m—like he’s struggling with, you know. Any of that.”

“No, I mean…” Kun clicks his tongue against his teeth, takes a careful bite of his food before he starts talking again. “Take a second and think about it. Would you feel this bad if Yangyang was seeing women instead of men?”

“Yangyang?” Dejun asks, stuttering out another almost-laugh. “Who said anything about…” Kun’s giving him that look again, so he shuts up and considers it: the image of Yangyang and a pretty girl going to the movies together, Yangyang taking her out for hot pot, Yangyang pressing her into the couch, teeth against her jawline.

He guesses he’s not as fascinated by the mechanics of it, but it’s still… he doesn’t feel good thinking about it. Still feels that annoying, irrational rage, that quiet ache in his chest.

“What would it,” he begins. He swallows. “What would it mean if I did?”

Kun’s eyes soften. “I think you know.”

“But I don’t—I’m not,” Dejun says. “I mean, I’ve never, with other guys.” He knows: a bunch of the articles he read while he was trying to work through everything said stuff like sexuality is a spectrum, or people don’t figure it out until they’re in their fifties sometimes, but this is—isn’t it too uneven?

“Everyone figures things out at their own pace. And, well,” says Kun, like he’s physically holding himself back from saying more. Dejun rolls his eyes and motions for him to continue. “You remember Yuta-hyung from crew last show?”

Dejun blinks. “That wasn’t like that,” he says, even though thinking about it like that is making a lot of things fall into place: the way he’d felt when Yuta had gifted him a rose after the show, for one thing, or how his heart had jumped whenever he’d smiled at him. Yuta had asked him to hang out after, but Yangyang had gotten so sulky whenever they spoke that Dejun had made up an excuse and forgotten about it.

He thought he’d just liked the attention. “But that’s—it can’t—not Yangyang,” he insists. Having a thing for Yuta from crew is… weird, but Yuta’s sort of the coolest guy in the world, with piercings and a part-time gig in an honest-to-god rock band, so Dejun gets things getting a little shaky there. Yangyang is—Yangyang. His best friend. The guy who physically points when he laughs, shrieking and loud. The guy who spends an inhuman amount of money on shoes and actually pouts when Dejun says he doesn’t get it. The guy who—the guy who—

—Who spent weeks picking out an earring for Dejun’s birthday and stared at him anxiously until he’d pulled him into a hug. Who stayed up all night calming Dejun down when he had to redo his music theory final even though he’d had an exam the next day. Who had made Dejun lose his breath, for a second, when he’d helped dye his hair: when he’d turned to him, red trickling onto his temples, mouth chapped and bitten dark, just a few centimeters away. Who’d said, “Thanks,” voice low, eyes trained on Dejun like he was the only thing in the world, and then backed away and laughed and left Dejun laughing unsteadily too.

Who he spends most of his life thinking about.

Dejun groans and lets his head thunk against the table. Kun ruffles his hair. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he says, which is eerie because Dejun was just about to ask him to. “But if I were him, I’d rather know how you felt than think you hated part of me. Even if it got weird.”

“So I have to tell him,” Dejun says, his voice muffled against the table.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Kun repeats in a voice that might as well be screaming yes, you idiot.

Dejun lifts his head up to frown at him properly. “But if he doesn’t—”

“Then it’ll be awkward,” Kun says. “But you’ve been friends for a long time now, right? You can work through awkward.”

Dejun’s head is ringing too much from the realization that he likes Yangyang—in the gay way—to really process any future possibilities right now, but even if lingering awkwardness is almost the worst thing he can imagine, it’s definitely better than facing the expression Yangyang made the last time he saw him: the clear-eyed anger, the thought that Dejun was full of a kind of hatred he really, really isn’t.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll… I’ll try. Thank you.”

Kun just smiles at him. “Finish your food,” he says. “We have ten minutes until break’s over and you eat too slowly anyway.”

Dejun does finish his food, but not before he takes out his phone and texts Yangyang: Hey. Sorry about last time. Can we talk?

#

It takes less time than Dejun thought to adjust to the fact that he likes guys. When he thinks about it—the occasional and brief obsession he forms with men he meets at the gym, his easiness with kissing men at parties, a lot of recent events surrounding Yangyang, generally—it makes sense. He’s not really sure what the specifics are yet, but it doesn’t really matter, he thinks, when he only likes the one guy right now.

Which is the part he’s having trouble adjusting to.

Yangyang doesn’t text back for a full three days, leaving Dejun with plenty of time to swerve between catastrophizing and ruminating on every single time they’ve ever spoken. And they’ve known each other for six years, so it’s a lot to think about: when they’d met and Yangyang had bought him dinner even though Dejun was older, and Dejun had thought it was so cute he’d gone to sleep smiling. When Yangyang had attended his graduation and nearly barreled him over in a hug after he’d walked the stage and Dejun had felt the happiest he ever had, probably—not at graduating itself, though that was cool, but at knowing Yangyang was there waiting for him. Every time Yangyang’s messed with him and he hasn’t been able to even pretend to get annoyed, because—it’s Yangyang. The several times in the last year he’s fallen asleep on the couch and Dejun’s gotten stuck just… looking at him for a little. At the graceful slope of his jaw, the way his eyebrows draw together and smooth out.

He’s not sure why he didn’t start questioning things a little earlier. He kind of just assumed this was how everyone felt with their friends—he loves Kun and Guanheng frequently to the point of overwhelm, too, though he guesses he doesn’t spend as much of his time looking at them for fun, and he’s not really bowled over by how cute they are most of the time or anything.

Maybe he’s just an idiot. As soon as the thought crosses his mind he gets a text from Yangyang— yeah ofc, i’ll be at home whenever you’re off work, and he forgets to keep thinking about it. Yangyang knows exactly when he gets off work, which means he’s playing casual where he doesn’t have to, which means something’s wrong. And Dejun knew that, but—the reminder that he’s fucked up doesn’t help his mood on top of everything.

He’s jittery and nervous by the time he gets home, and the feeling doesn’t ease when he sees Yangyang on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He’s wearing the headphones Dejun got him for his last birthday. Dejun can’t tell if that’s a good sign or if they’re just too nice to waste even when a friendship is over.

He leans over and taps his shoulder, twice. Yangyang startles but only briefly—takes off the headphones and blinks. His bangs are overgrown even for him, and he has to brush them out of his eyes. His lips are a little chapped. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s a size too big, and he’s really, really pretty.

“Hi,” Dejun says, because he thinks if he doesn’t they might just stare at each other for the next hour. “Um. I didn’t—I’m really sorry.”

Yangyang glances over at him, curious and something else. Like something’s clicked into place for him that hasn’t yet for Dejun. Or like something clicked into place awhile ago, like he’s waiting for Dejun to say something, or—like Dejun’s delusional and making things up based on a piece of eye contact he can’t understand yet, probably.

He looks back down. Dejun will do just about anything to get him to look back again, so he continues, “I was a dick. And I don’t really have a good reason for it, but it’s still not the reason you’re thinking, and I’m—I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Okay,” says Yangyang, slow. His eyes drop to the empty space next to him. Dejun obligingly takes a seat. From here he’s close enough to hear the music still filtering through Yangyang’s headphones—it’s a song Dejun used to like so much he looped it for three days. Yangyang had said if he played it one more time he’d throw his speaker out the window. Dejun would take a moment to feel smug about it if he weren’t about to throw up right now.

“That’s good. I’m not mad anymore or anything; I figured that wasn’t really the problem after, like, a day. It’s not like you’re…” He looks up at the ceiling. Dejun’s stomach lurches uncomfortably with anticipation. “Uh, but I still think, like. Maybe we should—I should move out. I can find another roommate for you, so you don’t have to worry about rent or anything. But, um. I’ve been thinking on it a little. So… yeah.”

Dejun’s throat goes dry.

“It’s not your fault,” Yangyang continues, eyes still focused anywhere but Dejun’s face. “Or, um. It’s not because I think you, like, hate me for liking guys or anything, I mean. I just think—”

“Whose fault is it if it’s not mine?” Dejun stands up and steps back: tries to think about coming back to an apartment without Yangyang in it, to movie nights alone, to a sad, empty space and no best friend because he was too much of an idiot to just get through his feelings in silence. “You don’t—I can fix it,” he babbles, panicking. “Whatever’s fucking it up, I promise. I won’t be weird about you and your hookups anymore; I worked it out, so you don’t have to—”

“It’s not about that.” Yangyang looks at him for just a second, then glances away again. It makes Dejun so angry his head begins to spin. “I swear. It’s really not.”

“Then what is it about?”

“I just need space,” Yangyang says. His mouth is pressed into a miserable shape; his hands tug nervously at his sleeves. “I can’t… I can’t explain it. I just do.”

“Try to explain it.”

“I can’t,” says Yangyang. His voice breaks. That’s scarier than the threat of moving out. “You won’t—I can’t.”

“I swear I won’t be such a freak about—about any of it anymore; I don’t care—”

“I know you don’t care,” Yangyang snaps with such force that Dejun falters for a moment. He takes a deep breath. “I told you that’s not what it’s about.”

Dejun worries at his lip and just barely resists the urge to start pacing. “Are you tired of me?” he asks, finally. He guesses he has been clingy: they hung out all the time before they moved in together, but they spend most of every day with each other now, which is different. “I can back off. You don’t have to—”

“No,” Yangyang says, so hastily it’s almost frantic. “I’m not—don’t think that. Please. It’s seriously… it’s all on me.”

Dejun sinks back onto their couch, resting his hands on his knees. Clearly Yangyang isn’t changing his mind, and if he chickens out now he’ll never say anything at all. “Can I tell you something, then? Before you go back to—to Ten-hyung’s place or whatever. If you’re moving out anyway.”

“Not living together doesn’t mean we won’t be friends,” says Yangyang quietly, fiddling with his headphones. “Stop acting like it does.”

“Can I, though?” Dejun asks. Yangyang hesitates before he nods once, jerkily. “I was… when I saw you kissing that guy, I felt kind of sick. And every time you said you were going out with another guy, or I saw you with someone, or anything, I felt even more sick, and—and angry, and I thought it was because I was homophobic or something. But that doesn’t make sense because, I mean. Look at our friends, right? I would’ve worked it out earlier.”

Yangyang is completely motionless, which is probably a terrible sign. Dejun pauses for a second. Forces out the words, “I figured out it was because I was jealous. Because, um. I wanted to be where they were.” Stops it at that, waits for Yangyang to awkwardly reject him, get up and leave. At least it’ll be a clean break.

Instead he says, faint, “You thought you were homophobic.”

“You thought I was homophobic,” says Dejun defensively.

“Because I wasn’t in your head,” Yangyang replies. He runs a hand through his hair. The red’s in need of upkeep, but it’s still striking. “Oh my god, man. You’re so stupid.”

“Hey,” Dejun says with a frown. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he was expecting, but this isn’t it. “Kun-ge said everyone figures things out at their own pace. So just because my pace is a little slower doesn’t mean—”

“No, shut up, like.” Yangyang laughs, shaky and relieved, and when he’s done the smile doesn’t leave. “Uh, I wanted to move out because—because. I’ve liked you for like, forever, and I told Ten-hyung about it yesterday and he said it wasn’t sustainable to live with you if I was still—if I had feelings for you and it was making me act crazy about that girl you were hooking up with a year ago. Or that crew guy or whatever. Because I was jealous, and you’re straight, so obviously it wasn’t gonna go anywhere.”

Dejun opens and closes his mouth. “Oh,” he says. Yangyang’s staring at him like—like he does sometimes, so fond Dejun doesn’t feel like he’s earned it, but now it’s making his world tilt on its axis just a little bit. “Um. So you don’t wanna move out anymore?”

“Shut up,” Yangyang repeats, beaming with all his gorgeous teeth. He leans a little closer, until they’re pressed thigh-to-thigh, and then turns so their faces are aligned. His eyes drop to Dejun’s mouth. Track the motion of Dejun’s tongue running across his bottom lip. “You know,” he says, the smile fading off his face altogether, giving way to something focused and dark. “Like, since we’re still roommates. There’s a lot we can do. In our rooms.”

“That’s the lamest way you could’ve said that,” Dejun says, but he’s so breathless it doesn’t land how he wants it to, and it doesn’t matter because Yangyang isn’t listening to a thing he’s saying by then anyway.

Yangyang is a good kisser. From what little Dejun walked in on he thought he’d be aggressive, which—isn’t not what Dejun’s into, but instead he’s responsive. Almost methodical. Testing the waters to see what Dejun likes—sucking on his lip harder when he moans the first time, moving his hand from his jaw to his waist, keeping at it until Dejun’s helpless to do anything but run his hands through his hair, guide him down to his throat and then back up again when he misses him.

“How long is like, forever?” he asks between hitched breaths as Yangyang makes his way toward his chest, a little lower.

Yangyang looks up. His face is flushed and his mouth is swollen and he looks so good Dejun’s momentarily dumbstruck. “Like,” he says. He buries his head in the crook of Dejun’s neck. “Kind of,” he says, his voice muffled into Dejun’s skin, “uh, since we met. Probably.”

Dejun yanks him back up by the hair—makes a note of the pleased, choked-off noise Yangyang lets out for later—demands, “What?”

“You were really pretty,” he says. “And you thanked me like eight times when we went out for dinner; it was cute.”

“That’s all it took?” Dejun asks. “High standards.”

“Worked out all right for both of us,” says Yangyang breezily, though his ears are going redder, and before Dejun can call him on it he drags him into another kiss.

They make out until Dejun’s mouth feels a little numb. Yangyang’s hands roam over his sides, skating across his ribs and then stopping politely above the waistband of his jeans, and then they get less polite: digging into his skin, his pinkies fitting themselves against his hips, sliding a bit lower. “We should slow down,” he says, which is rich when he’s making even less of an effort than before to keep his hands away from Dejun’s ass. “Sort of a lot to be springing on you.”

“I don’t mind,” says Dejun, but he reluctantly detaches himself from Yangyang anyway, snorting when he tries to follow. “Okay. Um—” he laughs. “Do you want to put on Street Fighter or something?”

Yangyang rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh. I can’t really, like, look at you without—without kissing you right now. So I’ll… see you tomorrow.”

“You’re serious?”

“You look good,” he mumbles, flushing even more. Before Dejun can figure out whether he’s amused or a little too pleased at the praise, Yangyang leaps over the couch to duck into his room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Dejun fiddles with his phone for five minutes. Thinks about Yangyang’s red mouth and dark eyes and the fact that he wants him so much that he can’t even look at him. Gives up, slips into Yangyang’s room, and says, “One more.”

“Uhh,” replies Yangyang, tucked halfway under his comforter, but when Dejun leans down to kiss him he melts into it.

One more turns into several more—until Dejun’s gone from curving gently over him to practically straddling him, Yangyang pulling him back in every time he tries to back off. “Thought you said we should—should slow down,” he manages, tipping his head forward as Yangyang’s fingers skitter across his nape, tugging lightly at the strands there.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” Yangyang answers. He sounds frankly too smug about it for Dejun’s liking. Before he can call him on it, though, Yangyang’s maneuvering himself so he’s not propped up against the headboard anymore; he flips himself over so he’s on top of Dejun, blankets pushed aside, a knee slid neatly between his thighs.

His mouth is warm and yielding. He tastes like the brand of toothpaste, Dejun realizes finally, that they share—with a shade of the gum they both buy. The stupid domesticity of it sends a thrill through him, makes him feel so overwhelmed that for a few moments he just lets himself get kissed, groans into Yangyang’s mouth and tugs Yangyang’s hair when he laughs.

This time when Yangyang’s hands get braver he doesn’t stop. Instead he starts gently grinding his knee down, slips his thumbs between Dejun’s boxers right against his bare skin, hitches them so that they start sliding off, and Dejun—knows where things are headed, likes the idea, but, like, surely he’s not supposed to just sit there and let Yangyang do everything without even trying to do anything, and—

“I don’t,” he manages as he pulls away, feeling pretty behind right now. He scrabbles for a way to not look like a total idiot about it. “I mean. I’ve never done anything with a guy before. So I…” He glances deliberately at Yangyang through his lashes, half-genuine, half-coy for show. “I’ll need you to teach me a few things.”

Predictably, Yangyang inhales sharply. His hands tighten around Dejun’s waist. “That’s so corny,” he says, but his voice is strained.

“Is it working?”

“Stop fishing,” says Yangyang. He grins, then, too wide, and Dejun already knows whatever he’s about to say is going to be abominable, but it doesn’t make it better to hear, “Then watch and learn.”

“Oh my god,” says Dejun. “Ew.”

“You don’t want it?” asks Yangyang, sliding down until his face is at Dejun’s hips, and when Dejun just bats a hand in his direction, reddening, he snickers.

(Dejun does end up learning a lot, but he won’t admit it. He’ll just have to put it into practice next time.)

#

The thing about dating your roommate, Dejun thinks, is that it’s really easy to get caught up making out on the couch.

He guesses that’s not roommate-exclusive, but it gets sort of excessive when it happens every day for a month. They’ve only been on two official dates but most afternoons he still finds himself in more or less the same position, and today’s no different: Yangyang straddling him, Dejun melting down into the armrest, his hand cautiously sneaking under the hem of Yangyang’s sweats more just to feel him than anything else. He’s not complaining—he just thinks it might be cutting into other responsibilities.

“Hey,” whines Yangyang, pinching Dejun’s side to get his attention. “Get back on Earth. You’re kind of killing my ego.”

“I’m not—” begins Dejun, and he shudders when Yangyang rolls his hips down, just a little. “Just—I feel like I’m forgetting something?”

“If you were, I would’ve remembered.” Gently, Yangyang presses his teeth to Dejun’s jawline, fits his fingers against Dejun’s collar, smooths his free hand against Dejun’s stomach. “Chill out for a minute; we’re busy.”

“You’re right,” Dejun replies. He tips his head back and lets out a sigh that morphs into something louder when Yangyang nips at his earlobe. “Okay, yeah, I probably just—”

Before he can finish that thought he hears the creak of the door opening, then: “We ready for the movie? You guys should really—holy shit.” Guanheng slams his hands over his eyes so hard Dejun hears the noise. “I was gonna say you should lock your door,” he wails. He peeks through his fingers then screws his eyes shut. “Called it, by the way. But lock your door.”

“Called it?” Yangyang asks, affronted and making absolutely no move to get away. Dejun wouldn’t even be able to tell he was flustered if not for the telltale red lighting up his ears. He kind of wants to bite them. Probably not right now.

“Um, yeah, dude, everyone called it; you were obvious as hell—can we talk about this after you,” he gestures vaguely at them, his eyes still shut tight. “And get a room. Please.”

“This is our room, basically,” says Yangyang. “So, like.”

“Can’t get any more private than that,” Dejun agrees. “Why does it bother you so much? Are you homophobic?”

Guanheng’s resulting groan is worth it just to hear Yangyang laugh.