Work Text:
2:51 in the morning, Paris time. Hongjoong is restless, of course. It should be a given for him by now; he's not even bothering trying to sleep yet because he knows it’s a lost cause for at least another three hours, if he’s lucky. He’s never been one to doze off easily unless it’s at the least convenient time possible, and his current jet-lagged state (which has felt more like a constant, rather than a fleeting condition, in the past few months) has only worsened the issue. Years spent between airports, hotels, venues, the studio, the practice room, losing track of time, waking up with his phone saying it’s three hours earlier than when he fell asleep; it all feels hectic bordering on sloppy and indiscernible right now, as he can almost physically feel the weight of his eyebags. He rubs his face and picks up his phone, resting screen down next to his MacBook. Compose, he mentally chastises himself. Work.
Wooyoung had only sent a quick text before he boarded his plane earlier in the evening, taking off to Seoul again, but Seonghwa had texted him on several occasions already. Two when he had landed in Paris; one when he had arrived to his hotel; three regarding a few of his out and abouts including a picture of his dinner; and then the semi-regular pinging of Hongjoong’s phone had stopped after he told him he was going to go out and have a few drinks with the manager and that he could join if he wanted. Hongjoong had told him he was sorry to decline, but he had to work, in his usual friendly but non-negotiable fashion. Seonghwa had seen the text but didn’t say anything, and that was two and a half hours ago.
Hongjoong stares at the glowing screen in the dark, phone still not unlocked, and lets out a long sigh. Fine. Sure. Whatever. The bright light when he swipes up his lockscreen makes him squint, a sharp pang of pain in his cornea.
to : Seonghwa
are you still outside ?
from : Seonghwa
Yeahh
a bit tipsy haha
still working… ?
to : Seonghwa
you know it
if you want to hop by my hotel, i have a song for you
sorta kinda, it’s not perfect yet
but you could give me your thoughts
from : Seonghwa
!!!
Omw
Hongjoong huffs through his nose and puts his best English skills to use when he calls the reception to tell them to send Seonghwa up to his room when he arrives, and he texts Seonghwa to let him know, which earns him a heart emoji reaction. A small smile forms on his lips.
Well, at least it will feel less lonely. He hopes so.
He opens the window and leans on the lacquered mahogany frame, watching the quiet street bathed in bright yellow, the rain thrumming on the concrete a few floors down below making puddles of light that look like dancing flames. Somewhere in the distance, church bells ring three times. He feels like he's the only person awake in the world, ridiculously small and yet so, so important – a bus passes under his window, all mechanical creaks and whispers, and drives off. He notices the Eiffel tower peeking out from behind a tree and ends up just staring at it, almost dumbfounded that la Dame de Fer is there – and he starts pondering how he got there, how he went from using the soles of his Nikes to the bone on the company’s freshly installed training room floorboards – relatively not so long ago – to this, until he hears a light knock on his door that makes him snap out of his trance.
Seonghwa, as usual, looks breathtaking without even trying when he opens the door, but tonight it’s slightly too gut-wrenching to witness. Towering over Hongjoong, but not menacingly so, never - Seonghwa’s presence had always been too comforting for him to look intimidating, and he had mellowed out even more as time went on. His nose is slightly red and the zip-up collar of his grey woolly sweater is open, revealing skin from his collarbone to the base of his neck. Hongjoong can smell his cologne under the very distinct smell of fresh rain on his clothes.
Beautiful. So stupidly beautiful that it takes just a bit too much time for him to stop staring, to which Seonghwa, both teasingly and slightly awkwardly, asks “Can I come in ?” and Hongjoong feels like an idiot for a second before stepping aside to let him take his shoes off.
It’s always so easy to fall into a comfortable routine with Seonghwa. He makes it like that, makes being human look as easy as breathing. “Nice view,” Seonghwa comments while staring at the Eiffel tower. Hongjoong nods while staring at him and sits back on what was not exactly a desk, but not exactly a table either, just some weird furniture hybrid. His MacBook partially blinds him when he wakes it up and he winces. I should really go to the eye doctor. And wear those blue light glasses San always talks about.
“So… how do you like Fashion Week so far ?” Hongjoong asks, averting his eyes. His voice doesn't betray him. It rarely did.
“Eh, it’s even more hectic than I expected,” he replies, before clearing his throat when he hears how gravelly he sounds, probably because of the temperature difference between outside and the room. “Lots of talking, lots of introducing, lots of… being seen. And it’s my first time staying alone at a hotel in… hell, I don't even know how long it’s been since last time. I don't think I like it. Feels lonely.”
This won’t do, Hongjoong thinks. He would be damned before he offers, he’s never been open – or brave – enough for that, but for a second he imagines himself ditching his room at the Shangri-La to occupy the other half of Seonghwa’s bed if it meant he’d feel less alone. Maybe he could find some rest there, lulled to sleep by the steady breathing of his closest friend, long limbs warming up the sheets next to him; he’d even sleep in an armchair in the corner of the room if he had to. Being next to Seonghwa was like a second nature for him, until he started questioning why.
So he doesn't offer, doesn't ask, doesn't question himself – he just lets the feeling simmer under his skin, bubbling in his throat and squeezing his windpipe ever-so-viciously whenever Seonghwa says something that makes some back-bending part of his brain go Of course I’ll do it for you. Let me make this easier for you.
“How was Wooyoungie ?” Seonghwa inquires.
“Good. He was nervous at first, but he killed it, he always does. They all loved him.”
“As expected.”
Hongjoong nods with a small fond smile creeping up on his face. As expected, indeed. “The song is… not as worked-on as I hoped it would be by the time you arrived, I’m sorry. I’m struggling a bit here.” That’s kind of a lie, considering that he hadn't touched anything since he had received Seonghwa’s text saying he was on his way, but also not really a lie, because if he had been less tired the song would be much more advanced already, nightly visit or not.
“It’s okay, Hongjoongie. I’m still glad I can hang out with you.”
“I just can't seem to get the chords right, the melody’s a bit iffy.”
“I said it’s fine. You’re not in Paris to pull your hair over producing.”
His voice sounds so sincere and gentle when he says that, Hongjoong curses himself a little bit inside. They all had to play up some parts of their personalities a bit for the cameras, it was part of the job – but the kindness in Seonghwa’s voice was a constant. And hearing that he could take it slower, that he was allowed to not get everything done in the following minute, all the time – that was something Hongjoong always forgot he needed until Seonghwa did it, each time without fail. It was double-sided : Seonghwa would remind him that he had bigger fish to fry whenever Hongjoong would get lost in the semantics, spending hours on details instead of getting important things done, and sometimes he would also just nudge him to let himself go. Hongjoong would probably forget to breathe if Seonghwa wasn't there to remind him.
He runs his hand over his face with a sigh, feeling some of the last remnants of his make-up smear on his fingertips, a thin layer of foundation clogging the crevices of his fingerprints.
“You're tired,” Seonghwa says flatly. It’s not a question.
“It’s three in the morning, of course I am.”
“That’s not what I mean. Three a.m is like, the beginning of the night for you.” Hongjoong chuckles at that. He's not wrong. “Are you sleeping enough lately ?”
“Have I ever slept enough ?” It’s Seonghwa’s turn to chuckle. It shouldn't be funny, but it is, so he might as well.
“You know working too hard on your music is counterproductive. We've had that talk, you know better by now.” He marks a short pause, trying to gauge if his next words are going to earn him a well-practiced glare or one of Hongjoong’s characteristic sighs. “So what is it that you're trying to distract yourself from ? Don't you think you're already busy enough like that ?”
Hongjoong clicks his tongue, Seonghwa and his sharp eyes that saw everything about him be damned. He's so good at perceiving what he's always trying so hard to sweep under the rug, not letting him dismiss his feelings like he wishes he could. On this front, Seonghwa is the bane of Hongjoong’s existence, and maybe on a few other, darker ones as well.
“It’s just quarter-life crisis,” Hongjoong argues. Once again, not really the truth, but also kind of the truth. A part of it, at least.
“Bullshit. You've been like that since you were eighteen.”
“You always have something to say, don't you ?”
“You should know something about it. I've been like that since I was eighteen, too.”
This makes something tug at Hongjoong’s heart. Maybe having this conversation this late, this tired, with Seonghwa looking like that was not the most brilliant idea he's ever had, but he's neck deep in it now, and cutting it short now would make him look too emotionally constipated, unfit for his attempts at letting himself feel a bit more and think a bit less. The realization that they'd indeed been like that for almost a decade now shouldn't feel so devastating, so all-encompassing, so grand, but it did : Seonghwa and him had changed on many aspects through the years, some for the better and some not so much, but the true nature of their bond had remained the same – the feeling of knowing and being known, in all its comfort and its naked honesty, despite this ever-present slight awkwardness that was seemingly impossible to get rid of. A few years prior, Hongjoong had wondered where it came from, this short-but-never-crossed distance between them, and it took one inebriated evening at the dorms and one unconscious longing stare too many to make him realize that it was because if he crossed that bridge there would be no going back – the mortifying realization that he wanted Seonghwa, not in a way that was possible to achieve, not in a way that he could hide if he didn't forcefully shove it back down his ribcage. He had gotten so shitfaced that night that he could still picture his headache the morning after, and he could still picture Seonghwa bringing him a glass of water and some hangover medicine through his blurry, encrusted eyes from where he was still half passed out on the couch, muttering a croaky thank you.
Sometimes he wondered if Seonghwa could sense it, because Hongjoong sure felt like it was written all over his face at all times, like a big IDIOT scribbled in black Sharpie on his forehead. If he did, he could at least appreciate that his mate had the sensibility to act like he didn't.
“Hongjoong, you know you can talk to me, right ?”
Of course Hongjoong knows. I know I can. But can you bear to listen to what I want to say ? Can I tell you this one, big, scary thing about us ? He probably could, in fact. Seonghwa was not the type to be thrown off by something as trivial as feelings, no matter how enormous they seemed; he had always been more mature and secure about his emotions than Hongjoong by a light year.
He takes another deep sigh. “I've just been feeling a bit creatively bankrupt lately, and it's stressing me out. This never really happens to me usually.”
Seonghwa scoffs, crossing his arms over his sweater, and the collarbone left visible by his open side collar creases, creating a small valley of shadow under the base of his neck. “You've been pumping out enough music to keep us active for the five next years, and that's without counting the scrapped stuff.” Hongjoong huffs. He might be highballing it a notch for the sake of the argument, but he’s fundamentally not wrong. “You're a workaholic. You could not open FL Studio for a year and absolutely nothing would change on that front. Just… take time to rest.”
Another bus passes down the street, buzzing and roaring and sighing before driving off in the puddles, reminding Hongjoong of where he is. The fresh, wet smell of petrichor makes its way to the room, and Seonghwa crosses his long legs draped in wide tailored black pants.
“I feel like I have nothing left to write about,” Hongjoong says dismissively.
“You know that’s not true,” Seonghwa counters, dragging the last syllable. “You're the most creative person I know, it’s almost infuriating how good you are at this. But maybe you need a new eye on the world, a different perspective. I don't know, you tell me.”
“You're right. I won’t say you're always right because you'll get annoying about it, though.” This makes a real smile crack Seonghwa’s face, and Hongjoong doesn't have the heart to look away, wants to see his eyes light up, his long hair framing his beautiful face, the way his soft lips curl up, straight white teeth peeking from behind like two rows of pearls. Holy shit.
“Remember when you wrote THANK U about me ?” That was years ago. A lifetime, in their field of work, with their pace of life.
“Yeah,” Hongjoong nods with that small, cat-like grin of his. “I would do it again.”
“What would you say this time ?” Hongjoong’s stomach drops like a stone at the bottom of a well. What would I say this time ? So many things. I would say so many things I can't afford to say but that you deserve to hear. What would I say ? What is there not to say about you, really ? He has a few seconds left before the silence goes from “reasonably thinking about his answer” to “too long not to be awkward”.
“That you're my best friend, probably,” he manages to get out reluctantly, both because of the verbal admission of his affection and because of how lackluster it sounds compared to the real thing.
“That’s it ?” Seonghwa arches an elegant brow.
“What, do you want me to say that I’m in love with you ?” Hongjoong throws under the guise of a joke. It’s not.
“Well, are you ?”
Hongjoong freezes for a millisecond, and to an untrained eye it would go unnoticed, but Seonghwa's eye is nothing short of expert. He knows he’s caught; he’ll play it off.
“What ?”
“You heard me.” Seonghwa's gaze on him does not falter. It’s not accusatory, Hongjoong noticed when he risks a glance in his direction. It’s not suspicious. It’s… curious, gently so.
Hongjoong clears his throat, another giveaway of his nervousness he knows his “friend” will pick up on too. “Why are we even talking about that,” he flatly asks in hope of the topic being dropped.
“Why are you not answering ?” Seonghwa loves this kind of teasing, loves being a nuisance, despite his status as the oldest, the calm haven, the mother hen. It doesn't quite feel like teasing, though, his usual playful smile not there, replaced by an edge of seriousness.
Fuck it. “Because telling the truth would be shitty of me, and lying would make me feel horrible.” Good one, Hongjoong, he mentally pats himself on the back. Vague enough for Seonghwa to catch the hint to let it go, gloomy and emo enough for him to understand that there's something more to it that he doesn't really want to talk about. The taller man liked to pry, but he knew better than going for an obvious sore topic right away, preferring to just mentally take note to let it cool down a bit before bringing it back up when he'd deem it fit. He would bring it up again for sure, Hongjoong knew he was living on borrowed time starting from now, but at least it wouldn’t be an issue for tonight. This mental chess could get exhausting sometimes, especially when he had to be quick-witted and he was so, so tired.
Seonghwa gets up from the armchair and walks closer to him, socks sliding on the floorboards, leaning against the foot of the bed in a half-sitting-half-standing position that just cannot be comfortable. “Are we okay ?” That’s his real talk voice, the non-judgmental one, and it makes Hongjoong realize once again that he simply doesn't want to lie to him, that he wants to be honest so damn bad, not just to lift the crushing weight off from his chest, but because he doesn't want Seonghwa to worry, and he will worry until Hongjoong tells him the truth. He will know if he lies anyway – won’t know what he's covering with these lies, but he’ll notice every tell of the remaining tension. The bane of his existence, truly.
He swallows before talking, these giveaway signals be damned. “We are. Aren't we always ?” They weren't always okay properly speaking, but the amount of times where they hadn’t been during the course of their relationship was inconsequential enough to be overlooked. “We’re good, Seonghwa, I promise. I'm just tired, is all.”
Surprisingly, Seonghwa seems to buy it, or at least he was convinced that this wouldn’t go anywhere because Hongjoong had decided to clam up, and he thinks he's out of the woods for a millisecond before his counterpart asks another million dollar question : “Do you want me to stay the night ?”
It was not a new thing for Seonghwa to initiate affection, often more as a joke to tease him and his aversion for PDA. He had done it so many times, so many times where it had been so vitally needed, a floater thrown at him when Hongjoong thought he was drowning inside his own head, when he was nineteen and choking with his uncertainty of being worthy of being a leader, an idol, a friend. Seonghwa had always been there, just a tiny bit more than the others. This time feels bare and vulnerable, in a way that feels new between them.
Hongjoong decides to be masochistic yet again. “Sure,” he says in a voice that doesn't make him sound as self-assured as he would like, “only if you're okay with sharing a bed, I guess.”
His counterpart looks slightly taken aback at how easy the whole ordeal turned out to be. “Thought you'd put up a bit more of a fight than that,” the taller man states, his voice laced with gentle and pleasantly surprised undertones.
“Not tonight,” Hongjoong sighs. I don't have it in me to deny you anymore. “I’m tired, I’m letting you win.” Let me be selfish just for tonight. Seonghwa smiles again and, for once, decides not to be a sore winner, simply responding with “Do you have anything I can sleep in ?”
Hongjoong vaguely gestures at his suitcases. “Must have a shirt in there that's long enough for you. I don't know about pants or shorts though.” Seonghwa shrugs. He's incredibly serious about his own comfort at home, but he won’t be difficult for this, and Hongjoong is once again grateful for his ability to be sensible when it’s needed but not said. “You should sleep too, Hongjoongie, you know.”
“Yeah,” he answers, rubbing his face, stretching his eyelid to his temple. “Bathroom stop, make-up removal,” he orders while clapping his hands quietly, and Seonghwa follows.
They’re no strangers to this, this intimacy, this domesticity. They have been roommates for years, sharing that flat between eight people with little to no privacy, watch in hand for bathroom time, Hongjoong tiptoeing around both their room and his impossible work hours not to wake Seonghwa up. They're more than familiar around each other, and yet there's a knot in Hongjoong’s throat through the rising fog of his mind, because it's been a while since they got to share a moment like that, just the two of them in the quiet yellow light of the bathroom, dirty cotton pads piling up on the edge of the sink. He remembers when Seonghwa told him that he liked him the most when he had no make-up on and never tried to think about it too much, because he wanted to avoid reading into it. (He did think about it a lot, and definitely read a few things into it that he tried to stash at the back of his mind at all times.) When he's done wiping the foundation off his face, he leaves the room to give his counterpart some privacy to get changed and doing so himself, slipping into fresh pajamas and then under those thick and heavy sheets Hongjoong had only ever seen in hotels.
Seonghwa exits the bathroom shortly after, wearing one of Hongjoong’s shirts that looks less baggy on him than it’s supposed to, and a pair of his shorts that don't cover as much of his thighs as it should, and settles next to him. “Nice bedding, wow,” he comments before getting under the covers, and Hongjoong nods. They both lie on their backs, in silence, because Hongjoong is too tired to speak but too tense to rest. He forgot to draw the curtains, he realizes, but he can't be bothered to get up now, so he just stares at the dark grey sky and tries not to focus on Seonghwa’s breathing.
An airplane passes, minuscule blinking light cutting through the night above the Eiffel tower. Are we okay ?
Seonghwa shifts in his spot. “I can hear your mind running a mile a minute.”
“Don’t worry about that. You can sleep.”
“Remember on New Year’s 2021, when you were really drunk and you said you didn’t want to sleep if I wasn’t hugging you ?”
“It’s so embarrassing,” Hongjoong groans, feeling a faint blush creep up to his cheek that would thankfully go unnoticed in the dark. “I told you to never bring that up again.”
Seonghwa chuckles lightly. “But it worked. Do you want me to do it again ?”
You know what, who cares. “Yeah, why not ?” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. So much for his restraint. Seonghwa scoots closer to him on the mattress and wraps his arms around him, burying Hongjoong against his torso, surrounding him with faint remnants of his cologne and the human, raw scent of his skin.
Hongjoong hates that it works, hates how it seems to unclog something in his brain. The steady rise and fall of Seonghwa's chest, almost mechanical, gives him a sense of comfort that he wasn't finding on the fabric of his pillowcase, his hands naturally coming to rest on Seonghwa's spine.
A hand comes burying itself in the hair at the back of Hongjoong's head, long fingers and clean nails gently scratching at his scalp, and he would've purred if he could. “Thank you,” he mumbles against the taller man’s chest. He can hear Seonghwa's silent smile in the rustle of his cheek against the pillow. The knot in his throat swells, again, and this time, maybe one time too much, it’s too much for him to bear.
He pushes himself at the level of Seonghwa's face, which makes the latter's eyes widen slightly. “Can I do something ?” he lets out in a broken whisper, and he notices the corner of Seonghwa's mouth curl up almost imperceptibly. “Anything,” he replies, just as softly.
Take the leap of faith. Hongjoong presses his lips against Seonghwa's like it's his first time ever kissing anyone - hesitantly, afraid to do it wrong, scared not to be welcomed, except that he quickly realizes he is indeed very much welcome. Seonghwa's hand at the back of his head moves to the side of his neck, his mouth moving more boldly against his, letting out a soft whimper against his lips that makes Hongjoong’s mind go blank for three solid seconds. He slides a hand under Seonghwa's shirt (technically his), tracing up his waist and then the curve of his spine with his fingertips before he feels a hint of tongue pressing at the seam of his lips, requesting access. He concedes, just like he always does with Seonghwa, giving him every last part of him. His breath hitches when their legs tangle under the sheets, heartbeats picking up and Seonghwa pulls back for just enough time to catch his breath and mutter took you long enough, to which Hongjoong has no counter - and even if he did have one he wouldn’t have had the time to throw it back at him, because the ravaging desire burning at the pit of his stomach pushes him to go back to Seonghwa's mouth immediately, pulling his plump bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting another, louder small breathy sound from him that Hongjoong is all too eager to swallow.
We are. Aren't we always ?
Their breaths grow faster, more ragged, their hands more daring and demanding. The hand that was on his neck is now cradling his jaw and chin, Seonghwa's thumb occasionally brushing against his bottom lip, and God, Hongjoong wants more, so much more, way more than it’s reasonable, maybe even more than what's humanly possible. Seonghwa's tongue tastes sweet against his, his soft hair tickling his face every now and then, and it takes a willpower Hongjoong honestly didn't think he had in him to pull back, wiping the saliva at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, panting. His heart is running a marathon in his ribcage. He doesn't find his words for a few instants. What can I say ?
“I'm sorry.” Why ? He's not really sure, maybe for himself. He’ll just pretend he can go back to normal after this. He has work to do, anyway.
“I’m not,” Seonghwa replies, the ever present gentle undertones of his voice cutting through Hongjoong like a million knives. “I'm not sorry for wanting this. What are you sorry for ?”
Hongjoong takes a deep inhale, followed by a long, shaky exhale. “I don't know. I'm sorry because this probably goes nowhere. We aren't exactly living a life that allows us this.”
It’s such a pointless conversation, Hongjoong thinks, because Seonghwa knows everything he could say just as much as he does.
“No one has to know. It’s between you and me,” Seonghwa counters. “We don't have to share it. It’s ours.”
He's right, in a way. Fame had stripped them of many things, but Hongjoong, ever since the very beginning, had always known that his heart was his and only his to manage. He feels his eyelids get heavier, the long awaited wave of tiredness finally coming to hit him, and he yawns. Instinctively, Seonghwa pulls him in closer again, and Hongjoong rests his face against his chest. “Can we discuss this tomorrow ?” he yawns again, the consonants getting swallowed in the process. We're good, Seonghwa. I'm tired, is all.
Seonghwa nods, one of his hands coming up to stroke Hongjoong’s hair, his eyes closing as well, their legs still tangled. “Anything, Hongjoongie,” he whispers gently. “Rest a little bit.”