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I.
With brisk clarity, Doyoung recalls the first time they’d done this. Jaehyun had cornered him after practice, wielding honeyed words and a simpering smile until Doyoung had reluctantly surrendered.
For all that familiarity has blurred the lines between their expressions and mannerisms, Doyoung maintains that even a date can't entice him to enjoy recreational exercise. Some differences are insurmountable, as disparate as the moon and sun, though if he listens carefully he might hear the crunch of autumn leaves and susurrations of the wind still echoing in his heart.
Doyoung grips the handlebars tighter as he feels the uneven cadence of gravel spitting out from the wheels. A nocturnal bird trills, discordant and unrequited, and beneath the nearby streetlight orbits the flickering silhouette of a moth. Doyoung finds himself wishing, nonsensically, for the presence of fireflies in the city. He's been doing that a lot lately: getting lost in his head, weaving improbable dreams.
"Are you tired?" Jaehyun asks. He draws his foot against the sidewalk in a dry staccato until his bicycle tapers to a halt. Ever considerate, he tends to offer an out within thirty minutes or so, and on most days Doyoung gratefully accepts.
Doyoung stops his own bicycle as his usual reply falters in his throat. A breath of cold, odorless and sharp, descends like a harbinger of the season to come, and he resists the urge to shiver.
“I'm a little tired,” Doyoung admits, the picture of nonchalance. There's no shift in his inflection or tone, and anyone other than Jaehyun might have attributed the pause to mere contemplation.
But Jaehyun, who’d once recalled the number of badges on Doyoung’s Punch jacket without batting an eye, who’d declared them soulmates long before Doyoung had known it to be true, would not be deceived so easily.
The local park they've stopped at is mercifully empty, and when Jaehyun silently props up his bike, Doyoung follows suit. They both settle onto the adjacent bench.
It's two heartbeats, three, before Doyoung feels the surreptitious slide of a palm atop his, reassuring and warm.
"What’s wrong?" Jaehyun implores.
Usually, the touch would ground him. But Doyoung curls his fingers to escape it, flexing his hand into a fist before relaxing it.
"I'm fine," Doyoung insists. He closes his eyes. He knows that avoidance is futile, knows how transparent he is before those scrutinizing eyes, but articulating that nebulous feeling within his chest will only intensify the pain.
If Jaehyun is hurt by his withdrawal, he doesn't comment on it.
Doyoung averts his eyes to the foliage in the park, limned by moonlight, and the loamy earth, yielding to a tenacious squirrel's claws. The hairline cracks in the sidewalk are familiar enough to trace in his mind’s eye. How many hours have they sat on this very bench, stripped down to normalcy, playing at ordinary lives? Close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Jaehyun’s body, scarcely close enough to touch?
Distantly, he registers the mechanical whirring of a vending machine: the clink of a deposited coin, the beep of the selection, the thunk of the item as it hits the floor. He's not the slightest bit surprised when Jaehyun presses the can into his hands.
It's decaf coffee. He doesn't need to tell Jaehyun these things, has never needed to. Unwittingly, Doyoung is inundated with the thought of when they were younger, and a certain lovestruck boy had bought his oblivious best friend a whole crate of chocolate drinks for his birthday.
Nostalgia is a cruel thing; the act of dismissing memories is like forcing a buoy underwater. Doyoung wonders if he is drowning.
As if in a trance, he flips open the pull tab with a neatly-trimmed nail and ruthlessly chugs a few gulps of coffee.
He's aware of Jaehyun's presence next to him. But Jaehyun is eternally patient, receptive to whatever attention Doyoung deigns to give him, acquiescent to his mood swings, always.
Doyoung turns the can in his hands and contemplates what to say.
I won't miss being forced to exercise in my free time.
He lets the half-truth dissipate in his mouth.
I’ll miss -
No. He sucks in a breath.
Doyoung has always been clever, skilled with his tongue in all the ways that matter, and still, he flits around the correct words.
"I won't come here without you," Doyoung decides. It comes out quieter than he’d like.
Jaehyun bumps his foot against Doyoung's, and Doyoung follows the line of motion upward to see his serene smile.
"I'm glad," Jaehyun teases, eyes shining.
Doyoung scoffs, but the annoyance offers a brief respite from the mire of his mind.
He silently sips his coffee, stewing for a few moments, as Jaehyun stretches his arm across the back of the bench and angles his body towards Doyoung.
"Do you remember the first time I visited Guri with you?" Jaehyun is closer now, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush.
"Mmm."
Doyoung didn’t exactly ask before lending his brother’s bike to Jaehyun, but it was well worth it to see the unbridled joy on Jaehyun’s face as they traversed the nature trails. They meandered to other wellsprings of memory — the restaurant he’d bussed tables at for pocket change, the singing school he'd taken lessons at before he'd been anything — and Jaehyun tucked away the new anecdotes like treasures, drank in the sights and sounds like ambrosia.
Doyoung stares at the dregs at the bottom of his can. He thinks, not for the first time, that Jaehyun knows him better than he knows himself.
"We should go back again sometime. Maybe next spring," Jaehyun suggests, as firm in his convictions as always, and something about his promise assuages Doyoung's turbulent heart.
"I'd like that." Doyoung admits. He meets Jaehyun's eyes only briefly before the endearment twinkling within them forces him to look away. He always loses this game, is strangely weak to Jaehyun’s handsome face despite the familiarity and the long years of courtship between them.
“Let’s go home,” Doyoung decides, as he stands and tosses the empty can underhandedly into the recycling bin.
Jaehyun makes a soft affirmative sound and dutifully watches Doyoung climb onto his bike.
His concern is touching, if a bit misplaced. Of the two, Doyoung isn't the one who's incorrigibly clumsy, and Doyoung certainly hasn't broken his toe going down a flight of stairs. But he’s never disliked this naive chivalry, would never rebuff this strange boy who'd steered him away from a water puddle just so he wouldn't submerge his shoes.
When they're both ready to depart, Doyoung sets off behind Jaehyun. A treetop shudders as a bird alights a branch, and the leaves whisper indecipherably above Doyoung's head.
II.
There are certain comforting aspects to cooking: like the fact he has complete control of the outcome, or the way the routine task diverts his mind from more pressing thoughts.
Doyoung ignores the stinging in his eyes as he dices an onion with a measured hand. He cuts a zucchini, each translucent slice slumping delicately against the cutting board with every pass of his knife, and pares the skin from a potato, chopping it into neat concentric circles and then cubes.
To silence the cacophony that usually crowds his mind, he fixates on his cooking: the slippery texture of the onions in his hands before he deposits them into the boiling water, the wreath of zucchini slices that cluster up at the surface of the bubbling brew, and the hollow thud of potato chunks as they impact the bottom of the pot. One tablespoon of miso to one tablespoon of doenjang paste. Though the taste usually needs little adjustment beyond that, he still takes a pensive slurp from the serving spoon.
The potatoes are in no hurry to soften. Doyoung soaks the dishes, wipes the countertops, and clears away scraps. He's leaning against the counter for a brief respite when Jaehyun pads into the kitchen, aggressively towel drying his platinum hair.
Doyoung is given little warning before Jaehyun hugs him, nuzzling the junction of his neck, and for a moment there's only the notes of lavender, sage, and the bitter vanilla of tonka bean. Jaehyun's favorite set of brown flannel pajamas is buttoned all the way to his collarbone, and when Doyoung strokes his hand across Jaehyun's back, he's reminded that the material is even softer than it looks.
His own personal teddy bear. Doyoung allows himself to lean into the touch, and is rewarded by Jaehyun’s arms encircling him tighter.
"You didn't have to cook," Jaehyun muses, breath floating across his cheek like a caress. "We could've ordered out."
"I know," Doyoung swallows. He glances beyond Jaehyun towards the timer mounted above the stove. It’s a plastic square shaped like a white chocolate bar, an innocuous thing, and yet he can’t tear his eyes away from the seconds flickering relentlessly on its digital display. "I just felt like it."
Jaehyun hums, pleased, and when he indulges himself with a kiss Doyoung allows it. It’s salt and succor, achingly familiar, and when they finally run out of breath Doyoung pulls away. He brushes wet bangs away from slow-blinking eyes.
“The food’s almost done,” he says.
“Okay,” Jaehyun concedes. With trudging reluctance, he releases his grip on Doyoung’s waist.
Doyoung pauses the timer and procures a container of raw beef from the fridge. One by one, he surrenders each lean slice to the rolling boil of broth.
Fattier meats are a privilege afforded to those not shackled by idol diets, and as much as Jaehyun covets pork belly he prioritizes his physical condition more. Though Doyoung wouldn't mind if Jaehyun put on a few pounds, he’s far from an objective critic.
He hears Jaehyun quietly moving around the kitchen: plating bowls of rice, filling glasses of water, tending to minor tasks.
Jaehyun used to be regarded as the superior cook — had crafted a spicy pork dish identical to Doyoung's mother’s — while Doyoung had been heavy handed with salt and nearly brought a variety show chef to tears.
As with his other talents, Doyoung took to cooking through nothing more than an intrinsic drive to improve himself. But he makes breakfast because otherwise Jaehyun would just munch on fruits, Bubbles pictures of home-cooked meals to lure Jaehyun home faster, and cherishes the sight of Jaehyun seated docile and doe-eyed at the table, mouth pulled into a dreamy smile.
Doyoung tuts at his own inattention as he sets the finished pot of stew atop a ceramic trivet on the kitchen table. Without fanfare, he ladles out their portions into porcelain bowls.
For a few minutes there’s only the clink of utensils, the purposeful dine of the physically drained. When the inklings of satiety overtake the most immediate pangs of hunger, Doyoung looks over at Jaehyun.
"It's good, right?" he asks, and it's more a formality than anything; Jaehyun would endure his cooking even if it verged on inedible.
Jaehyun's chopsticks pause in their action of rolling his next bite of rice into a ball, and there it is: that serene smile, that lovestruck look. "Of course it is."
The visage is perhaps too radiant, and Doyoung averts his eyes as he reaches for the ladle idling in the pot. “Eat more then,” he chastises, fishing out strips of meat and depositing them into Jaehyun's bowl.
Jaehyun gives a happy little hum, and Doyoung is faced with the reality that soon there won't be anyone to do this for Jaehyun: to scoop the best portions onto his plate, to make sure he eats enough. Inadvertently, his mind conjures an image of Jaehyun's handsome face waned thin, and suddenly he's not very hungry anymore.
He's silent as he replaces the ladle in the pot, and Jaehyun perceives the veil of dread cloaking him like it's a visible thing.
“Done already?” Jaehyun asks softly.
Doyoung answers in the affirmative as he keeps his gaze trained downwards — the vegetables swimming in cloudy broth a more preferable sight than Jaehyun’s discerning gaze.
Jaehyun is nothing if not persistent, and he presses again. “Are you sure?”
It's no less gentle, no less warm, but when Doyoung finally chances a glance at him, there's a touch of something forlorn in his eyes, and Doyoung’s chest squeezes with guilt.
It's almost enough for the words to come tumbling out of his mouth.
"I just remembered that I need to study for my test next week," Doyoung offers instead, and his closest confidant accepts the lie easily enough.
They both know that Doyoung hardly forgets anything, annoyingly meticulous as he is, and Doyoung sees the wheels churning in Jaehyun's mind even as his lips curve into a wry smile. "It's hard dating a graduate student," Jaehyun laments. "Don't study so much that there's no room left in your head for me, okay?"
Doyoung sighs. If only that were the case.
Eventually they fall into a comfortable silence, with Doyoung fetching his notes as Jaehyun clears the table.
It’s all neat columns and sharp arrows and overzealous blocks of tiny handwriting, and Doyoung encodes the information amidst the quiet ambience of Jaehyun rinsing the dishes. He's so immersed in his task that he hardly registers the scraping of Jaehyun's chair against the floor as he settles back into his seat.
He feels Jaehyun’s stare more than he sees it. A normal person might have suffocated from the brunt of Jaehyun’s affection, or withered beneath the weight of his overwhelming regard, but Doyoung has always been fond of attention, and Jaehyun has always looked at him like this, even when Doyoung had been too obtuse to understand his feelings.
In his peripheral vision Doyoung detects a shine muscat grape, its washed exterior glassy like a jewel.
He leans forward and accepts the gesture, and Jaehyun’s fingertip grazes his lips as the fruit slides into his mouth. A sweet and vaguely flowery flavor unfolds on his palate as he chews, and his mouth salivates involuntarily at the tart aftertaste.
Doyoung hears Jaehyun munching as well before another grape is escorted to his mouth. He simply shakes his head.
"You eat them," Doyoung admonishes. They're running low, after all.
"Let's share," Jaehyun insists, unmoving in his posture as he waits expectantly for Doyoung.
For all of Doyoung's quick-witted tendencies, his debate prowess and his general urge to always be right, he’s never stood a chance against Jaehyun's stubbornness. He opens his mouth.
Jaehyun alternates between feeding Doyoung and himself, and before long the small cluster is plucked bare.
Doyoung makes a mental note to buy more; he's always made an effort to stock the fridge with Jaehyun's favorites. But soon he won't have to consider these things.
Again, Doyoung's mood sours, and as if anticipating it, Jaehyun rises. "Go take a shower," he chides gently. "We should get ready for bed.”
“Sure,” Doyoung agrees, and he attributes the resignation in his voice to fatigue.
III.
Doyoung is almost asleep when Jaehyun's hand halts its soothing journey up and down his back.
"Honey?" There's the characteristic affection in his tone, and in spite of everything the pet name still makes Doyoung shy.
If he pretends to be asleep Jaehyun will simply see through the ruse. As if seeking security, Doyoung buries himself further into the bed, into the warmth of the comforter and Jaehyun's solid frame.
"What is it?" he mumbles into Jaehyun's shoulder, and perhaps this is an easier conversation to have in the dark. He shuffles downward until his ear is resting on Jaehyun's chest, steady heartbeat thumping like a metronome in his ear, and it feels more like an anchor than anything he's ever known.
"Are you ready to tell me what's bothering you?" Jaehyun murmurs, idly stroking Doyoung’s hair. Doyoung feels the vibrations of his chest as he speaks, the entire process of thought to breath to words, and still it is too fast. He knows Jaehyun would allow him to keep running forever if he so chose, but that would violate the sanctity of the moment, the trust Jaehyun has placed in him.
He inhales, exhales, resolves not to break.
"I wish I didn't love you," Doyoung says.
He curls his hands in the hem of his pajama top. It's emerald green, the complementary set to Jaehyun's, matching like so many of their clothes, because they've known each other for so long and tangled their hearts together so intrinsically, and he'd never expected such halcyon days to blossom thorns.
“And I'm mad at you," Doyoung huffs. He takes a steadying breath, and already the aggressive facade withers as something more profound bleeds through: a sadness that Doyoung can't seem to escape no matter how he tries.
There's the barest hint of a chuckle as the chest beneath him heaves a shuddering sigh.
"Is that so?" Jaehyun asks, gentle amusement coloring his tone.
Before he can retort, Doyoung is swept up in a firm embrace, kisses scattering across his scalp like stars. "I love you too," Jaehyun promises. "More than anything."
Doyoung doesn’t reciprocate the hug.
He doesn't need Jaehyun: all of his achievements, everything he holds now, had been pried by his hands, yielded from his sweat and tears. But the thought of no steady presence to lean against when he cries, no one to hold him together when he falls apart, being left unmoored in a tempestuous sea — is nothing short of terrifying.
"I meant what I said," Doyoung murmurs, and then the words dry up, and he only buries his face further in that fleeting warmth, in the lingering earthy scent of Jaehyun’s cologne.
"Of course I'll miss you too," Jaehyun reassures. A moment of silence, a slow sip of midnight, and then: "But don't you think it's romantic? Pining for each other every day? We might fall more in love."
The more Doyoung ruminates the less quality time they'll have together. But he’s been so sentimental lately, and the seconds slip through his hands like sand in a sieve. He swallows.
Jashyun maneuvers their bodies, arranging Doyoung carefully on the pillow as he turns to face him. Traces of moonlight seep through the blinds, allowing Doyoung to make out the barest traces of Jaehyun's features: the curve of his mouth, the brightness in his eyes.
"My love, you worry too much."
A rush of defensiveness from the husk of Doyoung’s chest. "How are you not nervous? Aren't you worried for yourself?" He makes no effort to blunt its jagged edge.
"Of course I am," Jaehyun concedes, and there's a touch of mirth as he pauses, "but if I mope about it, then the person I like will be sad."
Unflinchingly, he holds Doyoung's gaze, finds his hands and interlocks their fingers, as if their combined might could suppress the swell of Doyoung's emotions.
Jaehyun would rather break his own heart than ask for help shouldering his burdens, would suffer a thousand cuts before allowing himself to bleed on Doyoung, and maybe he is helpless to the passage of time too, as steady as he is.
Doyoung throws a leg across Jaehyun's hips, runs his hand across Jaehyun's back and the solid line of his body, like if he holds on tight enough he won't have to let go.
“It'll be alright,” Jaehyun murmurs, and it suspends in the air like a prop, a band-aid to the deluge of uncertainty. When Jaehyun kisses the column of Doyoung's throat, Doyoung shudders with grief and want.
“I'll only ever love you. No one else,” Doyoung says, and the sentiment tastes like salt.
A slow exhale, a tightened embrace.
“I know.”
It's like a dream when Doyoung finally stands amidst the fields of wheat, leaving one last lingering touch on Jaehyun's head. He's struck with the memory of a teenager in a purple school uniform with dark hair and shining eyes, as bittersweet as the chocolate cake from the eve of their parting.
Two sprigs of chamomile sit heavy in his pocket. They're destined to be pressed into a bookmark, suffocated by the pages of the love poem anthology on his coffee table, but their fragile petals will endure.
He watches Jaehyun depart, sees the crescent of his final wave, and finds he has no regrets.