Work Text:
(1)
If there's one thing Park Jinyoung is, it's meticulous. It's literally in his job description; working at a publishing company means that Jinyoung has to be very careful with details, and he's good about it too. He takes great pride in his ability to zoom in on the smallest detail and pick at it until it's been fixed to his liking.
Details are important to Park Jinyoung—almost as important as having the last word and his F. Scott Fitzgerald novels and, sometimes, Jackson Wang.
Unfortunately, while details are important to Park Jinyoung, the universe does not bother itself with making sure his plans come to fruition. Jinyoung’s not sure if he’s offended some higher deity in a past life, or maybe it’s just karma coming back to bite him in the ass (all of his petty university statements coming back to haunt him), but he does at least know one thing: This is the universe deciding all of a sudden to completely and utterly shit on him. Jinyoung would be more betrayed if he hadn’t realized that falling in love with Jackson had been stage one in this tragic downfall.
This is stage two of the universe setting fire to the kindling of Jinyoung’s hopes and dreams: the spring storm, forecasted to swirl through Seoul two weeks from today suddenly makes a detour and speeds through the city with a vengeance.
The height of the storm, naturally, falls on the exact day—today, the most important of days—that Jinyoung had planned, very meticulously, to propose to his ridiculous (Jinyoung’s words) but much loved (Jackson’s additions) long-time boyfriend.
“It could be worse,” Jackson says cheerfully, even as he flinches as rain filters through the tree leaves and a few drops slip down his collar. Jinyoung is breathless from their mad dash for cover. Halfway into one of the parks, while they’d been headed toward the pond-side bench that Jinyoung had been sitting on when Jackson had unwittingly thrown a frisbee at his head, the rain had started. There had been nothing but to run for the trees in an attempt to stay somewhat dry, but the damage was done. Both of them were soaked through and through.
“How?” Jinyoung asks, pushing back his wet bangs from his eyes. He feels inordinately angry at the universe for doing this to him, and it makes him snappy, but still Jackson smiles and reaches for his hand. Jinyoung feels his ears redden as Jackson squeezes it comfortingly; the velvet box in his (thankfully inside) jacket pocket feels like a heavy iron weight.
“Well, for one, we could be somewhere where there aren’t any trees,” Jackson starts thoughtfully. “Then we’d really be fucked. You could have packed the food in containers that weren’t waterproof.” He smiles again, half sly, and Jinyoung is reminded of the boy who had rushed over after conking Jinyoung right between the eyes with his frisbee and said, “I’m so sorry, but oh my God, thank you for saving my frisbee from an untimely watery demise.” Even back then, through watery eyes and a bruised ego, Jinyoung had been half-taken with Jackson’s smile. (Even if it had taken him two and a half years of beating around the bush to admit it.)
“And there’s no one around,” Jackson says, his voice lilting slightly at the end, and he squeezes Jinyoung’s hand again. “You know, I’ve always wanted to be kissed in the rain,”
“That’s cheesy,” Jinyoung says, wrinkling his nose, like he wasn’t just planning on proposing with a homemade (okay home-ordered) picnic in the place where they’d first met. When Jackson leans in for a kiss, Jinyoung, despite his frustration and his wet hair and the velvet box burning a hole in his jacket pocket, meets him halfway.
Jackson’s mouth is soft and warm and familiar over his, and Jinyoung opens his mouth in response, letting Jackson deepen the kiss. It’s been five years since they first started officially going out, longer still since Jinyoung had first kissed Jackson, and maybe Jinyoung’s been reading too many sordid romance novels (stashed in his bottom-most desk drawer underneath piles of paperwork because God forbid Taehyung and Jimin, the two new interns, find him reading them), but every time feels like the first time, butterflies flapping frantically in Jinyoung’s stomach, his heart beating double time.
They kiss like that for a while, keeping it just on this side of chaste because despite the movies and novels that make kissing in the rain sound like, well, a walk in the park, it’s cold and wet and even with the body heat between the two of them, Jinyoung and Jackson are shivering by the time Jinyoung pulls away. Jinyoung’s one hand is occupied with gripping the wicker basket, his other gently fisted in Jackson’s wet shirt, and Jackson’s got a cold hand pressed to Jinyoung’s jaw, the other hand tangled in Jinyoung’s wet mop of hair.
“Let’s go home,” Jackson suggests, his lips puffy and kiss swollen. Jinyoung, needing to have the last word, leans in to kiss him again, and then pulls back and nods gratefully. His pants—while tight and perfect for showing off his ass (a strategic choice)—are not best suited for rain, and his legs feel like they’re slowly being squeezed into tiny noodles. He wonders briefly how Bambam does it before Jackson is untangling himself from Jinyoung’s body (since when was Jinyoung leaning against the tree trunk? And how exactly did Jackson’s thigh make it between Jinyoung’s legs?) and then grabbing Jinyoung’s hand again.
“Ready to make a run for it?” Jackson asks.
“Hang on,” Jinyoung says, discreetly feeling for the box in his jacket pocket. Still there, resting snugly over his heart, waiting to be pulled out and offered as a piece of Jinyoung’s heart. Jinyoung hesitates for a moment, then discards the idea; there’ll be other better times for proposing. For now, Jinyoung can wait. They have forever.
“I carried this here,” Jinyoung says, shoving the wicker basket into Jackson’s chest. Jackson fumbles with it but doesn’t let it drop. Good thing too, Jinyoung spent three hours ordering all of the dishes. “You have to carry it back now.” He smiles beatifically at Jackson’s scowl and then drags them both into the rain, running with his fingers threaded through Jackson’s.
(2)
Jinyoung lets it lie for a little bit, figuring that whatever karmic interference the universe has in store for him needs time to fizzle out. Even though they’d gone back to the apartment and proceeded to have three rounds of pretty satisfying sex afterwards, Jinyoung can’t help but think grumpily that they could have been doing that as actual fiancés.
It takes Jinyoung a week to consider another option. The only thing is, Jinyoung’s not totally sure what’s big enough for Jackson. Jinyoung, by nature, isn’t one for grand gestures of affection, but Jackson is. Hell, Jackson’s probably the king of grand gestures of affection, which is why Bambam and Yugyeom adamantly refuse to go near Jinyoung and Jackson’s apartment the two weeks before and after their respective birthdays. Still scarred from Jinyoung’s last birthday present that had involved roses, wine and a very naked Jackson.
The problem is, while affection and big, showy acts come easy to Jackson, it takes a while for Jinyoung to come up with something. He was so sure that the picnic idea was the one, but now that that’s out of the picture, Jinyoung needs to come up with something else, something better.
“You could propose to him at a restaurant,” Bambam suggests when they’re on their Saturday cafe runs. Jackson had begged off this week to hit the gym with Mark and Jaebum. Why Jackson would ever want to play third wheel like that, Jinyoung doesn’t know, but it gives him some time to regroup, maybe challenge the universe yet again. There’s got to be a limit to his bad luck.
“A restaurant?” Jinyoung repeats skeptically.
“You know, one of those really nice ones. I know a guy who knows a guy who owns a four-star Italian place.” The more Bambam talks about it, the more excited he gets. “You could put the ring in the champagne, or have people come out singing as you propose. Or put it in the cake!”
“Okay, let me stop you right there,” Jinyoung says dryly, “before you get too excited and hurt yourself. That’s so—cheesy.”
Bambam refuses to be deterred. “Weren’t you the one who planned to propose in the park?” Goddamn it, he never should have told Bambam that. “Anyway, Jackson-hyung loves that kind of stuff. You know he does.”
“I know, but isn’t it awkward?” Jinyoung asks. “Like, we’re basically inviting all these strangers to be, I don’t know, voyeurs into this private moment.”
“Okay, well,” Bambam says, “first of all, we both regrettably know that Jackson-hyung is all about strangers being part of private moments.”
“That was an accident,” Jinyoung protests, his ears heating up.
“It was scarring,” Bambam says. “And anyway, it won’t be awkward! I’ll ask Yoongi-hyung to ask Seokjin-hyung if he can give you a private room. There, problem solved.”
“No, problem not solved,” Jinyoung says. “I don’t even know where the place is. What if it’s really far? What if the ambiance isn’t just right?”
“‘Ambiance,’” Bambam scoffs before he pulls out his phone and taps the screen a couple times. “Here you go,” he says, sliding his phone over to Jinyoung. “Does it meet your majesty’s high standards?”
It’s a pretty nice place, Jinyoung has to admit. There are vines creeping up the side of the building with a Romeo and Juliet-esque balcony hanging over the front entrance. The main dining room has a high ceiling with a chandelier in it, and when Jinyoung looks, it looks like there might even be rooftop seating. It looks really ridiculously romantic and idyllic, and when Jinyoung taps through the menu, his mouth starts watering almost immediately, even though he’s got no idea how to even begin pronouncing tacconelle integrali.
“Well,” Jinyoung says hesitantly. It does sound like a good idea, but Jinyoung would die before letting Bambam know that right off the bat. “Only if it’s okay with Seokjin-ssi. And if we get a discount.”
“Alright you penny-pincher,” Bambam says, plucking his phone out of Jinyoung’s hands. “I’ll ask Yoongi-hyung right now.” He taps his screen and then holds the phone up to his ear, propping up his elbow on the table. Jinyoung watches and half-heartedly listens as Bambam works his networking magic. Proposing in a restaurant isn’t exactly his first choice, but it fits the giant whopping Jackson bill for grand romantic gestures, and the restaurant looks nice.
“Great, thanks hyung,” Bambam finishes charmingly. Jinyoung makes a face at him. “You’re the best. Next time I’ll get the drinks. Tell Seokjin-hyung thank you for me too!” Bambam hangs up, and Jinyoung looks at him, eyebrows raised. “It pays to know a celebrity, huh?” Bambam says smugly. “Seokjin-hyung will clear out the rooftop terrace for you for next Wednesday at nine.”
“I owe you one,” Jinyoung says, sincerely.
“Just make me the godfather to one of your kids, that’s all I ask,” Bambam says, and Jinyoung doesn’t even kick him underneath the table.
+
“No way,” Jackson says on Wednesday at nine o’clock, when Jinyoung drags him into the restaurant. Jinyoung would laugh at how big Jackson’s eyes are, taking in all the splendour around them, but he’s feeling a little overwhelmed himself. The place has vaulted ceilings, which only serves to magnify even the quietest whisper, but the building is only at a quiet murmur, barely even a hush.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Jackson asks with a worried furrow in his brow, like he’s afraid one of the waiters will overhear him and kick them out. Jinyoung’s glad at least he made both of them wear their best suits.
“Positive,” Jinyoung says, reaching over to press the palm of his hand at the small of Jackson’s back, pushing him forward while simultaneously preventing him from stepping back. He steps forward to the maitre d’ and pretends he doesn’t feel embarrassingly out of place. “Park Jinyoung. I believe I reserved the roof?”
“The roof?” Jackson hisses, but the maitre d’, a man with a long face and a pointed nose, just checks his book before nodding. His smile is wide and friendly.
“Yes, of course,” he says. “Right this way please.”
“How did you get these reservations?” Jackson whispers to Jinyoung as they follow the maitre d’ up the winding staircase to the roof. The stairs, hardwood, probably to make inevitable food clean-ups easier, don’t even creak under their weight. “Oh my God, did you kill someone? Tell me you didn’t kill someone.”
“Yeah, I killed someone,” Jinyoung deadpans. “We’re actually impersonating a different Park Jinyoung plus one.”
“I knew it,” Jackson hisses. He looks balefully at Jinyoung, looping his arm through Jinyoung’s. It makes walking up the stairs a little harder, but Jinyoung can’t bring himself to pull away. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, I would have helped you hide the body.”
Jinyoung’s got a response on the tip of his tongue—he’s not going to propose after Jackson says something about hiding a dead body, but he’s not above thinking about saying that’s part of the reason he wants to marry him—but the response fizzles away with the smiley waiter opens the door and gestures for them to enter.
The rooftop is beautiful, overlooking a tiny portion of the city with its glittering lights. There are warming lamps positioned strategically, and fairy lights strung up all over the tiny potted plants and vine-covered patio overhang. Most importantly, it’s empty. Most of the tables and chairs are bare of any sort of decoration except the table in the center of the rooftop terrace, which is adorned with a tablecloth and candles and carefully arranged silverware.
Jinyoung is going to have to do more than just make Bambam a godfather; he might even have to get him the shoes he’s been eyeing for ages now. Jinyoung sneaks a side glance at Jackson, who’s taking it all in with his mouth gaping wide open, the lights reflecting in his wide eyes, and Jinyoung can’t help it. He leans over to peck Jackson softly at the corner of his mouth, and Jackson turns, still a little dazed.
“Did I… forget an anniversary or something?” Jackson asks, and Jinyoung laughs.
“Come on, let’s eat.”
The dinner is lovely; whoever this Seokjin-hyung of Bambam’s knows what he’s doing in the kitchen, and the private rooftop terrace makes the dinner as intimate as any they would have back home. Jackson soon loses his wide-eyed awe at the place, and the conversation turns from gaping over their luck at having snagged a place at this incredibly expensive, quality restaurant to something more familiar: Jackson talking about the kids he’s coaching, Jinyoung whining about the two interns and his co-workers. It feels comfortable, safe. Their feet are tangled underneath the table, their knees brushing, and Jinyoung feels a little thrill race through his veins every time Jackson shoots him a crooked smile. It’s been five years but they’re still brand new.
And because it’s Jackson, and because the night feels so much like a first date, Jackson flirts with Jinyoung, just as poorly and outrageously as he had when they really first started dating. It’s ridiculous, and Jinyoung tells him so, but Jinyoung doesn’t tell him to stop.
“That was delicious,” Jackson declares when their waiter—a tall, solemn-looking boy in a neatly-pressed dress shirt—clears away their plates, scraped clean of food. “Let’s come here all the time, Jinyoungie, I don’t think I want to eat anything else ever again.”
“What, do you think I’m made of money?” Jinyoung asks, tapping Jackson’s leg lightly. He’s feeling a little warm under his suit, especially with the few glasses of champagne he’d downed to stave off the nerves, but it’s a good kind of warm, like being swaddled in a giant blanket in the middle of winter, or like having Jackson’s arms around him, their bodies pressed tightly together in their bed.
“You should have known when you first started dating me that I have expensive taste,” Jackson tells him, tossing his head. “I’m very high maintenance, and now that I’ve tasted what might literally be the food of the gods, I’ve been spoiled.” Jackson kicks Jinyoung gently. “Now you’ve got to take responsibility.” His eyes crinkle with the force of his smile.
It’s a perfect transition to a proposal, and Jinyoung can see the window of opportunity looming in front of him. The world around them slows to a snail’s pace, and it might just be Jinyoung projecting, but it feels like even the city around them quiets, the focus narrowing down to just him and Jackson. “Okay,” Jinyoung says and reaches into his pocket, grasps the box, and then, steeling himself, stands—
—right as their waiter walks by with dessert, compliments of the chef.
It all happens very quickly. The waiter tries like hell to dodge Jinyoung while keeping a grip on the plates, but there’s only so much he can do. Jinyoung crashes into the plates, tipping them over and splattering the dessert all over the both of them. The plates, thankfully, don’t break, because their waiter has gecko grip, but there’s suddenly ice cream and chocolate and whatever else smeared over Jinyoung’s cheek and his hair and his best suit.
“Oh shit,” Jackson says, and just like that, the moment is gone. The world comes back into hyperfocus around them, the noise of the city a sudden cacophony. The warmth under Jinyoung’s collar is no longer comfortable but rather, stifling and prickling, and Jinyoung’s just standing there, humiliated, while the waiter stammers his apology, slipping into satoori that goes in Jinyoung’s ear and out the other. Jinyoung still has one hand in his pocket, gripping the black box so hard he’s not sure he can feel his fingers anymore.
“It’s fine, it was an accident,” Jinyoung says, though it’s through gritted teeth. That doesn’t seem to comfort the waiter at all, who somehow escaped the falling dessert; he looks terrified. “Can you—maybe just grab some more napkins?” Slowly, Jinyoung releases his death grip on the box in his pocket and pulls out his hand to grab his discarded one from the meal. “We might need more of these.”
The waiter, clearly grateful for any reason to leave, scurries away hurriedly, and then Jackson’s at Jinyoung’s side with another napkin, wiping away the dessert.
“Are you okay? Shit, Jinyoungie, why did you stand so suddenly?” Jackson asks, cupping Jinyoung’s chin to look at him.
Because I wanted to propose to you, Jinyoung thinks miserably, wiping his face with his napkin. Because I wanted it to be romantic and big and now it’s just a literal mess.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jinyoung mumbles, folding his napkin to get a clean area. He looks down at his suit resignedly; it’s going to need to be dry-cleaned before his next big meeting.
Jackson doesn’t look like he believes him, but he lets it go, focusing on helping Jinyoung clean up. The roof suddenly feels too cold, too empty, and the silence stretches between them just as frigid, especially after the warm conversation from earlier.
Jinyoung’s pretty sure he’s got almost all the dessert off, and he says as much, tossing his napkin onto the table. The waiter’s still not back yet, and Jinyoung almost feels bad for clearly terrifying the kid so much he’d run for the kitchen.
“Wait, hang on, you missed a spot,” Jackson says, and Jinyoung is about to ask where, reaching for his napkin again when Jackson leans in to lick a stripe up Jinyoung’s cheek, effectively shocking Jinyoung into silence.
“There you go, got it,” Jackson says, then smacks his lips, frowning. “Holy shit, this is so good?”
“That’s disgusting,” Jinyoung says, rubbing his cheek. “You’re gross.”
“Please, that’s hardly the worst place my mouth’s been,” Jackson says dismissively. “Have you tried this dessert?”
“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for cake,” Jinyoung says dryly, but Jackson shakes his head, reaching over to wipe off some of the splattered dessert from the napkin and all but shoving his fingers into his mouth.
Jackson’s right; the dessert is really good, but Jinyoung only gets a little bit of a taste before he’s nippin’g at Jackson’s fingers.
“Ow, what was that for?” Jackson says, wounded as he pulls his hand away.
“You’re a menace,” Jinyoung says emphatically, embarrassment crawling up his neck again though for an entirely different reason. “You can’t just—you don’t just stick your fingers in other people’s mouths, what the fuck?”
“Oh sure, when I do it, I’m a menace, but when you do it, it’s ‘hot,’” Jackson sulks. “What, are my fingers not good enough for you? Too short, are they?”
“Oh my God,” Jinyoung says, running his hand over his face, grimacing when he feels the stickiness of the syrup. “We’re not having this conversation right now.”
“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Jackson demands, loudly, which, honestly, Jinyoung should have seen coming. Give Jackson an inch and he’ll go a mile. “My fingers aren’t long enough for you? Funny, ‘cos two nights ago, I didn’t hear you complaining when I had three fingers up your—”
“Uh,” squeaks the waiter, and both Jackson and Jinyoung jump. He must have come back when they were distracted, and Jinyoung prays desperately, against all hope, that he’d only just got here. No luck, apparently. The waiter, who has fistfuls of paper towels clutched in his hands, also has a deep, very obvious blush on his cheeks. “Your napkins?”
(“So we can never go back there again, huh,” Jackson comments thoughtfully on the subway back to theirs. Their waiter—Jeongguk—had accepted their apologies, but Jinyoung still couldn’t look him in the eye when they left.
“Nope,” Jinyoung says, already imagining the earful he’s going to get from Bambam for messing up the proposal again. “I don’t think so.”)
(3)
Jinyoung’s sure this one will work; after a brief break from brainstorming (and with little help from his friends), he realized what was going wrong with all his plans. Jinyoung had been letting other third parties into the proposal. Rookie mistake, obviously. The only person Jinyoung can depend on to do everything right is himself.
And he’s truly outdone himself, if he says so himself. All of Jackson’s favorite dishes are either simmering on the stove or already plated out, waiting for Jackson to come home. Jinyoung’s not a great cook, but he’s good at following directions, and Jackson’s mom is good at giving them, especially when he told her why he was doing it.
All there’s left to do now is wait, and once he’s changed into his soft grey knit sweater—the one that Jackson loves, and Jinyoung loves because Jackson loves—Jinyoung gratefully sinks down into his chair at the tiny kitchen table, snagging his phone as he goes. Jackson had replied to his I made dinner!! Come home soon text with a complicated array of emojis that Jinyoung, thankfully, deciphers to mean exuberant excitement. More recently, Jackson sent an omw, and Jinyoung, satisfied that Jackson is on his way, starts sorting through the emails he’d missed during the day.
He’s in the middle of telling a new author exactly why she’s got to start adding in Oxford commas when there’s the merry chime of the correct code being keyed into the keypad, and Jinyoung almost falls out of his chair with how suddenly his nerves spring up. His phone clatters to the table, and Jinyoung almost instinctively feels his pocket for the box. It’s still there, just as it was fifteen minutes ago when Jinyoung last checked, and Jinyoung tries to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. It’s time.
Except that when the door opens, it’s not just Jackson coming through and toeing off his shoes. It’s Mark, and Youngjae, and Jaebum, all coming through into Jinyoung and Jackson’s apartment, seeing Jinyoung’s careful work, his clumsy attempt at folding the dumplings into sun shapes. And it’s stupid, but Jinyoung’s feet hurt from standing all day, and he just feels—incredibly small, all of a sudden.
To his credit, Jackson immediately notices. If not the candles and the wine and the fucking dishes that Jinyoung clumsily put together, he definitely sees the expression on Jinyoung’s face. Whatever that is; Jinyoung’s not really sure about his expression right now.
“Uh,” Jackson says, the same time Mark gets a good look at Jinyoung and immediately backtracks.
“Actually,” Mark says, “I totally forgot. Youngjae, we have to feed Coco, right?”
“Right,” Youngjae says immediately, too loudly. He tries to cover it up with a laugh, but it’s too bright. “I can’t believe we forgot. Come on Mark-hyung, let’s go.”
It’s an amazing feat of dexterity, but Mark and Youngjae manage to get their shoes back on while simultaneously turning and hobbling out the door. Jaebum stands there, eyes flicking from Jinyoung to Jackson and back again before saying, lamely, “Right. Gotta go too. I have—a thing. Yeah.” He clears his throat a little. “See you,” he says before disappearing into the hallway. The door shuts behind him with a click.
“I’m so sorry,” Jackson says immediately, not letting the silence settle like dust between them. “Babe, I’m so sorry, I had no idea you’d made all this, just for us—God, everything looks so good, it must have taken you ages.”
Jackson’s trying. He’s trying, and he’s sorry, and Jinyoung knows it’s unreasonable to be angry, but suddenly, he is. He’s not sure what or who he’s angry at, but he thinks it’s everything. Just—for once, Jinyoung wishes things would go according to plan. It’s already the third time, and Jinyoung had tried so hard to make it perfect. He’d tried so hard, and he’s been up all day doing his best for the perfect dinner, and the perfect proposal, and it hadn’t even gotten off the ground before it got its wings clipped.
Jinyoung knows it’s irrational to be angry at Jackson, but it’s less satisfying to be angry with the universe.
“It did,” Jinyoung says curtly, and Jackson flinches, dropping his gym bag to the ground.
“Jinyoung, I’m so sorry,” Jackson says sincerely. “I really didn’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t have invited them, seriously.”
“I know,” Jinyoung says distantly. His appetite has somehow shriveled up. The box in his pocket is too much for him to bear right now, and he just wants to put it away. Hide it again. “I just. You should eat. I’m really tired.”
Jackson’s watching him worriedly, the furrow deep between his brows, but he lets Jinyoung walk away, leaving him with the full table, the bottle of wine, and the silence.
+
Jinyoung changes into his pajamas and gets ready for bed even though it’s only seven. In the bathroom, he pulls out the velvet box and opens it. The simple silver band he’d gotten for Jackson sits there, nestled in the tiny groove there, and Jinyoung stares at it. It’s so dumb, he decides, that he’s so upset about what happened. After all, Jackson didn’t know that he’d been planning something. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To have Jackson be surprised.
Well, joke’s on him, Jinyoung thinks a little bitterly, letting it sit on his tongue for a few seconds, revelling in the bitterness, before he lets it go. Closes the velvet box with a tiny snap. Clenches it in his fist.
Maybe it’s a sign that he should put off proposing. Jinyoung feels a tiny ache open up within him, but he quells it with a soft sigh. He’s going to propose to Jackson eventually. Jinyoung knows it with the same kind of certainty that he knows the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening. It’s just a matter of when, and clearly, it’s not now.
“Soon,” Jinyoung promises his reflection. Through the closed door of the bedroom, Jinyoung can hear the quiet sounds of dishes being shuffled around as Jackson eats the food Jinyoung had so carefully made for the two of them. “Just not now,” Jinyoung says, and stuffs the velvet box in the closet underneath some old clothes neither of them wear before slipping underneath the covers, willing himself to fall asleep.
(He can’t, but he pretends to be asleep when Jackson comes in, quietly, treading lightly. Jinyoung keeps his eyes shut, but he hears Jackson’s soft, measured breathing as he changes into his pajamas. The bathroom light flicks on, and there’s the sound of rushing water as Jackson gets ready for bed. The sound is almost enough to lull Jinyoung into a true—if fitful—sleep.
Jackson climbs into bed and tentatively reaches out for Jinyoung. Jinyoung knows that Jackson knows he’s awake; you can’t sleep next to someone for three years and not be intimately familiar with how they sound when they’re truly asleep. Gently, Jackson brushes away some of the bangs that have fallen into Jinyoung’s eyes.
“The food was delicious,” he says, sincerity pouring off Jackson in waves. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever had such good food since coming to Korea.” Jinyoung has to repress a snort. “Thank you.”
“It’s just,” Jackson continues after a moment, “There were a lot of leftovers. Could have done with someone else eating with me, but I just put the leftovers in the fridge. For tomorrow.” Jinyoung stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, but subtly leans into Jackson’s touch when he runs his fingers through Jinyoung’s hair again. “Thanks Jinyoungie. I love you. I’m sorry.”
There’s a shift in the bed as Jackson shifts his weight to lie down fully, carefully keeping just enough distance between them so that Jinyoung knows Jackson’s open to whatever Jinyoung wants to give him. Jinyoung waits and waits and waits for Jackson’s breathing to even out, and then Jinyoung carefully, carefully rolls over so that he can press his face into Jackson’s hair, rest a hand on Jackson’s hip. Jinyoung can feel Jackson wake up a little at his touch.
“Sorry, I’m being stupid,” Jinyoung mutters, and Jackson makes a sleepy noise of protest.
“No, you’re not,” Jackson mumbles, reaching up to grasp Jinyoung’s hand and pulling it so they’re proper spooning now. Jinyoung slips his leg between Jackson’s. “Go to sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.”
“Okay,” Jinyoung sighs, his breath just barely ruffling Jackson’s hair. He closes his eyes. “Okay.”
(+1)
Jinyoung’s acting strangely for the past few weeks. Initially, Jackson had been terrified that there was something wrong with them, and Jinyoung was retreating into himself so far that Jackson couldn’t hope to reach him, but even after the fiasco last week with Jinyoung’s surprise dinner, it turned out to be nothing at all; they were back to the Jinyoung-and-Jackson they had been before, argumentative and petty and terribly in love. Maybe Jinyoung was a little touchier than usual, more likely to have his hands on Jackson than not, but that wasn’t a development that Jackson could say he particularly minded.
Jackson asked about it, of course, but Jinyoung had just smiled his mysterious, enigmatic smile—the smile that Jackson both loved and hated, because he knew what it meant, but not what it really meant. “Don’t worry about it,” Jinyoung said before he leaned over to kiss Jackson. “It’s not important.” Jackson had worried and fretted over it a little bit more—okay a lot more; maybe for a whole week—but when Jinyoung made no indication of, well, anything, Jackson let it go. After all, he trusts Jinyoung; if Jinyoung says it’s nothing, then it’s nothing.
(And okay, maybe Jackson was a little worried and called everyone, including Namjoon who didn’t even know Jinyoung that well because Namjoon’s a weirdo genius who skipped like three grades in middle school and ended up graduating before Jackson and Jinyoung became a thing. But it didn’t matter, because Namjoon didn’t even end up picking up, and Jackson had slunk back into bed, his body tense with worry until Jinyoung rolled over and smashed his nose into Jackson’s neck and mumbled, still half asleep, that Jackson had better not leave again, or else he’d hit him.
Call him a sap, but the fact was, Jackson slept a little more easily after that.)
And now, even though sometimes Jackson will catch Jinyoung looking at him speculatively now and again, they’re back to normal. So back to normal that they’ve managed to rekindle an old habit that they started in university: Trash TV Tuesdays.
Jackson’s not sure what sparks the question, though. Jinyoung’s in the middle of shoving his face into a carton of cold noodles and jabbing his utensil at their TV, his feet tucked under Jackson’s thighs. He’s tired and soft from a long day of work—one of the new authors their company picked up is being especially difficult—and he’s wearing his glasses. Jackson loves it when Jinyoung wears his glasses, and when he has his hair pushed back like that, and when his tie’s undone, and just. Jackson just loves Jinyoung, all of him, maybe especially now when Jinyoung’s unguarded and comfortable. When they’re both just sitting here, in their living room, watching terrible shows together.
Jackson’s not sure where it comes from, but he’s hit with a sudden bolt of clarity. He could do this forever.
“Should have picked the other contestant, honestly,” Jinyoung says critically. “Better voices, better performance.”
“Jinyoungie,” Jackson says, and Jinyoung hums distractedly, his eyes glued to the screen. “Hey, Jinyoungie, look at me?”
“Hmm?” Jinyoung asks, turning to look at him. There’s so much affection in Jackson’s body, he doesn’t know what do with it. “What’s up, babe?”
“Let’s get married,” Jackson says.
Jinyoung’s mouth drops, and for a long, terrifying moment, Jackson thinks, Oh shit. He’s messed this up. He’s messed all this up.
Jackson is about to backtrack completely, maybe crack a joke, when Jinyoung pulls away and kicks him, not hard exactly but definitely not gently either, in the thigh.
“Ow, what the fuck!” Jackson yells.
“You asshole!” Jinyoung shouts back as he swings his legs off the couch and stands, nearly knocking his carton of food off his lap and onto the floor. He all but throws the carton onto the table before stalking off to the bedroom, leaving Jackson behind and gaping at Jinyoung’s retreating back.
Jackson’s really fucked this one up, completely misread the situation, and now he’s got a foot-shaped bruise on his thigh and the love of his life is rummaging around in the closet; Jackson can hear the closet door being opened, can hear the angry shuffling of hangers being pushed aside, and Christ, is he packing? Is he going through their piles of clothes, looking for the suitcase?
Fuck, Jackson thinks emphatically, before standing abruptly to all but run to the bedroom. Sure enough, the closet door is flung open, and Jackson sees Jinyoung grabbing shirts and tossing them to the ground. There’s no suitcase in sight, but maybe Jinyoung wants to collect all of his old shirts together first before throwing them in there. “Jinyoung, wait,” Jackson babbles, hovering, fretting. For the first time, Jackson is afraid to touch him.
“Babe, wait,” Jackon says, desperately. It’s a little embarrassing, how squeaky and desperate he really sounds, but Jackson doesn’t care; all that matters is Jinyoung’s back is turned on him and he’s leaving. “I’m sorry, I promise I won’t say anything like that ever again, I promise we’ll get that cat you wanted like two months ago. Is that what this is about? That I’ll commit to marriage but I don’t want a cat? Please, Jinyoung, don’t—”
Jinyoung stands and whirls around, his eyes flashing. He has a hand balled into a fist, and Jackson, for a wild second, thinks Jinyoung is going to punch him. When he grabs Jackson’s collar and pushes him back against the doorframe, Jackson flinches, but then Jinyoung’s mouth is on his and he’s kissing him with more teeth than lip, almost pinning Jackson up against the wall with his body and hands between them. Every part of Jackson’s brain is confused.
“What’s going on?” Jackson asks when Jinyoung pulls away to breathe; they’re both panting a little from… Jackson’s not really sure what that was.
“You complete fucking dick,” Jinyoung says, and oh, God, is he crying? It sounds like he’s about to start, and his eyes are looking a suspiciously shiny. He rests his forehead against Jackson’s. “I’ve been trying to propose to you for weeks, and then you just fucking spring it on me on a random day? Fuck off.”
Despite that, Jinyoung only clings tighter. Jackson’s grateful, because right about now, it feels like someone’s just pulled out the rug from underneath him, and the only thing keeping him kind of upright is Jinyoung’s tight grip and his back pinned against the doorframe.
“You were trying to propose?” Jackson asks.
“All month,” Jinyoung says, closing his eyes. He’s blushing, Jackson’s close enough to almost see the red seeping into his cheeks, and he pulls away a little more to reveal the black velvet box gripped tightly in his sweaty palm. He all but shoves it in Jackson’s hand, and Jackson takes it robotically, opens it. The ring glints at him in their closet’s bad lighting. “The picnic,” Jinyoung says, a touch miserably, “the dinners, everything. It was supposed to be perfect.”
“But you hate huge romantic gestures,” Jackson says, dazed. He looks up at Jinyoung, then down at Jinyoung’s hand. Imagines a matching ring on Jinyoung’s fourth finger. “You think they’re cliche and gross.”
“But you love them,” Jinyoung says, his voice barely above an embarrassed whisper. And then, because he can’t let Jackson know he cares, or whatever, he adds, in a stronger voice, “Idiot.”
Jackson’s pretty sure he’s about to burst at the seams with affection, with love, and he’s sure it shows on his face. At least, it feels like it. “Your idiot,” Jackson says, and Jinyoung’s face goes through a complicated series of emotions. But now, Jackson knows he’s on solid ground, and so he teases, “You still haven’t given me an answer yet.”
Jinyoung glares at him, and Jackson can’t help but beam back. “Yes, you fucking asshole,” Jinyoung says, huffing, even though he’s leaning in and curling a hand around Jackson’s neck again, his thumb brushing against Jackson’s jaw. “I’ll fucking marry you.”
This time, the kiss is sweeter, deeper. Jackson loses himself to the feeling, even though someone is murdering a Big Bang song in the background because they’ve forgotten to turn off the TV. Jinyoung’s mouth is familiar and soft under his, even though his lips are chapped. Jackson’s a pretty big fan of big romantic gestures, but this proposal feels right. Maybe even better than if Jinyoung had gotten down on one knee at the restaurant or in the park.
“We’re telling the kids I proposed in the park,” Jinyoung mutters against Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson presses his laughter into Jinyoung’s lips. “I mean it,” he insists. “After all the shit I went through because of you, you owe me forever. I couldn’t live because of you.”
“Okay,” Jackson agrees easily, pressing his kisses to the corner of Jinyoung’s mouth, down the sharp slope of his jaw. “Forever,” he repeats. They’ve got a forever.
(And also, five months later, a cat.)