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Yeosang is tired before he even makes it to Jongho’s place, a low, dull throbbing beginning behind his eyes by the time he makes it to the door. But this is what they do - they hang out on Friday nights more often than they don’t, and they watch random shit and order take out and then one of them inevitably ends up crashing a little too early because they’re adults with big boy jobs and long weeks. Yeosang thinks he might be the one to fall asleep first tonight, but that’s fine. It’s his turn anyway; Jongho had it last week after his big case. The door is solid under his knuckles, and he knocks a little too loudly for his own liking, flinching away from the sound, rubbing his temples.
Jongho opens the door with a smile that falls as soon as he takes Yeosang in. He’s sure he looks bone tired, the look on Jongho’s face tells him it might be worse, like the fatigue has taken root in his very marrow, slowing him down.
“Yeosang-ah?” Jongho questions softly and reaches for Yeosang with careful hands. “Are you okay?” The question slips from his lips unbidden, his eyes go wide and Yeosang grimaces, as he watches the previously excited face slip into one of concern. “I can make tea? Have you eaten?” His fingers are gentle on his shoulders, so gentle, always.
“Hey,” Yeosang says softly, stepping in over the threshold and straight into Jongho’s touch, whose arms immediately close around him as he practically falls into him. It’s grounding, helpful–his hands always kind even when they’re not soft. He gives himself a second, two, to just - pause before he shrugs out of his jacket slowly, hangs it up near the door. “Just tired,” he murmurs as he leans into Jongho again, presses his face against the younger man’s shoulder and takes a deep breath. The throbbing behind his eyes soothes a bit, Jongho taking the edge off the way he somehow always manages to. Yeosang is so close to saying it out loud, nose tucked in against the collar of his shirt, but he just shakes his head instead. “Can we just sit down?” Yeosang feels almost fragile in Jongho’s arms, even though he’s been working out with San and he knows his body is solid but the younger man’s frame strong and sturdy in a way that just offers him a feeling of safety and warmth that makes the pain in his head almost forgettable - almost.
“Of course,” Jongho replies instantly and tucks Yeosang in under his arm properly, reaching behind him to shut the door before he pulls him further into the apartment. They head straight for the couch, Jongho almost carrying Yeosang more than he is walking himself, his arm solid around his waist, an anchor. “Tea?” Jongho asks him after he’s made sure Yeosang is sitting comfortably and is reaching for the blanket that hangs folded over the back of the couch. The blanket settles around him and almost like it reminded his body, he feels tired again, so fucking tired (and small, tucked into the corner of the couch, like he could disappear in it).
“Sure,” he says quietly, aware enough that Jongho is stressed. He catches his hand clumsily as the younger goes to pull away and smiles up at him. “Don’t look so stressed, Jongho-yah. ‘m okay. It’s just a long week catching up with me.” Jongho scoffs in return, quietly, and Yeosang knows it’s not malicious.
“Just… just stay put, I’ll grab some tea and snacks.” He squeezes Yeosang’s hand once, leaving no room for argument as his hands reach out to tuck Yeosang tighter into the blanket, keeping him warm and then turns, leaving for the kitchen. Yeosang can hear him shuffle about in there as he makes the tea, curling into the couch while he waits. He doesn’t particularly love being babied, never has, something about it a little discomfiting even when it’s only meant with the best intentions. It feels too much, too tight, too close, and Yeosang doesn’t love it now either–Jongho leaving no room for discussion–but it feels a little less like being babied and a little more like being cared for. And when it’s this, when it’s the younger man, when he’s this tired, he can’t bring himself to complain. As if he could, really, doesn’t have the energy to get up and follow him to the kitchen, doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight, even though he wishes he did. It’s exhausting, thinking this hard.
He’s not sure how long he’s been dozed off when Jongho is back, feels the couch dip when Jongho climbs onto it with him, feels himself being moved, rearranged so that he is tucked into Jongho’s body, perfectly aligned, cheek resting on Jongho’s chest. Please don’t go again , almost slips from his tongue but he bites down on the words, and his heart aches as he tucks his face into the younger’s collar again instead, breathing against him. His eyes feel a little heavy, his mind muddled, but it’s too early to fall asleep. He just got here and it’s been a rough week but it hasn’t been that bad. He feels silly, frustrated, unmoored and floating. But then Jongho is shifting, leaning into Yeosang as he reaches across to snag something behind him, the sound of something crinkling in his hand.
“Yeosang-ah,” a whisper close to his ear. “Eat something for me, please?”
“M fine,” Yeosang mumbles again, insistent, twisting one hand into the back of Jongho’s shirt as he hides his face, stubborn. “Y’really don’t need to worry.” It startles somewhat of a half-laugh from Jongho that soon turns into a mock-annoyed tut and Yeosang can feel Jongho' shake his head fondly even as he gently nudges his face from that spot in his neck where he’d been hiding.
“Please eat something,” he urges him again and Yeosang can tell the younger is holding back, not trying to smother him, not trying to baby him, he just cares (and it makes his heart ache something awful). “C’mon, Sangie-yah,” Jongho whispers and Yeosang feels his defenses drop at the nickname. Then there’s Jongho’s nose nudging at his forehead before a short, chaste kiss is pressed to the same patch of skin that makes his heart stutter. “Just a little? And a bit to drink and then you can sleep, mkay?” Jongho holds the snack out to Yeosang again, an unbearingly hopeful tint to his voice.
“Don’t wanna sleep either,” the older man grumbles, a little whiny with it, but he reaches for the snack with the hand not death-gripping Jongho’s shirt, blinking against the sunlight still streaming in through the windows. Yeosang struggles to put words to how thick his thoughts are, to the way working through them feels a bit like wading through a pool full of jello. (It’s an unfortunate sensation he can attest to having experienced, though he wishes he hadn’t. College is full of moments people regret.) He takes a piece of the snack from the bag, already opened like Jongho had anticipated he might be fickle and he glows warmwarmwarm with it. He chews and swallows, which doesn’t feel great, doesn’t taste like anything, really, but he can’t complain when he’s still pressed into Jongho and nothing can get to him here anyway.
Jongho’s soft chuckle makes affection bloom sticky-sweet in his chest, flowing through his veins as it pumps out from his heart and he wants more, so much more than he’s able to have. Recalls that before he started feeling so out of it, he’d been really looking forward to touching Jongho, to being touched back, to that singular sort of knowing someone that comes from the secret part of their otherwise fairly normal friendship. (He’s too tired for it now, but that doesn’t stop the wanting.)
“Missed you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to press a kiss just under Jongho’s Adam’s apple. “All week, wanted to come see you.”
***
The arm Jongho has curled around Yeosang tightens imperceptibly as Yeosang turns into him more. The kiss to his Adam’s apple threatens to undo him in a way he wasn’t expecting. Yeosang’s words sound awfully honest, too honest in a way that makes Jongho’s heart hurt because he wants nothing more than for it to be true, for it to be something Yeosang says to him all the time. They text it to each other sometimes, miss you , but the additional confession of wanting to see him all week knocks the breath from his lungs and rips the carpet out from underneath his feet. The want suddenly coursing through his veins is unreal and he’s fairly sure he’s losing his mind, especially when Yeosang untangles his hand from his shirt only to slip his fingers just underneath. He can’t focus like this, all his senses homed in on the contact. Yeosang’s fingers are hot against his skin, leave trails of fire that seep into him and leave behind ash-like marks for him to retrace for days (he knows from experience, from all the previous times Yeosang’s hands have been on his bare skin, flaying him open) and he can’t shake the feeling that Yeosang’s hands should be on him always.
“Missed you, too, Yeosang-ah,” he says instead of bringing the barrage of feelings in his chest to light and he runs a hand through his hair while he reaches for the tea, avoiding the gooey, soft smile on Yeosang’s face. “Drink some tea, we’ll nap together, okay? And then watch a movie after?”
Yeosang blinks up at him slowly and maybe he was wrong, maybe this is his undoing after all, because his eyes are pretty, so pretty and Jongho loses himself in them for a beat too long. Yeosang shuffles up a bit, endearing in the clumsy way he does it before he takes the tea from Jongho and drinks, careful not to spill any. He takes a sip, two, three, before Jongho can practically see how heavy Yeosang’s head must feel, watches him struggle to stay upright and can’t keep the besotted smile off his face. He’s glad Yeosang is focused on the tea because he’s sure he would be found out if Yeosang looked at him right now.
“Nap and then movie,” Yeosang mumbles, tongue thick with tiredness and unspoken words. He takes another sip of the tea before setting it back down and Jongho watches him do so, hands ready to catch him as he wobbles but he manages and promptly shuffles back down into the warmth of Jongho (and maybe it feels a little desperate, a little keen, like he might die without it, but that might be wishful thinking on Jongho’s part, yearning). “But only a short one, right? Can’t skip our Friday night traditions.”
Jongho can’t put into words how much he doesn’t care about their Friday night traditions when Yeosang is like this, clearly sick, tired and in need of taking care of. It’s selfish, of course, wanting this, which feels more like they could be more than their Friday night traditions of movies and touches, kisses and fucking, before they slept. He’s about to reassure him when the hand still pressed to his skin moves and steals whatever air was still in his lungs right back out of them. Fingers are dragging absent, lazy patterns along the small of his back, just above the waistband of his trousers and he can’t breathe, blood thundering through his veins. He’s a little bit scared that Yeosang will catch on to him, surely there is no hiding his rapidly beating heart when the other man is lying on his chest like this? But maybe he is too out of it to really grasp it. All of it just makes him want things he can’t have, and it tears him apart a little bit more with each breath Yeoang takes against his chest and each drag of his fingers against his skin. He should be used to the latter, really he should, they’ve done this and more, but his body stills like it’s holding its breath every time.
“You feel so good,” Yeosang admits softly and Jongho kind of wants to die, thinks something inside him might have because Yeosang is saying things Jongho wants to hear and he sounds sincere with it, too sincere. It makes oceans crash in Jongho’s chest, threatening to pull him under with the leaden weight of his feelings. “Always feel perfect, Jongho-yah.” He continues and Jongho almost pushes Yoesang away, because suddenly he really can’t breathe, it feels like too much, it feels too honest. It sounds like maybe, maybe Yeosang could think the way he does, like every moment they have feels so much more to him the same way it does to Jongho but then - he feels Yeosang’s lips press against the thin skin of his throat. “Wish I was less tired, really wanted more.”
It’s like ice water down his spine, because there it is. Jongho is reminded of the reality of their situation. Yeosang just came here to fuck, wanted Jongho’s body like he always does, wants sex and a cuddle and then he’ll leave again in the morning and go home like nothing happened and Jongho… he’ll be here like he always is, too weak to say no, too fucking in love with this man to ever not give in, because if this is all he can have then it’s worth it (no matter how much it tears his heart into little pieces every Friday). At least he knows what it feels like to have Yeosang in his arms, in his bed, he knows the texture of his lips, the curve of his nose, the light of his eyes so intimately he could trace them into sand with his eyes closed.
“Sh,” he tries. “Sleep, Yeosang-ah.” Because he doesn’t know what else to say, anything else hurts because it would be so easy to convince himself that this is real, that this is him caring for Yeosang because Yeosang wanted to be here just for Jongho, because Jongho is the one who makes him feel better, makes him feel safe and not just because Jongho is a warm body, not just for the pleasure he can bring but… It’s a pipe dream, he knows, fickle and easily waved away like smoke, so he just looks up at the ceiling and hopes Yeosang sleeps, so his heart can take a break. He listens to Yeosang’s breathing as it kind of evens out, not deeply enough for him to be asleep.
“Your heart is so loud,” Yeosang mumbles suddenly. Jongho can feel his heartbeat stutter and then he’s nosing further into his neck, like he’s seeking warmth and it feels like a shot through the chest - why, why can’t he just calm down, why can’t he keep himself under control? They’re just - platonic, there’s nothing, and Yeosang is sick , he doesn’t know what he’s saying, it doesn’t mean anything, he needs to calm down . “Are you okay, baby?” Jongho just about manages to swallow back a groan, maybe it’s intentional after all, maybe Yeosang is out to kill him. Maybe he found out about Jongho’s stupid feelings and he’s out to kill him. Because why else would he be using that stupid term outside of them having sex? Is he still just thinking about that? Maybe, it’s what they usually do on Friday nights and that’s what he’d said, right? Can’t skip our Friday night traditions - Jongho kind of wants to throw up. He thought he could do this, but he wasn’t prepared for Yeosang to be so uninhibited and tired and just in need of someone taking care of him and - he’s too soft for this, for Yeosang. Any of his other hyungs and he would have told them to home and sleep it off, fuck movie night but Yeosang…
Then Yeosang is pulling away gently, propping himself up, it can’t be comfortable, the way his shoulder is angled must be tiring but then he’s leaning into Jongho’s space again and bumps his cheek with his nose and Jongho is finding it hard to breathe again.
“Is everything okay at work? I didn’t even ask…” he mumbles, breath hitting Jongho’s jaw and he knows he has to convince him to lie back down quickly, before he does something stupid.
“Ah, hyung, it’s nothing, I’m okay,” he says, laughs quietly, knows he’s a good enough actor for Yeosang to believe him, especially tired as he is. Maybe if he wasn’t kind of out of it, he would notice the slightly flat tone of his voice but Jongho knows he times the laugh well enough so that he won’t, not this time. “Just tired, long day, weird client.” He shrugs and nudges at Yeosang’s back to get him to settle down again. “C’mon, you gotta sleep this off.” And he’s selfish with that, too, really he should tell him to go home, but he can’t, wants to be the one Yeosang goes to to be taken care of, wants to be the one Yeosang worries for, wants so many things, too many things. But for now, he waits for Yeosang to settle, so he can maybe take that time while he’s asleep to get his heart under control again, to forget, to bury his feelings deep down again.
There’s something in the glint of Yeosang’s eyes that tells him the man is suspicious but then he sees it slip away into the haze of his pain and fatigue, like fog wrapping around his brain. He’s trying to hold on to clarity and Jongho runs a soothing hand up and down his spine, trying to encourage him to sleep instead.
“You’ll tell me about it later?” Yeosang asks, and it sounds small and worried and Jongho watches as Yeosang almost winces with it. Something about it sparks that feeling of hope in Jongho again, and he kind of wants to drown in it, cling to it. He can almost convince himself again that Yeosang feels the same, that he wants to know everything about him, too. It wells up inside him with startling speed, makes his eyes go wide when he feels Yeosang’s thumb on his cheek and it’s kind of cold, makes Jongho worry for his circulation, makes him want to take the other man’s hand in his own and not let go. “Please?” And there’s something in his voice when he says it, if Jongho didn’t know better, it almost sounds besotted, like he wants nothing more than to hear about Jongho’s day. He pulls at him instead, to make him lie down again and he does, follows the gentle urging to settle back against his chest. Jongho tries to control his heartbeat, really he does, but he can’t. It’s impossible when he looks down at the man on his chest.
“Just for a few minutes,” Yeosang mumbles, voice scratching. “Wake me up for the movie, okay? Don’t wanna miss it.” Then he’s asleep, breath even and deep, hands lax against Jongho’s skin and Jongho is struck with how pretty he is, even like this: dark circles under his eyes, definitely running a fever. He’s stunning, beautiful, and he takes Jongho’s breath away with every inhale, fills his lungs with every exhale.
“Yeah, movie…” Jongho mumbles, trails off dumbly as he watches his eyes flutter briefly but his breath is still even, still asleep. Jongho doesn’t know how much time passes, just that Yeosang’s hand is still on the small of his back, and his face is still smushed into his chest. He makes some sleepy noises every now and then, shuffles, somehow presses into him further and Jongho is trapped. He can’t move, too scared to wake him, too scared to ruin this, too scared to lose Yeosang’s body on top of his like this, where he can fool himself into thinking it’s all more .
Eventually he reaches for his phone, starts scrolling mindlessly through his socials with one hand while the other starts to run loose patterns over Yeosang's back, hoping it would soothe him, after he'd started shuffling, snuffling more. The frown to his brows speaks of the intensity of his dreams and Jongho lets himself wonder for a bit what he could be dreaming about. When he starts moving more and more in clear discomfort, Jongho feels his forehead, a worried furrow between his eyebrows at how hot his skin feels there and he wonders if he should move him to the bed and get some cold compresses to cool him down. He wants him comfortable, wants to take care of him, wants him by his side always.
Yeosang is restless in his sleep, clearly dreaming and Jongho kind of wishes he knew what about (the painful stab of hope that it could be about him). He frowns when Yeosang’s movements become more and more erratic, more desperate in a way, his hands grasping like he’s searching for something. He tries to soothe him, runs his hands along his back, through his hair, isn't sure what to say so he just hums the melody of a song his father used to sing to him when he was sick and couldn't sleep.
It seems to work, Yeosang’s movements don’t cease but the line between his brows eases a little until suddenly Yeosang's eyes shoot open, he gasps out a Jongho-yah ; and he's reaching for him, his hands on Jongho’s chest, his neck until they're cradling his face and Jongho can only sit there in stunned silence as Yeosang keeps mumbling his name, over and over and over like maybe he'd been looking for Jongho in his dreams. Hope is a fickle thing, too easily excitable, too persistent.
“Yeosang-ah, you okay?” He asks in a whisper, unsure of what else to say, just lets himself be pushed back into the couch, gives in to the touches to his face and wills himself to remain open, expression neutral, soothing but keeping his secrets. Something about Yeosang’s eyes is still distant, like he hasn’t fully awoken, caught in a dream state, and maybe Jongho can convince him to sleep again, maybe Jongho can keep whatever demons he is fighting at bay. He keeps his free hand on Yeosang’s back, tracing soothing circles.
“You- you were gone-” Yeosang blurts out, words stumbling, throat clogged with unshed tears. “I couldn’t find you.” His voice breaks and Jongho’s heart goes right along with it. Yeosang curls into him tighter, closer, like he wants to burrow into Jongho and never leave (Jongho would let him). “And no one- no one else - I couldn’t - Jongho-yah .” He isn’t sure he has ever heard his name spoken with such a desperately anguished tone and it makes him scramble, drops his phone in his effort to pull Yeosang in closer. "Please don’t leave. P-please don’t go without me. I- I-” He’s clinging to Jongho like his life depends on it and he sounds like he’s in real distress and Jongho can’t ignore him like this, he can’t, not when his voice leaves him scraped empty and raw, his heart aching.
“Yeosang-ah?” He tightens his hold on, twists them slightly so they're lying side by side, he's almost falling off the side of the couch but he doesn't care, just presses closer to the man in his arms.The knowledge that Yeosang was dreaming about him makes him a little lightheaded with hope as it claws its way up from the pits of his stomach. On the other hand, the dream is clearly distressing... Did he give Yeosang the impression he would (could) leave him? Because nothing could be further from the truth, he'd carve his own heart out before he would leave Yeosang alone somewhere.
"Yeosang-ah, I'm here, I'm here," he rushes to placate him, tries to ignore the way his stomach flutters as if a thousand volts of electricity were coursing through him. "I'm not going anywhere without you, I’m here." He tries, wants nothing more than for Yeosang to stop crying, can feel his wet, hot tears against his neck, burning his skin and he's sure they'll leave marks because how could Yeosang's tears on his skin be anything but acid? Yeosang is shaking in his arms, clearly overwhelmed and still stuck in the throes of his fever. His voice feels raw with panic, and his fingers are desperate with it where they reach for Jongho and cling to him, constantly grasping and digging into his shirt, curled into it, pulling him closer, as close as they could be without crawling into each other’s bodies, legs tangled.
“Jongho-yah,” Yeosang breathes again, lips against Jongho’s neck and he can feel his tears hot against his skin, soaking his shirt where they are sliding down Yeosang’s face. And the thing is that he's kind of grown used to having Yeosang close, being able to touch him, being intimate with him but this? It feels too real, Yeosang's desperation to be close to him like this, in his panic, as if Jongho is the only one who can keep him safe, as if Jongho is the one he wants... His tears are still hot, burning paths into his skin when Yeosang says his name and pleads:
“Don’t - d-don’t, I-” He cuts himself off and Jongho pulls him into his body again, impossibly closer, in an attempt to soothe him. “Please,” he begs and Jongho would cut his heart out right there and then if it meant he could help him and make him stop begging like this. “Baby, please j-just stay with me,” he takes a breath that Jongho can feel physically against his skin in a way that makes him dizzy. “F-forever.” It's too much and Yeosang sounds too earnest, like he means it, like this is real. Jongho can feel his heart break in two, cleaved right down the middle with the axe hidden between the soft syllables of Yeosang's words.
"Yeosang-ah," he starts, tries to form words but they get stuck in his throat (or maybe they're tumbling out the hole in his neck, burnt hollow by Yeosang's acid tears). "What are you saying?" He grounds out, frustrated, under his breath, hoping Yeosang won't hear in his current state. He wraps his arms around him more tightly. "Let's get you to bed, okay?" Instead of a response, Jongho just gets a violent cough wracking Yeosang’s body, making him shake more violently than before, making him pull on Jongho’s shirt harder. He’s not sure what to say or do to make it better so he stays quiet, holds him through it, hopes it goes away as quickly as it had come on.
“Fuck,” Yeosang finally wheezes, righting himself sloppily, almost pitching himself over to the other end of the couch and Jongho’s heart fucking hurts because there is sudden clarity in Yeosang’s face like he’s realised where he is and needed to get away from him as quickly as he could. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry, I-” The cough starts up again, cutting off whatever else he was going to say. Jongho is glad for it this time, isn’t sure he would have been able to take whichever way Yeosang was going to let him down gently. He watches him carefully while he feels Yeosang’s fingers wrap gently around his ankle to stabilize himself and he swears again under his breath.
Jongho wants nothing more than to bundle Yeosang up in warm blankets and keep him safe, even though his heart aches but Yeosang is still calling him baby which makes it all hurt that much more, like he’s being ripped apart, or maybe Yeosang has just clawed his way into his chest and is dragging his heart out from his ribcage with every utterance of the word (like they're more than just friends, more than just fuck buddies).
"C'mon, Sangie-yah, we're moving to the bedroom, it's warmer," he mumbles, keeps rambling soothing nonsense while he scoops Yeosang up in his arms including the blanket and stands. His legs strain a bit under the weight but he still does it easily, fluidly, so as to not disturb Yeosang more, or cause another bout of coughing. He'll come back for the tea later. "Don't apologise, baby, I got you." He whispers as he moves, holding Yeosang close, keeping his head in his neck. "Sh, it's okay, just try to breathe." He kicks the door to the bedroom open with his foot. Yeosang has pressed his face into Jongho’s neck again and he can feel his tearstained, wet cheeks, his hot exhales and even hotter skin as he’s burning up. He’s still coughing and Jongho can almost feel it in his own lungs.
“Don’t want-” he coughs again, but less intense this time. “To get you sick, Jjongie, I should-” he wheezes, throat dry and clicking; Jongho winces at the sound, the rattling in his chest and the laboured intake of breath. “You should just send me home.”
“I’m not going to let you go home alone where no one can take care of you,” his tone is definitely more chiding than it should be but he’s almost offended that Yeosang can’t see that he would not just let him go home when he’s sick like this. Gently, carefully, he sets him down on the bed, leans down with him, kneels on the bed and tries to pull back but Yeosang’s arms cling tighter, almost pulling him down on top of the other man.
“You gotta let me go, Sangie. I’ll get some more tea and some meds.” He tries to pull out of his hold (though he is reluctant). “I’ll be right back, okay?” Yeosang whimpers outright, the sound small and kind of pathetic and it makes Jongho want to stay, makes him want to climb into bed with Yeosang and never let him go. He clings tighter, one of his hands slipping down under Jongho’s shirt again, fingertips seeking the warmth of his skin; Jongho gasps.
”Please don’t go,” he whispers, sounding delirious in his fever and on the verge of tears again. It’s tearing Jongho in two. He’s frozen as Yeosang pulls his face from his neck and looks at him, dead in the eyes, his cheeks flushed, lips bitten, eyes wide (even like this he’s ethereally beautiful and Jongho knows he’d give him the whole world if he could). He’s never been this torn before, he knows, but he has to get Yeosang some medicine and some tea, something to drink, to soothe his throat so that he doesn’t end up hoarse and sore tomorrow.
“I don’t want to lose you again, Jjongie. I thought it was going to kill me.” Yeosang keeps talking and Jongho has to parse the meaning first, it gets lost in the white noise in his ears as Yeosang clings to him, eyes wide and face flushed. He's definitely running a fever and Jongho knows he should get a cold compress to cool him down but then he’s frozen again because Yeosang keeps talking. “Don’t - don’t you know? Am I not clear enough?” It’s a little panicked, desperate and it has Jongho’s heart stop in his chest. Yeosang’s eyes are somehow open even wider, and Jongho can't see a hint of deception there, nothing but pure panicked honesty and he's not sure what... His heart can't take this, it's already breaking, because it almost sounds like... sounds like Yeosang might... But no, it's impossible, surely? However, if Yeosang is desperate to tell him something, then Jongho is even more desperate to know what it is, because there's the selfish part of him that wants to know everything. Except that Yeosang is kind of out of it, reaching stages of delirious with his fever and - Jongho wishes he was a better man, he wishes he could shut him down, put him to bed and walk away but he can't. His heart can't take it - he needs to know.
"Clear about what, Sangie?" His hands are on Yeosang's neck, as much to feel his temperature as to just be close, and he waits. He waits and he watches and he can’t really decypher the look in Yeosang’s eyes as they wander over his face like he’s looking for something, but his gaze is far away, a kind of delirious he isn’t used to, almost like he’s drunk but there’s a softer edge to it that Jongho doesn’t know how to interpret.
“I-” Yeosang starts, but cuts himself off, reaches up and cups Jongho’s cheek in his hand; Jongho is frozen, caught in the off-centre intensity of his gaze and his touch. “It’s just you.” Yeosang breathes and steals all the air from Jongho’s lungs once more. “Only you, there isn’t - there isn’t anyone else. I haven’t - I don’t want anyone else. I don’t think I ever could, I - don’t hate me? I know you don’t want - it’s okay, you know?” Anything he could have said is stuck, the words trapped underneath his too-heavy tongue, in his too-tight lungs. Because Yeosang - Jongho isn’t sure he’s not the one stuck in a fever because Yeosang is saying all these things he wants to hear.
“Yeosang-ah,” he starts, a whisper, barely audible because Jongho can’t fucking breathe: this is all he’s wanted to hear for so long that it feels surreal, doesn’t quite feel tangible and maybe Yeosang is lying, maybe he thinks he’s talking to someone else but the way he’s looking at him like he wants, needs him to understand makes it difficult to convince himself. He’s stuck in a fever dream though, he’s not really talking to him , his eyes are glassy and unfocused, and there’s a slur to his words on top of his usual lisp - not in his right mind. (That doesn’t stop the white hot hope burning in his chest though, a raging inferno threatening to incinerate him from the inside out.
“I know you’ll find someone else eventually and that’s okay, but it’s just you. For me. That’s - that is all.” Yeosang continues to ramble and Jongho stares at him with eyes too wide, and he can’t say anything, can’t stop him. And then he’s scrambling again when he stops, fingers desperate on Yeosang’s skin.
“Someone else?" He’s incredulous, can’t believe his ears, because surely, surely , Yeosang has noticed? Jongho knows he wasn’t subtle, knows there were moments where he’d stared too long, some touches that lingered just past that line of friendship (his hyungs had teased him about it mercilessly). “Yeosang-ah, what are you talking about? I don’t - I’m not-” He cuts himself off, runs a thumb over Yeosang’s soft cheek, lets the pad of it catch on his lower lip before he pulls back with a sigh, sense coming back in the form of Yeosang’s glassy, faraway eyes. “You’re sick, you have a fever. Let’s - I’ll get you some water.” He tries to let go, but his hands linger just a second longer, and he doesn’t step back, a sick, twisted part of him hoping Yeosang spills more words at his feet like marbles for him to slip on (and fall right into him).
“Jongho-yah,” Yeosang says, softly, a breath of a word, as if he’s speaking around something lodged in his throat. Jongho’s eyes fall closed when Yeosang runs a finger down the line of his jaw. “Wait - wait no, please don’t - baby, please don’t leave me here.” Jongo opens his eyes again, wants to reassure him, but doesn’t know how when he’s met with the panic in Yeosang’s eyes. “Please, please don’t go, I can’t - everything is melting, it’s not - I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be here without you, I’m-” He trails off, words cutting into Jongho’s skin and it tears him apart. He wants nothing more than to fall into bed with him, pull him in close and never let go, believe him when he says it's him, only him, and he doesn't want to be there without him.
“It’s - it’s the fever talking, c’mon, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispers and his heart breaks under its weight, his voice cracks right along with it, hopes Yeosang is too far gone to hear it but he can’t be sure. He just needs to get water and then curl up on the couch and call Seonghwa-hyung, he'll know how to help his breaking heart, maybe. He just wants it all to be real, to be Yeosang, not the fever. Because he’s not sure he’ll survive this one and he's so pathetically in love with him it's not even funny.
He’s about to turn and leave but then Yeosang swallows harshly and scoots back on the bed, away from him like he’s burned him and Jongho watches, helpless, as he pulls away and it’s the exact opposite of what he wants. Yeosang starts coughing again as he curls into Jongho’s bed, shivering and he starts to cry. His tears cut like knives, Jongho doesn’t know what he said, he doesn’t know what he did wrong but he has to fix it. Yeosang shouldn’t be crying; he shouldn’t be making him cry. Instinct takes over. He follows him onto the bed, hands out like he’s approaching a spooked puppy and he’s whispering his name, over and over as he reaches for his face, wipes away his tears. It only seems to make Yeosang cry harder.
“Yeosang-ah, Sangie, please don’t cry,” he’s never felt this helpless before. “Please don’t cry, can’t watch you cry, please. What-“ He swallows around the lump of tears in his throat, feels it choking him (and he’d deserve it for making Yeosang cry). “What did I say? Tell me what I said wrong? C’mere, please.” He can tell his tone is desperate as he’s kneeling on his bed and the mattress feels too soft for the whirlwind of emotions inside him and the harshness of Yeosang’s coughs. He still needs to get him some medicine or water but he can’t leave, what was he thinking, can’t leave Yeosang alone like this, should have never tried.
“Nothing,” Yeosang finally manages to choke out and Jongho cocks his head in confusion. Yeosang’s eyes are closed and he mourns it, mourns having that insight into Yeosang’s thoughts. “You didn’t-” A raged inhale. “It’s just-” He cuts himself off and Jongho holds him through a spluttering cough. “It’s not your fault that I’m so stupid about-” He’s cut short by another bout of coughing, twisting his lungs and mingling loudly with the sobs still being wrenched free from his throat. Jongho can’t watch this, can’t see Yeosang like this, like he’s falling apart, especially when it’s somehow his fault. He doesn’t know how to fix it though. The helplessness makes his limbs feel like lead, heavy and slow, as Yeosang curls in on himself again.
“Sangie,” he starts, voice deliberately calm, gentle, coaxing, his hands on Yeosang’s face urging him to look at him. “Sangie, tell me, please, stupid about what?” He needs to know, needs Yeosang to keep talking, tell him everything. He wants to know every thought in his head and maybe it’s mean to make him keep talking when he’s sick and upset but his tears cut into Jongho’s heart like a thousand pieces of shattered glass. And Jongho has to fix it, but he needs to know more to do that, needs Yeosang to tell him. (Even if it’s lies, even if it’s the delirium and it’s going to tear him apart knowing it’s all fake, but at least Yeosang won’t be in pain anymore - he can carry it for both of them.)
“About you,” Yeosang finally whispers, uncurling, and finally looking at him again, although his gaze was still slightly unfocused. “I’m not mad that you d-don’t love me,” he continues and Jongho feels like a statue, he’s caught, because Yeosang - “It’s not - I know, okay?” He keeps talking but then dissolves into coughing again, giving Jongho’s brain a moment to catch up with Yeosang’s words and the meaning behind them.
“Yeosang-ah,” he whispers when the other man has calmed down again. He doesn’t know how to put into words how wrong Yeosang is, doesn’t know how to show him, doesn't know if he should right now, because Yeosang is still caught in a fever, his eyes are too glassy, his cheeks too red. But he's been in love with him for so long, he doesn't know if he can deny himself this. He doesn't know when it started, can't even pinpoint when he finally admitted it to himself, the love he has for Yeosang is innate, in his blood, his flesh, every cell of his body. Sometimes it feels like it shines right through his skin.
“C-can I be selfish tonight? Please? Baby, Jongho-yah, I-” Yeosang continues and Jongho cocks his head slightly in confusion. He just pulls him closer, doesn’t really know what else to do, can’t put the love that is bubbling up inside him like multi-coloured soap bubbles into anything tangible so instead he says:
“Be selfish, Yeosang-ah. Show me what that means.” Because he can be selfish, too. If Yeosang doesn't remember this in the morning, takes it all back, tells him it was the fever talking and he thought he was talking to someone else (except he kept saying Jongho's name), then at least Jongho could have this . Yeosang is pressing close and Jongho needs to know what it means for him to be selfish, needs to know what Yeosang wants, at least like this, even if he won't want it anymore when he's sober again, no longer caught in the delirium of fever. Yeosang blinks up at him once, twice before he presses into him closer.
“If I kiss you, I’ll get you sick,” Yeosang mumbles hot against his skin, presses his nose into the underside of Jongho’s jaw and stays there, breathing slowly, almost deliberately. “I-I want to show you, but I don’t want you to- I’m so cold.” He shivers and then Jongho can feel his tongue on his skin and he doesn’t move, frozen at the contact but also for fear of jostling him, almost jumps out of his skin when one of Yeosang’s hands find its way underneath his shirt again, resting gently and ice cold against the small of his back. Jongho isn't sure if he wants Yeosang to kiss him, which is a first, frankly. But kissing is too close to what they usually do on a Friday night - movie, kissing, fucking, and then he leaves in the morning and they're friends again, leaving Jongho's bleeding heart on the carpet in his living room for all the world to see. So, instead, he rearranges them until Yeosang is curled into his side, Jongho propped up against the headboard and the blankets cocooning them to keep Yeosang warm. He's shivering now, still running hot but clearly feeling cold and his cough still rattles his entire frame.
“So tell me instead,” Jongho feels kind of mean, making Yeosang talk when his voice is already rough, his cough not letting up, but he can't stop himself. Yeosang’s words are still rushing through his bloodstream and he needs to know if he meant it, allows himself this moment of Yeosang meaning it, even if the threat of it being gone come morning looms heavily over him, over them. "I'll keep you warm, Sangie, and you tell me how you wanna be selfish and why you think I don't love you." The words slip out before he can stop them, but he can't regret them either, waits for Yeosang's answer with bated breath, fear and selfishness battling for dominance within him.
“Too gentle with me,” Yeosang murmurs after a moment of silence before he coughs again, violent and loud; Jongho holds him closer. Yeosang breathes in, nuzzles in close, hooks an arm around Jongho’s waist and continues. “Miss you all the time,” he mumbles, eyes falling shut (Jongho can feel his lashes fanned on the skin of his neck). “Don’t wanna miss you anymore. Wanna kiss you in front of our friends and hold your hand at the train station and stay the whole weekend, not just Friday night, even if we don’t fuck. Want to bring you with me in the holidays to meet my parents and my sister and giggle like teenagers when we get horny at my parents’ house and-” A rough bout of coughing cuts him off and Jongho helps right him, eyes searching for the tea but it’s too far, even as he fights to keep himself contained, to not let this feeling of hope burst out of him in bright technicolours. “Dizzy,” Yeosang turns his mouth into Jongho’s shirt and whispers. “Just - just give me a second.”
“Sangie, let’s talk when you’re more awake, okay?” He pauses, realises what that sounds like and adds: "Nothing bad, more good actually, I think you'll like it." He smiles into Yeosang's hair, holds him close again, lets him breathe, hot and wet, into his shirt, lets him cough onto his skin, revels in the arm wrapped around him and kind of never wants to move again. "I got so much to tell you, baby, but you gotta be more conscious for this, okay?" And Yeosang hums his reply, vibrating against him, goes pliant in his tiredness and melts into him, seeking his warmth.
“Promise you’ll be here when I wake up?” He asks into Jongho’s chest, nuzzling further, like he wants to burrow his way in and build a home among his ribs. It has something warm and sticky spreading around Jongho’s heart, sweet like molasses probably, so overwhelming he feels like he might choke on it.
“I promise,” Jongho whispers into Yeosang's hair, tightens his arms around the other man and pulls him into him tighter. It's stiflingly hot but he'll make do. Yeosang is a furnace even though he keeps shivering like he's freezing, and Jongho pulls the blankets closer around them both. His heart feels too big for his chest like it could burst, shatter his ribcage from the inside out. But he lets himself have this, have Yeosang in his arms and pretend it's real (and maybe it is? Hope is feathers in his throat, threatening to spill out all over them both).
“Don’t wanna miss you anymore,” Yeosang repeats sleepily, words slurred. They stick to Jongho like glue, and he wants to soothe him, wants to reassure him that he won't go, won't leave (ever if Yeosang wants) but Yeosang is clearly still out of it and Jongho can be brave tomorrow, can ask Yeosang if he meant it, admit that he wants him to have meant it. “Feel like shit.” Yeosang mumbles, lips on Jongho’s neck.
"It's okay, Sangie, just sleep, that'll help. I'll be here when you wake up," he chuckles and he means it, because where else would he be? (Sure he's planning to slip out briefly to get some meds and water for whenever the man in his arms gets restless but he'll definitely be there when he wakes for good, because he has questions and confessions and he wants to kiss him in the morning not just under the cover of night.)
He manages to untangle himself briefly after Yeosang falls asleep to grab meds and water and snacks to keep on the bedside table for the next morning. Sleep is fitful, he wakes every time Yeosang whimpers in pain and tries to soothe him but eventually he calms enough that Jongho can rest. A quietly whispered fuck wakes him again and he’s immediately reaching for the other man.
“You okay?” He scans the other man’s face, notes the flush has gone down, his voice still sounds dry but his eyes are less glassy from fever. “Here, drink something, it’ll help and I’ve got some meds too, but you need to eat a little first.” He keeps one arm looped around Yeosang so he can’t pull away, determined to make him at least drink something while he reaches for the glass of water. “How you feeling, Sangie?”
***
Careful hands find him immediately, and something warm and sticky pops in Yeosang’s chest, covering everything in gooey affection. Jongho asks him if he’s okay and he nods, though he’s not sure, using one hand to shield his eyes from the light so he can look up at the other man. It must be Saturday morning. His heart sinks. But the younger man is watching him so closely, concern written into every line of his face, and selfishly, Yeosang can’t bring himself to pull away yet as he’s held gently in place, passed a glass of water, watched so thoroughly - held like he matters. Like maybe - he swallows that thought down with the drink, shoving hope back where it belongs. Away, less painful. He drinks most of the glass before he answers, leaning it in the crook of his knee when he’s done.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” he jokes, voice less ragged but still rougher than usual, raspier. His chest aches something fierce. Yeosang looks up at Jongho slowly, and wishes he could kiss him. “Remind me what happened yesterday?” Jongho is watching him closely, something jittery, alive just under his skin that Yeosang can’t place and then his warm hand is on his cheek, gently, softly, making his breath stutter in his lungs.
“How much do you remember?” Jongho asks slowly, deliberately, smiles encouragingly, and Yeosang isn’t sure he’s ever been watched like this, let alone by Jongho, let alone on a Saturday morning. (Sometimes they do breakfast or brunch, prolonging the inevitable fallout. He’s not sure he can take that today.) Selfish, he leans his head into the other man’s hand on his cheek, raises his own to mirror him, and hums as he tries to recall the events of the night.
“I came over after work, like a dumbass, Jesus, I’m so sorry.” A deep breath, lungs ragged. A reminder. “You started taking care of me. And then… then it’s fuzzy. I remember being overwhelmed? And also feeling safe. But no details.” Hand lifting again to block the sunlight, he looks up. “Fill me in? I need to know how bad I owe you.” (And it’s a joke, it is, but it’s a little raw too. The guilt, the fear, they gnaw at his chest like an animal trying to escape its enclosure.)
“You know you can always come here, Sangie. I’ll always take care of you.” He smiles softly, and then he sobers a bit, chews his lip as if debating what to say next.
"Yeah, but it doesn't mean you should have to. Shouldn't be risking getting you sick just because I'm stubborn." He knows he doesn't cover it well, knows he says stubborn like a hasty pivot from another word, knows that he could have done better, should have done better. Except that the throbbing behind his temples still pounds through his brain and Jongho is still talking.
"You, um, you may have said some things… like you missed me? And, um, didn’t want to anymore and that-“ He takes a deep breath, holds eye contact in a way that feels almost too much to Yeosang’s newly awakened brain. “I’m the only one for you? That you wanna kiss me in front of our friends, hold my hand in public, stay a whole weekend, introduce me to your parents…” He trails off, or maybe he’s saying more, Yeosang can’t be sure because all he can hear is the rush of his own blood and the frantic pounding of his heart.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Oh fuck. The hand at the younger man's cheek pulls back slightly as Yeosang shifts to get a better look at him, not moving away, but readjusting, searching his face for something. (For a trace of hesitation, of deception, of a game. This can't be a game, he won't survive it if he's being toyed with, not by Jongho, never by Jongho.) He takes a shuddering breath and a small round of coughs punches its way up his throat, both hands flying down to cover his mouth so he doesn't cough straight into the other man's face.
It comes back to him in flashes of visuals, sounds and feelings.
Jongho saying “You don’t know what you’re saying,” and the sting of rejection that Yeosang had always feared, always expected. But it hurt more somehow, like a hammer to his ribs, bone shrapnel flying in every direction, brutalising his lungs and heart and soft tissue. Jongho said it like Yeosang was going to wake up magically healed from his delirium. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” blunt, and he remembers retreating back on the bed. Remembers how soft and warm and comforting it was, how it made him want to cry (how he did start crying). The world had been slipping but Jongho’s bed was the only place he’d wanted to be, even in the process of being cauterised, split open and burned shut. The bed had smelled like Jongho and then Jongho had followed him, wrapped him up in his arms and a blanket, keeping him warm and safe, told him not to cry and held him close.
His chest had ached, deep and fierce, more coughing forcing its way up his throat, before he’d become maudlin, lost in thoughts of Jongho, how hopelessly, stupidly in love he was and how he didn’t even know when it had happened, just that it had happened - realisation had trickled in nine Fridays ago, Jongho asleep on the couch, his head in Yeosang’s lap before they had even got further than some lazy kissing. He remembered the way his heart had been ripping in two every Saturday since, whenever he’d crossed the threshold on his way out - it was the same feeling he had now, as he felt the rejection shatter him into even smaller pieces.
Then Jongho had wiped his tears and tried to find out why he was crying and what it was that he’d said but that wasn't it and it had only made Yeosang cry harder. He’d felt split in two, forever torn between his own selfish desires and the need for Jongho’s own happiness. Why couldn’t he be enough? And that’s when it had started, more words spilling from his mouth like the tears that were flooding from his eyes, tracing rivers and deltas onto his cheeks. The room had been sliding, his vision wonky, the walls closing in. He’d closed his eyes for a second because then Jongho had started going fuzzy around the edges and he didn’t want to see that. The coughing and crying had been a terrible mix and he can still feel the way the salt water had burned his throat, choked his coughs, made his eyes well up with even more tears.
The truth had left him blown wide open, he’d vomited bloody, messy, adoration-soaked truth and come away bleeding and shivering and crying. Jongho’s gentle hands on his face had stitched him back together but the truth had been set free, no hopes in capturing it again and making it unknown.
Stupid about you.
Not mad that you don’t love me.
Can I be selfish tonight, baby.
And Jongho had let him, had encouraged him to be selfish, to show him. He hadn’t believed him at first, thought it was the fever, making him hear things, encouraging him off the metaphorical cliff. But it was real, Jongho was there and he was listening and - Oh, oh he’d licked his neck in an attempt to stay warm, to get closer to the heat of Jongho’s body. But then he’d started talking about kissing and Jongho hadn’t pushed him away. His memories were blurred, he knew Jongho had said something, something important but he couldn’t grasp it - every time it was within reach it slipped away again. Selfish, he'd been so selfish and he knew it might kill him when the fever's gone and Jongho was being so sweet in letting him down easy, but pretending felt like flying, and he was so desperate for something that felt good. He recalled with startling clarity all the things he’d said that Jongho had just repeated.
Don't wanna miss you anymore. Wanna kiss you in front of our friends and hold your hand at the train station and stay the whole weekend, not just Friday night, even if we don't fuck. Want to bring you with me on the holidays to meet my parents and my sister and giggle like teenagers when we get horny in my parents' house.
But then Jongho had urged him to sleep, and he’d slept. Now, he feels a little unmoored because he can’t remember if Jongho said something in return, can’t remember if the rejection was real or imagined, only knows that it felt real and the pain of his still sits hot and heavy and tear-inducing in his chest. His eyes squeeze shut against the light, and it's only when his breathing regulates, when he's taken another sip of water and set the glass back in its place with shaking hands, that he looks back at the other man's face. Jongho had been watching him, he knows because he’s already looking when Yeosang can finally face him again. It’s hard to read him but a part of Yeosang thinks he can maybe see hope (?) blooming on his face’ his heart aches.
"I... didn't want you to find out like that." Yeosang keeps eye contact, watches the beginnings of a smile etch their way onto his face.
“How long?” Jongho asks and Yeosang hesitates, looks down at his hands where they’re hanging open in his lap, pressed against Jongho’s leg just by sheer proximity. He isn’t getting upset, isn’t gently telling him he should leave, or letting him down easy, so maybe…
“I don’t know exactly,” he admits quietly, still looking down, trying oh so consciously to keep from spilling it all in one go. Yeosang isn’t sure he would survive the rejection. “A little over two months, at least? But I think probably before, too. That’s just… when I figured it out. I should have told you, I know that. I just didn’t… I wanted to have this a little longer if you don’t… Sorry, that was shitty of me.” And then Jongho sits up, scrambles really, his hands too fast, his legs too slow, his movements clumsy as he reaches out and cups Yeosang’s jaw with one hand, gentle, encouraging, tipping his head up slowly to look at the man in front of him. And Yeosang goes with it, because he can't deny Jongho anything, will take anything he gives, is too absolutely lovesick to do anything else.
“Not shitty, I get it.” He starts, eyes on Yeosang’s, impossible to avoid, to look away. “I get it, I get it, because Yeosang, Yeosang-ah, Sangie,” he repeats his name even as he takes the glass of water from Yeosang’s shaking hands. And when Yeosang looks - when he finally looks, as Jongho turns back from setting the glass down on the bedside table - his heart almost stops in his chest, because he's beautiful, because he's laughing in the late-morning light and he looks so happy he could explode with it. Hope is almost within his grasp and he reaches for it, tentatively. “Don’t you know I’m right here with you?” His breath catches in his lungs, muscles locked in place, not sure that he heard him correctly.
“You what?” His mind is blank, blue screen, the words Jongho said have no meaning because surely he can’t mean - but then he’s talking again and Yeosang has to listen.
“I’m with you, I’m right here,” Jongho takes a deep breath and starts over. “I- I want to kiss you like all the time, I want to hold your hand in public, I want to take you out on dates, I want to take you home for the holidays to meet my parents, I want to tell all our friends that we’re - that I’m…” He hesitates, eyes searching Yeosang’s face and he must find whatever answer he was looking for because he breathes out through his nose and says: “that I’m stupidly in love with you.”
Yeosang hadn't let himself hope for this. He hadn't allowed himself to wish for something this good, this real, this perfect. But now Jongho's saying it and he looks so nervous with it and frankly the older man isn't even sure what to say.
“O-oh." he manages, pulse quickening, racing, surging. He blinks, dazed with it, takes Jongho's face in his hands. His heart flings itself against his ribs, battering itself against them like it wants to break through and fall in Jongho's lap, like it has a thousand times before except this time is different because this time he knows where it’ll land.
"Jongho-yah... go out with me?" He can hear Jongho’s breath catch, can see the way his eyes grow wide and round and his cheeks flush prettily - happiness radiating off him in waves.
"Yes,” he chokes out and pulls Yeosang in close again, tucks his head into the crook of his neck and Yoesang can feel his nose buried in his hair, his breath tickling his skin. “Yes, Sangie - fuck, I wanna kiss you so badly right now.” Yeosang presses his face against Jongho’s hair, messy with sleep and stress, and nuzzles into the warmth of him. His arms slip around the other man's shoulders, holding himself close, refusing to let go, not yet, not when this is finally real, not when he gets to have Jongho exactly how he's always wanted. (How they have always wanted, and fuck doesn't that just feel like a fever dream.)
"Baby," he hums, lips against his ear, teasing even though he knows it's stupid. There's no point getting Jongho sick when they could just wait. "I don't know if we should risk it. Don't want you catching what I have..." He trails off, nuzzling into the younger man's warm skin. "But I could always take care of you if you do..."
“Call me that again,” Jongho whispers into his hair before pulling back to look at Yeosang’s face, to run his fingers over his features reverently, to press a kiss to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks (to make Yeosang melt irrevocably). And Yeosang startles, reminded that Jongho never liked when his previous partners had called him that, but with the way he asked and the way his cheeks are darkening, his ears already red and the happiness he can see in his eyes - Yeosang is willing to think he might be the exception.
"Baby," he whispers, softer this time, cupping the younger man's face in his hands. "My Jongho-yah." And the urge to kiss him is monumental, overwhelming. His eyes flick down to Jongho's lips, linger there for a moment and then he drags them back up. Fuck, he's so beautiful, in a way he's had to fight not to notice for so long. "You are so fucking pretty." Thumbs stroke along his cheeks, and he can feel them heat up under the pads of his fingers. Blush looks so unreasonably pretty on Jongho, turning his cheeks a pretty, deep pink. Yeosang wants to follow it with his fingers, with his lips, wants to make him blush harder, wants to see how far it goes. But maybe that’s for another time, a less gentle moment, a later time when they’re both a little more up for it.
“Beautiful,” he whispers and it’s Yeosang’s turn to blush, cheeks and ears surely turning the same color as his birthmark, breath stuttering out of his lungs. “My Yeosangie.” His fingers come up to trace the shape of his lips in lieu of his mouth being able to and, sure, Yeosang started it but he wasn’t expecting to be matched like this. “Ah, fuck it,” Jongho mumbles suddenly, leans in, hovers waits for Yeoang to react.
“Tease,” he mumbles, sticky sweet with affection as he closes the meager distance. It isn’t like they haven’t kissed before, but this… this is different– slow, intentional, putting to action everything they haven’t been able to say. Jongo kisses him unhurried, sweet like honey, breath stuttering, fingers trembling against his skin like he’s holding back. He’s the one to break the kiss, pulling back to look at Yeosang, reluctant but then he grins and nudges Yeosang’s nose with his own.
“My Yeosang-ah,” he repeats, tone incredulous. “Was so scared you didn’t mean it when you said those things last night - so scared it was just the fever, because it’s all I ever wanted to hear you say.” Jongho nudges his nose again, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the shell of his ears, the curl of his hair. It’s like he can’t stop touching him because it’s Saturday morning and they’re allowed now. Yeosang's heart aches in his chest as he listens, leans in and traces the apple of Jongho's cheek with his lips, unhurried and patient, just for the sake of being close, of showing affection, of it being Saturday morning. He nuzzles into the other man, hands wandering in tandem, across his chest, up his shoulders, down his back. Hastily, he worms his way into Jongho's lap fully, presses his face into his hair and breathes in deep.
"I almost said it so many times," Yeosang admits softly, the words a little easier like this, wrapped up so wholly in the man he loves (can admit to loving). "But I just didn't know if you... I was sure you didn't feel the same way, and I knew it would kill me if this all stopped because I opened my mouth. I wanted so badly to have any bit of you that you'd give me, that the idea of you pulling away completely scared me out of admitting it." And maybe his heart aches a little for both of them, for time lost.
“Me too,” Jongho whispers, and he looks almost close to tears as he pushes some of Yeosang’s curls from his face. “Thought you’d run, didn’t think you could love me back, just wanted anything I could get for as long as you’d let me… we were being pretty stupid, huh?” He chuckles, his voice shaking at the corners, just barely, just enough to hint at his heightened emotion, and Yeosang can’t help himself. He ducks in close, presses one kiss to his lips, sweet, chaste, a second, just the slightest bit longer.
“A little,” he hums, not straying far. “But we have forever now and I’m going to take you out on the best date of your life. I promise.” Jongho grins.
“A date?” He drops another kiss to Yeosang’s lips. “Can’t wait.” His voice is giddy.
“A date,” Yeosang verifies, holding him close as he pulls closer. “I’m going to take such good care of you, I swear.”
“Let’s get you healthy first though, eh?” He nuzzles Yeosang’s cheek and Yeosang isn’t going to stop him, lifts his head to give the other man better access to his skin.. “I’ll get us some food and you take some meds and then maybe another nap?”
“That all sounds good, I‘d really like this headache to fuck off.” There’s a beat of quiet and then he adds, softer, hesitant. “Can I… can I stay another night?” Humming contentedly, he follows willingly when Jongho pulls Yeosang forward until he’s fully lying on top of him and nuzzles deeper into his neck, presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Yeosang uses the opportunity to card his fingers through Jongho’s hair just to feel it between his fingers, smiling into the crown of his head.
“Of course you can stay, you can stay until you’re healthy and keep staying over whenever you want.” Words mumbled into his neck, pressed into his skin. “Okay, lemme get up and get you food and meds.”
“You’re such a nice pillow though,” he groans, rolling off of the other man and falling face-first into the pillow, making Jongho chuckle. (And if it makes him a little dizzy, well that’s Yeosang’s own absurdity at work.) “Actually though,” he adds softly, words muffled. “Do you have any makeup remover? I don’t think I took mine off last night.” Jongho leans over, presses a kiss to his hair and the back of his neck before he twists out of bed.
“Hm, yea,” he hums in response to Yeosang’s question. “I’ll grab it, back in two and then you can use me as a pillow again.” He teases before he leaves the room. Yeosang keeps his face buried in the pillow, mourning the (albeit temporary) loss of the other man’s warmth and also letting the headache behind his eyes breathe again, swathed in darkness. It isn’t nearly as bad as it had been the day before, a light pressure against the soft tissue of his brain, but the cough is persistent. He groans before letting all his senses home in on the quiet sounds of Jongho moving through his apartment.
“C’mere?” He mumbles as soon as he hears Jongho coming though, and rolls over with grabby hands ready, wanting nothing more than the warmth and comfort he provides. It feels ridiculous to say he’d missed him in the less than five minutes he’s been gone, but when he’s finally allowed the adoration he’s been holding back so long, it’s just true. “Please?” Jongho chuckles, putting the food and drink down on the bedside table before he slips back onto the bed right next to him. Yeosang melts into him the second he’s within reach, lays his head on his chest, hand curled lightly around his waist, and places a kiss over his heart. It’s sappy, it’s overly sweet.
“Can I?” Jongho asks almost shyly, holding up the makeup remover wipes he’d brought. There's something about the thought of Jongho being the one to remove his make up for him that makes his chest all gooey and soft, a domesticity to it that he's craved for so long and it's finally within reach. He blinks at him, heart turning into a puddle between his ribs, thawed through entirely by the gentle warmth in his eyes. And fuck, maybe this really is forever. (Too big a thought for now, but something to think about later.)
“Of course, baby,” he works to keep his voice even, to keep the smile from going too soft at the edges; he wants Jongho to smile at him like that forever, soft and gummy with eyes warm enough to melt the toughest ice. Yeosang shifts to give him better access, a little farther away but curling one hand around Jongho’s thigh to make up for it. Jongho clearly can’t keep the smile off his face as he sits up with him, takes out a makeup wipe, cups Yeosang's jaw so he can hold him still as his other hand comes up to wipe carefully at his skin. It's rhythmic, methodical, almost hypnotising. Yeosang keeps one hand wrapped around Jongho’s thigh, steadying, higher up than he would have felt comfortable placing it casually before. The other lays in his own lap, fidgety under the attention he’s being given, so intimate, so intense. It feels like the younger man is wiping away what’s left of his restraint, of his excuses, of his walls and it leaves him defenseless; he isn’t sure what to do with that.
“Beautiful,” Jongho whispers, the word slipping past his lips almost involuntarily but he doesn’t take it back. “Beautiful,” he repeats instead as if he wants to emphasise it, needs Yeosang to know. His fingers brush intently over the stretch of Yeosang’s birthmark, reverent, fraying his nerve endings. He feels raw and exposed, shivering from the sensations. The hand around Jongho’s thigh squeezes gently, reminding himself this is real.
“Look who’s talking,” he murmurs, averting his eyes, suddenly shy. Jongho shakes his head gently, takes another makeup wipe and goes over Yeosang's skin again, unnecessary but he welcomes the touch anyway.
"Not as pretty as you," he mumbles before he chucks the make up wipes. “Never as beautiful as you, Sangie." He smiles a small smile, private, like he knows something that Yeosang doesn’t.
"Not true," he lifts his hands to Jongho's face, cradles him between his palms, just looks at him. The soft and sticky affection in his chest is crawling, dripping down his chest cavity, coating everything he is in awe for the man before him. Yeosang is blushing from his ears down his chest, moving as he's pulled to Jongho's chest, but still looking up at him, unrelenting.
“C'mere and sleep. I'll be here when you wake up again." He pulls Yeosang back down onto his chest, tucks the blankets in around them both and leans back into the pillows behind him, a content smile on his face. Yeosang pouts, brow furrowing, nose scrunching.
“Fine, don't believe me. I’ll just have to prove it to you." He brushes hair from his eyes, nuzzles into Jongho's throat all the same as one hand comes up to curl around his arm, keeping him near as if he's afraid this is a dream he'll wake up from. But it isn't - it isn't, and he has the rest of his life to prove how beautiful Jongho is.
***
Jongho just hums, runs his fingers through Yeosang's hair to soothe him, lull him to sleep. He doesn't have more words to say, doesn't think they're needed, just wants Yeosang to sleep so he gets better quicker, doesn't want him in pain anymore, feels his own lungs rattle with every shaky inhale and his heart hurts with every cough that interrupts his exhales. He can't wait for the future, can't wait for their first date and their second and their third... He's giddy, flowers blooming in his chest, butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach.
Sleep doesn't take him again, but he doesn't mind, he is content to watch Yeosang, listen to his breathing even out as he slips back into sleep; content to soothe him with hands on his back when his coughing gets too bad and hum him back to sleep whenever he wakes. He’d do this forever if he had to. Forever had always scared him before he met Yeosang, before he loved Yeosang - now it feels easy as breathing, exhilarating like birds soaring in the sky and familiar like he’s known this all his life.