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In the peaceful quiet of his high-rise apartment, Jeno lets the weight of the world slide off his shoulders, toeing off his shoes and slipping into the fuzzy slippers Mark had bought him as a replacement when he spilled coffee on the last pair. He shuffles across the floor, ignoring the duffle bag set off to the side, and wanders into his bedroom. The room is dark, stale with uncirculated air. Abandoned, Jeno thinks with sour acceptance. Still, it is easy to flick on the lamp on his dresser, watching himself in the mirror attached as he unclasps the chain around his neck. With careful fingers, he lets the ring slide off the delicate white gold chain, the matching white gold ring settling in the palm of his hand. Jeno looks down at it, the simple way diamonds sit within the band, wrapping around halfway.
He slips the ring on to the backdrop of his bathroom door opening, steam tumbling into the lowlight of the bedroom. A man stands in the doorway, Jeno’s sweatpants hung low on his hips, hands toweling off the ends of his dark hair. “Oh,” the man says, looking up and stopping. “You’re home.”
Jeno stares at the sharp V-line uncovered by the lack of shirt, the smooth plane of his stomach left bare. The matching ring settled onto his left ring finger, a perfect mirror of the ring Jeno just slipped onto his own finger. “I’m home.” He says softly, looking up to see the slow bloom of the same heart-shaped smile he fell for all those years ago. “I’m home, Jisung.”
Jisung smiles even wider, nose wrinkling before he drops the towel and takes a step closer to Jeno. He smells like the body wash Jeno keeps in his bathroom, like fresh laundry and Jisung that Jeno cannot replicate no matter how hard he tries. No matter where he flies, no matter the country, the combination of products Jeno buys in hopes of recreating the same scent he buries his nose into at the end of the night, clutching another pillow and aching with the knowledge that he was alone. He was always alone.
In Paris. In New York. In Tokyo.
Alone.
Large hands cup Jeno’s face, tilting his head up ever-so-slightly. “Welcome home,” Jisung whispers into the space between them, eyes sparkling. Jeno aches. “I missed you.”
Jeno aches. “Me too.” He says, fingers coming to brush against the bony jut of Jisung’s wrists, so strong yet delicate, much like the rest of him. Jeno leans forward to kiss the tip of his nose, breathless laughter spilling from his lips when he feels Jisung scrunch his nose. He places a second kiss to the corner of his lips, rocking back before Jisung could properly chase his mouth. “I feel gross.”
A head shake. “You always look pretty. I saw the pictures from—”
This time, Jeno laughs properly, shoulders shaking as his eyes squint into little crescents. “No, Jisung, I feel gross. I just got off the plane, let me at least brush my teeth before you kiss me.” he’s still laughing as Jisung’s cheeks darken, petal pink lips parting for a moment before he too dissolves into quiet giggles.
“Ah, sorry, hyung,” Jisung catches Jeno’s hand in his, flipping his hand to stare at the ring curled elegantly around milky pale fingers. “Ah, you already—”
“I just did—” Jeno’s reply is swallowed by the gentle press of Jisung’s mouth on his. He tries to protest, to pull away—his mouth feels about as stale as the rest of his apartment does—but Jisung just whines. And what is Jeno supposed to do?
It’s easier to just, to let it happen, to enjoy that it’s happening, to not worry about how he knows his mouth tastes like the unknown cocktail the flight attendants served him just before landing, or the pretzels he snacked on in the cab ride home, knee bouncing up and down at the thought of being home. It’s easier to let the thoughts slide away—washed away and replaced with the gentle way Jisung kisses him. It makes Jeno’s knees feel weak, fingers curling around Jisung’s hand, squeezing in an attempt to ground himself.
“Missed you,” Jisung says between one kiss and the next, insistent but not demanding. This time it is Jeno who whines, his free hand tangling in the damp threads of Jisung’s hair. “I missed you.”
Jeno swallows the knot in his throat, knocking their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “I’m home.”
It won’t last, he knows. Jisung knows. It never lasts—they can never last. But moments like this, tucked in the privacy of Jeno’s apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. It is where they can find their moments of peace. The moments where they can pretend—that Jeno doesn’t spend half the month overseas, that Jisung doesn’t have his own apartment in Seoul, his life quieter than the years he was touring with Junnie and Jaemin, but too public for Jeno to be comfortable.
They can pretend. They can have this. Jeno won’t ever wish for more.
This—he tells himself every night—is more than enough.
He will never beg for more than this, not out loud where Jisung might hear him. No, he will accept this, what Jisung is willing to give, what Jeno is willing to sacrifice, and they will live in the in-between.
In the moments where prying eyes do not see.
“I should—,” Jeno presses a closed-mouth kiss against Jisung’s lips. “Brush my teeth. Shower. Jisung, I need to shower.”
Jisung’s hands, tucked up under the baggy shirt Jeno flew across the ocean in, tighten their grip on Jeno’s waist. “No,” he whines, pressing forward until Jeno’s forced to take a half step back. “It’s okay—stay.” He presses forward, bending Jeno backwards enough that his back twinges in discomfort.
“Jisung—”
“Stay,” Jisung says again, lips sliding across Jeno’s cheek.
It takes a moment, too many for Jeno to wholly be comfortable doing it, but Jeno manages to shake Jisung’s hands off him, taking a step back and leveling him with a bland stare. “I feel filthy. I am not lying on my bed with airport all over me. Let me shower.” Jeno crosses his arms, huffing. Thins his lips as Jisung wilts under the tone of his voice, shoulders rolling in, fingers twisting his rings round and round.
“Ah, sorry. Yeah.” Jisung steps back, giving more room for the cooling humidity of the room to settle between them. Jeno immediately longs for the distance to shrink, but somehow manages to hold his ground. It takes a moment before he gets his limbs to move, awkward and near robotic as he goes through the motions of getting clean clothes, of going into the still damp warmth of his bathroom.
Closes the door behind him. A physical separation between him and Jisung. Jeno lets himself breathe, several beats where he stands in front of the sink, looking down into the bowl, and tries not to—
Jeno finds the bedroom empty when he steps out of the bathroom, cleaned and moisturized. Hair damp in the same way Jisung’s was. Jeno doesn’t let himself dwell on the absence, shoving his worn clothes into the laundry basket before he shuffles out of the bedroom. It’s easy to spot Jisung here, curled up on the living room couch, phone in one hand, the other running through damp hair.
Jisung must hear the shuffle of Jeno’s feet on hardwood flooring, thumb pausing at the edge of his phone. “They decided on wedding colors.” He says, looking up as Jeno rounds the side of the couch. “And the location.”
A sigh. Jeno sits delicately on the couch, enough distance between himself and Jisung. Let’s his slippers fall off his feet and tucks them under himself. “Mark said something about gold? But—it’s not Seoul, is it?” he asks.
“Jade and gold, yeah. And no, not Seoul,” Jisung looks back down at his phone, then back to Jeno. “Come here?”
Jeno doesn’t move, staring back at Jisung.
“Please,” Jisung says, softer. “Hyung, please.”
Jeno comes, tucking himself under Jisung’s arm and staring at the picture on Jisung’s phone. “Where’s that?”
Jisung turns back his phone, the light casting a cool glow on his face. Jeno tucks himself further into his hold, humming when Jisung’s fingers begin to play with the damp hair curled at the nape of his neck. He needs to get it cut soon—his manager’s been bothering him about it.
But. Jisung likes it like this—has told Jeno in the comfort of their apartments, whispered confessions that longer hair frames Jeno’s face so pretty (Jisung’s words). That it makes him look delicate and precious.
Jeno turns his head and shoves his nose into Jisung’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. Jisung startles but does not move him. “Where?” Jeno mumbles.
“Ah, um—Yunnan?” The word tumbles clumsy from Jisung’s lips. He hums. “Renjun says it’s a mountain resort?”
A yawn tucked into the space between Jeno and Jisung. A sigh, a soft little thing that barely sweeps across Jisung’s shoulder. A delicate kiss, feather light and apologetic. “Date?” Jeno asks, turning to cushion his cheek on Jisung’s shoulder. Watches Jisung type one-handed. Watches him hit send.
The reply is immediate.
“Fall,” Jisung replies, his fingers absent-minded when they tug at Jeno’s hair. Another message appears on the screen. Jeno reads along as Jisung speaks. “Next year.”
“I can read,” Jeno says. Fingers tug harder on his hair.
“I know.” A careful kiss to the top of Jeno’s head. “You’re tired. Close your eyes.”
Jeno shakes his head, “No,” another yawn. “How’s work?” he asks instead of touching anything about the wedding. He’d rather not. Mark asked him twice to be the best man. Each time Jeno says no, excuses sour on his tongue. Too much work. Won’t get the time off. Can’t be there for suit fittings, for cake tasting, for wedding prep.
Half-truths spun and woven tighter and tighter until he prays Mark stops asking. It hurts to know he won’t stand up there, to know that he will slip in through the doors at the last moment, to watch from the back. If they are going to China, Renjun will definitely require those red envelopes he’s seen from Chinese dramas. He’ll do that, smile at them both, and vanish once more on a plane, jetting off to some contract requirement.
One day, Jeno knows, everyone will stop letting him run away. Will corner him and ask him to own up to these moments he wishes he could be a part of and never lets himself.
“Work’s okay,” Jisung answers, locking his phone. Now, the only light is the ever-bright Seoul skyline, distant neon lights, and the perfect placement of a half-moon casting a hazy glow over the living room. “Much easier than ten-hour practices.”
The words get Jeno to laugh, to turn his face back into Jisung’s shoulder. It hits him then.
That he’s home. That he’s here. That they are here. Still. It’s a sudden ache, one that cripples him instantly. His laughter—once breathless—ends in a tortured whine.
Broken. Hopeful. Jeno’s cracked himself open time and time again, selfish in his demands that Jisung stay, that Jisung wait. Shattered the pieces of their heart time and time again, a hammer to the fragile house of cards, Jeno cannot stop himself from creating. Yet, Jisung is always there upon his haggard return. Gentle smiles and warm palms.
“Jeno— hyung —” Jisung’s hands don’t shake as they push and pull at Jeno’s limbs, until Jeno is straddling Jisung, face moved from Jisung’s shoulder to shoved in the crook of his neck. “Hyung, come on.”
Jeno shivers, groans, fingers finding the waistband of the sweats Jisung stole from him, and rubs against the fabric. “Sorry,” he says into clean skin. He sits up, the angle putting him slightly above Jisung. “Sorry.”
“Is it the wedding?” Jisung asks, eyes wide and bright even in the low light.
Jeno shakes his head. “Not really. Just—work.” He doesn’t elaborate. Jisung knows it’s yet another half-truth. Yet, he does not press.
He never does. Jeno doesn’t think he ever will.
“Okay,” Jisung says, predictable. There’s a little pout to his lips, a furrow between his eyebrows that Jeno knows he caused.
He kisses the wrinkle, laughing in Jisung’s face when he pulls back to see his nose scrunched. “Cute,” Jeno says.
Warm palms slide up and down Jeno’s back. “You’re cuter,” Jisung says, an answering smile on his face. He doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and kiss Jeno again, a small thing, a delicate thing. “How long this time?”
Jeno hums, shifting his weight in Jisung’s lap. “Three weeks, then Japan,” Jeno recites from memory, phone thrown somewhere in his bedroom. He doesn’t want to see it. “Back for another two weeks, then back to Japan for the second fitting.”
“Then?”
“I’m in Japan for the week—then, well, my contract with Ferra is ending. I’ll be back home, but I’ll be with hyung to go through offers and—” Jeno inhales, “Don’t know after that—it depends, after.”
Jisung nods, slow, blinking up at Jeno with the city lights shining like stars in his eyes. “I love you,” he says apropos of fucking nothing. “Do you want me in Japan?” he continues, like he said nothing at all.
“I—can we go back to—”
Jisung kisses him, quick presses of their mouths, only to laugh. “Ah, cute.” He says, almost to himself. “I’ve said it before.” A pause. “Hyung, you bought us promise rings .”
Jeno’s still blinking, reeling from all that. From—from Jisung, really. “Yeah.” He gets out.
“You got on one knee and gave me a promise ring—you told me! You told me you loved me—like, 2 years ago. Hyung .” Jisung smiles, heart-shaped and brighter than the city lights. “Jeno hyung. Do you want to go to Japan together?”
“Yes.” Jeno decides, pouting when Jisung starts laughing all over again. He smacks his hands on Jisung’s bare chest, grumbling about how stupid Jisung was, and is he trying to give him a heart attack, and really, Jisung should warn him next time. Jeno’s silenced by the sure press of Jisung’s lips against his, their teeth knocking together when the angle is all wrong.
They try again.
It’s perfect.
Jeno doesn’t have much, doesn’t dare ask for much—or more than he has. He’s not content like this, but for now. With Jisung kissing him in the cover of darkness, palms warm and chest solid under Jeno’s hands, Jeno cannot find fault in what they have.
He’s promised. They’ve promised. No matter how far Jeno tries to run, he knows. He’ll come back to Jisung. His everything. One day, Jeno promised himself to stop running.
And Jisung promised to wait.