Work Text:
They’ve known each other their entire life.
Okay, that’s a hyperbole, but you get the point.
Donghyun was five. Dongmin was six. All it took was one recess, a forgotten lunch box, and a shared one to create that connection, to form that bond, to tie that string.
If you ask Donghyun about it, he might mention how it was an act of kindness that all children would’ve done. If it was Dongmin you ask, he’d say something about how the plain crackers with Nutella spreading paired with a clementine felt like holding the Sun in his little hands, palms searing with warmth and God. Despite learning that not everything that feels holy necessarily boils down to God as he grew up, Dongmin still stands his ground.
Donghyun was 11. Dongmin was 12. It was two days after Dongmin’s birthday, and that was Donghyun’s introduction to heartbreak. Though the memory of it was blurry, he can remember clearly the pang in his chest when Dongmin chose some girl named Abby over him to spend the afternoon with. Don’t get him wrong, Abby was a nice girl; she helped Donghyun do his Math assignment. The only thing that made him dislike her to a certain extent is when she took Dongmin away from him when they made plans to watch “Arrietty” that day.
Long story short, Donghyun spent the entire day crying and moping. The following day, he gave Dongmin the cold shoulder, but eventually fell into Dongmin’s hands when he told Donghyun that girls are weird, and he prefers Donghyun over everyone else. Now that Donghyun thinks of it, it’s a bit silly (and telling), but he accepts it anyway. There are a lot of things that make Donghyun’s heart flutter, especially when he was younger, but Dongmin just shoots his heart across the Milky Way.
Donghyun is 19. Dongmin just turned 20. In two months, Donghyun will be the same age as Dongmin. To other people, they would probably say that it’s cute how the universe gave you a best friend who catches up with your age for a few months. To Donghyun, it feels like purgatory simply because Dongmin would sometimes make him use honorifics just because he can. However, it is no match to whenever Dongmin calls him by his first name.
“Donghyunie, where should I put these?”
Dongmin’s voice rings in his ears, the final syllable heavy and endearing. Not that Donghyun has any problem with it, but something that his older sister said earlier lingered in his mind. Something along the lines of, “You know, you and Dongmin speak to each other like you’re together.”
When Donghyun asked why, Yuna just smirked, shrugged, and said, “Friends don’t usually talk to each other the same way you both do.”
Of course, it’s ridiculous. Donghyun insists that it is.
A person who is very close to you and who has been with you your entire life can call you by your first name just as how strangers would. After all, everyone is equal to everyone—except Donghyun’s parents. And his elderly. And his annoying older sister.
Besides, Dongmin is family now. He has always been and will always be.
Donghyun convinces himself this as he stares at Dongmin who is staring back at him, a bag of chips in his hand.
“Donghyun-ah?”
“Just leave it by the table downstairs.”
Dongmin just nods before pausing. Donghyun waits.
“Won’t Yuna noona eat it?”
Donghyun is confused. “That’s fine, I guess.”
“But I bought these for you.”
Dongmin, Donghyun repeats to himself, is family now. He has always been and will always be.
How, then, will he explain the exploding star in his chest, its gravity unforgiving as it slowly but surely pulls everything he has ever known about his sentiments for and towards Dongmin in and down under?
Donghyun pretends not to know.
Instead, he just lets out a shaky exhalation disguised as a chuckle.
“Fine, just leave it on my desk.”
As Dongmin moves across the little room to comply with his request, Donghyun’s eyes remain on him.
Dongmin, Donghyun thinks to himself, is family now. He has always been and will always be.
Somehow, Donghyun feels like he’s lying to himself.
Somehow, Donghyun feels like he wants more.
A heartbeat. Then, two.
Sanghyeok’s message plays inside his head again and again—with Donghyun imagining Sanghyeok’s voice bouncing off the concaves of his skull. Donghyun feels like his eyes are digging holes into the side of Dongmin’s head who is seemingly preoccupied with reading right beside him.
“Dongmin-ah.”
His mouth starts before his mind catches up, and he wants to slap himself across the face. At this, Dongmin raises his head from the book. Now that Donghyun notices it, Dongmin is reading Ocean Vuong’s “Time Is A Mother” instead of some textbook or worksheet that the former thought he would’ve brought with him.
“What?”
“Sanghyeok-hyung told me something.”
The mention of Sanghyeok’s name visibly has Dongmin stiffening like a child caught with his hand stuck inside the cookie jar in the middle of the night. For some reason, however, there’s a mass in Donghyun’s stomach that makes him wonder if he’s the bad guy in this situation.
“What’d he say?”
“That you ditched your plans with them today.”
Again, a heartbeat. A silent but palpable one—very, in fact. It makes Donghyun wonder whose it is.
It travels through the silence that hovers around them, occupying the empty space. Funnily enough, there is no heaviness in the room. There is no stillness, either. Only a waiting, a watching, and a witnessing. Donghyun would say that it’s only him doing those three, but he feels like he might be wrong. Dongmin has made that a habit of his anyway—proving Donghyun wrong.
Just as Donghyun was about to break the silence, cut the tension, and make a comment about how he would ditch Sanghyeok and Jaehyun as well because who likes being the third-wheel, Dongmin moves. He closes the book, pauses the Pomodoro timer in the middle of the table, and makes the move by uttering three words.
“Yeah, I did.”
Donghyun is caught off-guard. The exploding star, though almost astronomically impossible, reverses its process. Instead, it implodes. It curls up into a small ball of gas, suddenly shying away from the magnificence of space, unaware of its own very magnificence.
“What?”
Donghyun knows how dumb he sounded, but at this point, he just doesn’t give two shits anymore.
“Well, we were supposed to try out this one cafe this afternoon. It has a promo for groups of three, so they asked me to be the third. But I decided that I can spend my weekend better by studying.”
Studying. Donghyun stares at Dongmin then at the Vuong book that rests among the countless (or three) stacks of worksheets and (two) textbooks that he brought solely at Donghyun’s request. He further scans the table they are sharing, and he finally concludes that there is absolutely no trace of Dongmin doing any schoolwork.
It’s ridiculous, Donghyun knows, but he can’t help thinking that Dongmin just wants to be there just because.
It’s ridiculous—Donghyun is very much aware—but he can’t help but hope that Dongmin chose to be there because it’s Donghyun.
Due to these almost-audacious thoughts, Donghyun feels the black hole in his chest grow bigger, feel heavier.
Dongmin thinks to himself, “Does he really want to study or does he just want to be with me?”
His eyes go back up to meet Dongmin’s, the question grappling its way out of his lips and out on Dongmin’s lap. It is almost like there is a gravity pulling at it, violently urging it to come out and concretize.
Of course, Donghyun does his best to not give into that.
After all, asking that question is not merely asking that question. There is a shadow of hope in that statement, a tint of yearning, and a hue of everything that Donghyun has kept to himself for about three years or longer. There is extra baggage in him asking that kind of question, and he cannot afford to pay the additional fees for that. He just can’t.
So, instead of interrogating Dongmin further, Donghyun just hums in faint agreement.
He refuses to lose control of the wheel and sits in silence once again.
Not before Dongmin adds something.
“And besides, I like being with you more.”
Dongmin feels himself loosen up as soon as he lets go of those words.
He just had to, so he did.
Deep inside, he’s well aware of the repercussions of that single statement.
He knows what it sounds like to anyone, and he knows what it sounds like especially to Donghyun.
Donghyun is not dumb, Dongmin knows. He reads between the lines—and he reads them well.
So, for what it’s worth, Dongmin decidedly takes that shot in the dark, across the sky, in hopes that one star, with a gravity strong enough to pull him in completely, will prevent him from wandering aimlessly in space.
Besides, he trusts Donghyun enough (with his whole life, to be frank) to know that he will keep him from flying away.
The afternoon sunlight enters through the thin curtains, its warm light casting a soft glow on everything in Donghyun’s room, including Dongmin. It makes everything in the scene hazy and impressionistic, almost dreamlike. In a way, Donghyun thinks vaguely about how Wong Kar Wai’s films would look like in the morning. Dongmin’s skin glows, and Donghyun can feel it on his own. Looking at the other boy in this light, however, makes him wonder: is it really the sunlight that is illuminating the space or Dongmin?
His train of thought is cut off when an alarm goes off—their Pomodoro timer.
Dongmin reaches out to dismiss it, closes his book not before putting his bookmark in between the pages, and proceeds to lean back against the chair and stretch his legs under the table. All of this happens as Donghyun stays completely still, a pen in hand and a worksheet answered halfway. He’s well aware that he should’ve been done by now. It’s almost his nap time, the reason why he asked Dongmin to come over earlier than usual in the first place, and he still hasn’t finished what the other boy told him to accomplish.
Passively, Donghyun thinks that maybe it’s his subconscious purposely delaying him, slowing him down in hopes that Dongmin will stay over longer—possibly long enough to have dinner with him. Of course, he knows that he could just ask him; they are best friends, after all.
It’s normal. It’s casual. It’s a friendly gesture. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend more time with him, nothing Machiavellian or malicious about wanting your best friend to have a meal with you on a weekend.
Except Donghyun hates imposing on other people, especially Dongmin, and he also hates how sudden and seemingly impulsive the idea is. It’s a common knowledge now, given what Sanghyeok told him earlier about how the other boy is willing to drop everything for him, that Donghyun will get whatever he asks for from Dongmin. If Donghyun asks Dongmin if he’s free later, he thinks, then Dongmin would probably say that he is.
Now that he thinks about it, has there ever been a time when Dongmin said ‘no’ to Donghyun?
No. Never. Not once. A ‘maybe,’ perhaps, but Dongmin still manages to make a way to turn that into a ‘yes.’
Oh.
“Donghyun-ah.”
Dongmin’s voice pulls him up and out of the water, instantly snapping him back to reality.
“Are you hungry?”
Shaken by the realization he just had, Donghyun mindlessly nods. He cannot, for the life of him, process what is going on at the moment because he just realized how his best friend’s life revolves around him. The pieces have always fit the puzzle, and Donghyun is just now seeing that Dongmin has been swapping those behind his back to make sure they align with whatever it is that he wants.
From the significant events, like how Dongmin chose the same school as Donghyun’s even if he was given a full scholarship in one of the universities that he was accepted in, telling Donghyun that it’s the same program anyway, that he’ll be fine, to the minute episodes, like how Dongmin is still using the bookmark that Donghyun made for him when they had their first Christmas together as friends—it’s all there, and Donghyun feels like a fool for not seeing it.
Dongmin is family now—but Donghyun admits to himself that he wants more.
“Oh!”
Donghyun suddenly speaks up as he stands up clumsily from where he sat, his mouth once again faster than his mind.
“Eomma bought fruits for us. I’ll go get it.”
Overwhelmed by the landslide of epiphanies, Donghyun decides that he needs to get out of the room, distance himself away from the subject of his cosmic revelations for a while, and take a deep breath.
After all, how can he stay composed just when he discovered that his best friend may or may not be in love with him?
After all, how can he be calm just when he is slowly digesting the probability that he, too, is in love with his best friend?
Donghyun can’t. He just can’t. The emotions bubbling up inside him feel like a supernova in waiting. He can briefly taste it on his tongue, a flavor sitting around the back of his throat. He knows it, wants it, and deep inside, he feels like Dongmin can see it within him as he slowly begins walking towards the door.
Dongmin has always known him better than he knows himself, so it won’t come as a surprise to Donghyun that he can already see the explosion—with the possibility of a black hole that can pull him in and down under imminent—taking place inside him.
“Do you want banana milk?”
To ebb the awkward tension that is building up, Donghyun casually asks as his hand reaches out for the knob. He sees Dongmin nod, a soft hum of agreement travels from where the younger boy was, and utters a gentle “yes, please.”
Donghyun, with a mass taking root in his throat and continuously growing at a rate immeasurable by man, nods with a tight-lipped smile as he opens the door and walks out—pretending to not notice the way Dongmin’s eyes lingered on him, a longing already evident in them when he hasn’t even been gone in a minute.
Donghyun comes back after 12 minutes.
Dongmin didn’t mean to watch the clock the entire time he was alone in Donghyun’s room.
It just happened.
As the door opens, Dongmin can see Donghyun holding two plates full of sliced fruits and two cartons of milk—one banana and the other strawberry. He moves to help Donghyun, but the other boy insists that he can manage.
“Eomma would have my head if she found out I didn’t treat my guest right.”
And so, Dongmin obeys.
Donghyun sets down the plates on top of his worksheets, being careful not to put them anywhere near Dongmin’s notes in case they get stained or wet. Just as Dongmin is about to make a comment about how he shouldn’t put it on top of his worksheets, a plate of thinly sliced apples catches his eye.
Dongmin feels his heart momentarily stop at this.
“Donghyun-ah, are these apples?”
Dongmin has to make sure he isn’t wrong, that he isn’t letting his head get hold of his reality.
“Yeah.” Donghyun pauses. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing, I—” Dongmin stutters, shaking his head in the process. This, the thinly sliced apples, may just be a little thing for other people, but not for him. Knowing Donghyun who never slices his apples, this is something.
A little context: Donghyun eats his apples similar to the way people imagined Adam and Eve taking a bite from the forbidden fruit, how other people aside from Dongmin eats apples. Apart from that, Donghyun eats his tangerines without removing the pith, the white stringy parts of the fruit. Donghyun also eats his watermelons without bothering to spit out the seeds, telling people that they’ll come out the other way anyway.
He has never been picky when it comes to food, after all, and Dongmin knows this.
That is why seeing the thinly sliced apples, perfectly cut into bite-sized pieces, prepared by Donghyun has him weak in the knees, his bones turning into molten matter mixed with his marrow and flesh.
Then, his eyes move to the other plate.
A plateful of peeled clementines.
Clean of pith. Like someone deliberately peeled them off before serving them.
Dongmin feels it before he sees it—the star that he thought would ground him explodes right before his eyes.
He should be scared, knowing the probability of the supernova creating a black hole with a gravity that can suck him in with no chances of getting out, but Dongmin realizes almost instantaneously that this is what he has hoped for.
The star may have been dead, but gravity is gravity. If loving Donghyun feels more like venturing into a black hole than discovering a new star, with absolutely no knowledge of where it could take him or what might happen to him in the long run whatsoever, then so be it.
Dongmin chose this. Dongmin chooses this; he will stick to his choice for as long as his heart beats for the other boy in the small room.
“Noona also told me to tell you that the clementines are just for you.”
Lost for words, Dongmin looks up at Donghyun who is taking his seat. Donghyun’s voice is airy as he says this, taking one entire clementine and popping it whole in his mouth in one breath. Dongmin continues to watch Donghyun as his cheeks puff up while he chews the fruit slowly, his eyes squeezing shut and his dimple making an appearance.
“Of course, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Donghyun happily declares as soon as he finishes chewing the clementine, his hand reaching out for a slice of apple next.
“Dongmin-ah, are you alright?”
Dongmin feels like he has been awoken from a dream, except he knows it isn’t a dream. It just feels like a dream, but Dongmin holds on to the hope that it’s more of a vision: a tomorrow where he has so much more with Donghyun. He thinks fleetingly about how it may seem selfish of him to want that, but he can’t help it. He’s only human at the end of the day, and it’s innate in him to keep on wanting.
“Dongmin?”
“Yeah?”
Watching Donghyun watch him, Dongmin thinks about how he has known this boy forever and how he wants to keep on knowing him for the rest of his life.
“I asked if you’re alright. Are you tired?”
As he lets out a light chuckle, Dongmin moves slowly, closer to Donghyun.
“I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Donghyun chuckles. “Eat. I even sliced these apples for you.”
As if the universe is playing with Dongmin’s heart, Donghyun casually says this—like it’s nothing when, in fact, it feels like everything to Dongmin.
Sue him and his tendency to romanticize the little things, specifically the little things involving Donghyun.
“I know. I’ll eat them, don’t worry.”
He declares, putting everything good he can muster in those seven words to make sure Donghyun understands that he knows and he understands. Despite knowing that words can never be enough, especially for people like Donghyun, who sees it more through a person’s actions than their words, Dongmin tries to let him know at that moment that he is willing to indulge Donghyun no matter what.
Dongmin wants to let Donghyun know that he would eat off the ground if he told him to, but that would be too much, too soon. He has waited for quite some time now, and he knows that he can wait for more.
“Good. I almost cut off my finger for you, you know?”
Donghyun jokingly says, with a trace of awkwardness evident in his voice. Dongmin wonders if Donghyun feels it, too: the gravity of whatever it is they have for each other, continually pulling them in. He doesn’t mind it, of course. Supernovas are too beautiful, too glorious, too rare to experience alone. Donghyun being there with him is nice—scary, yes, but nice, nonetheless.
Having someone else see the death of a star is romantic, and Dongmin cannot think of a better person to watch it with than the boy sitting beside him right now, the boy who just admitted that he learned how to use a knife just for the sake of cutting up fruits for Dongmin.
And that’s the thing: cutting up fruits, Dongmin has realized, is something that requires patience and dedication. Not everyone can hold a knife, and not everyone wants to hold a knife. Donghyun, who has never liked being in the kitchen because he thinks of himself as someone who is prone to danger, still went for it.
And, God, Dongmin is bursting at the seams with how much love he has for Donghyun—his heart overflowing, another star on the brink of exploding. Another supernova, another black hole, another unknown land to wander in.
That doesn’t sound so bad—not if he’s with Donghyun through it all, at least.
At this, Dongmin lets it happen.
He lets it go, lets it flow, and waits for the room to glow once more.
Sitting there with Donghyun, sharing one room and existing in the same space as him, Dongmin replies with another set of seven words, tenderly and consciously said like a finger on a trigger, setting off an explosion somewhere deep in space.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, nobody says anything. Nobody moves. The two words carry everything that is yet to be said, and they both know it.
There’s a stillness. A silence.
There it is: the explosion happening again before their eyes. It should scare them, but it doesn’t. Light has always traveled faster than sound, and both of them see it before they hear it, feel it.
Then, Donghyun nods, smiles, and blushes.
“Let’s eat, then we can take a nap.”
Dongmin feels himself ascend to the stars, and he knows that from that point on, everything will be fine.
They’ve known each other their entire life—and Dongmin can’t wait to know Donghyun for the rest of it.