Work Text:
Warm, dim light from the corner lamp casts shadows over the walls of the bedroom, sharp edges and soft curves and Hyunjin’s own silhouette. It’s late. Were he alone, he would still be hunched over his desk—for hours, probably, well beyond when he should be. He’s certain that contributed to Felix, who learned about his poor sleeping habits early on, knocking on his bedroom door, nudging it open slowly to peek inside and ask if Hyunjin was busy, or if he had time—for me, going unsaid, one of Felix’s bad habits Hyunjin learned about early on. Bad not because Hyunjin minds assuring and reassuring him, I always have time for you, but because he knows what that sort of doubt feels like. The worry it brings along with it.
Bedsheets neatly made wrinkle beneath them as Felix lies down on his back with his arms by his sides. He looks up at Hyunjin where he sits next to him with his legs crossed and silence fills every empty space in the room, secure but exposing. Hyunjin hears himself breathing. Tries to time each inhale and exhale appropriately, steadily, against the current of his heart, not exactly nervousness but its love-ill cousin bedridden there.
He waits for Felix to close his eyes, lids freckled and twitching, and reaches for his hand first, turns it over on the mattress so Felix’s palm is up, fingers relaxed. Small hands for Hyunjin to have poured most of himself into, but it hadn’t been a decision he made consciously—only steadily, securely, well beyond the point of no return by the time he recognized what was happening but with no desire to go back anyway. The way you trust some things without ever deciding to: your lungs to expand, your skin to feel, the Sun to go on burning. Hyunjin touches the clean bristles of the paint brush first to Felix’s palm, watching the way he flexes his hand open then relaxes it again, his fingers curling back in gradually as Hyunjin drags the brush in a slow, circular motion, spiraling outward with each loop all the way to the edge of Felix’s palm. He fans the bristles out on the way up each of his fingers and back down. This, he finds familiar. Heavy brush in hand, the movement of the bristles, the patience it takes to get each stroke just the way he wants it. Felix, lying with his eyes closed and his body vulnerable. At ease, trusting, only the slightest of twitches when Hyunjin lifts the brush to make contact somewhere new.
Anticipation and patience. Front of hand, back of hand, wrist, forearm—so many freckles dotted everywhere, Hyunjin dabbing at them gently between long strokes and short swipes—bicep, shoulder over to collarbone and the hollow of his throat, and Felix keeps still, relaxes enough that his lips part and his chest moves with the rhythm only found on the precipice of sleep.
Hyunjin thinks of that inflection at the end of Felix’s question, so subtle he hadn’t heard it at all the first two weeks they lived together, and how now his ears and eyes and body are so attuned to Felix he doesn’t have to search for any of the tells to see them. Feel them. It’s something like fluency, the doubt and the reassurance, seeing bruised skin and keeping your touch light, careful, seeing skin unblemished and knowing how much pressure can be applied before the vessels will begin to break. There’s a lot Hyunjin wishes he could give Felix. Confidence. A way to see himself as Hyunjin sees him. Anything, everything.
This, for now. Attentiveness smeared over his skin, seeping in like a sedative.
From Felix, minutes ago, admitting he was having trouble falling asleep—and then, frowning, asking if Hyunjin’s suggestion would ruin the brush, obviously new, as though Hyunjin cared, as though he wouldn’t buy a dozen brushes just for this specific purpose—to Felix, now, half-asleep in Hyunjin’s bed quietly asking Hyunjin to stay.
Something turns in his stomach. Not fear, because Felix would never do anything to hurt anyone intentionally—one of the things Hyunjin admires so much about him which, in a convoluted sort of way, is also part of the issue. This is who Felix is. He treats everyone with this much care, invites people in with such openness, warmth, and certainty it’s nearly impossible not to accept it. Not exactly exclusive.
So what makes Hyunjin special? Nothing, aside from, maybe, his overbearing neediness, romanticism fermented into something deadly and pungent. Repulsive.
Lying on his side, facing Felix, Hyunjin is close enough that if he tilted his head down his cheek would meet Felix’s shoulder. To the side, his lips. Their silhouettes press together, overlapping. Hyunjin tilts his chin up, away, the muscles in his neck twinging, and worries he won’t fall asleep quickly tonight.
The peak of Felix’s upper lip, highlighted by lamplight, glistens when he rolls his tongue between his lips. Hyunjin turns to flick the light off, then settles back into place and blinks wide-eyed into the darkness as Felix’s breath fans over his cheek, a warm puff of air that reaches the corner of Hyunjin’s mouth and shocks a tremble into the hinge of his jaw. He doesn’t move, is scared to breathe, afraid it’ll catch and give him away as though he hasn’t been already by the occasional tremor of the paintbrush in his hand earlier, the delicate strokes unsteady no matter how intentional he was about each breath he took.
“Felix,” he says, voice splitting into a whisper, cautious and timid at the possibility he’s misreading some vital part of all this, seeing what he wants rather than what’s actually there. Here. Bad habit after bad habit.
Felix touches his neck and, deep, mumbled, thrumming through him like the first cord of a song he knows by rapidly-beating heart, says, “Hyunjin,” as he closes the gap between them and spreads his fingers into a hold.
Shared breath. Tingling skin. Kerosene-fused flesh and the spark of Felix’s lips against his own.