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It’s not the rain that keeps them at bay indoors, looking out the window and watching the rainfall crawl on the asphalt toward the gutters. It’s not the fear of getting sick, of catching a cold. It’s not the unbearable humidity that sticks to your skin like mosquito bites in the middle of June.
It’s not the rain that turns Jaehyun away from pawing at the front door, leash in mouth, presenting Sungho his very best “W-A-L-K?” eyes.
He still uses it as an excuse, anyway.
“You’ve never cared about rain before.”
Sungho is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Beside him, a mug of tea is over-steeping—it fills the room with leafs and wet bark.
“Sure, but I just–” Jaehyun flaps his arms meaninglessly, helplessly. Looking up at Sungho from the floor, at the breadth of his shoulders, at the intensity of his gaze, he suddenly feels much smaller. Smaller than he’d already felt when Sungho discovered him like this: hugging his knees, sitting against the wall, picking at his cuticles. He was quick to nag on him for that—they have images as idols they need to hold, he’d said.
Then Jaehyun made a joke about his idol-fingers being in his idol-mouth. Sungho flicked his forehead for it.
Sometimes, Jaehyun swears that Sungho can read his mind. That he can see right through his act.
Kiss me. Please.
Sungho takes two steps forward, then sinks to his knees in front of him. Jaehyun doesn’t feel as small anymore, not with Sungho less than an armswidth away.
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Jaehyun just watches as he traces the outline of his face with his eyes and hesitates on the curve of his lips.
It’s some sort of unspoken, mutual understanding that as the eldest and the leader, it’s each other whom they allow themselves to be completely bare and vulnerable with. On Thursday nights, they go on walks. The facemasks act as confessionals as they confess their sins that week to each other—Jaehyun ate Sanghyeok’s leftovers and lied about it; Sungho gained two pounds.
Tonight, Jaehyun doesn’t want to wear the mask, to inadvertently hide himself from him. Look at me. See me for what I am.
“We don’t have to go out,” Sungho says lowly. “If you don’t want to, you can just say so.” He speaks slowly, too, like he’s comforting a stray dog, offering it a bite of food.
“I know.” He hopes the twitch of his eyebrow is enough to say what he truly means. Sungho’s so good at that, at reading faces and body language. Like how Jaehyun used to pretend to be sick to not have to go to school and with a knowing look, his mother would tell him to get some rest and heal fast.
Sungho has those motherly tendencies. Maybe it’s why Jaehyun urges him to coax the truth out of him. Maybe it’s why Jaehyun wants to list every bad thing he’s ever thought and done in the safety of his arms.
Sometimes, Jaehyun swears that Sungho can read his mind.
Please, please, kiss me. Please.
“Are you just going to stare at me instead of telling me what you want?” A snarky, knowing smile creeps onto Sungho’s face.
Jaehyun cocks his head to the side, coquettish. “I don’t want anything.”
Sungho laughs, hanging his head in disbelief. When he looks back up, he runs his tongue along the lining of his lips. “You want me to suck you off, or something.”
“Well…if you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no–”
“I am not offering, you little sex pest. You just only act like this when you’re horny.”
At that, Jaehyun can’t help but smirk. He wonders if he’s truly an open book or if Sungho just knows him. He hopes it’s the latter. He hopes Sungho can read him like this all the time, that there is nothing he could ever possibly hide from him.
His eyes snap to where Sungho’s hand now covers his knee. His fingers are slender, blue blood vessels vibrant from the frigid air. His fingernails are clean and trimmed, cuticles smooth and well-maintained. He wonders if they’d taste just as cold and white on his tongue, or if any hint of delicacy would be lost in translation—a coat of saliva painted over them.
If he truly wanted, he could simply lift his fingers and guide them to his mouth and find out for himself. At worst, Sungho would yank them out, shake the drool off, and complain about hygiene or something unsanitary. At best, Jaehyun wouldn’t have to initiate anything at all. Sungho would simply know what he wants, and of his own volition, allow him to taste his skin.
Jaehyun is bold. He commits to the bit, regardless of his own image, making raunchy comments and puckering his lips at his members. When there aren’t any cameras, or fans, or members watching him, though, he becomes less bold. Not cowardly, not afraid, but hopeful. Smaller. Easily read and even more easily coerced.
Sungho maintains this anti-affection persona in front of the camera, grimacing at kisses and cringing at hugs, choosing the platonic-only route as he yells and jokes and pokes fun at his members. It’s funny though, because at home, while he doesn’t initiate affection the same way Jaehyun might, he doesn’t back away from it. He accepts it fully, maybe halfheartedly returning it, but still reciprocating nonetheless.
He becomes less afraid of what others might think, or of what he might be told, or of how parties may react. At home, Jaehyun and Sungho become more like each other than they care to admit.
Halfway defeated and more tired of playing his own games, Jaehyun sighs. “Can we stay in tonight? Maybe order takeout?”
Without skipping a beat, Sungho rubs his knee in this fatherly manner and nods his head. “Of course we can.” He then presses his lips against Jaehyun’s, soft and sweet.
It’s not a sexy kiss. It’s close-mouthed and more of a stretched-out peck than anything else, but it still fills up the kiss me kiss me kiss me! meter Jaehyun has. Maybe, just for fun, he can convince Sungho to give a little more later. Just as a little present for Jaehyun to tuck away for later.
Jaehyun stays seated against the wall, still recovering from his own pathos. Sungho’s knees crack as he stands, worn and achy, but neither of them mention it.