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🦒🦒🦒
Martin couldn’t sleep.
Ever since their session ended earlier that day, he had been thinking nonstop about that one melody that didn’t quite sit right. Maybe it was a note, maybe a beat, maybe just the slightly off tempo. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it, so his fingers were left to squeeze the middle of his furrowed eyebrows, in an attempt to switch up his train of thought.
He hadn’t thought about needing sleep, or that they had an early shoot tomorrow morning. Music always came first, it might just be the way his brain is wired. Which made it normal, for him at least, to be up at ass o’clock in the middle of the night just staring at the ceiling, pondering, dissecting beats and melodies.
When Eom Seonghyeon’s fifth “aniya” softly slipped into the beat of Ahn Keonho’s teeth grinding symphony, Martin pushed himself off the bed and made his way to their living room, laptop in one hand, favorite headphones in the other.
He set himself down on the couch. It was barely 3am, outside the window was an endless black void, pierced by glaring streetlights and skyscraper windows that painted the night of Seoul in harsh, unnatural colors, reflecting soft hue through their living room windows. Martin decided that he didn’t want to turn the ceiling light on, as the faint glow of the Christmas tree somehow already matched his mood, warm bulbs blinking in sync with his uneasy heartbeat.
He quickly dove into work. The laptop screen reflected off his glasses. Slender fingers danced swiftly to arrange the recorded melodies. He hunched further down to stare at the screen, back arched uncomfortably. His headphone pressed firmly over his ears, soft bass pulsing through his buzzing brain, keeping his thoughts tethered to the rhythm.
Martin was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the soft footsteps approaching him from behind, completely oblivious to the fuzzy cloud of black hair peeking around the corner of the living room wall.
🐢🐢🐢
Juhoon had reluctantly said goodbye to his warm bed sheet and puffy blanket to get up for a much needed midnight pee. On his way back to his room, his eyes cracked open at the faint typing sound and soft murmurs coming from the living room. And even though his mind was still foggy from interrupted sleep, a small smile tugged at his lips. Who else could it be? Lucky for them, that guy wasn’t cleaning the entire house in the middle of the night, at least.
Juhoon stepped carefully toward the sound. He wasn’t sure why he was being so cautious, that guy was probably having his headphones pressed tightly over his ears, obstructing him from all the noises of the outside world. Maybe it was just Juhoon’s way of showing respect for Martin’s workflow, a quiet attempt not to startle him into losing it midway. He could feel the faint hum of Martin’s focus, fluttering vibration in the air around him.
When Juhoon finally peeked his head around the living room wall, as expected, he saw a gentle giant hunched over a laptop, the device looking almost comically small against Martin’s broad frame. Martin’s back was turned to Juhoon, the screen’s yellowish glow weaved through the tip of his bleached hair. Juhoon’s brow furrowed instinctively, he felt bad for their leader’s spine.
Without overthinking it, Juhoon moved closer. Sleep still clouding his judgment, he placed his hands on Martin’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. Martin flinched.
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Martin first felt the firm hands pressing down on his shoulders, then the couch dipped under the weight of the person behind him. He was startled for one solid second, his body turned rigid, before his brain quickly caught onto the fact that a burglar wouldn’t be massaging him, it must be one of his members. And from their fingers alone, he already knew who it was. A smile broke across his face.
Martin lifted the headphone from his right ear, leaving the left hanging, and leaned back into the massage, letting the slim fingers work circles into his sore muscles.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He whispered toward the figure behind him, feeling warmth radiate through the thin fabric of his long sleeves.
Martin caught the subtle confusion in Juhoon’s touch—the way his fingers slowed, almost questioning. The grin on his face widened. Amused at being pampered at this ridiculous hour, he let himself sink a little deeper into the couch. Maybe it was the pitch black sky outside the window, like a velvet curtain sealing the world away. Maybe it was the soothing warmth against his back, lulling him into a sense of contentment. Or maybe it was… just Juhoon.
When Juhoon finally spoke, his voice came out low and quiet, sleep laced in between the words, brushing against Martin’s ear like a secret.
“Wanted to check on you.”
At that, Martin nodded, keeping his eyes closed, enjoying the free service.
“I told you,” Juhoon’s sleepy voice murmured again, “You’re gonna get spine problems sitting like that.”
Martin didn’t say a word. His eyebrows lifted slightly, like a student caught cheating on homework. Quietly, he shifted, straightening his back, gentle and obedient, like a puppy following an unspoken command. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the curve of Juhoon’s lips, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d done something amusing.
“Sorry…” Martin whispered back “I was too focused…”
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While Juhoon’s hand didn’t stop, his head decided to peek over Martin’s shoulder to see what had him so focused. Banana pudding on the saving title caught his eyes—it was a track they had worked on earlier that day. Juhoon wasn’t sure what was going on with their recent obsession with food-related song names, but ever since Cheeseballs, it had become a running joke that somehow all five of them found hilarious. This time, Juhoon had won rock-paper-scissors against Ahn Keonho to claim the naming rights.
It wasn’t just the name, though, this track felt a little more special to Juhoon because, for the first time, a part of the beat was his. Martin had been sending high praise for Juhoon’s recent work. And when Juhoon shyly suggested that a beat he had made the day before might fit into Martin’s latest project, he remembered seeing something like fireworks lit up in the depths of Martin’s eyes, making Juhoon a little dizzy. After a few listens, Martin agreed, and together, they worked to incorporate Juhoon’s beat into Martin’s. Today, they used that beat to make Banana pudding.
Juhoon’s chest puffed slightly as he asked, “Isn’t this part the beat I made?” a hint of pride in his voice. Martin chuckled softly, a warm jolt of satisfaction rippled through Juhoon’s body.
“It is,” Martin sat up straight. And Juhoon noticed the brief, almost imperceptible pause in the way he moved, as if he regretted leaving behind the warmth and gentle pressure of Juhoon’s hands on his shoulders. Juhoon’s fingers itched to reach out again, but he stayed still, watching as Martin brought the laptop forward and set it on the coffee table so they could both see the screen.
“Do you remember this melody?” Martin clicked on a part and pressed play.
Juhoon couldn’t remember, of course, because he couldn’t hear a thing.
“Do you have a second headphone?” He whispered into Martin’s ear instead. In response, the taller wrapped a hand over Juhoon’s head and pulled him close to the right headphone, the one he had just taken off and tucked to the side of his hair.
Juhoon shifted uncomfortably. Too close. But Martin didn’t seem to care about getting up and rummaging through his mess of a room to find a spare headphone or a connecting port. So Juhoon leaned it, his cheek almost pressed onto Martin’s. He tried to focus on the music streaming through the headphone, and not on the warmth of Martin’s soft cheek against his own.
Martin pressed play a few more times, then began whispering again.
“This melody… it seems… off. Like one, it doesn’t connect with the next line, and two, it doesn’t fit right with the beat. I tried adjusting the notes, the tempo, even moving it around, but it doesn’t seem to fit anywhere, and I can’t think of a new line to replace it.”
The more Martin talked, the more Juhoon felt the subtle shift beside him. Frustration radiated off Martin, and Juhoon sensed it ripple through the brush of their shoulders. He could feel the faint stiffening of Martin’s back, tension coiling like a spring ready to snap in the quiet of the night. Juhoon’s cheek, pressed against Martin’s, caught the tiniest quiver of his jaw and the twitch of fingers adjusting the headphone. In their stillness, every little movement felt magnified.
By the time Martin reached the last sentence, he moved away from Juhoon, hands shooting up to grasp at his spiky hair as if trying to pull it out. Without thinking, and without a word, Juhoon gently placed his hand on Martin’s back, steady pats to slow rhythms like a quiet anchor. And the hair grabbing stopped.
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“This beat…” When Juhoon started to speak again, his voice, low and warm, sent rumbles through his arm, and somehow traveled all the way to Martin’s back, right where Juhoon’s hand were rubbing comforting circles. Martin’s chest tightened slightly, the motion against his back sending a strange flutter up into his ribs, like a purr vibrating quietly inside him. And for a moment, Martin thought of cats and their healing power through purring, and he imagined how Juhoon would be the cat with the deepest voice he’s ever known. He turned to look at Juhoon, through dazed eyes and cloudy thoughts.
“I wanted to make this beat a little emotionless.” Juhoon’s voice was calm, measured, almost monotone as he continued. “So maybe this melody was way too melancholic for it?”
He answered Martin with a question, eyebrow furrowed, head clocked to one side. Martin noticed the tilt and mirrored it, resting the side of his head softly against Juhoon’s. Juhoon didn’t flinch one bit—they’d done this a hundred times during brainstorming sessions. Pressing their heads together as a way of sharing brain waves, to airdrop ideas. On any other day, it was just part of the group routine. But tonight, with just the two of them in the quiet living room, the familiar gesture felt a bit…strange, a bit… intimate. And Martin tried very hard not to think too much about it.
“You know…” Juhoon’s voice softened, turning his head towards Martin. Martin mirrored it automatically, utterly focused on what his bandmate was about to say (and definitely not on the way they were pressed forehead to forehead now). “...the feeling of biking alongside the Han river in the winter, that cold but refreshing feeling, I think I was trying to express it through this beat. So maybe you don’t have to get rid of the old melody, maybe just re-record it and tune down the emotion a little. Try to sing it like your face is getting numbed from the cold winter wind.”
Martin stayed focused, forehead pressed firmly to Juhoon’s, letting that low, steady voice vibrate straight through him. He didn’t know if it was the ungodly hour, or the quietness of the living room, or the energy flowing through their connected foreheads, but Juhoon was speaking differently tonight, layers of descriptive imagery spilling out naturally. And Martin’s heart, absurdly, felt like it was learning a new rhythm.
Well aren’t you a romantic punk, fooled me with that nonchalant face. Martin always thought of Juhoon as the top-tier student type—brilliant, quick, logical, a little cold at times. Efficient. Predictable. But upon finding out how romantic Juhoon can be, Martin felt like peeling back yet another layer of the Jju-onion, other than the hidden pets and the stored-away talents. And for a second, Martin had this weird thought that maybe this time, he didn’t want to brag about Juhoon’s romantic tendency to anyone else.
And sure, as Juhoon grew more confident (which made Martin feel incredibly proud), he wasn’t shy about contributing ideas to their producing sessions. But during group sessions, he mostly observed, carefully studying how Seonghyeon came up with focus points or how Keonho randomly hummed adlibs. Not like this. Not when it was just the two of them. With only Martin around, Juhoon seemed even more at ease, and so he kept talking.
“And this diriri~ part, I think you can lose the ‘ooohh’, because it adds too much emotion…”
Martin’s gaze fell to Juhoon’s lips, which he noticed were a little too pouty, too soft, too pink, too moisturized. Juhoon has fully turned to the laptop now, excitedly clicking and offering ideas. While Martin stayed rooted in place, trying his best to soak in Juhoon’s suggestions, to focus on the music, all the while failing miserably to pry his eyes from those lips.
“Stop staring.” Juhoon’s quiet scold snapped Martin back to reality. Martin jerked his head back to the screen, missing the rosy hint that crept up the side of Juhoon’s cheeks.
“Right, so, less emotion, less adlibs.” Martin reiterated, showing Juhoon that he was indeed listening, not just “staring” (whatever that meant).
“Oh, and instead, it can go like this.” Juhoon pushed himself to kneel on the couch, his lips found Martin’s exposed ear. His hands came up to cup his mouth, eagerly humming his melody into Martin’s ear.
Close, way too close. The tip of Martin’s ear began to heat up, and the way Juhoon’s hand was cupping his ear didn’t help. Juhoon’s warm breath tickled his skin, and Martin had to force himself to not think about the mirrored ticklish feeling at the depth of his stomach.
Martin recorded the part as Juhoon suggested. And after a few more listens, Martin finally leaned back, moderately content.
“I’m sleepy~” Martin whined.
“Then let’s go to sleep.” Juhoon chuckled.
“No…” Martin aggressively whispered back, and before Juhoon could protest, Martin rested his head on top of Juhoon’s shoulder. The fifteen-centimeter height gap made it slightly awkward, but Martin didn’t budge. Juhoon let out a soft sigh, but the corner of his lips couldn’t help curling upward.
“I need to… think about it more.” Martin murmured, trying to sound firm. And it definitely wasn’t because he wanted to linger in this comfortable closeness, just the two of them. It definitely wasn’t because he wanted to cling to Juhoon’s warmth, just the two of them.
“Okay.” Juhoon’s voice was soft, then he tilted his head, resting it gently against Martin’s.
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In Juhoon’s field of vision, Martin’s slender fingers were holding out, expectant. The weight of his head still rested comfortably on Juhoon’s shoulder. Juhoon’s voice broke the quiet, light as a feather.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking my revenge…” Martin mumbled.
“Now?” Juhoon chuckled, “You can never beat me.”
Juhoon didn’t see it, but he could feel Martin pouting. When Martin wasn’t in his leader mode, he usually acted like a big baby, maybe because he was the baby of his house. In moments like this, Juhoon could somehow feel the two-month age gap between them, which made him kind of want to coo at his dongsaeng (although the thought of Martin calling him hyung would launch his whole body into a cringe fest).
Martin’s hand was still hovering, waiting, moving slightly as if to coax Juhoon to take it.
“Come on,” Martin whined, “I was just letting you win last time.”
Juhoon finally grabbed it. Warm, as expected. Martin’s hand was huge, a stark contrast to the pouty wiggle of his fingers. And even though they “weren’t the type to hold hands”—as Keonho put it—Juhoon liked it. He liked the way his small hand could only wrap snugly around Martin’s index and middle fingers, the ring and pinky dangling slightly beyond his reach. He liked the subtle warmth radiating from Martin’s palm, the soft weight of it over his own.
They started the thumb war in silence. Juhoon could feel Martin chuckling against his shoulder. Martin didn’t lift his head, not even as their thumbs collided and pushed back.
Soon, Juhoon realized how tired Martin was. He noticed Martin’s thumb weakening, faltering under the quiet battle, until it finally surrendered. A victorious grin spread across Juhoon’s face as he pressed his thumb down to keep his opponent's giant thumb from escaping. But Martin didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he opened his fingers, letting Juhoon’s hand rest fully in his. The defeated thumb traced lightly along Juhoon’s index. Juhoon held his breath for a moment. Maybe Martin liked this too.
The air was laced with something curious, questions hanging heavy around them. Neither of them spoke a word. Juhoon let himself sink into the quiet, letting the silence wrap around him like a soft, warm blanket. It was thick and sweet in his throat, like honey, sticking to his words, his thoughts, leaving him to wonder why it felt so unbearably sweet. And still, despite the weight of it, he didn’t let Martin’s hand go.
When the gentle strokes finally slowed to stillness, Juhoon whispered,
“Tin-ah?”
Only steady breath answered him. The spiky blonde hair tickled his neck, the weight on his shoulder warm and familiar. Juhoon considered trying to get Martin to bed now that he was finally asleep, but he gave up halfway, letting himself close his eyes, hand still entwined with Martin’s.
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The next morning, Seonghyeon was met with the sight of his two hyungs tangled awkwardly on the couch. Martin’s arm draped over Juhoon, Juhoon’s head rested against Martin’s chest, their bodies pressed together yet somehow still seeking more warmth. Smiling, Seonghyeon draped a blanket over them, telling himself he’d let them sleep for another fifteen minutes.