Chapter Text
They’d made something of a habit of sleeping together now, Eunchan and Haru: one rarely willing to be found without the other, as though they were particularly tenacious pieces of mould, clinging stubbornly to the same line of tile grout. Hajin couldn’t quite tell what it meant for them—whether Haru had grown more accepting of Eunchan’s affections, easing back into something closer to how he’d been before, or whether he had simply given up, more willing to follow wherever his capricious nature happened to move him this time.
Either way, it was very cute, Hajin thought; the two of them circling each other like that.
For Siwoo’s birthday, toward the final stages of the move, they’d pushed all the mattresses together onto the floor. The place was bare then, stripped of accessories and personal artefacts, save for whatever they needed to cook, or eat, or wear. The night had been colder than usual. They’d run out of blankets, and some of the members had resorted to draping towels over their legs or shoulders instead.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Hajin woke, tugging his towel closer, curling into it for warmth, when he caught the sound of Eunchan’s voice. He forced himself to listen, just in case, though it wasn’t difficult. Eunchan was always as painfully earnest as he was childlike, never quite able to modulate his expressions, or his voice, half as well as the others.
And there he was now, crouched awkwardly over Haru, who lay next to Siwoo, fast asleep. Eunchan leaned down and whispered, as softly as he could, “Are you cold?”
Hajin expected him to offer to lay his spare towels over Haru next. Instead, after a pause, he heard the sound of blankets being shifted as Eunchan crawled in beside him. He could already imagine Haru’s expression: splotchy and faintly outraged, flecked with thin-faced embarrassment more than any real anger. But Haru’s heart was rather like a dog's.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled.
“Isn’t it warmer like this?”
“You—”
“Shh,” Eunchan said. There was a sleepy quality to his voice, half-muffled by the blankets, or by their bodies pressed together. There wasn’t much space between any of them at all, after all. “The hyungs are all asleep. Let’s not wake them.”