Chapter Text
It's Jumin's phone that wakes him up.
"Ugh." Zen's knee-jerk reaction is to slam a hand across the table to silence it. Nothing happens. The ringtone continues, each high-pitched note drilling itself into his brain like a jackhammer. It takes him until the little electronic tune is over to notice that something's... not quite right. He realizes with a jolt that the chair he's sitting in isn't his chair, and the marble dining table he's slumped over definitely isn't his dining table. He snaps up just as a violent sneeze trembles through him. "Achew!"
Something simultaneously rubs up against his calf, and a shiver ricochets down his spine. He jumps out of his seat in such a rush that he nearly misses Elizabeth 3rd's yowl as the chair clips her tail.
"A-Achew!" That jerk, he thinks, and speak of the devil—
"What are you doing."
Jumin appears at the hallway entrance, arms crossed, but Zen misses the look on his face. He shouldn't have stood up so quickly. The room swims across his vision, a blur of white darting away in the periphery, and just as he's about to fall, a warm, solid surface catches him. He hiccups pathetically, hopelessly confused why he's at Jumin's penthouse of all places. Before he can ask, he hears the other's voice somewhere above him. He misses the exact words, but the tenor is softer than it usually is. For some reason, that pisses him off.
His thoughts jerk, and he remembers. The lost role, Jumin antagonizing him in the chat room, his impulsive trip over with the full intention of giving that freaking trust fund kid a piece of his mind. Except "a piece of his mind" had turned into boozing had turned into Jumin shaking him by the shoulder and muttering something about beer breath.
His thoughts jerk again. Too close, he thinks and shoves Jumin out of his space. He instinctively raises a wrist to his mouth as if he can hide the flush across his cheeks. Alcohol-induced, of course. God, why does trust fund kid have to be such a heavyweight? He'd thought drinking would lighten his mood, but he's even more sour now. He feels like he lost something by being such a mess when Jumin is still as composed as ever. And on top of that, his allergy is acting up. He feels the telltale signs already, runny nose and itchy eyes.
"Achew!" Ah, damn it. Drunk and sneezy. He should have known nothing good would come out of visiting Jumin.
"What?" he asks when he belatedly realizes that Jumin is talking. He tries to find support on the nearest piece of furniture that isn't moving, but in the next moment he's toppling back into Jumin with a growl.
"Jerk," he hisses. "Said you—you'd keep her in the—the room." His words slur together. It's probably not the answer to whatever Jumin is asking, but eh. "I'm—going home," he adds and tries to push off the man a second time.
"Home?"
Jumin raises an eyebrow skeptically, probably mockingly, but Zen's too miserable to bring himself to care. He makes another attempt at separating but can't.
"You're going to go home like this?"
"Yeah," Zen mumbles. "I'm fine."
"Hardly. You can't even stand on your own."
Is that concern he hears? No, he's probably overthinking it. He's the last person Jumin would be concerned about. But the way Jumin is holding onto him and blocking his way to the door—he's probably just trying to annoy him, right? Some part of him knows Jumin's not wrong. He's shit-faced and in no condition to ride a motorcycle, but he can't help it. That guy just makes him want to be difficult on purpose.
"So, what?" Zen makes another valiant effort, and Jumin finally lets go. Zen totters back a few steps and gets a good look at the other. His tie is slack around his neck, and his vest has a few buttons undone. His dark hair is a little looser than it normally is, a little messier. Zen can make out the stain on the sleeve of his shirt where he spilled a bit of wine earlier. It's almost... disorienting to see him like this. Zen averts his gaze from Jumin's intense stare, ignores the warm thrill through his veins, and tries to collect his thoughts into coherent sentences. "Don't you—don't you have a round the clock driver?" He waves a hand casually in front of his face. "J-Just tell him to send me home."
"At this hour? Do you know what time it is?"
"Since w-when do you care about overworking your employees? Jaehee—a-achew!"
The force of the sneeze almost has him falling onto his ass. Jumin's steadying hand saves him, but he quickly shakes him off. "God, I can't stay here anyway with that—that damn cat..."
"Elizabeth 3rd is nothing less than a treasure."
Zen shakes his head. He doesn't want to rehash this argument again. He's not in the right mood or frame of mind. He takes an unsteady step forward, smiles triumphantly when nothing happens, then proceeds to trip over his feet. This must be the nth time Jumin has caught him.
"Damn it..." he mutters, forehead finding Jumin's shoulder in defeat. He smells like a combination of cologne and cedar wood, and it's oddly comforting. "Why aren't you more drunk," he slurs and can't help how bitter he sounds because he is.
"Because I have self-control—unlike some."
That jab feels particularly barbing, or maybe he's just more sensitive tonight. Either way, his indignation flares, spurred on by alcohol, and he's ready to shove away yet again with an equally spiteful comment when he feels fingers against his cheek.
"Huh?" he reacts dumbly, eyebrows furrowing. It takes him way too long to realize what Jumin is doing. By then his chin is already nestled in the other's palm. Jumin's skin is predictably smooth and soft, evidence of a pampered life. His own are rough and calloused, but the animosity he would normally feel at the thought isn't there. Instead, he almost pushes further into the touch before he catches himself.
"You're blushing."
"I-I'm not," he hurriedly denies, and he doesn't have to look up to know the bastard is smirking. "It's—It's Asian glow, jackass."
"It's cute."
Cute? Zen's addled head can't process the thought. Did Jumin Han just call him cute? Not even handsome, which is true, but cute? Maybe he's not the only one plastered after all. Before he can make that observation or laugh it off, there are lips on his and a coaxing hand against the back of his neck.
Zen chokes, and Jumin takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth. Rather than recoiling like he wants to, like his rationality is telling at him to, he relaxes instead. The tension in his body unwinds, and he finds his own hands scrabbling for purchase in Jumin's vest. He goes heady in just a few seconds, intoxicated blood and hormones rushing to his brain. Now it's not just Asian glow making his face beet red.
Jumin is unrelenting. His kisses are harsh and deep and taste like the dark red wine he's been drinking all evening. Zen can't think of anything; he can hardly breathe. Some dim part of him registers the stray hand sneaking under his shirt and mapping out the lines of his muscles. It's embarrassing, but caught up in how good it feels, Zen doesn't question it. He doesn't question it until a low moan shocks him out of his stupor.
Holy shit. That's his voice, and this is Jumin fucking Han.
He grabs fistfuls of Jumin's clothes and yanks. They disconnect, trail of saliva inelegantly following before it breaks. Jumin's grey eyes bore in him, and Zen can feel the heavy breaths he's taking. He doesn't know whether it's shock or chagrin, but he can't return the gaze. He ducks his head at the same time that he's suddenly furious. This has to be Jumin messing with him again. The worst part of it is that he fell for it. He always does. Jumin's provocations never fail to get to him, but this is a little different. He ignores his stomach turning somersaults and raises his wrist against his lips once more. They're wet and swollen, Jumin's heat lingering. He tells himself it's another symptom of his allergy and wrenches aside.
"Gotta go," he croaks and stumbles over to the exit. Jumin doesn't try to stop him. Somehow he figures out the complex latch system and throws himself outside, pulling the door shut behind him. He doesn't give himself the time to think about it because if he does he might start freaking out. As he feels along the wall toward the elevator, he just hopes Jumin's not so much of an ass he doesn't call the driver.