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The white confetti waltz its way to the floor, carefully hovering over the crowd as if in slow motion, and San knows what it means. A wave of emotion washes over him abruptly as the crowd erupts into a loud cheer. Another successful show, San thinks, making a mental note to keep the same positive energy for the upcoming shows.
San feels the sweat dripping off his forehead, his clothes clinging to his skin uncomfortably. His face glows directly under the bright stage lights—it's way too warm and somewhat blinding, but it doesn't stop him from glancing at least once through each section of the venue.
To his side, Seonghwa and Jongho tug San's hands at the same time, signaling him to join in one final bow before having to leave the stage.
It all ends in a blink.
San sees Hongjoong making his way towards the dressing rooms, a few members following along. His eyes land on Yeosang, however, and the way his expression quickly changes into a more serious one as soon as he's out of sight from the public.
San doesn't think much of it. He knows performing on stage is demanding, and each one of them deals with the tension differently.
That's why it comes as no surprise when San himself feels his body slowly unwind in the dressing room chair. It's not as comfortable as he wishes—his sore body slowly sinking as he wipes his face with a cloth—but it will have to do until he gets to the hotel. The rest of the members are no different, all taking part in their routines and getting ready to go home, except for Mingi who drops his entire weight over a giggly Wooyoung.
"Should we go eat something?" Mingi asks no one in particular. His arms wrap around Wooyoung's neck, guiding them towards Seonghwa, who pretends not to see them.
"I'm down," Yunho says from the back of the room. San can't see him from where he's sitting, but he doesn't have to to notice the enthusiasm. "Jongho is too."
"I didn't even say anything." San sees Jongho blink and realizes Yunho must not see him from his chair.
"Well, are you not down?" Yunho asks snarkily.
"Obviously I'm down."
Yunho sighs, earning a giggle from the younger.
"What about you four then? You haven't said anything, Sannie," Wooyoung teases.
San thinks for a moment. His body aches, and he would kill for a nice warm shower and the comfort of a bed, yet he still has some energy left—
His stomach rumbles loudly, much to his surprise, and San can only smile in embarrassment.
"Yeah, I guess I'm down."
"Good." Wooyoung turns to the other end of the room with as much ease as Mingi allows, where Yeosang is lying on a couch next to Hongjoong and Seonghwa. "I'll expect you three to make it too."
"You just want me to pay for you," Hongjoong says without taking his eyes from the phone.
Wooyoung gasps, pretending to be shocked, but Hongjoong doesn’t buy it. In fact, Wooyoung’s grin does little to convince anyone. "I would never do such a thing!"
"Sure, Wooyoung." Sarcasm paints Hongjoong's tone, and Wooyoung would continue adding to the bit if only the conversation wasn't cut short.
San barely hears the name of the restaurant they settled on as they're rushed to the cars waiting for them outside, but he hopes someone will mention it again in the group chat.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
When San finally makes it to his room, he turns the shower on and leans back on the edge of the sink, scrolling on his phone while he waits for the water to warm up. It doesn't take long, which he's thankful for.
The remaining makeup comes off rather easily when he rubs his face in soothing circles—having taken most of it off in the dressing room—moving onto his body next. He tries to make it quick, however, as San can't afford to stay under running warm water for too long or the drowsiness will get the best of him.
Still, he manages to get himself clean in record time and puts on some fresh clothes as well as a light touch of his woody perfume.
San sits by the edge of the bed, pulling the phone out of his back pocket to resume scrolling. He goes back and forth between each app, scrolling endlessly and refreshing the page every two seconds, waiting for a message to drop letting him know the members are ready. After thirty or so minutes of being on his phone—there’s only so much content he can indulge in at once without getting bored—San hears some noise coming from the hallway.
As his hand reaches for the doorknob to peep, San hears Wooyoung’s cackle outside his door and concludes the members must be ready to go. He quickly checks his pockets for the room key and steps out.
“Ah, there you are!” Wooyoung turns in San’s direction, disregarding the conversation he’s having with Mingi. “Quick question, which button do you press to call the elevator?” Wooyoung asks in a single breath, not taking his eyes off of San.
“What?”
Mingi rolls his eyes behind Wooyoung, partially hiding behind the smaller man. Partially.
“You see,” Wooyoung turns around, pointing at the elevators near them. “Mangi here said any button works—
“Wooyoung, please…” Mingi tries saving himself from embarrassment, but to no avail. Wooyoung doesn’t listen, nor does he care to.
“Don’t interrupt me, Min,” Wooyoung scolds, pausing for a second to catch his thoughts. “There’s a logic! If you’re going down, then you press the corresponding arrow; the buttons are there to indicate where you’re going, the elevator is merely a way to get you there!”
“When did you get so worked up over elevators?” Hongjoong asks as he makes his way into the group.
“I just love fun facts and it pisses me off when people are wrong,” Wooyoung admits, looking defeated.
“No, you just love being right,” Mingi corrects with a cheeky tone.
“Maybe.”
Jongho joins the conversation shortly after, followed by Seonghwa and Yunho, yet Yeosang was nowhere to be seen.
When the elevator finally pings, cueing its long-awaited arrival—Mingi still believes any button will do the work, much to Wooyoung’s dismay—Yunho holds the door open as they fit into the tight space. San hesitates; something in his heart doesn’t feel right.
“You guys get going,” San says, taking the phone out of his pocket hastily. “I’ll go check on Yeosang first.”
Yunho acknowledges with a nod, and San watches the door close before he makes his way towards Yeosang’s room at the end of the hallway.
San knocks once, and waits. With no messages from Yeosang, not even a word after they left the venue, San’s worries begin to consume him. He knocks twice, and a third time before he decides to fetch the spare key card from his room.
Once he makes his way back, San takes a deep breath before opening the door, hoping that whatever’s brewing in the back of his mind is just part of his overthinking.
Yeosang’s room is too dark, too silent. The mirrored layout makes it incredibly difficult to navigate in pitch blackness as San is forced to squint while he tries to make his way to Yeosang. San steps over something soft, presumably Yeosang’s clothes, which does nothing to ease his mind.
Yeosang is very thorough in all of his routines. He always takes off his shoes first—he leaves them by the door in a way that is easier to put them on when he’s about to leave—then he takes off his jacket along with the jewelry that he places on a black tray, and then he goes to the bathroom where he prepares a twelve-step skincare routine, as well as takes a warm shower, finishing off with some pain-relieving ointment. Even when Yeosang isn’t home, he still follows the routine like an unbroken rule.
Except this time, Yeosang’s clothes are scattered all over the floor, and San’s heart tightens in his chest.
San hurries to the bed, as best as he can, gently patting the surface around him to guide him. He turns the small reading lamp away from Yeosang’s face, so as not to disturb him, before turning it on. The light is dim, but enough for San to recognize Yeosang from under the duvet. With only a small gap for him to breathe, San pays attention to Yeosang’s light snores, and the way the duvet rises and falls faintly.
Was he even doing the right thing? San can’t tell what’s right or wrong anymore—though he has a vague idea that he’s doing the right thing. One thing he’s certain about is not to ignore his intuition, and right now, it’s screaming at him to stay, so he does.
San’s heart tightens in his chest again when Yeosang stirs in his sleep.
“Yeosangie,” San says ever so gently. He calmly rubs a hand over Yeosang’s body, soothing his own heart with the gesture. “Are you okay?”
Yeosang doesn’t reply, however, as the snores continue.
San then pulls the duvet down to Yeosang’s waist only to find him curled up on himself, and San swears his eyes don’t deceive him when he sees the slightest shiver. His suspicions are confirmed when he places a hand on Yeosang’s forehead and it burns to the touch.
“Sangie, you poor thing…” San mutters with a pout.
San takes a look around the room—Yeosang’s toiletry bag sits on the table, unused, along with an empty bottle of water, and the clothes on the floor are enough for San to get the whole picture.
Without a second thought, San makes his way back to his room, bringing back a pack of ibuprofen and an unopened bottle of water from the minibar. He leaves a message in the group chat letting them know he won’t make it, and pockets his phone, not caring to check the replies.
After placing everything on the bedside table carefully, San makes it his mission to wake Yeosang up. San hesitates for a second before tapping Yeosang’s shoulder a few times. When that does nothing, San brushes his fingers along the length of Yeosang’s arms, shaking him ever so slightly as if he were putting a baby to sleep.
Yeosang finally opens his eyes with a groan, reaching for the covers, but San stops him halfway.
“Sangie, you’re sick,” San coos. “Let me help.”
With heavy-lidded eyes, Yeosang tries his best to fight back. His body keeps shivering, and San is sure it hurts Yeosang more than it hurts San to watch.
“I’m fine, San-ah.” Yeosang’s voice comes out a little raspy and weak. “I’m not sick.” He tries to force out a smile, hoping San doesn’t notice the amount of mental strain it takes with a throbbing headache, but San doesn’t buy it.
“Yeosang, you’re burning…”
“I’m okay, don’t worry.” Yeosang tries his best to dismiss it, but to no avail. Even if Yeosang really were okay, San would still stay by his side.
“Well, you don’t look okay.” San clicks his tongue.
In a swift motion, San slides one arm under Yeosang’s neck, the other under his legs, and pulls him up. Yeosang lets out a long whine, but stops once he realizes San is letting him rest his back against the headboard. San gestures for Yeosang to lean forward and puts a pillow behind his back, covering part of his exposed body with the duvet.
“San—”
“Wait here, Sangie.” San gives him a soft smile.
San picks up the phone on the bedside table, confirms the number of the room they’re in, and eyes the menu carefully. Only then does he punch in the numbers for room service.
Yeosang opens his mouth to speak, but closes it right after.
San orders a chicken soup, a grilled salmon with sweet potato, and to top it all off, a scoop of chocolate ice cream—Yeosang’s favorite. His food choices come from the fact that Yeosang will most likely refuse to eat anything, favoring sleep over nourishing his own body. That’s how San knows Yeosang really is sick.
Still, San hopes he can get Yeosang to eat at least the soup.
While they wait, San moves to search Yeosang’s toiletry bag for some makeup remover wipes. He’s sure Yeosang has packed those—he always does. San takes out the different kinds of products, one by one, carefully reading each label. His eyes land on a cute travel-sized packaging hidden at the bottom of the bag; it’s pink, with tiny strawberries all over it.
San chuckles to himself, letting a small ‘cute’ escape his lips.
“San-ah.” Yeosang’s voice catches San off guard, yet he still turns around almost immediately, a broad smile spread on his face. Yeosang straightens his posture, never looking away from San. “Why are you doing this?”
Confusion paints San’s face as his smile slowly fades into a pout and he furrows his eyebrows. He thinks for a second about what he has just been asked.
Why is he doing this? Well, the short and logical answer would be because San cares for Yeosang, and that’s what friends do, right? Then why is he doing this? San thinks about it, yet nothing seems logical. Because he was the only one that noticed, yet there’s more to that. More that San can’t explain, at least not with words.
Right now, nothing he can think of would be a good enough answer to that question.
“Taking care of you?” San asks without thinking.
Yeosang nods sheepishly, and San takes it as he doesn’t want to admit it—that San is, in fact, taking care of him. San takes a few steps closer to the bed, the wipes in his hand while his eyes never leave the other’s. Yeosang notices and scoots over in bed, giving San enough space to sit facing him.
“Come on, let’s get that makeup off you.”
San is gentle in his hold. His fingers wrap around Yeosang’s cheeks with as much tenderness as a warm hug, moving his head around with ease as San works his way with the wipe. He stops for a second around Yeosang's birthmark, running a finger around the outlines.
Yeosang’s eyes trace San’s features lazily, like he wants to memorize every single detail of his, from the way San’s eyes shine so brightly to how even the weakest smile summons his dimples.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Yeosang lets himself melt into the touch and forgets how to breathe for a second. He looks at San—who is looking back at him with the same doting expression—like he holds the entire universe in his eyes, and Yeosang is ready to explore it all.
Falling for each other meant embracing a familiarity they weren't yet used to, apart from the time they spent together. It meant understanding each other without a word spoken, finding comfort in the delicate spaces between unspoken thoughts.
It meant feeling at home, and right now, nothing felt more like home than this.
San catches a glimpse of it, however, pretending it’s nothing by clearing his throat when he lets go of Yeosang’s face to discard the used wipe. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him, San thinks.
Yeosang looks away in embarrassment, blush adorning his cheeks as he mentally curses himself for staring far longer than he should. Yeosang can only hope San thinks it’s the fever making him act this way.
“All done,” San says after a moment of composure, returning to his seat on the bed. “I’ll get the shower running—”
"No." Yeosang grabs San’s arms as he’s about to get up and looks him in the eyes, but quickly shies away.
"No?"
“I don’t want to.” Yeosang sulks, loosening the grip on San’s arm. The latter can't help but find it somewhat endearing to see Yeosang act so clingy.
San reminds himself that Yeosang is sick, and the whole reason San stayed behind was to take care of him, even when Yeosang shows little to no cooperation at times. That might not be the whole truth as to why he chose to stay, but San wouldn't be able to explain it otherwise.
“I promise you’ll feel much better," San lets out with a smile, careful in his words.
I don't want you to go, Yeosang doesn't say. Instead, he hums back as if he's thinking, and his defeated look slowly fades away.
"Promise?”
There's a hint of hope in Yeosang's eyes, and if San sees it, he doesn't comment on it. Yet, Yeosang hopes for a promise they never agreed upon; a promise he has yet to voice out loud.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Yeosang accepts it without much fuss—a small victory for San. He gently helps Yeosang out of bed, one arm holding Yeosang's back, and guides him to the bathroom where he sets everything Yeosang might need. Once Yeosang is ready, San lets him know he'll be at arm's reach and leaves the bathroom to give the older some privacy.
As he waits, San picks the clothes from the floor, folds them, and places them over the armchair neatly. He stretches the sheets and makes sure the pillows are lined up so Yeosang is able to sit comfortably. Then, he sets the room lights to dim and turns off the bedside lamp.
A gentle knock on the door lets San know the food he ordered is ready. He thanks the waitstaff with a polite smile, and he still has time to set the plates on the table and put the ice cream bowl in the minibar before Yeosang is done with his shower.
Yeosang comes out of the bathroom not too long after, his hair still damp while he dries it with a towel. Little droplets fall over his tank top, but Yeosang doesn't seem to mind as his arms suddenly feel too weak to continue. San almost runs towards him, holding the older's weight over his shoulder.
"How are you feeling?" San tries to mask his concern while he guides Yeosang back to the bed.
"San-ah, I told yo—"
"Yeosang, if you're going to say you're fine then spare your words, please," San says more sternly, yet he doesn't let go of Yeosang's arm as the latter gets into bed.
Yeosang stays silent for a moment, but lets out a small sigh once his back hits the pillows. "I feel better."
San pushes some strands of hair that have glued onto Yeosang's forehead aside and checks his temperature—Yeosang certainly doesn't feel as warm as before, but San doesn't let that subside his worries. Without a word, San goes to fetch the hair dryer from the bathroom and plugs it in by the bed. He signals Yeosang to lean forward before San sits by his side and starts drying his hair.
Yet again, San is incredibly gentle in all his movements, brushing Yeosang's hair with his fingers while he makes sure the hair dryer isn't too close to Yeosang to burn him accidentally. Once dry, Yeosang's hair feels fluffy, and San can't help but let out a small chuckle as he watches Yeosang get comfortable again.
"Are you hungry?" San asks as he places the hairdryer on the floor, making a mental note to put it away once Yeosang falls asleep.
Yeosang nods eagerly, and San quickly brings the tray with the chicken soup over to the bed. What San fails to see is how Yeosang's eyes never leave him as he turns around, even when his eyelids feel heavy.
San places the tray on Yeosang's lap, taking his seat on the bed. Yeosang hesitates at first, playing with the spoon between his fingers as he eyes the soup. Sick, hungry, and alone, Yeosang would probably have gone to bed on an empty stomach if it weren't for San.
Yeosang is thankful that's not the case, even if he might not admit it.
"You don't have to eat it all if you don't want to," San interrupts Yeosang's thoughts, his hand resting on top of Yeosang's leg in reassurance. "But please try to eat something, at least."
Yeosang nods again and takes one spoonful to his mouth, while San quietly watches him eat.
"San-ah," Yeosang starts after a moment. "Could you just not stare at me while I eat?"
Yeosang thinks how ironic it must sound to ask for such a thing after he was caught staring at San moments earlier. Normally he wouldn't mind having people stare as he eats—getting used to attention is something he has accepted over the years—yet this time it feels different. It feels more intimate, and Yeosang isn't sure if he should accept it.
San doesn't bat an eye at the sudden request, brushing it off with a laugh. Instead, he decides to focus on the way his hand is still touching the outline of Yeosang's leg over the covers. How San seemingly forgot it was ever there, and Yeosang didn't address it either. Maybe the lightness of the touch was imperceptible.
How long has it been there, San asks himself, but the answer never reaches him. His face feels too warm all of a sudden, when everything starts to feels too real, but his hand stays frozen in place. He wonders what would have happened if he were to go out with the members, instead of staying with Yeosang. If Yeosang would continue pretending to be okay and go through everything alone. San can't bear that thought.
No matter how hard he tries, San can't stop wondering if Yeosang would have looked at him the same way if he weren't sick.
Once Yeosang is done with the soup—San is pulled out of his mind, relieved to know Yeosang managed to eat something—San gives him the ibuprofen along with the water bottle he had brought. Yeosang pouts reluctantly at first, and San's immediate delight dies down as he desperately tries to convince Yeosang he should still take the medicine.
"Yeosang, please, don't be so stubborn," San says, almost defeated. Worry paints his face and pains his heart, yet it seems to reach Yeosang, who finally gives in and swallows the pill.
Without a warning, San's stomach rumbles loudly, and Yeosang gives him a questioning look.
"You're hungry," Yeosang points out, looking over San's shoulder.
San holds his stomach with his hand, shaking his head slightly. "Only a little, it's okay."
Yeosang looks back at San in silence, yet it doesn't last long as he quickly lets the words fall out of his mouth.
"Haven't you eaten yet?"
San shakes his head again, his lips pressed into a thin line. Yeosang's heart twists in his chest, his eyes widen with the realization as he scrambles for words.
"But—the dinner, weren't…" Yeosang looks away from San with a frown. "Why didn't you go?"
Guilt starts to consume each of his thoughts, because Yeosang knows why San didn't go to the dinner. He knows why San is there with him, and that it's only because of him. If only he weren't sick, San wouldn't have missed the dinner with the members; San would be having fun—
Yet, a small part of Yeosang can't help but feel a little selfish to have San all to himself.
San glances around the room, desperately looking for the right words and chooses them carefully. Panic starts to settle in as he can't seem to find them, so he does what his drunk self would do best and lets his heart take over, bracing himself for the outcome.
"I wanted to stay with you," San lets out before his brain has the time to stop his mouth. His cheeks are adorned with a warm shade of pink, yet San doesn't know how to look away.
A tiny, almost faint smile lifts the corners of Yeosang's lips, even when he desperately tries to hide it, but to no avail. "Don't let the salmon get cold," Yeosang says gently, and San can swear he hears the smile in his voice.
San, however, is taken aback by the offer. He knows Yeosang means well, but San is supposed to be the one taking care of Yeosang, not the other way around, so he politely declines.
"Don't worry about me, I'll eat something later," he says calmly.
Yeosang doesn't look too convinced, but doesn't push it further.
"Promise?"
"Yes, Sangie," San chuckles. "Now get some rest."
Silence lingers over them, but it's not an awkward one. They share some glances, not really indulging in San's words until Yeosang lightly taps on the mattress where he has left some space next to him. It takes San a few seconds to assimilate what Yeosang means with the gesture. His body hesitates, thinking he might be reading it all wrong, but when Yeosang groans, San quickly takes the place next to him, letting his back rest on the pillows against the headboard.
San's hand ghosts Yeosang's; his fingers tingle as if San has electricity running through his body—even if Yeosang is under the covers, San can feel his body radiating warmth.
Then, Yeosang lets his head fall over San's chest, getting himself comfortable in the crevices where his skin meets San's, and surrenders to his tiredness with a yawn. His breaths get lighter, evenly measured, and for a while, it's the only sound filling the room.
San's heart is no longer thumping in his chest, as it was before, so he lets himself enjoy the moment a little longer. He runs his hand through Yeosang's hair, then traces the outline of Yeosang's ear with his finger, and stops himself right before he reaches Yeosang's neck.
Once enough time has passed—and after triple-checking that the older is in fact asleep—San gently lifts Yeosang's head in his arms and tries to wiggle his way out of the bed, but Yeosang wraps his arms around San's waist with a whine, and San is stuck in place.
Deep down, San doesn't want to leave, nor is he going to. In his mind, Yeosang would get the proper rest he needs if San simply moved to the armchair, but Yeosang has a different idea.
Not that San is complaining, though.
San gets comfortable under Yeosang, and the latter seems to do the same. San tries to close his eyes, focus on Yeosang's soft breaths like a lullaby, and holds Yeosang a little closer to his chest. It feels a lot more intimate than what San is used to, yet he tries not to think too much about it.
He takes a deep breath, his chest rising slowly while still serving as Yeosang's personal pillow, and tells himself he shouldn't feel too much, shouldn't think too much.
Saying San doesn't think about what will happen once Yeosang feels better—and saying he definitely doesn't worry Yeosang will send him away—would just not be true. San shakes his thoughts away with a sigh and tries not to focus on Yeosang's mumbles.
San's eyes snap open. Surely his ears must be deceiving him, as the room is only filled with their mismatched breaths. Yeosang hasn't moved, apart from his body following San's movements, so he must be imagining things. Maybe San is finally comfortable enough to feel the effects of a concert on his body, the loud cheers ringing in his ears, or maybe he's on the verge of dozing off without realizing.
When he least expects it, San hears it again. This time, it's slightly clearer than before, but doesn't make anything better for himself.
I love you.
San is definitely dreaming, he thinks. Yeosang can't possibly be confessing to him while sleeping, and San traces the only logical explanation back to Yeosang's fever. This, however, doesn't put him at ease as he thought it would.
San doesn't know what to do anymore. He has never felt so clueless, and even when he tries to ignore those words—he's not even sure if he heard them correctly, but the hammering of his heart makes it difficult to hear—he can't hide the fact that his body is reacting before his mind can grasp what's happening. His stomach churns in anticipation, maybe doubt, while the yearning manifests itself into butterflies inside him.
San is pulled back to reality when Yeosang lightly squeezes his arm.
"Relax," Yeosang says quietly, as if it's the easiest thing San has done in his life. San can't simply tell his heart to stop beating, even if it's Yeosang asking him.
"Huh?"
"I said, relax, Sannie."
San does the opposite of relaxing, but what he doesn't know is that Yeosang has been counting every one of San's heartbeats he feels against his ear like he's marking the tempo of San's own song.
Yeosang lets go of San's waist, supporting his weight over San's chest, just so he can look San in the eyes. He lets out a small giggle once he sees San's eyebrows furrowed, his head slightly tilted to the side, as he blinks a few times.
"San-ah," Yeosang says, voice barely above a whisper. San holds his breath without realizing, just so Yeosang's voice is the only sound that reaches his ears. Yeosang's palms press against San's chest when he leans forward, ever so slightly, only to stop dangerously close to San's face. "I love you."
Yeosang lets the words out in a single breath, like they're heavy in his heart, yet he delivers them with the utmost tenderness. He stays still in his place—San can feel Yeosang breathe on his skin, but he too is frozen in place—letting the deafenening silence of their hearts engulf them.
San opens his mouth to speak, but quickly closes it. His gaze traces a path over Yeosang's features delicately, from his eyes to his lips, and San lets himself linger a moment longer.
"Yeosang, I—"
"I'm sorry, it must be the fever," Yeosang says hurriedly. "Please forget what I said."
San inhales sharply when Yeosang shifts his weight to the side as he's about to break contact, but San holds Yeosang's arm in place. Embarrassment washes over Yeosang from the way his cheeks match the shade of his pink lips, even when he tries to use the dim light to his advantage and hide his face from view.
San could get used to it.
"You didn't let me finish." The words roll off San's tongue with ease, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't hide the smile that comes with them.
"It's okay, I can take it, you don't have to like—" San gently and slowly raises Yeosang's chin with his fingers so Yeosang meets his gaze—"me back."
"I love you too, Sangie." Yeosang's eyes widen as if San had suddenly grown a second head, but San continues. "It took me so long to see it, but I knew I couldn't leave you, and— I should save this conversation for when you feel better."
Yeosang lets out a loud laugh—one San hasn't heard in a while—and throws his head back, before slapping San's shoulder.
"San, please," Yeosang rolls his eyes. "It's just a fever; I'm not drunk."
"Right, sorry," he whispers sheepishly.
Yeosang gives him a lighthearted chuckle as San lets go of his chin.
"Just don't make me laugh too hard, my head still hurts."
"Got it."
The soft smile they share in silence lasts for at least a minute longer, until San makes his touch known to Yeosang by rubbing his thumb in small circles over the older's delicate skin. The realization hits them at the same time as Yeosang looks down, yet neither do anything about it, only returning their gaze to each other.
"I could kiss you right now," San whispers, even when he knows no one could hear them. Even when his heart is screaming.
"What's stopping you, then?"
San doesn't entertain a reason, nor does he want to, before he's wrapping his other hand around the back of Yeosang's neck and closing the distance between them. Yeosang's lips feel tender and warm against San's, full of passion. Yeosang's warmth pulls San further into the kiss, and Yeosang follows along, steadying himself with his hand as he leans into San.
San holds Yeosang in his arms with so much care, like the older is going to break if San even looks at him for too long.
Once their lips part, San cups Yeosang's cheek, who cozily leans into the touch. San waits a second for his breath to even out as he looks for any sign of discomfort on Yeosang—San doesn't see any, as Yeosang is still clinging to him with a smile.
"I love you so much," San says, still drunk on Yeosang's lips, earning him a giggle from the older.
Yeosang lets out a small yawn and takes the opportunity to get comfortable against San's chest, but not before placing a quick kiss on San's nose. San wraps his arms around Yeosang's body and holds him against his own.
Yeosang takes a deep breath, letting his eyes close.
"Please stay."
San smiles at that, because he wants nothing more than to stay forever. Yeosang doesn't need to ask, because San makes the plea into a promise in his heart.
"I'm not going anywhere." San leans to place a kiss at the top of Yeosang's head, the scent of sweet macadamia shampoo filling his nostrils.
Yeosang hums in approval; a light squeeze comes to San's arm before his hand slowly falls onto the mattress as he drifts off to sleep. San holds him, like he holds onto the promise, and he too drifts off to sleep.
Even if they never mention it out loud, San promises to always match the tempo of Yeosang's heart, even if they dance to different songs.