Work Text:
cho sangwoo is very tired.
work is always a stressful experience; clients in and out of his office, rushing to recover misplaced papers and reorganise after someone leaves, employees lingering by his door to ask questions and fumbling with his answers until they're satisfied. it's tiring, people in and out of his space, the office buzzing with noise; there's never a moment of quiet, never time to organise his thoughts.
(sangwoo didn't sleep well, either. the feeling of the fabric of his blanket pressing against his skin annoyed him, the air conditioning had cut off in the middle of the night, leaving his room stuffy and hot, and it was too, too quiet, the silence echoing deafeningly throughout his room. he's tired.)
(he could have gotten up and changed things, however. it's his fault that he decided not to, forgoing comfort to rest his aching bones. he has only himself to blame.)
work is over just as soon as it began, and as soon as his shift is over, he leaves. he doesn't linger around the office and make small talk with employees, he packs his things and goes. his skin feels foreign stretched across his bones, nervousness and hyperactivity replacing the blood in his veins. he flexes the fingers of his free hand at his side, clenching and unclenching his fist.
(his head feels foggy, clouded with half-formed thoughts imploding into nothingness. he doesn't remember half the things he's done today, which is strange. he feels as if he's in a daze, one that has lasted for his entire work day, he hates it. he can't focus, his eyes won't work correctly, his limbs feel like lead, and he needs to go home.)
(he wants to go home.)
public transportation is a no-go; he knows what overstimulation feels like for him, and being around more people (and on a loud train) will make it worse, but he's also tired. exhaustion settles heavy into the marrow of his bones, and although walking home would be a better idea, it'll definitely take time.
there are no other options, though, so he begins the walk, briefcase thudding rhythmically against the side of his leg. it annoys him endlessly, but he keeps his gaze focused on the ground, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose - being upset about it will get him nowhere, until he gets home.
his phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it. he can deal with whatever the issue is when he gets back home and calms down (he can't even think for himself, much less offer any plausible and coherent thoughts for anyone else; he's no help in his current state at all).
he does not enjoy his walk. sweat beads against his face, pooling on his upper lip, and it furthers the feeling of being uncomfortable in his skin. he hates sweating through suits, hates the uncomfortable feeling of the fabric melding to his skin, he hates it. at some point, he shuts down - his movements are robotic and practised, his mind empty and eyes unseeing. he is exhausted.
he doesn't know how, but he's home sooner than he realised (or later; it's considerably darker than he remembers last). he comes back to himself slowly, gripping a piece of metal in hand. he doesn't remember stepping up to the door, but he fumbles with a key (his key? the key in his hand) and unlocks the door, then pushes it open, settling his briefcase down on the floor and kicking off his shoes.
as he sheds his suit jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt, a light flickers on and he pauses, glancing around wildly. his glasses slip down on his nose and he tilts his head back, letting them slide back up. "hyung? is that you?" a familiar voice calls, and he stops, turning to meet the beautiful umber eyes of a certain pakistani.
cho sangwoo does not live with ali abdul, so he doesn't know why he's standing in the other man's house, unbuttoning his shirt. ali steps closer, concern evident on his face, and sangwoo looks down in shame, face flushed in embarrassment.
"ali, i-" the look on ali's face makes him pause, and he bites down on his cheek to hopefully keep himself from making a fool of himself even more.
"hyung, are you okay? you don't look well at all." the worry in his voice makes sangwoo stop thinking for a brief moment, focusing on the soothing dulcet tones that flow like a waterfall from ali's mouth. no one has ever been that concerned for him, except for his mother when he was younger, and it's . . strange.
(he misses that, he thinks. he misses when people would worry about him, before everyone just assumed this is how he usually is and never bothered. he misses his mother, her hugs, misses gihun and the people he's close enough with to call friends. he misses being around them. when's the last time he's seen them? he can't remember.)
(he missed ali. maybe that's why his body took him to ali's door and not his own.)
he swallows. right. the question. ". . bad day at work. i didn't sleep well and that made it worse. i- couldn't hear myself think and i don't know why i'm here." he mumbles, and ali hums, nodding.
when he talks again, his voice is lowered - not that it would change anything; ali's voice is soothing to him nonetheless. "would you like something to eat? i just put away the leftovers from my dinner - i accidentally made a bit too much, haha," ali rubs the back of his neck; sangwoo ponders the offer for a moment, then nods.
(a part of him wonders if ali has ever gone through the same thing. he seems to know what to do - the only other person who can really handle sangwoo when he's overstimulated is his mother. but ali's at least trying, and sangwoo is eternally grateful for it.)
he's guided to sit down on the couch, ali's hands resting firmly and warmly against his skin; he can feel it through the thin fabric of his button-up shirt, teetering on the edge of just enough and too much. he stares down at his palms, missing the gentle hand on his shoulder as ali leaves to retrieve the promised food.
he can't help but wonder why he's here. he wanted to go home, and this is most definitely not his home - this isn't even in the same direction as his house.
(but as ali rounds the corner, a sheepish look on his face as he balances a plate of what looks to be curry on one arm and a cup in each hand, brows furrowed in concentration and his tongue poking from the side of his mouth, and when he looks up at sangwoo, a glorious smile spreads across his face, he starts to wonder if maybe ali is his home.)
(it would make sense, rationally. he feels comfortable around him, safe and secure and loved, in a way he's never felt before.)
(the words seem right to his addled brain. ali is his home, just as much as the sky is blue and the grass is green.)
ali pauses in front of him and he reaches up, taking the plate off of the man's arm, and ali sits down next to him, sighing softly into the air and taking a sip of his drink. sangwoo's is placed on the table in front of him as he eats, and it's blissfully quiet.
(home. sangwoo is home. ali is his home.)
he shifts closer to ali, their knees touching, and the pakistani looks at him, a look of confused amusement gracing his face. their shoulders are pressed against each other; ali's lips are wet from the drink, and sangwoo's mind is scrambled and indecipherable and he is so, so stupid.
he doesn't realise he's kissing ali until the sensation of ali's hand on his cheek brings him back to himself. he almost pulls away, but he's aware of ali kissing him back, and he lets his shock (at his own actions) wear off.
when they break for air, ali is smiling at him, that same look of confused amusement on his face. "hyung," he starts, licking his lips, "not that i'm complaining because i quite enjoyed that, but why did you kiss me?"
the words reverberate around sangwoo's brain, and he scrambles to find an answer. the truth is, he doesn't really know why.
(lies. he's always wanted to kiss ali, but he's pushed that urge to the back of his mind.)
"i . . wanted to. for the longest time, i've wanted to. you're home, to me, if that makes sense." he fumbles, averting his gaze; when he looks back up, ali is smiling at him, bright and happy. he loves the look on his face, he wants it to stay there forever; he commits the sight to memory, praying that he'll never forget it.
"i'm glad," ali says earnestly, "i've wanted to kiss you, too." sangwoo swears there's something shining in his eyes, but he doesn't mention it; he reaches out and cups ali's cheek, and the pakistani nods into his hand, his face flushing a dim red. "and i am glad that i am your home, hyung." he murmurs, glancing up at him with a soft smile.
(sangwoo can tell that he's honest, honey-sweet truth dripping from every word that falls from his mouth. it fills him with glee, in a way he's never felt before. he likes it, he realises, likes it too much to ever let it go. he wants to feel this feeling forever.)
home.
cho sangwoo is home, and he never wants to leave.