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the broth hisses in the pot, bubbles rolling up and splitting against the wood of their chopsticks. steam climbs the glass, turning the red neon outside into a bleeding smear of light.
sanghyeok leans back, his foot braced against the bench, chopsticks dangling loose in one hand. “get me a coke, dongminnie,” he says.
“no,” dongmin answers, eyes fixed on the broth, the rice cake turning its slow orbit. he doesn’t ponder or hesitate on his answer.
“you’re closest,” sanghyeok presses.
“you can still get it.” his tone isn’t sharp, but flat, disinterested.
“i’m your hyung.”
this won’t work on dongmin. he is rigid in his ways and he respects sanghyeok more than he would be willing to ever admit fully sober and in front of anyone, but he isn’t anyone’s servant. even if sanghyeok would smile and politely thank him with crinkles at the sides of his eyes—dongmin has a reputation to uphold.
so he ignores the reasoning.
jaehyun laughs from the other side of the table, nudging woonhak, who’s too busy piling his bowl to care. dongmin is not close to caving and everything is ordinary until sanghyeok tips his head, mouth curving.
“you’d do it for donghyun.”
dongmin tries at his best to not be a reactionary person, but the chopsticks slip in his grip, knocking against the edge of the pot. he swallows once, twice, but the heat climbing his neck doesn’t go down.
he wants to say something a bit cutting and cruel, something that gets the light off of him, but the words are caught somewhere between his throat and his mouth and all that comes out is: “what?”
sanghyeok grins wider, sensing blood in the water. “i’m just saying. you would. you’ll do anything for donghyun.”
dongmin scoffs, too late. “i wouldn’t.”
mistake. he should have just brushed it off. now sanghyeok has an in to further his point and dongmin really doesn’t want to hear another word about this.
“you would. he says jump and you do.” dongmin goes to interject, but sanghyeok wasn’t finished. “actually, you say you won’t and then jump like you were going to all along.”
“shut up,” is all dongmin can manage at that point, the heat on the back of his neck consuming.
and he shouldn’t look, but he does. donghyun’s head is bowed over his bowl, hair falling just enough to shadow his face. his lashes catch the light when he blinks, his chopsticks poised above the broth like he’s considering whether to reach in. his ears, though—pink at the edges. a mistake of colored embarrassment, not of the steam.
dongmin looks away quickly, the breath in his chest gone uneven.
the table noise swells back—soup slurped too loudly, woonhak spilling sauce on his sleeve, sanghyeok rattling his chopsticks against the rim in mock applause. dongmin forces his shoulders down, forces his mouth into something careless. but the words echo anyway. you’ll do anything for donghyun.
so what if he would? maybe donghyun would have asked nicer. maybe he wouldn’t have asked at all because he’s polite and self-sufficient and doesn’t expect things from others.
maybe dongmin should have just grabbed sanghyeok the coke.
the broth bubbles over, a hiss against the burner. dongmin shifts the pot with the tongs, too rough, the soup splashing.
sanghyeok laughs again, pleased with himself, and dongmin has to bite down hard on his tongue not to tell him to shut the hell up all over again.
he risks one more glance. donghyun is stirring his bowl calmly, like none of it touched him, but his ears are still red.
dongmin turns back to his own food, shoving rice cake into his mouth just to have something to do. it burns the roof of his tongue, too hot, but he chews anyway, staring into the steam until his eyes sting.
***
three nights pass before it comes back to him.
he’s sprawled across his bed, one leg hanging off the edge, a pile of laundry slouched on the chair across the room. his desk is a mess of half-capped pens and coffee cups with rings dried into the paper coasters beneath them. for lack of a better description, his room is a mess and his paper isn’t written and he has so many things to do if he isn’t going to sleep right now.
he should be asleep. he knows this. but the ceiling feels magnetic tonight, his gaze stuck there, eyes tracing the faint unevenness of plaster like it might be a good place to organize his thoughts. his phone is warm in his palm, the screen dimmed, notifications silent.
you’ll do anything for donghyun.
the words slide back in without permission, like water seeping under a closed door.
he shifts, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. he tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. that’s just how friends talk, the way sanghyeok likes to exaggerate everything, the way jaehyun laughs at anything that might cut him down to size. but the more he repeats it, the hollower it feels.
because he knows. he knows the way he gets up without being asked when donghyun’s plate is empty. he knows how his voice lowers without thinking when it’s donghyun on the other end of the line. he knows the quiet satisfaction in carrying two drinks back from the vending machine even when no one asked for one.
and he hates how the memory won’t leave him alone: donghyun’s head tilted, eyes lowered, ears touched pink at the edges, saying nothing.
he rolls onto his side, buries his face in the pillow. it smells like detergent, sharp and clean, not like donghyun. this makes his throat tighten for no reason considering donghyun hasn’t spent the night here in a month and it makes sense that his freshly washed pillowcase smells like laundry and not his friend.
dongmin breathes in again and the scent doesn’t change and his throat doesn’t feel any better.
at the result of a losing battle with himself, he unlocks his phone, thumb hovering. their chat is right there, pinned at the top, like it always is. the last message is nothing special—a picture of notes, a dumb sticker in reply. ordinary. friendly.
it isn’t any different from the way he texts his other friends.
his fingers hover over the keyboard. you awake? he wants to type it, wants the blue bubble to break the silence that he’s invented in his mind. instead he flips the phone face-down and closes his eyes, though his body doesn’t ease.
a minute passes. maybe two. the pillow’s cool side warms beneath his cheek in seconds.
he turns the phone back over. his thumb presses down before he can talk himself out of it, not the message but the call button, and then it’s ringing.
one ring. he almost hangs up. two. he sits up without meaning to, back pressed to the headboard, breath held like that might make him smaller on the line. three. a click. the sound of air, then a voice, rough with sleep.
“…hello?”
it’s so soft he could pretend he imagined it. he doesn’t. the tight place in his chest loosens on reflex, the way it always does when it’s him.
dongmin still freezes, suddenly aware of what he’s done. “shit—sorry.” his voice drops without thinking, gentler, coaxing. “were you sleeping?”
there’s a rustle, fabric on fabric. donghyun exhales into the receiver, a small sound that feels too intimate to collect. “mm. kind of.” no irritation there, just the truth. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing.” the answer is immediate. he squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heel of his palm between his brows, embarassment prickling hot. “i’m sorry. i—i didn’t look at the time. go back to sleep, yeah? it was…nothing.”
a pause comes. if he concentrated, he could count the distance between their breaths. except he isn’t going to do that because that would be an abnormal kim donghyun-specific behavior and he doesn’t have those.
he hears the little scrape of a lamp switch, then decides no, the darkness stayed. donghyun’s voice comes quieter, like he’s turned his face into the pillow to speak. “you sure?”
“yeah.” the word is a hush. “sorry. really. sleep.”
another small rustle. he can almost see it: the twist of the blanket, the way donghyun curls his hand under his cheek, the crease on his wrist that will be there in the morning. there’s no reason why he should even be imagining any of this and even less that he feels a longing to see it—like he wishes he were there with him instead.
stupid irrational thought that will be stowed away in a mental box with many locks and never to be explored again.
“okay,” donghyun says, and then, like he can’t help himself, “are you okay?”
the question lands where he didn’t put armor. he reaches for something ordinary. “yeah. just…couldn’t sleep. thought of that article you sent the groupchat. about the—uh—shells.” the first word he finds is wrong; they weren’t shells. it doesn’t matter. he hears donghyun smile without seeing it.
“reefs,” he corrects gently, too asleep to tease him properly.
“right. reefs.” he mirrors the softness without noticing. “you can tell me about it tomorrow. i’ll forget the details if you do it now.”
“you never forget.” the words are simple, said like a fact. they still feel like a hand placed carefully on his ribs.
dongmin swallows. his voice falls even lower, the kind people use when the room is dark and someone is almost asleep beside them. “just go back to sleep. sorry.”
donghyun hums, soft, like he’s already half-fallen back into dreams. “…okay. night.”
“night,” dongmin says, barely above a whisper.
the line clicks quiet.
he sets the phone down face-up this time and stares at the call length like it can explain anything. 01:08. not even much more than a minute. its nothing to think about. it is something he precedes to think about for an amount of time that sinks into the linings of his bedroom walls.
he thinks about the way his voice folded in on itself, warm as a blanket, because it was donghyun and because the hour was gentle and because something in him has always bent that way.
then his own mind, unkind: you’ll do anything for donghyun.
he drags a hand over his face. it’s because it’s late, he tells himself. because people whisper at night. because he sounded tired. because i woke him. logical reasons lined up like pens on his desk—also similarly unused. none of them feel like the reason.
he lies back down and the mattress creaks. the shape of donghyun’s voice—the rough edge of it, sleep-heavy and close—lingers in the air above him, refuses to thin out.
his phone is warm against his shoulder. he doesn’t touch it again.
***
dongmin spends the next few days pretending it didn’t stick. it does anyway, lodging somewhere behind the eyes where small, stupid phrases like to live. it comes back whenever he isn’t actively holding something else: in the bathroom with the tap running; in a lecture where the professor’s voice flattens into a line; between stops on the subway. you’ll do anything for donghyun. fine. whatever. sanghyeok just says things sometimes. people say things.
tonight it’s just jaehyun and woonhak in the apartment with him, the three of them orbiting a low table that’s seen too many ramen packages before this.
“rock, paper, scissors. loser gets the convenience store run,” woonhak says, already grinning.
“no,” dongmin says, automatic, flopping onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh that he hopes reads as bored and not preoccupied. “you lost last time. you’re due.”
“that’s not how probability works,” jaehyun mutters, shuffling a deck of cards but not for any game they’re actually playing. it’s a habit—something for his hands to do that isn’t fucking with the displays in the main room sungho has scolded him to leave alone many times.
“it’s exactly how it works,” woonhak argues, then breaks character and whines, “hyung, please. i want the honey-butter chips. and the grape ice bar. and—”
“write a list,” dongmin says, refusing to look up from his phone because he knows if he looks up he’ll look distracted and that’s the opposite of what he’s going for. the group chat is open on the screen, bubbles stacked like a clean spine. a different chat is pinned above them, quiet, a little lighthouse he keeps not sailing toward.
you’ll do anything for donghyun. it’s ridiculous. he does things for everyone. he brought woonhak lunch when he forgot his wallet last week. carried jaehyun’s tote the day it rained too hard and the strap broke. he is generous, that’s all. generous is not suspicious. just because he doesn’t grab a coke for every perfectly self-sufficient person doesn’t mean he’s favoring anyone.
dongmin is fair.
“text him,” jaehyun says without looking up. “we’re debating flavors. he’ll say something decisive and wrong.”
“who?” dongmin asks, too quickly, even though they’ve had this conversation like this a hundred times—where “him” is obvious because of context and presence and proximity.
“kim donghyun,” jaehyun says, deadpan, like there was ever another option. “unless you’ve acquired a new him.”
“i have many,” dongmin says, a joke that doesn’t land the way he wants it to. he types something into the group chat instead: store run. requests? deletes it. types again, this time private: are you coming by? deletes that too. he goes back to the group chat and sends the neutral one. safe.
“we should get the triangle kimbap too,” woonhak announces from the floor, sprawled like a starfish. “tuna-mayo for me. not spicy. i like when my food loves me back.”
“your food shouldn’t love you,” jaehyun says. “that’s how horror films start.”
the television laughs for them in the background. dongmin stares at the pinned chat longer than he means to, thumb hovering. the screen dims, a little mirror catching his own face—eyes tired because he’s foggy from thinking about not thinking.
you’ll do anything for donghyun. what does that mean, anyway? he talks to everyone differently. he is rough with people who like rough. he is silly with woonhak because he likes woonhak’s laugh and when he runs out of patience. he is quiet with sungho because silence sits fine between them. with donghyun—well. with donghyun he is…normal. he is perfectly normal.
his phone buzzes. the group chat pings with a sticker of a dancing fishcake (sanghyeok), then a short list from sungho that is as efficient as a grocery store aisle. the pinned chat stays still. good. ideal. nothing to see here.
“i’ll go,” jaehyun decides finally, pushing himself up, grabbing his bag like he didn’t say anything about probability. “you two will take forty minutes negotiating over ice-cream flavors. i want to eat before next week.”
“get the yogurt jelly too,” woonhak calls after him.
“you can’t eat so much sugar, woonhak-ah.”
the door closes and it leaves dongmin and woonhak in a quiet that has hands, all machine hum and thin laughter coming from somewhere that isn’t theirs.
“you’re weird tonight,” woonhak says, not unkind. he flips over, props his chin on his arms, squints up like he’s inspecting a far-off plane. “you get a haircut or something? you look weird.”
“my hair’s the same,” dongmin says, grateful to be handed a shape he can hold. “and i always look like that.”
woonhak grins. “true.”
the tv cuts to an advert with cartoon persimmons lecturing a child about seasonal eating. the caption says autumn is for patience. the persimmons clap. the child bows. it is all very reasonable and also makes no sense.
“hey,” woonhak says, softer, a beat later. “seriously. you good?”
“i’m great,” dongmin says, and it almost sounds like him. he throws an arm over the back of the couch, lets his body fall into comfortable angles. “just tired.”
he is tired. tired of thinking about the same pointless fucking offhanded comment—yet his mind persists. you’ll do anything for donghyun.
he tries to prove it wrong in his head and keeps bumping into evidence: offering to carry his notes without being asked; waiting at the campus gate in the rain even after the message i’m five minutes away becomes i’m ten. the way his voice had dropped last night on the phone without his permission—sleep, okay? who talks like that? he does, apparently. in the dark.
his phone lights. don’t forget the jelly (group chat, woonhak, insistent.) nothing else. he swallows down relief like it’s something to be ashamed of.
jaehyun returns in less than ten minutes because he is a machine when it comes to retrieving snacks. plastic bags thud onto the table; cold air huffs out of them. everything smells like the convenience store fridge.
“we should text him again,” jaehyun says around a chip. “he’ll be upset if we chose wrong.”
“he won’t get upset,” woonhak argues. “he’ll tilt his head and say ‘ah, i see’ and it makes you feel sad.”
“true.” jaehyun’s eyes cut toward dongmin. “you text. he answers you first.”
“he does not,” dongmin says, except his thumb is already waking the phone like muscle memory. the pinned chat opens like a familiar room. he writes: getting snacks. anything you want? he lies and acts like the snacks aren’t already sitting on the table because it would be an absurd dishonesty to try and hide from the knowledge that if donghyun says something they don’t have he’ll just go down and get it.
he watches the dots appear, disappear, appear again. anything’s fine. get what you like. the reply is so him that the room fills for a second.
you like the sweet potato sticks, dongmin types, then blinks at what his hands did on their own and backspaces to: noted.
jaehyun peeks. “aw,” he says, delighted. “he trusts your taste.”
“eat your chips,” dongmin says without looking up. he drops his phone beside the chips, face-down.
his chest is full of something—not a wave, exactly. more like a tide that keeps proving it’s perseverance. he hates that he understands the physics of it now: how small differences add up, how a voice can tilt in a direction just by recognizing who’s on the other end of it. how you can be absolutely certain you’re normal while everyone else nods like you’ve just admitted to begging the sky for rain.
“earth to dongmin,” jaehyun says, snapping his fingers softly. “noraebang after this or no?”
“yeah,” he says, grateful for the concrete. “i’ll book a room.”
“you’re going to pick a sad song,” woonhak whines. “you’re in a mood.”
“i’ll pick gee and you’ll do the dance i’m sure,” dongmin counters, and wins the argument only because woonhak has no real defense.
***
he hates that he can’t remember when it started, when everyone else apparently noticed something he didn’t. maybe it was the way he always saved the last piece for him. maybe the way he slowed his stride without thinking so donghyun could catch up. maybe his voice—that soft dip he swears he doesn’t hear.
the thought loops, irritating like a splinter he can feel but can’t quite find to get out.
sanghyeok is sprawled across the cushions of the couch, half-watching something on his laptop, the glow washing him in pale blue. he’s been talking apparently, and dongmin realizes halfway through that he hasn’t heard a word of it. his eyes are on the carpet, tracing the frayed threads near the edge, mind still circling the same loop.
“you’re not listening,” sanghyeok says finally. not annoyed, just observant. he sets his laptop aside and sits up a bit more attentively. “what’s up with you?”
“nothing,” dongmin answers too fast.
“you’ve been spaced out for days. don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
“i’m just thinking. don’t worry about it.”
sanghyeok raises an eyebrow. “just thinking.”
it’s not pushy or mocking, but something about the inquiry takes a chip off of dongmin’s shield. “fine, i guess i—“ he lets out a bit of an exhasperated huff and drops his hands into his lap. “i’m just thinking like—“
“take your time.”
dongmin presses his lips together. the words taste stupid even before he says them, but they come out anyway. “the other day, when you said i’d do anything for donghyun…” his voice trails.
sanghyeok blinks once, then nods like he’s been expecting this. “yeah.”
“what did you mean by that?”
“meant what i said.” sanghyeok shrugs, reaching lazily for the chips in the bag nestled between him and the couch cushion. “you would.”
dongmin frowns, defensive heat prickling. “i wouldn’t. i don’t treat him any differently.”
sanghyeok crunches on a chip, unconcerned. “you do.”
“i don’t.”
“dongmin-ah.” his tone is quiet, but steady enough to cut through. “you’re softer with him. maybe you don’t notice, but everyone else does.”
the words sit with heady weight between them. dongmin feels his chest tighten, like he’s been caught in something but he isn’t even sure what.
“so what,” he mutters. “i talk differently to everyone. you, jaehyun, woonhak—it’s not—”
“it’s not the same,” sanghyeok interrupts, not unkind. he tips his head, studying him with that calm, infuriating patience. “you slow down for him. you look at him longer. your voice—” he makes a small, vague gesture with his hand—“it dips. softer. even when you’re pretending to be annoyed.”
dongmin stares at the carpet again, heat crawling into his ears. “you’re making shit up.”
sanghyeok just smiles faintly, like he knows dongmin will sit with this long after the conversation ends. “if you say so.”
dongmin really wishes he never started this conversation. he should’ve acted normally or at least mulled over his thoughts in the privacy of his bedroom behind a closed door where no one can prod or question him or try to psychoanalyze him.
his relationship (friendship, his friendship) with donghyun is no one’s business but his own.
sanghyeok lets him stew for a while, reaching for his laptop again like the matter’s already settled. the quiet hum of the screen fills the room, and dongmin almost thinks he’s off the hook—until sanghyeok adds, casually, like it costs him nothing,
“whatever it is, it’s not a bad thing.”
dongmin looks up, startled.
sanghyeok doesn’t glance at him, eyes already on whatever’s playing. “the way you treat him, it’s okay. whatever the reason is. it’s not a bad thing. he likes it, anyway.”
the words land heavier than someone simply being a kind friend should. dongmin shifts, restless, but finds nothing to say. he wants to argue, to insist it’s not true, but the silence between them won’t let him.
sanghyeok reaches for the chips again. “don’t overthink it. you’ll figure it out.”
and that’s it. the conversation is over as easily as it began, leaving dongmin with his pulse in his ears, a knot in his throat, and the undeniable weight of being seen.
he’ll deal with this tomorrow. maybe.
***
morning leans cool against the glass of the library, a thin film the sun hasn’t burned off yet. the gingko trees along the path have started their slow yellowing; a few leaves stick to the damp benches, paper coins no one bothers to pick up. dongmin stands just outside the doors with two cups balanced in one hand, cold biting through the plastic, the cry of a delivery scooter fading down the street.
he tells himself he’s early because the good seats go fast. he tells himself he’s not watching the steps. he tells himself a lot of things that he doesn’t believe.
donghyun appears the way he always does—cap pulled low to cover the hair he didn’t bother to tame, a notebook under one arm, the other hand tucked into his pocket. there’s sleep along the edges of him still, the soft and clumsy step of a morning not fully awake.
“hey,” dongmin says, and the word leaves his mouth already smoothed, already a degree warmer than it is with anyone else. he notices it and pretends he doesn’t. he lifts a cup. “americano. you said anything’s fine, but you mean this.”
donghyun’s mouth tips. “you read minds now?”
“just yours,” he says before his brain can check it. it lands between them and looks too honest in the light, but maybe donghyun doesn’t mind because he doesn’t react. he clears his throat. “there were no other options. scientifically speaking.”
“right,” donghyun murmurs, pleased in that quiet way that feels like a small sun. the bite of autumn still seeps through the closing doors but the circle they stand in makes it feel much warmer. donghyun makes everything feel warmer.
he takes the cup, fingers brushing the rim of the sleeve. “thank you.”
dongmin nods. a longer strand of his bangs pokes him in the eye and makes him squint. donghyun brushes it aside carefully with his fingers, huffing a soft laugh.
dongmin goes very still, panic curling sharp and hot beneath his ribs. it’s nothing, just a strand of hair, but suddenly it feels like everything—like the whole room has narrowed to the space where they meet. he blinks too fast, suddenly aware of the space between them, of how much it matters.
yet nothing catastrophic happens, no one shows up to arrest him for overthinking small gestures of care from his friend, and donghyun moves on to looking for a free pair of seats.
“hold on,” dongmin says, because apparently giving coffee wasn’t enough evidence to stand sanghyeok’s case in court of the specialized kim donghyun treatment. he pulls a small package from his bag, shakes it once like a magician showing the empty hat, then opens it to reveal sweet potato sticks. “you didn’t take them home.”
the look he gets in return is too soft. “you didn’t have to save them.”
“you’re predictable,” he says. it comes out fond instead of mean. of course it does. “you would have remembered eventually.”
they claim a table by the window, the kind with a heating vent underneath that floods your shins if you sit too close—too much warmth if you don’t monitor it, not enough if you move away.
they unpack in domestic silence. laptop, notebooks, pens laid in neat rows; donghyun’s chaos made tidy by proximity to dongmin’s slightly more organized chaos. he’s always more careful next to him. he likes the way it looks when their things overlap—their pens knocking into each other in the pencil case, a graphing calculator that’s not his but could be.
it’s a completely normal way to think about such things. just the warm comfort of friendship and familiarity. dongmin is super into the power of friendship these days.
they settle. the library hums in its daytime voice: pages, footsteps, the occasional cough muffled into a sleeve. somewhere two tables over a girl’s bracelet keeps knocking the wood and the monotonous noise does nothing but irritate the distracted part of dongmin’s brain further.
he’s used to thinking about these things, about how close donghyun sits to him even with the whole table available, about how green is a flattering color on him, about how the warmth radiates off him. they’re mundane observations that sink into the background of dongmin’s mind and he just lets them pass—usually. now they poke and prod and feel insistant.
“what are you doing first?” donghyun asks without looking up, flipping to a page where his handwriting sits in some slanted lines.
“pretending i understand statistics,” dongmin says. “you?”
“pretending i’m not behind on readings.” he underlines a sentence with purposeful slowness. “we should set a timer.”
“mm.” dongmin pulls out his phone, thumbs quick. “fifty minutes. break. repeat until someone cries.”
“that’ll be you,” donghyun says mildly.
“no faith,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling, and the smile stays when he doesn’t mean for it to.
for a while there’s only work. numbers moving obediently under the pen; words that almost make sense together if you read them quickly. donghyun’s brow furrows when he concentrates; he relaxes it with the pad of his thumb like he’s smoothing a wrinkle from a shirt. every so often he pushes his sleeves up another centimeter, the inside of his wrist flashing pale and thin-veined before the cuff climbs back down. dongmin doesn’t watch it on purpose. it’s just where his eyes go when they’re tired of the page.
his head is quieter than it has been in days. not empty—never that—but organized. the thoughts ease with donghyun’s presence as most things do and they start to feel natural again.
“was the coffee too sweet?” donghyun asks suddenly, pen paused, eyes on the lid of dongmin’s cup. he’s asking because dongmin hasn’t drank much of it and because he’s too caring.
“no,” dongmin says, and then, because the word is too short and has too much room inside it, he adds, “yours is perfect” because it’s empty. it’s not what he meant to say. it is exactly what he meant.
donghyun’s mouth goes soft like he might smile and then thinks better of it. “it’s good.”
the timer bleats softly. they both startle like guilty people. dongmin silences it with a thumb. “break,” he says, voice dropping again without permission.
donghyun stretches his arms above his head, hoodie rising enough to show a slice of skin where his t-shirt doesn’t reach. it’s nothing. it’s a knife straight through dongmin’s sternum. dongmin looks at his own notes like they’re going to save him somehow.
“did you go back to sleep?” he asks, casual, which is to say carefully, like he’s putting a mug down on a glass table. he doesn’t specify even if the call was a few nights ago, but donghyun knows.
“yeah,” donghyun says. he takes a small sip like he’s stalling. “i dreamed about the hallway near the studio. kept walking down it and ending up back where i started. i guess my brain thinks it’s funny.”
“maybe it’s one of those dreams that’s a sign,” dongmin says, gentle, and only realizes it after the word leaves. “sorry i woke you.”
“you didn’t,” donghyun replies, and dongmin looks up because he hadn’t expected the firmness in it. “i mean—you did. technically. but it was nice.” he fumbles, then corrects, cheeks going a degree warmer. “not nice to be woken up. nice to—hear you. like that.”
like what. the question sits on the table between them, steam curling around it. dongmin could pick it up. he could put it away.
he misdirects instead. “like a disturbance.”
“like…” donghyun rolls the cup between his palms. “like you were already in the room.”
the sentence puts a pressure under dongmin’s sternum that is not pain but wears the same jacket. he swallows it down like something hot and it burns on the way down. his own voice answers for him and finds lower ground. “i’ll text next time.”
“you can call,” donghyun says quickly, then blinks at himself. “if you want.”
it’s bravery dressed as nonchalance, but dongmin writes it off in his mind. donghyun always wants people to be comfortable, wants to avoid anything that would make someone feel bad. he’s simply easing dongmin’s guilt.
“okay,” dongmin says, as if that’s a reasonable arrangement two people make. “i will.”
they let the quiet grow again. it doesn’t feel empty. it collects details: the crinkle of the sweet potato bag when donghyun reaches for one and breaks it in half automatically, putting the smaller piece on dongmin’s notebook without looking; the way their knees touch under the table for one accidental second, then fail to separate entirely.
outside, a bus exhales at the stop and the driver’s voice comes through the open doors like an announcement to their particular table: watch your step.
“you’re doing the thing,” donghyun says after a beat, not accusing. amused, gently.
“which thing,” dongmin says, dead, because he has too many to guess from.
“the face you make when you think i’m tired but you don’t want to say anything.” donghyun imitates it badly, which makes it worse. its horribly cute in a way that makes dongmin feel like he’d eaten flower petals for breakfast and he has the urge to cough them up. “you get this…caretaker expression. like a teacher who’s fond of me.” he tilts his head.
there is not enough table to hide under. “i don’t have an expression,” dongmin says. the denial is a reflex already softened at the edges. “this is just my face. i don’t like you that much.”
the misdirection slips and fires completely off course. it isn’t convincing at all and has simply made dongmin look like he actually likes donghyun way more than is considered normal. which is something that just happens to him lately.
“hm,” donghyun says, unconvinced and fond. he rests his cheek briefly on his forearm, the way someone might lean against a doorframe before going through it. his voice comes out low, close to the wood. “you’re very easy to be around, you know.”
the sentence hits like someone opening a window in winter and letting in a careful kind of cold. it wakes everything up. it’s an unusual thing to say to a close friend of years and years, as opposed to someone who maybe you’d recently met, but it’s something donghyun thought of so he said it. dongmin wishes he was bold or brave or whatever donghyun is that makes him easy.
he looks at the corner of donghyun’s mouth instead of his eyes and answers with the only thing that doesn’t feel like stepping off something high. “likewise.”
it comes out normal which is something dongmin feels unreservedly grateful for considering he has to convince himself that he knows donghyun well enough to know that he’s just like this sometimes. he just says things like this because he thinks and feels them and for no other reason that dongmin may convince himself of. donghyun is kind and unashamed and dongmin may have to look into psychological help sometime soon.
donghyun’s lashes lower, lift. some sort of agreement clicks into place.
they go back to pretending to study. the timer starts again and focus doesn’t. dongmin reaches to steady a page when the corner tries to fold on itself. his fingers brush the back of donghyun’s hand; neither of them says anything because there is nothing to say.
“tell me if my shit is taking up too much space,” he hears himself whisper, like they’re much closer than they are.
“it’s perfectly fine,” donghyun says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s talking about misplaced papers.
the window fogs further. under the table, their knees begin to lose the instinct to separate. in his head, the old sentence tries to wake up—you’ll do anything for donghyun—and then goes quiet again, not defeated, just unnecessary. of course he would. he doesn’t hear what’s remarkable about that. it feels like the floor a room is built on. there’s a foundation in place and it makes sense that he’d do many things for donghyun.
***
the air has that thin, metallic chill that means autumn is really here—lives on the backs of your hands and in the shadowed parts of campus where the sun doesn’t reach until noon.
they’ve just slid out of a late afternoon lecture, the hallway emptied of its echo, bags slung, conversations loosening as they spill onto the sidewalk. sungho is half a step ahead, still complaining about an assignment to woohak. donghyun is beside dongmin, page of notes tucked under his arm, the corner gone soft from being handled too much. he’s half-listening to the conversation happening ahead of them. dongmin is observing this.
the curb around this corner is tricky—tilted just enough to catch you if you’re not paying attention. donghyun isn’t and his shoe scuffs, his ankle rolls over, the paper scatters around. donghyun pitches forward two quick steps and catches himself with a palm against the concrete.
dongmin’s body does something he didn’t authorize and his hand closes around donghyun’s wrist as if that would do anything to stop the fact that he’s already on the ground.
the world narrows to contact: warm skin, the slide of his pulse, the clean bones under everything. he turns the hand carefully, thumb brushing lightly along the inside of donghyun’s wrist, not even near the wound.
“are you okay?” his voice is low, warm. quiet in a way he doesn’t mean it to be and he recognizes too late. “does it hurt?”
donghyun blinks, surprised more by the attention than the fall. “i’m okay,” he says, a small laugh caught in it like a seed. he looks down obediently anyway, lets dongmin angle his hand toward the light. “really. it’s nothing.”
skin on his palm is blooming red with a scrape and he’s nicked his finger on a rough edge of sidewalk, blood beading up to the surface. up close, it’s absurd how small the injury is. nothing to write home about. nothing to justify the current buzzing low in dongmin’s ribs like a hive startled.
“i’m fine,” donghyun repeats, too quick when he sees dongmin’s worry, the words like a hand trying to smooth the air. his eyes flicker up to meet dongmin’s, then down to their joined hands, like he’s cataloging both truths at once: fine, and also held. his mouth bends, almost fond. “it’s not bad.”
he realizes, belatedly, that he’s still holding on. his fingers are cold—they always are—and donghyun’s skin is warm against his.
“sorry,” he says, softer, and releases him. he wipes his free hand on his jeans to give it somewhere to go. “it just—caught me off guard.”
sungho turns at the sound of apology, eyebrows up. “what happened?”
“i tripped,” donghyun says lightly. he seems a little embarrassed by it, or maybe the production over the whole thing. he bends to retrieve the paper. “it’s fine.”
“bro,” woonhak says, delighted and appalled, directed at dongmin’s dramatics clearly. “it’s basiclly a papercut.”
“do we call 119,” sungho deadpans, but he’s reaching in his bag for the package of tissues he keeps.
but the air around dongmin doesn’t go back to normal. it stays brighter for a second, crystalline. his body is still in the moment they left—a fraction behind, suspended over the curb like a held breath.
“you’d be laughing if it were me,” woonhak says, a little bitter. he jogs backward a few steps to face them while walking. “you always call me stupid when i fall.”
dongmin wants to say that it’s different, but realizes too late that that’s not better.
“that’s because you fall like a cartoon character,” he says instead, but his mouth is dry. the word stupid would never fit around what just happened. the laugh he gives himself for thinking that is humorless and quiet.
sungho glances over his shoulder. “he didn’t even take a picture to blackmail you later. favoritism.”
the corner of donghyun’s mouth lifts. he doesn’t look at dongmin. sanghyeok’s words (he likes it) pop into dongmin’s head briefly and his own mouth twitches.
“we should get you a sticker,” woonhak announces, digging through the bottom of his backpack like a raccoon. “for bravery. do you want a dinosaur or a mandarin orange with sunglasses?”
“mandarin,” donghyun decides, playing along, and holds perfectly still while woonhak sticks a tiny orange onto the back of his hand. it’s ridiculous. it’s tender. dongmin pretends the feeling that bubbles in his chest isn’t jealousy at witnessing affection between his friends.
silence slips into place and sits with them as they walk alone since the others splintered off. not awkward. just present.
“seriously,” donghyun says after a minute, not looking over. “i’m okay.”
“i know,” dongmin answers, and he does, and he doesn’t. the part of his brain that knows how to be ordinary scrolls through a list of topics that could change the subject. he picks one at random and fails to say any of them.
what he says is: “wash it when you get home.”
donghyun huffs, amused. “yes, mom.”
the word puts a ridiculous heat in his face. “shut up,” he says, too soft to count as shutting anyone up.
they wait at a crosswalk and the storefront glass makes a low-rent mirror and he catches them side by side in it for a second—his shoulders leaned a degree toward donghyun as if pulled. he hadn’t even realized. he must always stand like this, live like this, leaning into donghyun’s orbit.
the realization doesn’t slap him. it steps up quietly and puts a hand on the center of his spine. oh, it says, like it’s been waiting for him to turn around. it’s that.
his heart has stopped doing the sprint and started doing something worse: that steady, convinced pace as he thinks of the tteokbokki shop and how he couldn’t get a simple joke out of his mind. you’ll do anything for donghyun. he thinks of the phone call voice he pretended only existed because of the hour and the dark. he thinks of coffee cups and sweet potato sticks and the warmth of a hand against his that’ll be the reason he fails statistics.
he looks at donghyun without meaning to. donghyun is just…being. walking at the same relaxed pace, eyes following the group of children running down the street. his hand looks fine, nothing anyone would notice if they didn’t see him fall. no reason for any level of dramatics.
it isn’t even the injury. it’s that his hands moved faster than his brain. it’s that the tone lives in him like a second language he uses only with a single person.
he makes it through the rest of the walk by focusing on practicalities, mundanities that lower his heartrate. he thinks of what he’ll eat for dinner and the exam he has next week and anything that isolates him from kim donghyun. when they reach where they’ll part for the evening, he says something absurdly stupid.
“text me if it…stings.”
“if my six-millimeter wound requires triage?” donghyun asks, smiling. he doesn’t laugh at its absurdity, though. his smile is kind and it doesn’t shine a light on dongmin’s foolishness.
“exactly,” dongmin says, and when donghyun laughs this time, he feels the sound in places laughter has no business going.
“night, dongmin-ah.”
the name is a small gift offered palm-up. he nods like it’s ordinary, then stands there for a breath longer than a person should stand once left alone.
the air around him becomes too quiet to lie in and he lies in it anyway. he tries to argue with himself for a generous moment and loses to a decent debater.
it isn’t just that he cares. he cares about all of his friends. he has proof—receipts, literally. it isn’t just that he’s gentle; he can be gentle when gentleness is required. it isn’t just that he pays attention; he likes seeing people better than they see themselves. all of that is true and also insufficient to explain why his body moved like that today, why the thought of a scrape made him feel like someone had presse a thumb on a bruise he didn’t know he had.
the thought comes with no drama attached to it, no strings or thunderclaps. it’s simple, almost boring in its candor: i love him.
“great,” he tells the air, because someone should be notified. “perfect.”
***
donghyun and jaehyun are already mid- ramyeon cup when dongmin lets himself in. he drops his bag by the couch and lies down flat against it. he’s here without invite, but it’s been a long day and sungho has people he doesn’t know over right now and he really doesn’t have it in him to be pulled into that.
“give me a bite,” he says, not moving. its aimed at donghyun who’s sat closest to him. who’s always closest to him.
“no,” donghyun answers, quick. not mean—just immediate. “i’m starving.”
dongmin lowers his arm from where it was covering his eyes. “no?”
“no.” donghyun doesn’t look up, chopsticks turning.
dongmin stares, and the part of him that decided last night to stop being obvious makes a different, worse decision: to test it. measure it. “really? that’s too much to ask of you? one bite?”
jaehyun glances up, then back down at his own cup, neutral. likely a wise decision.
they don’t argue often, if ever. maybe a petty little disagreement over ego every once in a while, but they get along impressively well for people who are so close. this is possibly due to the recently acknowledged fact that dongmin is in love with donghyun, and has been for a long time, which likely leads him to let the other get away with more than he would with anyone else, but that doesn’t need to be brought into reason right now. or ever, if he can succeed in ridding of it.
donghyun frowns, finally meeting dongmin’s eyes. “i said i’m hungry.”
“i heard you,” dongmin says, and somehow his mouth finds the exact tone he uses when he doesn’t want anyone to know he cares too much—flat, a little sarcastic. “it’s just funny. i always share with you. literally always.”
“what are you talking about?” the vowels tilt towards his busan-ish drawl on instinct. donghyun’s shoulders draw in like he’s bracing. “when have i not shared with you? i’ve never not shared with you, han dongmin.”
“all the time,” dongmin says, because retreat is not an option once his mouth starts. “name a day you didn’t finish my half.”
“name one time i didn’t share with you.”
dongmin opens his mouth, ready to list…what? nothing. there isn’t a list. he can’t find even one clean, simple example. if anything, he finds the opposite: himself handing over the bigger half without being asked; donghyun pressing a water bottle into his hand unprompted; two people who split things so often the math stopped mattering to anyone.
he should say that. that he’s being an idiot. that it’s not about the noodles. instead he shrugs, sharp at the edge. “right. okay.”
it’s petty and he knows it. he hears himself and wants to roll his eyes at his own face, but admitting to his faults at this moment would be nothing short of a death wish. he stares at the ceiling a beat too long and then does the worst possible thing.
he turns his head. “jaehyun-ah, give me a bite.”
jaehyun blinks. then, like a man who values peace, he lifts his cup, leans over, and offers noodles. dongmin takes a small, theatrical bite he doesn’t even want.
“see, kim donghyun,” he says, pointed and stupid. “you could learn a lot from this.”
“don’t make me a lesson,” says jaehyun, an attempt to bow out of the fire this has started.
donghyun’s ears go pink. “really, when on earth have i—“ he cuts himself off, tone slipping again. “when have i not shared with you?” he’s not just annoyed; he’s hurt. this has landed exactly where dongmin didn’t want it to.
sarcasm is easier than honesty. “guess my memory’s failing.”
“you’re being weird,” donghyun says after a beat of silence, not cruel. purely observational. “just say you want it.”
“i did. you said no.”
“you’re twisting it.” donghyun’s voice goes tight. “i haven’t eaten since morning. that’s it. it’s not—” he gestures, searching for the right shape— “it’s not because it’s you.”
the sentence hits exactly where it shouldn’t. not because it’s you. right. dongmin looks back at the ceiling to look anywhere but donghyun’s face. what he wants is stupid to want and impossible to ask for: make me the exception. save me a bite even when you’re hungry. even when it doesn’t make sense.
“forget it,” he says, careful and light. he’s trying to piece together what he picked up and broke. “eat.”
donghyun stares at him for a beat like he’s trying to read a sign that won’t hold still. then he pushes the cup toward the couch, the lid rattling. “here. take it.”
it’s a peace offering. donghyun is easy forgiving and only wants this to be put to bed so they can get along like they always do.
dongmin doesn’t move. pride is a ridiculous animal. “i don’t want it anymore.”
everyone hears how childish that sounds.
jaehyun exhales through his nose, stands, and ghosts toward his room at the perfect time to avoid the real fallout of all of this. dongmin is both grateful for the privacy and embarrassed of the reason. jaehyun was a buffer of sorts that they’ve just lost.
donghyun exhales. “don’t pick a fight with me over ramyeon,” he mutters, softer now, still defensive around the eyes. “if you want something, say it.”
the sentence moves something a bit sour in the pit of dongmin’s stomach. there are so many things that he wants and there aren’t words he can use to describe them eloquently, or in a manner that won’t destroy the fabric of their friendship. he’s drowning in want and donghyun has no idea that the minuscule life preserver that he’s just tossed out could never bare the weight of it all.
“i did,” dongmin responds instead of the other words pushing at his tongue, juvenile tone persisting. “you said no.” he tries for a smirk and gets something brittle. “not because it’s me.”
the words hang there, unfair to both of them. donghyun’s mouth presses flat. he looks at the cup, then back at dongmin, then away. “you’re twisting it.”
“maybe,” dongmin says. he is. he knows. but the ache in his chest that’s started to feel terminal doesn’t care about being reasonable.
they sit with it. donghyun takes another bite, slower. his ears are pink; his voice, when it comes, has gentled. “you always do this.”
“do what.”
“pretend you’re joking when you’re not.” a tiny laugh, not unkind. “you want the last dumpling, you complain like it’s about something else. you want me to text when i get home, you act like it’s because woonhak forgets. you want… one bite… you turn it into something about fairness.” the last word comes out crooked.
dongmin swallows. the back of his throat feels crowded. he wants to say: i want proof. he wants to say: i want to see if you make room for me the way i make room for you. he wants to say: i love you in a very different way than i’m supposed to, which is not what this conversation is allowed to be about.
“i’m being normal,” he says, which is the least true sentence he has spoken all week, and there’s a lot to choose from.
donghyun watches him for a long second, then sighs and holds the cup out again, closer this time. “take it before i change my mind.”
there’s a tremor of apology in it. a tremor of come on, don’t be like this. dongmin sits up, takes the chopsticks because refusing twice would be its own kind of confession. he takes a small bite. it’s exactly the same as always. he hands it back. everything inside him is not.
donghyun goes quiet again, the fight evaporating the way their dumb fights always do—easily on the surface, leaving a mark only on the inside of dongmin’s ribs. after a while, he nudges the couch with his knee, a silent are we fine. dongmin nudges back, a silent yes, shut up.
it should be over. it is, technically. but the line keeps burning through his head: not because it’s you. he hears it and, against logic, translates it into what he really wanted to test: would it have been because it’s me? does he get the exception or is he asking for something in a way that only exists in his own mind?
“i didn’t eat either,” he says finally, and it’s not a demand so much as a confession of intent.
donghyun’s expression softens at once. “then say that first.” he taps the lid, tone dropping into something like chiding. “i would’ve gotten you your own.”
“i did ask,” dongmin says, quiet now, the sarcasm evacuated. “and you said no.”
“your own.”
dongmin doesn’t want his own of anything and he wants donghyun’s of everything. he wants donghyun to be everywhere he looks and everything he has and everything he is. he came to the way too late realization that he’s in love with his best friend less than a week ago and it’s turned him into the least reasonable person in all of existence.
he huffs a sigh and kicks his feet into donghyun’s lap. “i’ll order delivery.”
***
“you’re kicking me.”
dongmin doesn’t remember agreeing to this. it’s a friday evening and he doesn’t mind having company but he has to be up early for a shift in the morning everyone at once in his home is a lot.
but it’s not only his home and they are all his friends as well so he couldn’t protest much without seeming like a recluse, so now there are six people wedged into a room built for half that and myung jaehyun’s heel is digging into his shin.
jaehyun just grins, unrepentant, like this is fun for him. “it’s not my fault you’re so bony.”
dongmin rolls his eyes, but doesn’t move.
the film is loading on the television screen—something allegedly scary—sanghyeok’s idea, something he’s hyped up all week. dongmin isn’t picky with what they watch. he usually prefers sungho’s picks (they make decent roommates because they don’t argue over the television too much) but this is seemingly one of the better choices from sanghyeok.
dongmin lingers at the corner of the joy of the gathering from his corner on the couch but he does like the event of having everyone by.
he likes it even more when donghyun sits next to him without asking, like it’s the obvious choice. maybe it is, now. maybe dongmin has gotten lucky enough times for it to become a habit.
it’s visibly undisruptive when donghyun finds his way to the couch from the kitchen and sits next to him this time. merely a shift in gravity and weight distribution on the couch.
dongmin tells himself it’s coincidence. he also likes to believe it’s not. if he could will donghyun there, he would, but he likes the fantasy that donghyun chooses this seat for reasons of his own and not ameteur mind control. maybe dongmin is good company.
donghyun doesn’t say anything when he sits, just grabs jaehyun’s ankles, lifts them with both hands, and drops them back down across his lap as he settles in, right between dongmin and jaehyun. jaehyun barely even reacts, just stretches a little wider now that dongmin can’t snap at him about his cold feet.
dongmin feels his heart lurch stupidly in his chest and feels the air shift around him and its so impossible to ignore how everything is different now.
donghyun is a warm presence beside him and the same as he always is. when he tucks his feet up, he ends up pressed tight to dongmin’s side because he doesn’t think about these things too much and doesn’t know the way that each brush of fabric and skin accumulates in dongmin’s chest with pressure. he smells like the new shampoo he started using a month ago that defines the curl to his hair and the lingering crispness of autumn air from the walk here. he is the same as he’s been and different in the small ways that make him human and not stagnant. he could be different every day or stay like this forever and dongmin would still love him.
dongmin loves loves loves him and it feels like a mocking repitition against his skull.
a line of warmth persists along his leg where donghyun’s presses against his, his arm settles between them, fingers a breath away from dongmin’s thigh.
he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them under the blanket, clutching a corner so tight his knuckles ache. he wants to say something to solidfy the limited space between them—joke, a complaint, anything as a reminder that they’re close like this, but nothing comes.
he’s usually the one to talk over the dialogue, asking what could happen next, but tonight his tongue feels heavy. the words collect behind his teeth and don’t spill.
“what’s that guy from?” donghyun breaks the silence between them.
he says this only to dongmin and not to jaehyun on his other side and it doesn’t go unnoticed by dongmin, who focuses too much on that detail of being chosen to register the comment. “huh?”
“the actor, he’s in something else. another film or something.”
“i don’t know him,” dongmin answers stupidly. he should say something normal that he would to anyone else like actors tend to be in films, but his mouth is useless for putting thoughts into words these days when donghyun’s fingers are so close he can imagine what they’d feel like on his thigh.
donghyun just shrugs and shifts slightly, folding his legs under himself, unintentionally leaning just a fraction closer. their shoulders brush. dongmin swallows, throat dry, wishing absurdly that donghyun were the type to flinch at the jumpscares on the screen with this proximity.
dongmin doesn’t scare easily so the jump scares serve as little distraction for himself anyway. donghyun, who now looks more interested in picking at the frayed seam on his sleeve than the actor he recognized or whatever shadow is creeping across the screen, is more spooked by things like the thought of paranormal lurking amongst the living and doesn’t phase to things behind a screen. he’ll jump occasionally if it’s particularly good, but dongmin likely isn’t going to get that lucky.
if donghyun got startled, if he grabbed onto him, dongmin could justify the stupid, overwhelming desire to touch him. just a brush of fingers, a gentle reassurance. he could curl his arm around donghyun and pull him into his side, cover his eyes or hold his hand or give him a place to bury his face. but donghyun isn’t scared right now. he’s just a person, sitting close to another person because the couch is small and they’re comfortable with each other.
because they’re friends.
his own stomach turns a little at the sound of his own thoughts. no one told him how fucking humiliating it is to be in love, especially when you realize that’s whats happening.
donghyun’s lashes flicker against his cheek as he watches the screen, not really seeing it. his hair falls into his eyes, the softest shade of brown in the flicker of television static, and dongmin’s hand itches to smooth it back, just for the excuse.
the couch is too warm on one side, too cold on the other, and donghyun’s leg is pressed to his completely, a line of heat running all the way up his thigh. dongmin can feel the beat of his own heart in his palm, clenched under the blanket, knuckles aching.
he doesn’t know how long he’s been holding his breath—it could be minutes, could be hours—before he feels it, the weight of donghyun shifting again, this time slower, heavier. donghyun blinks once, long and lazy, then lets out a sigh, a small surrender, and leans into him fully. his head tips until it rests against dongmin’s shoulder, forehead tucked in like it’s the most natural place to be. his hair brushes dongmin’s jaw, soft and ticklish, and dongmin thinks for one wild second that he could cry from it, but that would just be pathetic.
donghyun must be exhausted because he’s been up since early in the morning and has been going all day and hasn’t been sleeping well this week. dongmin knows this because he has his entire schedule memorized and is very perceptive of his behaviors.
this is to say him and donghyun have been close for a long time and this is not in the fashion of a stalker or a serial killer. it’s normal.
he’s not sure if anyone else notices, but he does. he feels it in the space between two heartbeats, in the sudden, precarious stillness that settles over his whole body. every muscle locks up, afraid to move and risk waking him. donghyun’s breathing is steady, warm against dongmin’s neck, his whole body a gentle, impossible weight. the film’s sound blurs in his ears, distant and pointless.
dongmin’s brain whites out completely, and it’s over something as stupid and simple donghyun seemingly falling asleep on his shoulder.
it only takes a few minutes before someone apparently notices. “what’s this, huh?” sanghyeok’s voice cuts through the quiet in a whisper, eyebrows raised as he nods towards donghyun. his tone is soft and teasing but not unkind.
dongmin doesn’t look at him. he wills him out of existence for the moment, but it doesn’t work.
“i dunno,” he mutters, face heating. he thinks he keeps his expression neutral, but his ears are probably red. maybe it’s too dark to tell. “he’s tired, i think.”
sanghyeok makes an obnoxious face with a tilt of his mouth and something almost like a wink that makes dongmin want to shove him because he doesn’t know anything he thinks he does, but moving would compromise his very fragile situation at the moment and he cares that his friend rests well.
donghyun doesn’t react. just shifts slightly, a hand curling into dongmin’s side as his cheek presses against his shoulder, like he’s getting more comfortable. the weight of him is real, solid, heavy in a way that makes dongmin feel like he’s been pinned in place.
the film trundles on without him, though he couldn’t name a single character or plot point if pressed. all of it bleeds together into meaningless flicker, a backdrop against the rise and fall of donghyun’s breathing against him. dongmin can feel every shift of air, every exhale damp and warm against his collar. his shoulder starts to ache from being held in place but he doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare risk the withdrawal of weight. he barely wants to breathe.
it’s temporary, nothing remarkable—donghyun is just tired and it’s late and the film isn’t that engaging. dongmin is just there.
he stays still, like he’s been trapped beneath the spell of it. if it were up to him, he’d sit here all night, eyes burning from the strain of not blinking too fast, body aching from holding position, just to keep this impossible gift of donghyun against him without doing something to disrupt it.
but the credits roll eventually because time passes reagardless of his will to keep it stagnant and the room shifts—someone yawns, someone else stretches, the creak of the couch as jaehyun stands up reminding him of the real world. dongmin’s lungs tighten. he can’t stay like this forever. he can’t be more obvious than he already is.
slowly, carefully, he tenses his shoulder, just enough to make the faintest shift, testing whether donghyun will stir. when he doesn’t, dongmin lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. gently, he slides to the side, easing out from under the weight like he’s dismantling a bomb. his arm tingles as blood rushes back, but he ignores it, using every ounce of control to move without disturbing the fragile calm.
when donghyun sighs, deep and content, head slipping down to the cushion, dongmin nearly sits back down again just to be close. instead he stands, carefully tucks the blanket over donghyun’s shoulders, and forces his feet toward the bathroom.
he tells himself it’s normal—he always brushes his teeth before bed, he always gets up first, he isn’t running away, but the lie sits thick on his tongue.
in the quiet of the bathroom, he braces against the sink, toothbrush in hand, staring down his own reflection in the faint fluorescent light. he looks almost guilty, like he’s been caught at something.
the bristles scrape against his teeth, mint biting at his tongue, but the routine doesn’t ground him like he intends it to. his hands are unsteady. he thinks about the couch, about the dent donghyun’s weight left on his shoulder, about how natural it felt, like it had always been meant for him. he brushes harder and tells himself to get a grip.
a sound in the doorway pulls him from the mirror. footsteps first, then the quiet hush of someone shifting their weight. he glances over his shoulder, and there he is—donghyun, half-drowsy, hair mussed, eyes soft with sleep. he’s so cute, is the first thing dongmin thinks, which shows his brain is completely useless.
donghyun doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. his name hangs unsaid in the space between them.
dongmin startles, turns too fast, toothbrush still between his teeth. and donghyun moves towards him without warning. nerves or impulse or both, he closes the distance before dongmin can think, before he can even pull the brush from his mouth.
their lips meet clumsily, toothpaste sharp between them, foam caught awkwardly at the corner of dongmin’s mouth, plastic caught even more awkwardly between their mouths. for a split second it’s absurd, almost laughable, but neither of them laughs. donghyun jerks back, eyes wide, breath catching like he’s already regretting it. dongmin’s chest caves with the sight.
he spits into the sink, rinses quick, heart punching through his ribs. each second drags its feet. when he turns back, donghyun hasn’t moved, frozen in the doorway like he’s afraid to run and afraid to stay.
“you picked a great time,” dongmin says, voice rough, trying for casual and failing.
silence stretches. then, quietly, donghyun: “sorry.”
it’s so unlike him—apologetic, small—that dongmin’s throat goes tight. he steps closer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and before he can overthink it, he leans in again. this time it’s clean, deliberate, nothing in the way.
the kiss lands heavy, maybe unintentionally. donghyun exhales into it, the sound slipping straight into dongmin’s chest, loosening something that’s been wound tight for weeks. dongmin’s hands hover uselessly for a moment before he lets one settle at donghyun’s waist, tentative, like he might burn if he presses harder.
donghyun tilts his head just enough for their mouths to fit better, and the realization of how easy this is, how well they fit together, unravels something in him. the brush of lips, the faint catch of breath, the warmth—ordinary things, but they feel extraordinary in the small bathroom light. dongmin feels clumsy, too earnest, but donghyun doesn’t seem to mind. he leans in with a steadiness that makes dongmin’s knees weak, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
dongmin makes a small, startled sound into the kiss, half-embarrassed, half-relieved, and donghyun laughs softly against his mouth. the vibration carries straight through him.
when they part, only just, dongmin mutters, “don’t be sorry.” his voice is steadier now, anchored in the warmth pressed against him. donghyun’s breath still fans his cheek, and dongmin thinks, absurdly, that he could stay like this forever, on the edge of an almost promised second kiss, held in the gravity of it.
donghyun’s eyes flicker like he’s working up the courage to bolt, but instead he blurts it—quiet, almost too quick to catch. “i like you.”
it lands between them like a stone dropped in still water. dongmin doesn’t think anymore, doesn’t stop himself. the words are already leaving him before he can even register the risk. “i love you.”
and immediately, his stomach drops. too much, too fast. the brush still wet in the sink, his pulse everywhere at once. he scrambles, heat rushing up his neck. “i mean—i like you. me too. i like you too.”
the air stalls for a second, his panic thick in the silence. for a second he hates the tile, the mirror, his own mouth. hes so stupid, so fucking stupid. he had something good just barely in his grasp and he’s likely just ruined it right at the start.
then donghyun laughs. not a polite laugh, not one of those quiet huffs he gives when he doesn’t know what else to do. a real laugh, shoulders shaking, head tipping back just enough for it to echo in the bathroom tile.
dongmin wants the ground to open up. he scowls on instinct, mortified, to hide the way his ears burn. “don’t—”
but donghyun just grins at him like he’s never seen anything truer.
“no,” donghyun says when the laughter ebbs, voice soft now, steady. “yeah, you’re right. i love you.”
something in dongmin unclenches so quickly it makes him dizzy. the words hang there, not as a correction, not as a mockery, but as an answer.
he doesn’t try to speak again. before dongmin can retreat into himself, he leans forward again, closing the space with more bravery, all yes. donghyun meets him halfway, mouth warm and certain, fingers finally uncurling from his sleeves to touch—cheekbone, jaw, the back of his neck like he’s been dying to know what it feels like.
the kiss starts soft and certain, chastity in the press of lips but nothing tentative in the way donghyun holds him, steady at the jaw, fingers curling like he’s claiming something.
they get clumsy immediately. his hip bumps the sink; donghyun’s knuckles graze porcelain; one of them laughs against the other’s mouth and it just makes it worse, better. dongmin noses in, learns the tilt that fits, lets his hand slide from hem to waist and hold there, greedy in a way he’s never allowed himself to be.
his pulse lurches hard, dizzy in its insistence. he angles closer, chasing the warmth, and feels the light brush of donghyun’s tongue against his bottom lip—careful, testing. dongmin parts his mouth before he’s thought about it, and donghyun hums, pleased, the sound swallowed up between them. it sends a shiver straight down his spine.
there’s a messy bump of teeth, then an adjustment, and another because it’s a little difficult to kiss and smile apparently. dongmin has never been so happy while kissing someone before so he’s learning something new.
the kiss tips quickly from cautious to hungry, like they’ve been pretending patience when both of them are starved. dongmin can feel it in the way donghyun presses in, the way their mouths move with more urgency, like this has been waiting at the edge of every word they’ve ever said to each other. his hands curl tighter, pulling donghyun close until there’s no space left to argue with.
it’s too much to be standing here, in the doorway, with voices drifting from the living room like a reminder that the world exists outside of this. dongmin breaks away only enough to mutter, against donghyun’s mouth, “room.” it comes out low, half-swallowed, more plea than command.
donghyun nods, lips brushing his as he breathes, “yeah,” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
dongmin catches himself, for one dizzy second, worrying that maybe donghyun will think he only means this in the way other people might—casual, physical, easy to regret—but then his own words echo back, that unthinking slip, i love you, and his whole face burns.
if there was ever a doubt, he’s already ruined himself by meaning too much.
they stumble a little toward his room, trying to move quietly, shoulders knocking together in the hallway. donghyun pauses just long enough to murmur, “you taste minty,” with the same absent sincerity he uses when he points out shapes in the clouds. it trips dongmin a little, that strange, off-kilter sweetness of his. the reminder of who this is.
“thanks,” dongmin answers, biting back the smile that won’t stay hidden, because there’s nothing else to say.
the door clicks shut behind them, and it feels like the air shifts. quieter, darker, the thrum of the living room muted into nothing. donghyun presses him back before dongmin can even reach for the light, their mouths colliding in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, the kind of clumsy that only comes from wanting too much.
dongmin stumbles until the backs of his legs hit the bed, falling half onto it with donghyun’s weight following, hands clutching at his shirt like he can’t bear to let go.
the kisses are messier now with the privacy of his own room—open-mouthed, breathless, their noses bumping as they try to find a rhythm and fail, laughing once into each other’s lips before it’s swallowed by another rush of hunger.
donghyun tastes like the sleep he was woken from, mint from his own mouth tangled with something warmer, and dongmin wants to drown himself in it. he drags his hand down donghyun’s back, pulls him closer, and the kiss slows only because they’re both losing the thread, breaths turning shallow, mouths lingering without force.
it shifts—less desperate now, lazier, the kind of slow that comes with exhaustion catching up. donghyun hums into the kiss, the sound melting against dongmin’s mouth, and when he sags more heavily into him, dongmin feels the weight of it sinking against him.
he pulls back just enough to see the way donghyun’s eyes are half-lidded, his lips swollen and pink, his chest rising and falling like he could drift back into sleep right here. dongmin’s heart twists, soft in a way that terrifies him, and he brushes some mussed hair off donghyun’s temple and whispers without thinking, “baby, you’re falling asleep.”
donghyun cracks a grin, eyes barely open, voice low and teasing. “baby?” his words slur with drowsiness, but his smile is bright enough to cut through the haze. “i’m baby already? i thought you’d try to play it cool for a little while at least.”
dongmin’s ears burn. “shut up,” he mutters again, but the way he cups donghyun’s jaw and kisses him slow and careful betrays him completely.
when he breaks it again, lips damp and chest tight, donghyun makes a low noise in his throat, something caught between a whine and a sigh. he doesn’t even think about it before chasing the kiss again, mouth brushing dongmin’s, whispering against him, “more.”
dongmin huffs a laugh, even as his heart lurches. his hand finds the side of donghyun’s neck, thumb brushing the heat there, but he shakes his head. “you should sleep, kim donghyun,” he murmurs, drawing out the name just enough to make it teasing, a mirror to the way donghyun had teased him minutes ago.
donghyun groans, dramatic, burying his face against dongmin’s collarbone like he can hide there. “don’t call me that,” he mumbles, words muffled but petulant.
“what, your real name?” dongmin says, grin tugging at his mouth, though he feels the tips of his ears go hot.
donghyun nips lightly at his shirt collar in retaliation before going still again, heavy and warm in his arms. his lashes fan against dongmin’s skin, and his breathing steadies, slowing to that rhythm that makes it impossible to deny he really is on the edge of sleep.
dongmin stays still, afraid to jostle him, afraid to break whatever spell they’ve fallen into.
his own lips still tingle, raw and damp, like they’ve been pressed open too long. he wants more—his whole body aches for it, for the endless press of donghyun’s mouth, for the closeness that finally feels allowed. but even through the want, there’s a steadier pulse underneath, one that says he doesn’t have to rush.
he smooths his palm over donghyun’s back, feeling the slow rise and fall, the warmth soaking through cotton, the weight of him folded in. it settles something wild in his chest, makes it feel frighteningly easy to believe this is what comfort to all of his worries looks like. not fireworks, not collapse—just this: a body curled into his, steady breaths brushing his collarbone, the quiet promise of being here tomorrow too.
he thinks donghyun’s gone under completely when he feels him shift, lashes tickling against his skin. his voice comes out hoarse, a whisper that seems to tug right at the centre of dongmin’s ribs.
“han dongmin.” a beat. then softer, like he’s laying it down carefully between them. “i do love you. i mean it.”
dongmin’s throat closes up. all the air in the room seems too sharp to breathe. he presses his lips to donghyun’s hair, once, lingering, and lets the words echo through him until they feel carved into bone.
“wasn’t just saying it so you’d kiss me more,” donghyun adds.
dongmin exhales a laugh, quiet, a little shaky. “good,” he says. his hand curves over the small of donghyun’s back, holding him close. “me too. i love you.”
donghyun hums low in his throat and finally goes still, heavy and warm in his arms. if this was born from his own unguarded tenderness then dongmin doesn’t regret treating donghyun differently one bit.