Archive of Our Own

“This is the worst staring contest I’ve ever been part of,” says Yuta. The light bulb flickers once, teasingly almost, before blinking into darkness again. They’ve been standing here eyeing it like a pair of disillusioned property surveyors for the better part of ten minutes.

“Maybe if I stack two chairs on top of each other,” begins Taeyong, then falters, contemplative.

“You’re gonna slip and bust your head open.”

“I’ll be careful! I’m always careful, you know that.”

“Yeah, but.” Yuta’s jaw cracks mid-yawn and he forgets the end of his sentence. “I don’t know, leave it. We’ll take another look tomorrow.”

“You know we won’t bother trying to fix it in the morning.” Taeyong’s bottom lip pushes out as the two different faces of his pragmatism war visibly with each other. Addressing it now will be a mildly dangerous endeavor, but if left unresolved, he’ll lose sleep worrying about their defunct ceiling light. 

Yuta snorts fondly. “We will, I swear. Don’t stress yourself out over this.”

He doesn’t think much of it afterwards, which is his first mistake. The second is forgetting that Taeyong, for all his gentle pliability, can be unexpectedly stubborn when he so desires. It’s not until Yuta's applying his moisturizer in the tiny bathroom mirror that he becomes aware of the dull screeching ringing out from the living room.

When Yuta emerges to investigate, he gapes. Taeyong’s found a ladder from the depths of the supply closet and dragged it out here for his home improvement project. The ladder doesn’t look particularly trustworthy, either. It’s old, rusting at the joints, and even unfolded to its maximum height, it’s hardly tall enough to give Taeyong a significant boost. Yuta bites down on the inside of his cheek when Taeyong clambers onto the very top and stretches onto his tiptoes, a one-man ballet.

“Come down,” he repeats, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I swear we’ll fix it first thing after waking up.”

“I’ve almost got it, though,” Taeyong insists. His socked foot inches closer to the ladder’s edge. “I just need to unscrew—”

It’s almost supernatural, the way Taeyong’s ankle suddenly wobbles and inverts, betraying the rest of his body. Yuta feels the fear melt into him a millisecond before his brain can process what’s going on, and then Taeyong is crumpled on the floor. The thud of his bones hitting the ground, that sickening crunch, seems to echo.

Yuta’s on his knees in another second. “Taeyong? Hey, Taeyong, are you with me? Wake up, come on, shit, I told you this was going to happen.” He’s shaking Taeyong’s torso like a ragdoll with one hand, dialing 119 with the other. “Maybe if you’d just listened—” There’s a disgruntled noise on the end of the line. Yuta ceases the tirade for a moment to apologize to the operator, who he hadn’t realized had picked up, and to give their address and a brief description of what happened before he thinks up a few panicked threats to tack on.

“I’m gonna eat your stash of strawberry Hi-Chew and leave the wrappers all over your bed. I'll throw red socks in your white laundry. I'll... steal your dog,” announces Yuta nonsensically. “The one you had to leave with your family at home. You always talk about missing her, right? Well, I’m gonna fucking dognap her and you’ll never see her again if you don’t wake up right this minute.” 

He’s not good at this, he realizes with mounting panic. What if Taeyong never wakes up again? Who’s gonna tell the damn dog what happened to her beloved owner then?

“Excuse me, but you’re still on the line,” says the emergency operator’s disembodied voice from the floor, where Yuta dropped his phone, unthinking. “I’m sure your friend and his dog will be fine. We’ve dispatched the ambulance already.”

“Right, thank you,” says Yuta impatiently. On the floor, Taeyong’s head lolls to the side, and Yuta sends a prayer up to any god who may be listening.

“Wake up,” he repeats, his own voice foreign to his ears. “Please.”

*

“Visiting hours are almost over,” says the nurse, eyeing him with more weariness than distrust. “Are you a relative?”

“No,” says Yuta, then digs his teeth into his bottom lip when he sees her expression begin to shutter, close off. Taeyong is cordoned off somewhere in the maze of sterile, identical rooms, and he will wake up disoriented and alone. “I’m actually… I’m. His fiancé.”

“His—?” There is a pause of disbelief as the nurse’s carefully drawn eyebrows do a little tap dance across her forehead. “I don’t believe I see a ring.”

“Ah, well, the thing is,” says Yuta, “that’s because I’m still saving up for our rings. I’m a humble man, and I don’t have the means right now to give him the jewel he deserves.” When he registers her brow just barely beginning to smooth itself out, he floors it. “But what I could give him was all of myself, you know? The material things will always come second to the strength of our bond.”

She squints at him.

Yuta plunges into a ninety-degree bow. “Please let me see him,” he says to her thick-soled shoes. “I love him very much. You wouldn’t stand in the way of true love, would you?”

The nurse sighs with her whole body, smoothing out the creases in her scrubs. There’s an unmistakable air of kids these days about the action, all motherly exasperation, but there’s also a very promising hint of defeat. Yuta doesn’t straighten his back until he hears her clear her throat. “Yes, well, I suppose. What was your name again?”

“Nakamoto Yuta,” he informs her, trying not to vibrate in place.

She makes a show of writing it down and giving him a little stick-on visitor’s badge. “Room 701. West wing elevators, first door on your left. Best of luck with your marriage, Nakamoto-san.”

Yuta thanks her profusely and bows until she disappears around the corner. In all honesty, he’s not too sure if it’s okay for him to sneak up to visit a patient under false pretenses like this, but it’s not like anyone will think back on it once Taeyong’s out of here. The slapdash backstory will evaporate into comfortable nothingness the minute he no longer has use for it.

The hallway that houses room 701 is empty, door firmly shut but unlocked. Silently, it swings open to reveal a monotonous wash of grays and beiges, the curtain meant to shield the bed from view pulled halfway aside, and an untouched cup of violently blue jelly on a rolling tray table. The accompanying plastic spoon has been unwrapped and rests resignedly beside it.

Taeyong’s pallid face, nearly as drab as the wallpaper, emerges from the stiff folds of his blankets at the sound of footsteps. “Who is it?”

“You’re awake,” says Yuta, surprised, before he remembers to add, “It’s just me. I mean, obviously.”

“I’ve been awake for a while now. I was wondering if you'd—” Taeyong immediately tries to sit up and suffers for it, wincing as he collapses back onto the pillow.

Yuta’s hands itch to do something, but there’s a big piece of gauze plastered across Taeyong’s forehead, and he’s afraid to disturb it. “Of course I would come. Did you really think I’d let you stay here all alone?”

“Actually,” Taeyong tells him, lip curling faintly, “I was going to say I was wondering if you’d even be allowed up here.”

“Ah,” says Yuta. 

“I thought it was pretty late already, and they’re not usually so lenient outside of family relations. It’s nice that they let you in, though.”

Yuta rubs absentmindedly at the bottom knuckle of his left ring finger. “Yeah, it’s great. Anyway, how are you feeling?”

Taeyong is only mildly set back by the abrupt change of subject. “Okay. As good as you can feel when you’ve just fallen off a ladder.”

On the far wall, a scale of pain from 0-10 decorates the same whiteboard that lists Taeyong’s name, doctor, and other essential information. The number 2, “mild pain,” is circled in dry-erase marker, which is typical of Taeyong’s grin-and-bear-it affect and as such speaks little about his actual condition. Cordoned off with tape a bit lower on the board are Yuta’s name and phone number, presumably in the capacity of an emergency contact.

That last part was kind of a no-brainer. Taeyong doesn’t have any family here, hardly even made friends of his own until a solid few months into starting his degree program because as much as his appearance magnetically draws people’s interest, it intimidates them, too. He doesn’t have Yuta’s personality, the effervescence that flips on and off without so much as blinking, meaning that Yuta remains closest to him and the one to whom his health is entrusted. Neither of them has ever objected to this arrangement. So here they are now, Taeyong eyeing his cup of jelly as if it’ll eat him instead of the other way around, and Yuta wringing his hands at Taeyong's bedside.

“Are they keeping you long?”

“Overnight, that’s all.”

“Okay,” says Yuta, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “That has to mean it’s nothing too serious.”

“Yeah, just a minor concussion,” replies Taeyong, turning his face into the pillowcase. His lids shutter briefly as though against his will.

Yuta watches with concern. “Tired? I should probably let you get some rest.”

“No, I’m fine.”

A quick glance at Yuta’s phone screen confirms that visiting hours will end in just a few minutes. “I really should go,” he says, “before they come and kick me out for overstaying my welcome.”

“That could be a problem,” agrees Taeyong. His voice is beginning to sound far away despite what Yuta can tell are his best efforts to control it.

“Just one more minute. After that, I’ll really leave.”

Taeyong’s lids slide gently shut. “They’re gonna throw you out,” he mumbles sleepily. 

“Well, they’ll have to catch me first,” says Yuta, earning the soft snort of amusement that he was fishing for. He begins to clear away the clutter around Taeyong’s bedside, the jelly cup and utensil packet and the tissue box that’s tipped on its side. There isn’t anywhere for him to put them, so he dumps the assortment on the narrow ledge beside the basin in the corner.

Into the pillow, Taeyong slurs something that sounds like, “Nurse is coming.”

“Then she’d better be a fast runner.” Yuta props his hands on his hips and surveys the room. There isn’t much more he can do to clean up an already stark space, and he’s starting to feel more restless than helpful. He casts one last glance at the lump in the middle of the bed, Taeyong’s rumpled hair and the way his elbow juts out from the edge of the blanket. How tiny he looks, but at the very least, peaceful. 

Quietly, Yuta adds, “Get well soon.”

←

It’s unseasonably warm and the skies are graying, suggesting at the very least a half-hearted drizzle by sunset. The humidity is comparable to lukewarm milk, which Yuta despises. Things intended to be consumed cold should be kept cold at all times, just like an overcast Friday in the middle of October should be analogous to the rest of the season. 

“Shit weather for a party,” he comments.

“Party’s later,” says Ten, raising a cupped hand to the heavens as if expecting a raindrop to kiss his palm. “It’s barely past five right now. The sky won’t open up anytime soon, hopefully.”

It’s wishful thinking, but Yuta can get behind it. Needs it, even, after the week he’s had. He shrugs off the light jacket he’d thrown on in the morning, back when the air was thinner and crisper, and falls deliberately out of step with Ten to look at the ashen clouds overhead. “Yeah, maybe. Who’s responsible for this again?”

“Johnny and his friends. Well, mostly Johnny.”

“Right,” says Yuta, grinning lopsidedly. “How could I possibly forget.” 

He didn’t actually forget, of course. Johnny & Co. have been, in some shape or form, responsible for most every party that Yuta has attended since his first semester here, and their hosting this one is just par for the course. His ulterior motive with this question boils down to opening the tremendously entertaining door of badgering Ten about his big gay crush. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ten whines. “But also don’t because I wanna talk about him. Have you seen his new hair? God. He’s like a young Gong Yoo. He’s better.”

Yuta cackles, warming to the topic with enthusiasm. Once they start bouncing off of each other like this, back and forth and stupid, the fading day seems just that little bit more sunny. 

Ludicrously, he thinks it might be that feeling that ultimately staves away the rain. They make it to the party that night completely dry (with the exception of the drool river that leaves Ten’s mouth the minute he catches sight of Johnny in a tight sweater, naturally). 

“So glad you guys could make it,” shouts Johnny over the music, smiling at them like they’ve both just made his entire week. How he manages to project that exact same glow at every single one of his probably 10,000 friends and acquaintances is still beyond Yuta.

“Me too,” begins Ten, already painting new layers of coy and flirty across his features. The carefully smudged eyeliner helps. “Actually, I was really looking forward to—”

To his misfortune and Yuta’s amusement, whatever it is that he was looking forward to is relegated to the territory of indefinitely unsolved mysteries when a pointy cloud of red hair comes stumbling up to them, wobbling like a baby deer. “Which way is the bathroom,” it croaks more than asks. Johnny politely detaches the hand clawing at his sleeve. 

“Sorry, hold that thought,” he tells Ten, then offers a similarly apologetic nod at Yuta. “I should probably get Taeyong somewhere he can puke in peace.” 

Taeyong’s responding groan lands squarely between aggrieved and nauseated. The lights catch on the sharp hinge of his jaw. 

Yuta raises a brow. “Big drinker?"

“Nah,” says Johnny, stooping a bit to get Taeyong’s skinny arm around his neck. “Total lightweight. He’s usually a lot more reserved. Do him a favor and pretend this never happened if you see him around campus later.”

Ten sighs after them. “A caring friend. That’s hot, too.”

You’re incorrigible, Yuta almost says, then decides to save his breath because the music is still blaring loud enough to hurt, and Ten’s expression makes it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t be listening even if it wasn’t. Instead, Yuta catches Nayeon’s eye a few tables over and waves, starting to make his way across.

“You showed up after all!” she cheers as soon as he’s within earshot. She looks sort of sloshed already, but her friends flank her protectively. “Ditching Ten so soon?”

Yuta glances back over his shoulder to affirm that Ten has already sunk his teeth into a long-suffering but more or less amenable Kun. “You’re better company.”

“And you’re full of shit,” she says, smiling, then performs a unsteady shimmy that sends her brightly colored drink whirling dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “Come on, then, dance with us.”

“Okay, but I’m warning you, I stretched before I came out today,” he tells her, rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for battle. He feels loose-limbed and pleasantly antic.

Nayeon juts her chin out at him. “Bring it.”

So he does, and she does, too, the both of them flailing and popping, doing the kind of body rolls that make you feel keenly aware of the spaces between each one of your vertebrae and incite passersby to either scoff or eye you with interest. (Both of them glare when the latter lasts a second too long.) They rope Jeongyeon into judging after she tells them three times that they both suck, which is fine, because that’s not really the point. 

And eventually, well after Nayeon has wiggled her fingers goodbye at him and the walls have begun to tremble in his peripheral vision, Yuta stumbles to the back of the room and doubles over the spine of a chair. 

“Are you okay?” asks someone sympathetically.

“I’m fine, it’s just,” Yuta begins, straightening, then stops short when he sees who it is. The unnervingly large eyes of Johnny’s lightweight friend are now searching his face, one hand hovering some distance apart from his side as if unsure of whether or not to reach out.

“Just?”

Yuta shakes his head and regrets it when the ossified block of gray matter in his skull goes flying. “Nah, don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Taeyong agrees, then directly contradicts this feigned nonchalance by taking a seat across from Yuta and continuing to stare. He’s got an uncannily handsome face, an assemblage of knife-sharp lines offset by those doe eyes and a look of gentle concern. He doesn’t appear much worse for wear after presumably having heaved his guts out in the bathroom, either.

Yuta eyes the half-empty beer bottle between them. “You gonna finish that?”

“No,” says Taeyong, a sheepish laugh coloring his voice, “I’ve had more than enough. It’s not mine, anyway.”

A hand to the base of the bottle confirms that it’s long gone warm. “Oh, nasty,” decides Yuta, pulling a face. “I hate when cold drinks have been left out too long. Feels like somebody just pissed into this thing.”

Taeyong smothers another laugh with the back of his hand. “Maybe it’s for the best? You don’t really look like you should still be drinking.”

Yuta is of the opinion that Taeyong doesn’t really look like he should be telling him what to do, but he registers the worry amidst the slurred words and smothers the instinct to bite. Instead, he pulls out the chair he’d been leaning on and sinks into it, chin in hands. “Why are you sitting here all alone?” he pivots, no preamble.

Slow blink from Taeyong. “I’m not. I’m sitting here with you.”

“You don’t know me,” Yuta points out.

By now, Taeyong is blushing hotly, the glow of his cheeks caught like waxed apples in the roving lights. “If you’d rather I go, then I will.”

“I didn’t say that. The friend I came with isn’t answering my texts, but I know he wouldn’t leave without telling me, so I’ll wait for him here.” Yuta stretches his arms out along the table, pondering and slick-tongued. 

Across from him, Taeyong worries at his lower lip, still very pink-faced, though whether it’s from embarrassment or alcohol is anyone’s guess. When it becomes apparent that he doesn’t know what to say next, Yuta allows the budding smile to stretch fully over his face. “Let’s start with some actual introductions. My name’s Yuta. I like your hair color.”

The lights align like tiny stars in Taeyong’s irises when he opens his mouth to answer.

→

Taeyong’s supposed to be discharged today. 

Yuta greets the reception desk staff with a smile as soon as he arrives and signs his name on the log, shows ID, makes his way to the waiting area, taps his foot, gets up to locate a bottle of water, returns and taps his foot some more until a man in a sharply pressed gray suit shoots him a dirty look over the potted plant in between them. 

“Sorry,” Yuta says, dipping his head until the man looks away. He’s been here for maybe ten minutes according to the wall clock, but it feels like the same viscous minute on repeat, a jelly bubble inside which he is trapped until he has visual proof of Taeyong on his feet again.

When he’s finally let into Taeyong’s room, though, the expectation curdles. Instead of the promised recovery, he sees Taeyong, unsteady, gripping the arm of his hospital bed like a lifeline as he scrunches his eyes shut. There’s a compression bandage around his right wrist that Yuta hadn’t noticed yesterday, even though Taeyong had waved goodbye. He chews on the realization that it likely wasn’t as much an oversight on his own part as a conscious effort to hide weakness on Taeyong’s.

“There,” a nurse is saying, “you’re okay, you’re balanced. If you feel a bit too shaky—”

“No, no, I feel so much better,” Taeyong assures her, eyes popping open almost mechanically. The grin he adopts is good, practiced, but Yuta’s focus is on the tremble of his wrist.

“Well, you make sure to let us know if you experience any more discomfort, okay? Continued dizziness, nausea, especially vomiting. And mind that wrist of yours!”

Taeyong nods dutifully before his gaze wanders past her head. “Yuta?”

“Oh, there he is!” The nurse turns towards the door. “Your fiancé is so punctual.”

A brief pause, during which Taeyong’s eyes turn themselves into dinner plates and Yuta bites down a curse. He’d forgotten all about this part.

“Yes, that’s me,” Yuta replies, “always on time. I want to be here for him whenever he needs me.” The laugh he attaches at the end sounds so stiff that he dials up the smile about a hundred watts in compensation.

“That’s sweet,” says the nurse, either distracted or enamored. “If you’d both follow me downstairs, I have some more information.”

So Yuta gives Taeyong the best not now look he can muster and they silently trail the nurse back to the waiting area, where they go through the motions of nodding along to whatever they’re told until they can finally leave. Not even five seconds have elapsed after the moment the sunlight first hits their faces when Taeyong starts in.

“What was that about?”

“What?” Yuta feigns innocent, concentrating unduly hard on locating the subway station he’s walked to a thousand times before.

“The nurse thought we were. Together,” manages Taeyong eventually. “Why would she say that?”

Yuta looks left and right, then left again, then right again at the crosswalk. It’s a poor avoidance tactic. There’s really no dancing around it anymore. “Promise you won’t freak out.”

“I don’t even know what you’re going to say, though? I can’t make any promises.”

“Listen,” says Yuta, ushering him across the street with a hand between his shoulders, “just yesterday you collapsed while trying to change a lightbulb. I don’t want you to pop a blood vessel or something.”

“Okay,” says Taeyong slowly, expectantly.

“Right, so, cute story. When you were through with your examinations yesterday, visiting hours were almost over, but I couldn’t go home without checking up on you. Since it didn’t look like they were gonna let me, I might’ve, you know, told your nurse that we’re engaged.”

There is a concerning lack of response. When Yuta turns to get a look at him, he sighs. Below the gauze plastered to his forehead, Taeyong’s face is trying to decide whether to remain flushed red or drain of color altogether. “Why would you do that,” Taeyong says. “The entire time we were in there, people thought we were going to… to get married? You could have come back to see me in the morning, you didn’t have to go that far—”

“Hey, it’s not a big deal. You’re home free now, so all that’s out the window.”

“But we,” says Taeyong, then stops in his tracks, having reddened so fiercely by this point that all the blood that should have been circulating to his brain seems to have ended up in his cheeks instead.

“Exactly. But we nothing,” Yuta agrees. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Still, you couldn’t have told me yesterday? When I heard it from the staff, I almost had a heart attack.”

“I’m not the only one who hasn’t been forthcoming.” Yuta tilts his head at Taeyong’s bandaged wrist. “Last night, you said, and I quote, ‘“it’s just a minor concussion.”’

This halts the flood of blushing indignation. “I didn’t want to worry you. There’s no serious damage, and it’ll heal on its own in a few weeks.”

They’ve reached the station now, voices acquiring that spacey echo that comes with being underground. “My roommate was admitted to the hospital. I think worrying a little is within my rights.”

Taeyong screws up his face into a crossbreed of scowl and pout. “I know. It was just so stupid the way this started in the first place. You’re missing work this morning to fix a problem that I created.”

Somewhere down the tracks, the train bellows its muffled, thundering arrival. The two of them inch closer to the platform’s edge, Yuta casually positioning himself to Taeyong’s left in order to protect his injured wrist from any jostling. “I don’t mind,” he says. 

He can tell that Taeyong wants to protest, but then the train has come and people are streaming in and out, and raising one’s voice over the din would be as pointless as it would be embarrassing. So when Taeyong gives up his seat for a young woman with a bulky purse (unnecessarily, being that there’s an empty seat just a little ways over) and shifts subtly to a standing pole, Yuta gives him the breathing room and doesn’t say a word about it. By the time they reach their stop, Taeyong seems to have mellowed out again, anyway. He smiles bashfully at Yuta when they disembark, and they commence the remaining short walk in amenable silence.

At home, Yuta’s barely toed off his shoes when his phone goes off, ringer as shrill and insistent as his sister’s voice when he picks up. “Hello?”

“Don’t you hello me,” she fires back. “How long were you planning to keep this a secret?”

“Keep what a secret?”

“I thought you were a better actor than this. You’re going a little overboard by still playing dumb at this point.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Yuta honestly, wedging his phone between his shoulder and ear. 

Momoka tsks so loudly that it almost sounds as though she’s teleported directly into his apartment. “The engagement? Your fiancé? I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend! I had to find out by overhearing the nurses in urgent care gossiping during the shift change, can you imagine that?”

In the space of seconds, Yuta’s stomach has efficiently tied itself into a grapefruit-sized knot. “Oh, you meant. That secret.” He sneaks a glance at Taeyong, who is rummaging through the fridge with his good hand, blissfully unaware.

“I can’t believe you hid this mystery man for so long,” she continues, steamrolling over his weak admission. “Mom just about lost her mind when I told her, I swear. She’s been trying to get you bring someone home for years.”

“You told her?” groans Yuta, perhaps a bit too loudly. He hurries towards his room, elbowing the door shut as he enters for a modicum of privacy. 

“Of course I did. Her only son is finally looking to settle down and she hasn’t even met the significant other yet. Am I supposed to leave her in the dark, too?”

“No, but—”

“You’re both invited over for dinner on the 30th, by the way. That isn’t a request.”

Yuta winces. He’s backed into a corner now, the dual threat of his mother and sister combined approaching. It’s bad enough that he looks like he’s been covering up a clandestine relationship for months; factoring in his mother’s almost rabid zeal for getting him married off multiplies the damage by a staggering percentage. He can’t exactly produce a fiancé out of thin air, either.

“Look, let me call you back.”

“Huh?” The already palpable vexation in Momoka’s voice is now leaning precariously towards outrage. “You can’t hang up on me after hiding something like this for who knows how long! Nakamoto Yuta, you better not—”

“Sorry, talk soon, bye,” he blurts, ending the call with his life flashing before his eyes. 

A moment later, there’s a soft knock at his door. Yuta reassembles his face into something he hopes is coolly unassuming while he goes to open it, already dreading the conversation he’ll have to initiate.

“Is everything alright?” asks Taeyong.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s great,” says Yuta, surreptitiously opening his messages to find a growing onslaught of texts from Momoka, each one with more exclamation marks than the last. He tucks his phone away before Taeyong can see it.

“Okay,” says Taeyong, appeased. “Just making sure.”

In his back pocket, Yuta’s phone buzzes five times in rapid succession. “Well, there’s actually… there is one thing.”

Taeyong tilts his head. There exists no dimension, no parallel universe in which Yuta can say this without wanting the floor to open up and send him plummeting into the molten core of the earth.

“So you remember how I kind of led the hospital staff to believe we were engaged? This is another cute story.”

Another moment passes while Taeyong just stares at him. Then, he walks back out to the kitchen table and settles into a chair, one hand already pushing agitatedly through his hair. “I felt like I should sit down before you deliver the news,” he intones, so serious that Yuta would have laughed under different circumstances.

But for better or—more likely—for worse, this is what they have to work with right now, so Yuta offers a wan smile and steels himself. After all, he’s always been an advocate of ripping off the bandaid in one go.

*

The chair at Yuta’s desk is the kind that spins, which is a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing for him because he habitually releases stress by turning it around and around in tight, creaky circles; it’s a curse for Doyoung, who sits next to him.

“Nakamoto-san,” says Doyoung primly, mostly to make a point. “Your chair is very loud.”

Yuta grinds to a stop. “Is that so, Kim-san? I’m sorry, I’ll be more mindful.”

“That would be most appreciated.”

They’re bullshitting, naturally. Yuta has known Doyoung since his very first week at the company, back when he’d just transferred here from Korea and his Japanese was still clunky and unsure. Though loathe to admit it at the time, Doyoung had missed being able to converse in his mother tongue, and Yuta, after years of studying abroad, had instinctively understood. Now that their relationship has progressed well beyond unironic politesse, the real underlying threat is being cornered on the way out.

And, just as naturally, this happens too. It’s law around here: Yuta and Doyoung square off in bouts of veiled snark until one of them muscles their way in, or maybe the other tires enough to give an centimeter. In this particular instance, Doyoung plants both hands on his hips as Yuta is packing up his things and says, “Obviously, something’s up. I covered for you this morning, so you’ve got to level with me.”

It’s undeniably true that Doyoung shouldered the burden of Yuta’s work. Mildly complaining all the while, if his texts were anything to go by, but he’d done it. Being that this particular favor had put an end to Yuta’s years-long streak of never missing so much as an hour, he supposes he has some explaining to do. The part that came after the hospital can be omitted, after all.

“Taeyong fell from a ladder and hurt himself yesterday. I brought him back home from the hospital earlier today, which is why I came in a couple hours late. Not as juicy of a backstory as you were hoping for, probably.”

“Oh no, is he okay?” Doyoung’s brows furrow, mouth slackens, entire aura transforming from confrontational to concerned. “That sounds terrible.”

“It wasn’t anything severe, thankfully. He’s just focusing on resting up right now.”

“Okay, well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Doyoung tells him, shouldering his bag. “Sorry for bitching this morning.”

Yuta nods, holding the door open for him as they leave. “Don’t worry about it.” It’s getting dusky out, and a faint breeze whispers over their hair when they step onto the street. He waves Doyoung off when their paths fork, left to pick his way home for the second time today, except now it’s in silence.

It isn’t until he finally shoulders his way into the apartment, uncaring of the way the door shudders behind him, that the reality of the predicament he’d left brewing here abruptly resurfaces. The first thing he sees when he approaches the kitchen is Taeyong, sitting in exactly the same pose he’d left him, and this alone proves a fountain of immediate concern.

“What the hell,” he says. “Have you not gotten up all day? Shouldn’t you be resting in bed? Have you eaten?”

Taeyong snaps his head up a second afterwards, response delayed and eyes wide. He doesn’t appear to have heard Yuta’s questions at all, and if he did, he’s steadfastly ignoring them. “Were you serious?”

“What, are you talking about the—”

“Yes,” finishes Taeyong, not even giving him the chance.

Yuta sighs, pulling out the chair opposite and taking a seat. “Sure I was.”

“You don’t sound like you’re serious.” The set of Taeyong’s brows betrays more than ordinary petulance. “I’ve been turning it over in my head since you left, and I still can’t wrap my mind around why or how. You do realize you’re asking me to lie to your entire family?”

“Hold that thought. I answered a question of yours, so you have to answer one of mine, too. Did you eat anything at all?”

“Yes, I’m fine, there was leftover soup, remember? But I really, really think that’s not the biggest issue we have right now.”

“Okay,” says Yuta, turning his palms up on the table in acquiescence. “Let’s discuss.”

“It sounds insane!”

“Not really? Not if you think about it.”

“What else could there possibly be left to think about,” laments Taeyong, the creases on his forehead deepening the longer he talks. “I can’t knowingly deceive them. Morals aside, even, we both know I’m an awful liar.”

“Well, it’s true that you’re not great at playing mafia,” agrees Yuta, cheerfully glossing over his own deficiencies in this department.

“Exactly, and that’s just a game,” Taeyong says despairingly. “This is real life. We’d crash and burn in a matter of days.”

Yuta tilts his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll do all the heavy lifting like making up the details of our engagement or whatever, so all you have to do is play along. It’s only for a month or so. Just long enough to get the dinner with my family over with.”

“But won’t your mom be disappointed if we suddenly break up after supposedly being so happy together?”

“People drift apart for all kinds of reasons,” says Yuta demurely. “She’ll understand. Considering that I’ll probably never bring an actual fiancé home, it’d make her happy to have the experience once.”

Taeyong’s forehead comes dangerously close to smashing into the tabletop before he seems to remember that there’s still a sizeable piece of gauze attached to his face, courtesy of his last accident barely 24 hours ago. “I don’t know,” he groans. “So many things could go wrong.”

“They won’t. It’s just like acting, and the parts we’re playing are almost identical to our own lives, anyway.”

“I’d say being engaged is a pretty big difference,” Taeyong points out.

Scooting his chair closer, Yuta leans across the table and takes one of Taeyong’s hands in both of his own. “Hey, just listen for a second. Nothing about us is going to change. You know that, right? Whatever act we put on outside doesn’t carry over to how we are inside these walls, because our friendship comes before all that, always.”

Warily, Taeyong observes the place where their hands are joined before sagging in his chair. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just curls his fingers around Yuta’s palm and thinks. Meanwhile, Yuta makes a conscious effort to put away the beseeching kitty eyes and give him some peace to deliberate.

“Okay,” says Taeyong finally.

Yuta’s back jolts ruler-straight. “Seriously? You mean it? If you’re not sure, tell me now, and I won’t bring it up ever again.”

“Yeah, I mean it.” There is an unmistakable smile flirting at the corner of Taeyong’s mouth, even as his voice drips with exasperation. “Like you said, it’s only for a month or so. I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

“Oh my God,” says Yuta. “Seriously, Lee Taeyong, thank you so much, I swear you won’t regret it. I’ll be the best fiancé you never had. I could kiss you right now.”

A beat of silence, while Taeyong’s cheeks slowly work their way back to the flush they’d worn for the better part of the morning. “Is that… are you acting already, or?”

“No, no, that was totally my bad.” Yuta releases his hand as if burned. “Forget I even said that.”

“Right,” says Taeyong awkwardly. “Well, I think I’m gonna head to sleep now. Today’s been a lot to take in.”

“Oh, of course. Sleep well.” Cautiously, Yuta tracks the movement of the still-bandaged wrist, but he tamps down the instinct to help Taeyong up in the knowledge that it would just set him further on edge. “See you in the morning.”

←

Yuta shifts the package from hand to hand, fingering the flat seam of wrapping paper on the underside. It isn’t anything special, and he doesn’t even know if Taeyong will like it. Ten had assured him multiple times that it was perfect, though, declaring his own gift of a winter scarf inferior. 

“Do you want give it to him, then? You’re the one who really wanted to come, anyway.”

“Taeyong’s cool,” says Ten, “but we both know who I’m here for.”

Rolling his eyes, Yuta tucks the neatly wrapped rectangle into the deep pocket of his coat. His recollection of the one time he’d previously met Taeyong is not exactly crystal, but he did receive the impression that the guy was fairly introverted. It makes sense that social butterfly best friend Johnny would step in to throw a party on his behalf. “Keep your zipper up until we get inside, at least.”

Johnny answers their knock a moment later, beaming smile a permanent fixture. “Hey! Come on in.”

Yuta returns his greeting with warmth and keeps it moving, leaving Ten to flirt at the door. He removes Taeyong’s gift from his pocket before shedding the coat, which already feels oppressively heavy now that they’re inside; it suffers an irreverent throw over the back of the couch. 

Deeper inside, he finds surprisingly few others, if Johnny’s standard capacity is anything to go by. Then he reminds himself that this is about Taeyong, actually, and that the threshold for guests is consequently up to him, and experiences a fresh wave of uncertainty as to why he’s decided to wash ashore here at all. Taeyong is something like a friend of a friend, and neither intermediary is anywhere to be seen. It’s not as if Yuta’s ever had a problem with reading people, or consciously influencing the way people read him—he just hopes that Taeyong won’t be uncomfortable.

He eventually discovers the man of the hour milling about near the drinks, both hands conspicuously bare. Beside him is a pretty girl with bangs and full cheeks who comes up to eye level in her platform boots. She’s mussing Taeyong’s hair like an older sister, the undercut recently deepened from fire-engine red to a subdued mahogany, burnished wood in the low light. It’s a nice color on him.

“Hi,” says Yuta, sidling up to the table once the girl has drifted away. In the absence of any visible heap of presents or even a single telltale shopping bag, he’s given up on trying to work out the least obtrusive way to slip Taeyong his gift. “You might not remember, but I’m—”

“Yuta, right? Yeah, I remember.”

“Really?” Yuta doesn’t want to say outright that Taeyong had seemed pretty far gone the first time they’d met, but he’s apparently conveyed the implication well enough to make Taeyong wince. “I mean, that’s great. I had fun talking with you the other night. So, this was a little bit of a shot in the dark since we still don’t know each other too well, but I got you something.”

Taeyong startles when Yuta presses the slim package into his hands. “Oh, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to! Besides, I couldn’t turn up to your birthday empty-handed.”

“No, you seriously didn’t have to,” says Taeyong, sighing. “My birthday’s not today. It’s not even this season. Johnny found out that I don’t celebrate and insisted on doing something, no matter how many times I told him not to go to the trouble.”

“Damn,” says Yuta. “And here I was worrying about finding something nice. Guess I’ll have to take it back.”

“Right, right,” Taeyong agrees, already stepping back politely to return the gift before Yuta snorts and intercepts him.

“I was kidding. I got it for you, so it’s yours.” 

Taeyong still appears to be on the fence, so Yuta gently pushes his outstretched hands away. “Dude, just open it right now. If you want it, then keep it. If not, I won’t be offended, promise.”

Several moments trickle by before Taeyong realizes he’s serious. “Well, if you insist.” He slides a fingertip over Yuta’s hasty tape job, tearing through the paper so gingerly you would think it brought him physical pain. This demeanor changes entirely when he pulls the wrapping away, finally getting a good look at the contents.

“You don’t have to pretend to like it,” drawls Yuta, watching Taeyong’s mouth part in surprise.

“Who’s pretending?” Taeyong fingers the cover, tilts the book this way and that, admiring. It’s not even a new copy. On his way home yesterday, Yuta had purchased it secondhand from a dingy shop without much consideration for the way the edges of the pages are already thumbed soft, spine creased with spidery veins. He’d gauged that the intended recipient could be the sentimental type who finds such things Romantic, or at the very least mellow enough not to be bothered by the tells of use. He didn’t, however, expect the way that Taeyong’s whole face has gone aglow.

“I heard from Ten that you were into Japanese literature, so I thought, you know,” offers Yuta, trailing off. The Temple of the Golden Pavilion ranks among his personal favorites of the classics he’s made his way through over the years. A bit edgy for a gift to a near-stranger, maybe, but Yuta’s not one to deny his gut instinct.

“It’s perfect,” says Taeyong, all kinds of earnest. “Crazy, even, because this has been on my to-read list for the longest time, and now you’ve just magically dropped it into my hands. Thank you so much.”

Brimming with self-satisfaction, Yuta waves it off. “I’m just glad that you want to keep it after all.” And he is, on a base level, but in light of experiencing Taeyong’s presence fully sober, he’s also struck by how disarmingly ingenuous the other comes across in spite of the whole silver screen actor-cum-Roman statue thing he’s got going on with his face. He even stands shyly, holding the book over his abdomen like armor.

“Thank you,” Taeyong repeats, “for coming in the first place. Sorry that it was under, um, false birthday pretenses.”

“No problem,” returns Yuta easily. “You’ll just have to make up for it by inviting me to your real one.”

→

Unfortunately, figuring out the framework of this not-engagement is more complicated than Yuta had bargained for. As it turns out, when people get engaged, they don’t just hold hands and say cheesy things in public, which is about as far ahead as Yuta has bothered to think. A handful of torturous phone calls with both his sisters emphasizes that yes, he actually does have to buy rings, to say nothing of the horrifying ordeals like choosing a wedding venue and drafting a guest list that are rumored to lurk in his future.

“You didn’t even post about it anywhere,” says Doyoung after he’s calmed down some from the initial shock. “Your entire life is on your Instagram. How’s anyone supposed to believe you’re serious about this?”

“My whole family did,” Yuta mumbles.

“Well, yeah, for a second. If you want to keep this charade up long enough to wow your parents, you’re going to need a strategy.”

Ears perking, Yuta grabs a pen off the desk adjacent and starts scribbling down Doyoung’s multi-pronged plan of attack. This is what he’d been after when he confessed the reality of his situation not even five minutes into their lunch break, jittery and overwhelmed. Being that it’s Doyoung he’s dealing with, the support comes with a well-intentioned kick in the ass, but Yuta will pay the service fee if he must.

This is how he and Taeyong end up going ring shopping the following afternoon. 

To be fair, Yuta hadn’t exactly divulged the true purpose of the excursion when he’d flitted, beaming, into the kitchen that morning. He’d made a big deal of advertising the opening of some cute new bakery in Umeda, flaunting online reviews and artful photos of berry tartlets. Taeyong had been listless and sleepy the past couple of days, alternately vegetating in bed and scowling at his sprained wrist like that would make it heal any faster, and so Yuta’s victory was ultimately not hard-won. Once he’s plied Taeyong with dessert, though, the lever is flipped.

“Let’s go in here,” Yuta suggests, perfectly cavalier as he points out a jewelry store.

“Jewelry?”

“Yeah, I wanna look at some earrings.”

Taeyong casts a doubtful look at the side of Yuta’s head, where the assortment of rings and studs through Yuta’s ear, though not as eclectic as it had been some years prior, doesn’t quite mirror the diamond standard of the storefront they’re observing. “If you like,” he says.

The door swishes elegantly open. Taeyong’s eyes pop a little at the immediate barrage of glittery things, his hand coming up to thumb absentmindedly at the unadorned piercings in his own ear. Meanwhile, Yuta zeroes in on the display up front.

“Good morning!” says the sales rep, gaze catching on the way Yuta’s hand guides Taeyong’s elbow. “Can I help you?” 

Taeyong is smiling politely, opening his mouth to tell her they’re just looking. Yuta is faster.

“Yes, actually, that would be great. We’re looking for engagement rings.”

“Wonderful! You’ve come to the right place.”

“Yuta,” whispers Taeyong, whipping around to stare at him. It’s not a reprimanding whisper, more soft and shocked, as though he didn’t think Yuta would be so determined to sell the engagement ruse. Frankly, Yuta hadn’t thought it of himself either, but here they are.

“Yes, honey?” Yuta inclines his head conspiratorially.

Taeyong doesn’t have much to say after that.

The rest proceeds unexpectedly smoothly. There’s quite a substantial collection of rings between the two of them, so sizing isn’t an issue, and the variety of styles is less intimidating than expected with the sales rep’s input. Taeyong pleasantly but steadfastly brushes off her efforts to look at larger stones, but Yuta notices the way he’s drawn to the display of bands inset with white sapphires.

“Excuse me.” Yuta gestures over to the display. “What about something like this?”

“Of course, let me bring some out.” As the representative busies herself with demonstrating a few different options, she casts a brief glance back up at them. “As you’d imagine, we get a lot of couples in here, but there’s something about you two that’s different. Your energy, it’s. Almost magnetic.” The second she says it, she’s laughing embarrassedly as if she hadn’t meant to let it slip. She looks young, possibly younger than them, and there’s a wistful undercurrent to her tone.

Yuta thanks her warmly, wonderingly, and the moment passes. Taeyong, a few paces down the counter, is quietly studying the contours of one of the rings she’s laid out. Yuta leans over to see it better: a simple, no-frills silver band with two tiny gems flanking the center stone. And while, okay, Yuta does have a taste for the ostentatious sometimes (so sue him), he likes the design the longer he looks at it.

He sidles up to Taeyong to ask after the price and feels him jump, watches both hands close protectively over the ring. “Don’t even think about it,” warns Taeyong, “Yuta, seriously, you’ve proved your point. We each have so many rings already.”

“They’re not engagement rings,” says Yuta, innocent. 

“I can’t let you pay for this! Two of these!” 

“Well, do you want to pay?”

Taeyong’s right hand flexes slowly just above the bandage that still decorates his wrist. “You know that’s not what I mean. We’re not even—” here he brings his voice still lower, looking around furtively “—we’re not actually getting married. You’ll be wasting your money.”

“I work for precisely that reason,” counters Yuta. “So I can waste my own money when I want to.” When Taeyong’s expression doesn’t uncrumple, he tries to work his fingers underneath Taeyong’s, which still cover the ring. “If it’ll put your mind at ease, think of it like an early birthday present.”

“You know my birthday isn’t for months!”

“Extra early,” Yuta amends. He widens his eyes to ridiculous proportions, getting ready to make a damn fool of himself right here in the middle of this store if that’s what it takes to get Taeyong to let go.

“No, no, don’t start acting cute,” yelps Taeyong.

“Acting? It’s my natural charisma.”

Taeyong makes to run a hand through his hair in aggravation and Yuta sees his chance, sliding his own hand in underneath for the home run. The ring feels cool between his skin and the glass it rests on, perfectly smooth and slimmer than the ones he usually wears. He likes the weight of it, though, comfortingly solid. It gleams like a pearl in the oyster of his palm when he turns around to show it to the sales rep, smiling again. “This is the one.”

Later, after they’ve returned home and the bag holding the ring boxes is safe on their kitchen table, Taeyong wanders into the kitchen with a pensive look on his face. Yuta’s fighting a losing war with the pan he’s scrubbing, something Taeyong usually does because he’s often home earlier and can’t stand to watch the sink fill up. In light of the wrist injury, though, Yuta has been trying to step in before Taeyong has the opportunity to overexert himself.

“What’s up,” Yuta says.

“You need to soak the pan longer before you try to scrub it,” answers Taeyong absentmindedly. “I don’t know what you burned, but it’s really stuck on there.”

“Okay.” Amicably, Yuta drops the pan and starts running the sink again. “Is that what was on your mind?”

The bag from the jewelry store rustles behind him as Taeyong fishes out the boxes. “Actually, I was thinking about these.”

Yuta reaches for a dish towel and props his hip against the countertop, waiting for the follow-up sentence that doesn’t come. “You don’t like them?”

“No, they’re beautiful! I just figured that since we have them now, and since we’re trying to convince everyone this whole thing is real, we should probably. Start wearing them?”

“Oh, yeah, go ahead and put yours on.”

Taeyong carefully opens one of the boxes and thumbs the silky material inside, avoiding contact with the actual ring. Bemused, Yuta watches him play with it. “Should I put it on for you?” A delighted grin splits his face. “Are you waiting for me drop to one knee?”

“I,” says Taeyong, then crackles to a stop like a faulty record.

“Well, it’s no problem. I’m the one who proposed the idea in the first place, so I may as well propose to you, too. Just ignore the fact that my hands are still kinda damp and smell like old sponge.” Yuta draws near enough to pry the box from Taeyong’s hands, slips the ring out. It winks prettily under their yellow kitchen lights. “It’s been a good few years now since I first met you, and throughout all of them, I’ve been happy. But now I’m asking you for something more: to make me the happiest man in the world.” He kneels on the kitchen floor, reaching out dramatically. “Lee Taeyong, will you m—”

“That’s enough,” says Taeyong, snatching his hand away. His jaw is oddly tensed, eyes averted. “I can put it on myself.”

Yuta gets to his feet, aware of the sudden change in the atmosphere but unsure of what exactly had caused it. The ring is passed stiffly back, safe inside its box so that their hands need not touch again. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he offers. “I was just kidding.”

Taeyong sighs, a great heaving thing that seems to ripple across the whole of his body. “I know.”

“I really didn’t mean anything by it. I know this arrangement is already crazy and asking a lot of you, so I’ll, you know. Cool off with the theatrics.”

“Thanks,” Taeyong replies, lukewarm. He slides the ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand without pausing to admire it, a business transaction of sorts. “And for the birthday present, too.” 

“Of course,” says Yuta, retreating to the sink to properly wash his hands. They’ve got an indulgent supply of artisanal liquid soaps with names like Winter Morning and Sakura Breeze collected for this purpose, one of Taeyong’s few pure frivolities. He’s at ease with things like that: small luxuries, pieces of the domestic puzzle. Yuta, on the other hand, while not a big spender by habit, tends to make more sporadic purchases that compound Taeyong’s perpetual stress. He glances over his shoulder while lathering up, seeking out the subtle sheen of the sapphires. They look better on Taeyong than they had in the store.

After drying off, Yuta pulls the second box from the bag and slips his own ring on. Despite the fairly plain design, the placement makes it feel instantly noticeable, an unmistakable link between the two of them. “I guess there’s no hiding it anymore.”

“Everyone will know,” Taeyong agrees. “Or they’ll think they do, at least.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

Yuta eyes him.

“I would!” The telltale flicker of mirth around Taeyong’s mouth is relieving; it unfreezes his features, so stark when at rest, into something warm, accessible again. “It hasn’t been terrible so far. I think I need to get more into this playacting thing.”

“Baby steps,” Yuta tells him, adopting the airs of a theater veteran. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“But somehow our engagement was?” asks Taeyong, spurring Yuta’s unashamed laughter and joining in himself a moment later. The rigid line of his shoulders softens as he does, unfurling like the new leaves of spring. 

For the first time, they’re fully acknowledging the sheer ridiculousness of the situation they’ve landed in, with matching bands around their fingers and other parameters yet undefined. When Yuta attempts to hoist himself up on the table, his elbow knocks comically loud against the wood and he swears, setting Taeyong off again.

And Yuta likes this, the easy comfort, the absence of need for second thoughts. All they really have to do, he figures, is play it up for one month, and afterwards they’ll look back on it and laugh, just like they’re doing now.

*

For as long as they’ve worked together, Yuta has sworn that he can hear Momo coming before he sees her. There’s something extra purposeful about the click of her heels, each step deliberate and preternaturally sharp, that he could identify blindfolded. “If I didn’t wear heels,” she always tells him, “I could sneak up on you in a second. One day, I’ll actually do it, and you’ll be over just like that.” A snap of her fingers to accentuate her point.

Today, like every day so far, it appears she doesn’t intend to make good on her threat; the clicking sound turns the corner a few seconds prior to the rest of her, and Yuta grins as he holds the elevator door open. 

They share the habit of arriving earlier than strictly necessary, meaning that the bulk of their friendship was forged in the slow morning hours. That is to say, the typical office clamor is slow, at least for the time being. Momo’s personal attitude is fixed with industrial glue in the realm of up and at ‘em; the pep in her step is almost brutal. Yuta’s seen her whack a coffee maker into submission so hard that the table shook, all without her smile shifting even a millimeter.

She is also fond of cutting to the chase in conversation. “Who’s the lucky guy?” she asks, striding into the elevator.

Yuta cautiously withdraws his hand from his pocket. The ring glints. “How did you even see it?”

“That’s the hand you used to hold the door,” she chirps as if it were obvious. “I had a feeling something was going on last week, but I have to say, I’m surprised. Didn’t take you so much for the type to settle down.”

“Well, we’re not that young anymore.” Eleventh floor for her, and fourteenth for himself.

“Speak for yourself!” It emerges vaguely snippy, an imitation of real offense, but Momo is beaming even wider now. Despite their singular year in age difference, Yuta has long conceded that she looks ever livelier and accepts her teasing about going gray in good humor. (For the record, he totally isn’t. He’s only twenty-six. And he’s going to look sexy as hell when he does start getting a little silver around the temples, thanks.)

“I guess it was just time for us to take the big step,” says Yuta, shrugging. His mouth twists, mischievous. “Maybe you and Sana are next?” 

Momo hums, arranging her bangs in the glossed reflection of their faces that peers out from the elevator walls. “Oh, we haven’t really discussed that yet. I’m so happy for you, though, seriously!” She pauses and cocks her head at him. “You never did tell me his name.”

Briefly, Yuta weighs the choice in his head before deciding to come out with it. The night they’d first hashed out the details of the engagement, they had mutually greenlit telling friends the news so long as it didn’t reach Yuta’s family. It would help alleviate the burden of a fake relationship, they’d rationalized. 

“It’s Taeyong. He’s my, uh, roommate.” For whatever reason, this title sounds bland and unconvincing. “My soulmate,” Yuta emphasizes, and feels better.

“Your face is all pink,” announces Momo delightedly. “I love love.” There’s a perky ding! when the doors slide open, and she pins him with a look that indicates they’re far from done with the subject. “Can’t wait to see the wedding invites,” she sings over her shoulder, heels tapping out a rhythm down the hallway.

Yuta shakes his head as he watches her go. A few floors higher, he exits and makes a right instead of his typical left, a bathroom detour. It’s empty in here, too, washed in the thin artificial light that sucks away the laws of time and makes your forehead look shiny no matter the angle. He holds his left hand in front of the mirror, palm facing in. The ring looks fine if he doesn’t factor the rest of his appearance into the equation; as soon as he does, his head swims.

He imagines more people asking about his fiancé, his dream wedding, if he’s ready for the commitment. It’s a dizzying abstraction, and he feels a surge of cloying guilt in the pit of his stomach. 

Then, he imagines Taeyong. Not doing anything particularly special, honestly. Chopping vegetables and sweeping them into a simmering pot, knife fluid like water. Struggling to get the lapel of his winter coat to lie flat. Wearing his own ring to bed, and waking up with it, and going about the motions of his day, all while quietly branded. Soulmate, Yuta had said in the elevator. Like the old tale about the red string of fate, connecting two spirits as one.

He doesn’t know what possessed him to use a word so steeped in the implication of prewritten destiny. If anything, he’s always been a believer in forging your own path, and surrendering any part of that freedom would be fundamentally unappealing. But then he circles back to Taeyong—and maybe it’s because they’ve lived in an overlapping space for so long that they practically function as paired limbs—or because they met so long ago that they’ve seen each other through a dozen embarrassing, fledgling versions of themselves—it doesn’t matter why, really. It’s just that with Taeyong, that same idea is sort of comforting.

The bathroom door squeals as someone strides in. Yuta startles, dips his head, murmurs a greeting. Further contemplation in the realm of mysticism can wait until it’s no longer Monday morning, or at least until he’s not holed up in the men’s room, staring down his mirror image.

He’s mostly still preoccupied while he starts up his desktop, clicking aimlessly through his saved files from the week previous. Their current project is an uninspired sequel in a line of fantasy-adventure RPGs, which means that Yuta and Doyoung’s break room complaints have been centered largely around how tired they are of painting foliage. Then again, it doesn’t especially matter how they feel about the game itself, or the grudges they’re developing against shrubbery. It’s easy enough by now to revert to autopilot, mentally checked out while rendering the thousandth golden sunbeam filtering through a lush forest canopy. Yuta yawns until his eyes water.

Doyoung clocks in nearly an hour later, hair still a little rumpled in the back. He’s good-looking enough that it comes across as effortlessly intentional, which Yuta tells him, then cackles as he immediately attempts to flatten it. One perk to the open office layout is getting to watch Doyoung’s reactions swing from dramatized to professionally concealed the second their supervisor makes an appearance.

“I almost missed my alarm,” Doyoung mutters in explanation once their supervisor disappears around the corner.

“You mean to tell me you weren't jumping out of bed to get to work today? Look how many trees you get to color.”

“Ah, yes,” says Doyoung, utterly expressionless. “I love tree.”

“I figured.” Yuta passes the cup of coffee he’d brewed a few minutes ago and hadn’t touched. “Got you this.”

Groaning, Doyoung holds it up to his face so that the escaping steam curls gently around his cheeks. “Thanks. Need it.”

The unfinished patch of bark that Yuta has been texturing stares blankly out of his monitor. He sighs his agreement, cracking his knuckles and neck. It’ll be another long day.

←

“Fuck! Did I hit you?”

The massive canvas in Yuta’s arms swings around in a clean arc before he drops it in the grass to check on the innocent he’d almost decapitated. Except when he looks up, it’s not yet another art student with paint streaked across their cheekbone and one earphone dangling loose who meets his eyes.

“No! No, I’m fine,” says Taeyong.

Yuta squints. “Are you sure? I definitely heard a thump.”

“It was just my backpack,” Taeyong assures him. “Do you need any help carrying that?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Bending over, Yuta drags the canvas off the ground and gives the plastic cover protecting the unfinished artwork inside a little dusting. “See, it’s all under—” His elbow buckles and it goes flying. They both watch as it lands squarely in the same patch of grass, this time with one corner sticking up like a white flag of surrender. “Control,” finishes Yuta lamely.

“I’ll get the bottom and you can hold the top?”

“Deal.” 

On the count of three, each of them grabs an end of the canvas and hefts it lengthwise so that its front rests on Yuta’s shoulder and the tail end is supported by Taeyong’s. This is admittedly a much more convenient solution than trying to drag the whole board back to the dorms alone. They’re about halfway across the lawn when Taeyong speaks up again. “What’s this for, if you don’t mind my asking? It’s kind of…”

“Gigantic,” says Yuta. “Yeah. Well, the assignment was to create a self-portrait without showing your whole face. When I’m done, it’s gonna be a cross-section of my head with cherry blossoms filling up where the brain should be, the trunk as my neck, that sort of thing. It’s a pretty straightforward way of saying I miss home.”

“Wow,” breathes Taeyong from somewhere behind him, sans elaboration.

“You think it’s unoriginal? Maybe I should’ve planned something bigger.”

“That’s not it!” Given the way they’re walking, Yuta can’t catch Taeyong’s expression, but he can hear the mild alarm. “I was just trying to picture how it’ll look once it’s complete.”

“Decent, I hope. I’m a good few years out of practice with portraiture.”

“I’m sure it’s gonna be fantastic,” Taeyong tells him, and it’s apparent from his inflection that he truly believes this.

It’s been a couple years since they first met, and Yuta can count on one hand the number of meaningful interactions they’ve had since then, but Taeyong remains the same brand of unassuming. He’s easier than expected to decode in his oversized paisley button-downs with the casually haute half-tuck. The hair is newly seafoam green. Yuta’s of the opinion that it suits him, although this may be due to Taeyong’s glaring lack of a bad angle, or unflattering color, or single mean bone in his body.

He’s so nice, in fact, that he patiently accompanies Yuta all the way back to his dorm despite it being a sweaty walk of fifteen minutes. Definitely farther than Yuta himself would go for a friend who only runs in the middle rings of your social circle—a friend-in-orbit, as it were. Yuta wonders if this means they’re a little closer than that. Maybe he should brush up on his lit theory to make better conversation in the future.

Fortunately, that’s a route they don’t venture down today. Taeyong brings up portrait photography as an avenue adjacent to painting, citing Johnny as his source for camera facts. He throws around phrases whose meanings Yuta is only tangentially acquainted with (“shutter speed” and “lens aperture” seem to be favorites), but at least the discussion of different light sources is relatable. Yuta, personally, had despised learning to use these elements in technical drawing because he’d felt it squished the joy out of creating art for art’s sake. He relays this to Taeyong and receives a thoughtful beat of silence at first.

“I get that,” says Taeyong eventually. They’re in the stairwell, heading up, and his voice has taken on an echoey quality that twists at the shell of Yuta’s ear. “I took a few writing courses that focused pretty heavily on mechanics, and after a while, it all starts to look like code.”

“Right? You just get tired. I’m not shitting on the importance, though.” The canvas is dropped once again while Yuta fishes for his keys, then unlocks the door. “Wanna come in?”

“It’s like, you need to build a foundation before you take the leap on your own,” continues Taeyong absently, still lost in the thread of their previous topic. Then he looks up, and Yuta’s question visibly registers in his head in perfect rhythm with an embarrassed grimace. “Yes. Sorry.”

Yuta shrugs, holding the door open. “All good. Don’t worry about the canvas, I’ll get it.”

So Taeyong folds his hands behind his back like he’s unsure what to do with them anymore and steps into Yuta’s shared suite, and Yuta scoots around him to lug the canvas in before letting the door fall shut. It clicks with an odd finality. The space lacks sound. 

“You want something to drink?” offers Yuta in an effort to revive the current. “I’ve got water, or I can make tea.”

“Tea would be nice,” replies Taeyong, hesitant. “Thank you.” He has yet to move, as if he thinks Yuta will kick him out after extending a cup. More likely, he just doesn’t know where to sit.

“There are chairs in the other room,” Yuta explains. “Hold on, I’ll go pull up a couple.” 

He smiles over his shoulder as he goes, a quick thing meant to soothe. And it does, a bit, and then a great deal more once the tea has been poured and they’re both seated, slouching while the afternoon crests outside. It feels good to be tucked safely in here where the aircon is plentiful, and better still to scowl freely at the canvas abandoned by the door. With the way introspection is assigned in art classes, pieces like these tend to present more like sensationalized penny dreadfuls—struggle! darkness! depersonalization!—than genuine meditation on the self. In spite of all this, Yuta thinks it’s salvageable. There’s a muse lurking somewhere, and he’ll just wait for it to surface.

A month later, his finished piece has been submitted, critiqued, and hung up on the wall as part of their end of semester exhibition. From across the hallway, Yuta examines it, the texture of the paint discernible even this far away. It’s got a glassy shine to it from the sealant he’d used, making the skin appear perpetually wet. In place of a cross-sectioned head, he’d ended up drawing cracks along the face in spiderwebbing fractals, a deep gouge arcing down from one temple and leaving the rest of the face shattered. There are cherry blossoms growing out of the cracks, as promised, but they’re rough and irregular. Blush pink across the cheeks, deeper magenta smeared around the mouth, splashes of navy and gold dripping out from closed eyes.

He doesn’t know if it’s better, exactly, than the concept for which he’d originally been aiming, but he is sure that he likes this iteration more. The comparative chaos of it had been inspired by the startlingly honest conversation he’d held with Taeyong the day they’d lugged the canvas across campus together. Snatches of it still run through his mind sometimes when he fingers his brushes.

Actually, Yuta had invited Taeyong to come see the painting in all its tense, conflicted glory. Tonight’s open house, attendance and drinks gratis, and he thought it would be a suitable gesture of reciprocity for the person who’d helped the idea take shape. Except he hasn’t caught Taeyong’s face in the crowd yet, hasn’t caught one glimpse of him all night, and he can’t pinpoint why he feels sort of disappointed.

The crowd spreads thin and merges together again. Yuta strains his eyes for a speck of sea green in the wash of black and white and gray, but there’s no one.

Irritated at himself for being so hopeful, he tightens his fingers around the stem of his wineglass and contemplates throwing back the remaining half right here and now. It would be unbecoming. Does he care? If he spilled any on himself, ruining his crisp new shirt with rivulets of burgundy, someone in this room would still laud it as a piece of performance art. He refrains from rolling his eyes at the thought, setting the glass down on a side table instead.

Yuta’s social battery usually runs on moderate to high, but he’s increasingly less enthused about the prospect of schmoozing with people he doesn’t much care for as the night goes on. He imagines his bed, neatly made for once, the corners crisp. It’s a pretty sexy picture. Just as he’s really about to excuse himself, there’s a tap on his shoulder.

He whips around. Taeyong’s hair is now blush pink, cherry blossom pink, hanging static-fluffed above his eyes. A tie has even made an appearance around his neck.

“Sorry I’m late,” says Taeyong, rocking back nervously. He’s wringing his hands. There are rosy smudges across his knuckles and on his fingers, lingering evidence of a recent at-home dye job, despite him probably having washed his hands ten compulsive times already. “I got kind of lost on my way here, and then I couldn’t find you in the crowd.”

Yuta’s chest inflates all at once. “Not a problem,” he answers. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Me too,” says Taeyong, and Yuta grins, breathless.

→

Essentially, Yuta is a born raconteur. In elementary school, he memorized the “life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness” phrase from the American Declaration of Independence in order to convince his classmates that he was actually born in the States. Being literally eight years old, they believed him and crowded up against his side at lunchtime, asking a million questions he’d answer on the fly. In middle school, when he became something of a soccer celebrity, he claimed Kagawa Shinji as a distant cousin, saying that the midfielder role just coincidentally ran in his blood. In college, he used to tell people that he was an ex-idol trainee whose enduring love of DBSK led him to seek stardom in Seoul.

Eventually, of course, he’d laughingly dismiss the façade, or else someone would elbow him and call his bullshit. But no matter what, there was always a window for him to take center stage, enjoying his audience’s shifting expressions as he took them along for the ride. 

As it so happens, Taeyong is much the opposite. He’s gullible almost to a fault, hooked on the yarns Yuta spins before they’re halfway out his mouth. This was an especially common occurrence their first few months of living together: Yuta would always feel bad that Taeyong couldn’t follow and give in immediately after landing his ridiculous punchline.

They’ve been together long enough now for Taeyong to catch his drift, though. Sometimes he’ll even play along, or parrot little ribbons of Yuta’s stories back to him until they resemble inside jokes. Or a screenplay, maybe, expressed in fragments only the two of them know how to decipher.

Tonight, Yuta makes it home under the pitch-dark sky and collapses against the door as soon as he’s shut it behind him. He’s extra late. Him and every other 2D artist on the team, really, but the distinction is lost on Taeyong, who’d been expecting him early today.

“I know,” he says, still boneless against the wood, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”

When he opens them again, Taeyong’s leaning against the back of the couch with a mug of tea in hand. He stirs it idly, probably mixing in honey. For all his efforts to develop a taste for sugarless brew, he’s never entirely been able to ditch the sweet tooth. “I’ll go first,” he says. “You finally put your foot down and refused to color any more katsura leaves until you got additional payment in the form of takoyaki. Lightning struck the building and left all your computers fried.”

A grin skews over Yuta’s mouth, and the ache in his spine withdraws just slightly. “Not quite.”

“Okay.” Taeyong presses his lips together, trying not to crack. Those elusive, barely-there dimples bloom in each cheek. “You and Doyoung got into a fistfight on top of the table and inadvertently inspired a new storyboard design.”

“I like that one,” acknowledges Yuta, picturing it. “No, even more wild. It’s ten in the morning, right? And the principal art director comes running in, and he goes, you won’t believe it.”

“I won’t believe it,” Taeyong echoes.

“He’s like, I had a vision for this game’s title screen, and it’s just perfect. We need to recall our protagonist’s roots. Sapporo. Snow sculptures and icy peaks. The Lilac Festival in May. I’m like, Takada-bucho, it’s March. But he’s so adamant about the experience, saying you can only feel it when you’re in the city itself.”

Taeyong is biting the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. He nods, businesslike.

“He says, I’ve emailed you the flight details. You have an hour to get to the airport. And I had no choice but to go.”

“I think I know where this is headed,” says Taeyong, covering his mouth with his tea mug. 

“That’s how I ended up at—”

“A poetry slam in Hokkaido,” finishes Taeyong in perfect sync. The veneer cracks and they’re both laughing. “Been wondering when I’d get to hear that one again.”

“Today’s your lucky day,” Yuta declares. He rolls his stiff neck in a circle, groaning as it pops. “Only haikus were allowed, and the winning one was about the first spring thaw on top of Mount Moiwa. I flew home and finished the title card all by myself after hearing it once.” He pauses, kneading at the side of his neck with one hand. “What?”

Taeyong’s looking at him weird, gaze gone soft like the split center of a fried egg betraying runny, orange-gold yolk. His shirt’s a perfect color match, the same family of tangerine. “I was hoping you’d be here earlier so we’d have more time, but do you want to go out somewhere? We haven’t in a while, and I just figured, you know, it would be good for practicing public appearances.” As a couple, he seems to be implying.

“Are you asking me out?” says Yuta, one brow rising.

“Maybe,” answers Taeyong weakly. “If that’s what we’re calling it now.”

Yuta smiles even wider than before. “I love it. Let’s go. If we’re engaged to each other, we should have been on a thousand dates already, right, darling?”

“I wouldn’t be mad about number one thousand and one,” Taeyong agrees. He also wrinkles his nose to let Yuta know that ‘darling’ isn’t working. Ever since Yuta let ‘honey’ slip in the jewelry shop, he’s been playing around with pet names that are suitably intimate without simultaneously inducing a gag reflex. It appears he’ll have to keep searching.

Less of a discussion over where to go takes place than expected. Usually, they’ll toss the names of shops and food stalls back and forth, but it seems like Taeyong had decided on a plan ahead of time. They’re out the door within a couple minutes and taking the southbound line to Tennoji station within a few more. The train compartment is as crowded as one would expect for a Friday night, tourists’ faces interspersed with those of the locals. 

It’s easy to identify them: the way they listen anxiously for each stop announcement, for one, plus the way most will look up and down from what’s probably a city map pulled up on their phones. Yuta never got to see Taeyong at that stage, actually. He’d already been living in Osaka for a year or so before moving into Yuta’s more spacious apartment and had the shellac of hard-won metro fluency adhered to his skin. His grasp of Japanese, too, has been exceptional for as long as Yuta’s known him.

Currently, Taeyong is bracing himself with one of the dangling handholds, back tucked against Yuta’s front. His bandaged hand is drawn up to his stomach, a precaution against the elbows of strangers. The doors hiss open and he emerges ahead of the ample crowd. It’s wondrous, Yuta thinks, that Taeyong can hold himself so much like a native, yet continue to marvel, wide-eyed, at each mundane storefront and crosswalk they pass. No fish out of water, certainly, but either unable or unwilling to take the excited bustle of the city for granted.

Yuta keeps Taeyong’s brisk pace without a word until it becomes obvious where they’re headed. “Abeno Harukas?” he asks, thrown for a loop. “You saw all those tourists. We’re entering the lion’s den.”

“I know,” admits Taeyong, leading the way. “I just kind of bought the tickets on impulse. We’ve never been here together.”

This is true. When you move back to your birthplace after years abroad, you’re hungrier for the street haunts and unremarkable convenience stores of your memory than the attractions you’d paid token visits to as a child. Returning to see the tallest skyscraper in all Japan is not something that’s crossed Yuta’s mind even once in recent years, but trailing after Taeyong tonight, it takes on a newly vibrant aura. Without really thinking about it, Yuta’s reaching forward to take Taeyong’s hand in his own. 

Surprised, Taeyong glances back at him for a second but doesn’t break the hold. Both of them are running a little hot from the hurried walk, and their palms are sticky. Yuta didn’t actually expect it to last for more than a minute or two, but they reach the elevator to the observation deck and neither of them has let go yet.

The air pressure change loudly makes itself known between Yuta’s ears as they shoot upwards. It’s uncomfortable, obviously, but it makes his heart thrum a little faster in anticipation of the view. Beside him, Taeyong winces.

“You okay? Ears hurting?”

Taeyong shakes his head. He looks embarrassed, mouth drawn tight, and when he speaks, it’s not only quiet but in Korean to boot. “I’m not great with heights.”

“What?” Yuta stares, disbelieving. “You’re the one who bought the tickets.”

“It sounded nice according to people’s reviews,” he says defensively. His grip on Yuta’s hand has slowly been tightening, and when the doors part at the sky deck, it jumps from snug to vicelike.

Yuta strokes his thumb across Taeyong’s knuckles as best as he can while feeling like his hand’s been swallowed by a bear trap. “Do you want to go back down? We’ll do whatever you want.”

“No? I mean, no. I really did want to do this.”

“Okay, well, let’s get out of the elevator before it closes.” Yuta’s leading now, calm and measured, while Taeyong follows a half-step behind. Languages both known and foreign overlap as people around them exclaim praise for the view or ask the nearest passerby to take a photo. The air is thin and brisk, and Yuta feels the same invigorating tingle in his veins that he does when sprinting or hiking up a mountain. “Still sure?” he asks, checking in. 

Taeyong nods, relaxing just enough to allow blood circulation in Yuta’s extremities again. “Yes, definitely.”

“Good.” Carefully, Yuta picks his way to an area that’s not too packed, or worse, too close to the edge of the deck. The farther reaches of the city below are still easily visible without straining to look over anyone’s head.

A few shaky exhales escape while Taeyong gets his bearings, and Yuta waits, patient, without letting go. Finally, Taeyong takes another small step forward and laughs sheepishly. “Sorry to burden you all of a sudden. I meant to arrange a better thousand-and-first date than this.”

“Don’t even start with me, Lee Taeyong,” Yuta threatens. “You know you could never be a burden.”

They inch steadily nearer to the edge, the distance between them so small that Yuta’s beginning to feel like they’re one conjoined entity in the ocean of chatter and lights. Their bodies are an island, and the gentle breeze that picks up, kissing the backs of their necks, could almost be stirring sand along the shoreline.

“We can go a little closer,” says Taeyong, soft but determined. “I want to look down.”

“This much?” Yuta stops short behind a group of French tourists, parents and two fairly young children. The woman holds a baby on her left hip, her wedding band polished and adorned with a heavy jewel. He wonders if he’s been hallucinating all the rings he’s seen lately, or if the whole world has secretly been in love all this time, and getting a ring himself was the gateway into this hidden realm. 

“Yeah, we can wait for them to finish.” Taeyong breathes in so deep he could be swimming, sucking in oxygen like ambrosia.

While he steels himself, Yuta studies him. Really, properly looks for the first time today. The night is as kind to Taeyong as sunlight has ever been, turning his hair to pure charcoal and his lashes sooty to match, grainy shadow under his cheekbones. He somehow looks so different from how he did in college, even though his face hasn’t changed a bit.

Is it the hair? Taeyong had gone through more hair colors at age twenty than most people do from birth to death, but he’s permitted his natural black to grow unhindered for ages now. Yuta knows that somewhere beneath his long fringe, there’s a still-purple bruise from the fall he’d taken off the ladder. Could it be the big round glasses, maybe? At one point, Taeyong didn’t like to be seen in public with them, but he seems to care progressively less of late. He’s switched to tiny, subtle silver hoops in his earlobes over studs and his torso has filled out some, the breadth of his shoulders emphasized by the bulky denim jacket he’d slipped on before heading out. Both these details are relatively new as well. 

But there are still the same thick brows, sharp nose, the scar by his eye that looks like a stray blossom. Lips, jaw, collarbones. Yuta’s inventory fails to yield any conclusive results. 

He’s always known, objectively, that Taeyong possesses not just the kind of face people write songs about, but the kind that inspires people who’ve never composed a bar in their lives to try. Never has that influenced his perspective of his roommate. Perhaps it’s Osaka’s luminous skyline that paints Yuta’s vision so strangely tonight, or else the high altitude is affecting his cognitive ability.

In front of them, the French family concludes their photo taking and nods cordially as they leave. Taeyong presses even further into Yuta’s side while they move all the way up to the edge of the deck.

“Beautiful view,” murmurs Taeyong decisively, scanning the full expanse of the city below them. He tilts his head up to look at Yuta, eyes aglow. “Not quite like the first snowmelt in Sapporo—” teasing, here, then back to sincerity just as quickly “—but it’s special. Don’t you think?”

Yuta looks back at him and struggles to find even a single word for an adequate reply. His throat constricts, and he suddenly feels faint. Taeyong’s hand in his seems the only thing keeping him on the ground, as if gravity will release him at any second and send his body floating out over the cars and buildings and almost three million heads.

“Beautiful,” manages Yuta finally. He doesn’t remember what exactly he’s agreeing to, but he says it with complete conviction.

Taeyong smiles. 

Somehow, impossibly, the lights below shine brighter, as if the whole of Osaka is smiling, too.

←

So, okay, Yuta should have known better than to try and pull this off. The symptoms he’s been displaying are definitely cold-like, and there were multiple summer showers predicted to come down this week, but there was no doubt he would fail this test if he didn’t buckle down and cram tonight. 

In his defense, it worked well enough at first. Periodic swigs of coffee kept his energy up, or at least made for a decent placebo, and he plowed through five months’ worth of notes about Heian art pretty painlessly. Now, though, it’s approaching midnight and his brain feels like some deity above’s got him in a cosmic headlock. 

Yuta pillows his head on his arms and tries to will the pain away to no avail. Time is ticking, but the pressure behind his temples is mounting to match. Maybe he’ll just die before his final tomorrow morning. That would be easier.

“Are you okay?” asks a concerned voice.

A slow blink of bleary eyes. “God?”

“Well, usually, I go by Taeyong,” comes the reply. When Yuta lifts his head, that is indeed the face that comes into focus, floating in fragmented pieces until a nose, quirked mouth, furrowed brow become discernible.

“Oh.” Yuta turns his cheek, uncaring of the way Kun’s neatly printed notes stick to his damp skin. “Hey.”

“You look really sick, like, shouldn’t even leave your room sick.”

“Are you here to lecture me about spreading contagious illness, God Taeyong?” mumbles Yuta. The room feels hotter by the second, prickling at the nape of his neck. 

“No,” says Taeyong, looking earnest rather than affronted. “I came to see if you needed any help.”

“That’s nice of you.” His eyelids threaten to slip shut again. “Wouldn’t want to trouble you, though. Have a good night.”

“It’s no trouble!” Taeyong’s hand lingers awkwardly on the back of the chair opposite Yuta’s for a second before he pulls it out and sets his backpack down. The zippers squeak when he tugs it open, rummaging. “Here, I have Tylenol and ginseng. Water, too, if you want.”

Yuta stares. The sharp pulse of his headache doesn’t let up. “Alright,” he decides finally, reaching for the pill bottle. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.” 

“Sit, if you want. I’ll try my best not to give you the plague.” Maybe it’s the feverish delirium, but in the weak light of the café, Taeyong appears haloed by tiny flames, wispy and flickering. When Yuta blinks again, they’re gone. 

Taeyong sounds genuinely regretful when he says, “I have to go, but good luck on your exam. I took that class last year, and it really wasn’t bad.”

“You study art history?”

“A little bit, for fun.” He shrugs and shoulders his backpack, nudging the water bottle closer to Yuta’s limp hand. “Drink this! And go home. You won’t be able to sit through the test if you don’t.”

If Yuta didn’t feel like warm roadkill, he probably would have taken that as a challenge. In light of current circumstances, however, the prospect of sleeping in his own bed sounds nice. He’s reviewed most of the material, and his grade can afford a bit of a blow. On top of that, he doesn’t think he could live with himself if he ignored the fully imploring face Taeyong is pulling right now.

So after Taeyong leaves, Yuta packs his things and does go home, dumping his papers on the ground the minute he gets inside and collapsing face-first on rumpled sheets. His fever breaks when the night is thickest, and though he feels disgusting come morning, the pounding behind his temples has reverted to glorious silence. He does end up giving the flu to Ten, who bitches and moans and curses Yuta’s offspring for three generations but ultimately recovers in time for his last exam, too.

Later, once the last of it is said and done, the fabric of Yuta’s daily routine unravels shockingly fast. Graduation is a blur. His family flies out to see him and he cries more than once. He vaguely remembers hugging Johnny, or maybe it was a telephone pole, and saying goodbye to Ten, whose eyes mist up but don’t overflow when Yuta squeezes him. There are other faces as well, dozens of them, but he can’t stop to pick out each one. He’s almost certain Taeyong is somewhere among them, but when he goes back through the pictures weeks later, he can’t find a single one of them together.

He’s known for a couple years now that he wanted to move back home after graduating, which makes it easier to go through the motions of re-transplanting but strangely still comes with no relief. Yuta had missed Osaka, of course, but after a while, the ache had dulled down into a background hum. You learn to compartmentalize. Then, you’re suddenly stepping off the plane in the city that knew you before you knew yourself, and the edges of reality become malleable again.

Momoka is a full-blown doctor now, which is crazy. She picks him up at the airport still in her hospital clothes, though the coat is absent, and ruffles his hair like he’s five again. He sniffles over her shoulder and permits it this once. Haruna’s still in school, and his parents are out, but he’ll be seeing everyone tonight. In his childhood home, no less. Thinking of something as innocuous as their dinner table, the rice cooker that always needed a smack to start properly, is enough to make Yuta’s head spin. He’s the one who bought the tickets and made the choice to come back, but he almost can’t believe he’s really allowed to stay.

Of course, alignment returns in the end. Yuta spends some time designing art for an indie game that blows up tremendously about a year after launch, and he’s hired at a larger company headquartered in Korea not long after that. He likes having the opportunity to keep in practice with the language that had anchored him for so long. His aunt relocates to Europe for work, leading Yuta to come into possession of her apartment, which is still close enough to his parents that they don’t feel like he’s disappeared again. It’s all convenient and perfect. So perfect, in fact, that he gets bored and puts out an ad for a roommate to mix things up.

He doesn’t expect to see a familiar name in the list of respondents, but after some consideration, he also doesn’t think he’ll mind.

→

Around mid-March every year, cedar pollen starts to disperse as if triggered by some skyward pulley, raining invisible gold dust across Osaka’s shoulders. It’s never particularly bothered Yuta, who likes such rituals of nature and walks to the subway with an extra bounce in his step once he feels it. As such, when Taeyong initially moved in, arrival chasing the tail of summer, the idea that it could be a problem hadn’t even crossed Yuta’s mind.

Except it was, and the first March they spent together, Taeyong’s allergies flared up so goddamn bad they thought he was at least one ankle deep in the grave. He lived to tell the tale after some antihistamines eventually got him sorted, but he’d cast a wary eye towards spring ever since.

The morning of the 15th, Yuta is jolted from sleep by a sneeze so loud it almost shakes the walls, and he groans. So it begins again.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he calls, padding into the kitchen. Taeyong doesn’t even have time to entertain the thought of greeting him back before another aggressive sneeze just about folds him in half.

“Lovely day,” Yuta continues. 

Reproachfully, Taeyong stares at him with the red, swollen eye not obscured by his bangs. “It’s back,” he announces, practically gargling rocks.

He looks miserable, and all Yuta’s desire to play with him melts. “I know,” he says, wholly sympathetic. “You out of pills? I’ve got enough time before work today to grab more.”

“They’re here, I just—” Taeyong sneezes three times in rapid succession “—knocked the bottle onto the floor by accident. And then I tried to catch it while it was falling, but I used my bad hand and it—” a fourth one “—seized up.”

Yuta rubs the remaining sleep from his eyes to see the way Taeyong awkwardly cradles his bandaged right wrist in his other hand. “Oh, fuck. I’ll get it, hold on.” He stoops, feeling around until his fingers close around the plastic.

Taeyong mumbles a thanks and shakes a couple capsules into his palm, downing them with water. It’s a pure fabrication in any event to say that Taeyong looks bad, but at the very least, he seems infirm; beyond the puffy lids, his undereyes look sallow and his mouth bloodless, pale. He’s dressed for the day, though, spine resolutely straight. Yuta is tempted to ask him to stay home, but he knows Taeyong would rather sprain his good wrist, too, than miss class over pollen allergies. 

It’s kind of stupid to even be tempted, he supposes. Taeyong has made it abundantly clear that he can handle his own responsibilities, returning to campus barely two days after he busted his head (with a bandage still on!) and refusing to incorporate extra downtime into his routine. He’s the picture of efficiency. At the same time, that’s more or less why Yuta gets this feeling at all: who else is going to tell him to ease up sometimes? Sure, Taeyong takes care of business, but he doesn’t always take the best care of himself.

“Anyway,” says Taeyong. Yuta’s train of thought crumbles and is forgotten. “I think I’ll head out now.”

“Don’t you usually leave around eight?”

Taeyong sniffles, visibly holding back another sneeze. “Yeah, but I have stuff to catch up on. Plus, the later I go, the later I’ll come home.”

“Liar. You already said yesterday that you’re staying late to grade.”

“Right.” For a moment, Taeyong looks put-out before he adamantly pushes his chin back up. “Well, I’ll just keep busy, then.” 

There’s a stray eyelash sticking to his cheek, probably rubbed loose. Yuta studies him, reaches out, catches the lash on his fingertip. “Make a wish.”

Taeyong’s wide, watery eyes dart down to Yuta’s outstretched finger, then somewhere further down his wrist. It’s his left hand, Yuta realizes belatedly. His ring is just about pressed into Taeyong’s bottom lip.

“Okay,” says Taeyong after a moment. “I made one.”

“What was it?”

“Can’t tell you,” he singsongs, raspy, as he turns to the door. “If I do, it won’t come true, right?”

Yuta grins at his retreating back. “Point taken. Have a good day!”

“You too!” The door opens, swings shut, locks, but even over the sound, Yuta can hear that Taeyong is smiling, too.

After that, the day unfolds much the same as always; work is work is work. Doyoung grills him for updates, then throws his stress ball at Yuta’s head upon deciding he’s had enough only a minute in. A backdrop they’d been working on all week is scrapped by higher-ups, but nobody minds too much because the whole department thought it was ugly and dated, and Yuta takes great joy in dragging each file into the recycle bin. 

The only small novelty is the frequency with which he texts Taeyong. Usually, they don’t bother each other as they go about their days except with pragmatic things: reminders to pick up takeout or buy milk. Today, he contacts Taeyong as soon as he gets to the office, then at lunch, and again an hour later.

Yuta doesn’t really know why. Taeyong’s fine, has been fine, and mostly replies to his messages with pictures of cats, anyway. It’s just reassuring somehow to feel him on the other end of the line. 

He’d been expecting to see Taeyong awake when he got off today, but some system maintenance error keeps him at work a couple extra hours, and the apartment is dark by the time he arrives. 

“Hello?” he calls, feeling around on the counter for a glass. There’s no response aside from the clink of his ring against the rim of the glass he finds. It's not terribly late, and it’s unlike Taeyong to have retired already. There’s no light from his bedroom, but Yuta tries knocking once regardless.

“Come in,” says Taeyong, voice sleep-sodden. 

Yuta tuts as soon as he does. Taeyong is curled up in bed, laptop propped sideways on his sheets. His round-frame glasses nest askew in rumpled hair. A word document is pulled up on the laptop screen, but the blinking cursor betrays the place where coherent sentences give way to a tired keysmash.

“You look exhausted,” Yuta accuses. “Why are you still trying to work?”

“Gotta,” Taeyong mumbles, somehow resigned and almost childish at once.

“Not like this.” Setting his water on the bedside table, Yuta plucks the glasses from Taeyong’s hair and folds them beside it. The laptop goes, too.

Taeyong demonstrates token refusal for a few moments before he stops abruptly, too tired to keep it up. Without the screen’s blue glow, Yuta has to squint; only the light he’d left on in the entryway when he came in shines faintly from down the hall.

“Allergies wearing you out already?”

“I guess,” says Taeyong. Yuta can’t tell if his eyes are open in the dimness. “Was a long day in general.”

Yuta hums. “I can imagine. You’ve washed up and everything, right?”

“Yes,” answers Taeyong petulantly, “I’m not gross like you.” He kicks halfheartedly at Yuta’s thigh from under the blanket and misses.

Laughing, Yuta leans in playfully. “Yeah, me and all my metro germs.”

“Stop,” mutters Taeyong into his pillow, but not without some levity curling into his tone. 

Still, Yuta complies and backs away. He does feel kind of gross with all the day’s sticky demands caked into his clothes. “Alright, I’ll go shower. Night.”

“I didn’t mean that you had to leave.” Taeyong’s eyes are definitely open now, gleaming and unmistakable. His face is easier to make out now as a whole. There are stripes of shine across the tops of both cheeks where he’s layered his moisturizer, almost like inverted war paint. Angel paint, maybe.

“You’re too drained to carry on a conversation,” Yuta tries, and feels the objection coming before he hears it.

“I haven't seen you at all today, except in the morning. Can’t I look at my own fiancé’s face?”

Something in Yuta’s ribcage seizes unexpectedly. “Hey, corny shit like that is my trademark, not yours.”

“Marriages are about compromise,” says Taeyong, quiet but smug, and Yuta huffs in outrage.

“Unbelievable. This is my brand.” He settles comfortably onto the floor, cross-legged where he can easily meet Taeyong’s eyes. “Although you always were a determined learner.”

“If nothing else,” Taeyong agrees, shifting onto one side with an elbow propping up his head. His other hand, the bandaged one, rests loosely at the edge of the bed. For a single, disorienting second, Yuta is transported back to the hospital room where Taeyong laid silently in white, seemingly straddling the gateway to another realm. Then, the memory distorts and the Taeyong of the present is looking at him again.

“I don’t know what you mean by that? You’re getting your Master’s in Japanese literature. God knows I could never, and I was born and raised here.”

“Your Korean is still really good, though, especially considering that Doyoung and I are the only ones you use it with.” The last few syllables are lost to a massive yawn.

Yuta waves it off. “I’m conversational, not a scholar.”

“You could be one if you wanted. Remember that book you gave me forever ago?”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t believe you still do.”

Taeyong sits up, blanket falling away. He bends over to rummage for something beside the bed, almost knocking over the framed picture of them on his bookshelf in the process. When he straightens, there’s a squarish outline in his hand. “Then would you believe this is what made me pursue my grad studies? Or start thinking about it, at least.”

“You’re fucking with me,” says Yuta, oddly choked up. He clears his throat roughly.

Shrugging, Taeyong hands the book over. Yuta knows the divots of the cover and pages worn silky by touch, but its existence here is baffling, an anachronism. They were different people then. Younger, for one, and preoccupied with their looming futures in a country across the sea.

“How could I forget my first ever not-birthday gift?”

Yuta can’t help but smile. “I hope the second one was as memorable.”

“Of course,” answers Taeyong, words thick with drowsiness. “A man only gets fake engaged once.”

The ring is warm when Yuta brushes the thumb of his other hand over it. These days, he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing it anymore, as if it’s melded with his skin. “There’s no one else I’d rather do this with,” he says and is surprised by how it comes out soft, honest, instead of joking.

He peers over at Taeyong to see if he’d noticed, but his lids are fully lowered. Also, his lips are parted, and his breaths come through them slow and even. Probably drifting off, then. 

Probably wouldn’t notice if Yuta inched forward on his knees, just the tiniest bit, to really make sure he’s asleep. To tug the corner of the blanket so that it covers Taeyong’s whole torso. To let his hand linger there for a few seconds afterwards, and gauge just how far the pad of his index finger is from those lips, and wonder how easy it would be to brush against them. They’d be soft. Probably. These are all hypotheticals.

Yuta stands and leaves before he has time to wonder about anything else.

*

Back when they lived together, Ten used to complain that Yuta’s penchant for early rising was borderline psychotic. In those days, when he was Starved for a Muse, Yuta made it a whole thing to go for daily walks at dawn in the name of sparking productivity. It clears my head, he’d say, which he still firmly upholds even if he doesn’t have the luxury of crashing whenever he feels like it anymore. In response, Ten would groan something unintelligible and chuck a pillow across the room.

It’s been a solid while since Yuta last reminisced on this memory, but it, along with all manner of long-buried siblings, comes flooding back after he gets off the phone. It’s such an insanely small goddamn world.

The grapevine unfurls like this: before Momo was clicking her heels all over the marketing department, she was a dancer, and apparently an outstanding one at that. So is Ten. They’d met for the first time at a workshop in Seoul and kept in touch ever since. Exchanging pleasantries over text the other day, Yuta’s status as a mutual acquaintance had been revealed, and Momo had gushed, “Can you believe he’s getting married?”

Less than twelve hours later, Yuta’s receiving an early morning international call while he’s out with Taeyong and ducking into a coffee shop to hear better. Ten sounds exactly the same, albeit accompanied by the chatter of the other members of his studio warming up in the background, and even the pitch of his excited shouting makes Yuta warm with nostalgia.

He issues congratulations first, then demands to know who the lucky man is, and then he gasps and fawns for a few good minutes after Yuta drops Taeyong’s name before saying, “You know what, though? I always had the feeling you two would click. Guess it was only a matter of time.”

Yuta doesn’t get it. He’s still thinking about it once he hangs up, flipping the words over and upside down in his head like he’ll strike gold if he looks hard enough. For all their acquaintances in common and brief encounters, Taeyong had never approached the territory of what Yuta would consider a close friend back then. In fact, he’d almost always had somewhere to rush off to when they did see each other. If you’d told Yuta in college that he and Taeyong would wind up practically conjoined at the hip and (fake) engaged besides, he would’ve deemed it a joke too imaginative for even the likes of himself to dream up.

Except it’s not a joke. It’s reality, kind of. As real as the ring on Yuta’s finger, but flimsy and temporary nonetheless. Trying to parse the technicalities makes Yuta’s head hurt after a while, so he gets up from the table he’d claimed in the corner to see what Taeyong has ordered for them both.

Up front, he finds Taeyong talking animatedly with a vaguely familiar looking woman, drinks forgotten for the moment by the napkin dispenser. He doesn’t notice Yuta coming and startles when he feels the inquisitive touch on his shoulder.

“You must be Yuta,” says the woman, eyes curving kindly. Her hair is pulled up in a large, ornate clip that Yuta is now certain he’s seen someplace else. He tries to place it, flicking through a mental catalogue. Related to work, maybe? A social function… an end-of-year party… her hand on the waist of—

“That’s right,” chirps Taeyong. “Yuta, this is Minatozaki Sana.” 

“Ah, we’ve met before, actually,” says Yuta and dips his head politely. He remembers where he’d encountered Sana earlier. In less than ten minutes, his world shrinks in size again. “It’s good to see you again.”

Taeyong’s mouth falls open. “You know each other?”

“She’s dating one of my coworkers,” Yuta explains, still mildly surprised to hear the words exit his own mouth. It’s as if Momo has connections to everyone under the sun. “How did you two meet?”

Sana glances at Taeyong out of the corner of her eye, blink-and-you-miss-it fast. “We used to work together, too.”

“Oh, at that really upscale restaurant in Dotonbori? Taeyong’s mentioned it a couple times.”

“No,” says Sana, still smiling, but there’s a furtive quality to her voice. Yuta looks back and forth from her to Taeyong, who has turned an interesting shade of salmon. He’s being left out of something, obviously, but he can’t imagine why their employment history should be a secret.

“Is there something I should know about, or?” He spreads his hands, indicating he’ll back off if needed. It’s so strange, though, because he and Taeyong don’t keep things from each other. The vast majority of things, at least. Yuta would never pry, but being excluded from the loop doesn’t feel the best.

Taeyong’s cheeks are growing redder by the second, but he presses his lips together resolvedly and gives Sana a microscopic nod. “This was years ago, just so you know,” he prefaces. “Like, when I’d just moved here. Before the restaurant, even. We, uh, we worked at a café.”

“Okay,” says Yuta, confused. Taeyong has a dark, incriminating past as a barista?

“It was a themed café,” continues Sana, gentle, when she sees that Taeyong has clammed up again. “The waitstaff had to dress a certain way.”

Still blank, Yuta just looks at her.

“Aprons,” she says delicately. “Frills. That sort of thing.”

The shop suddenly feels several degrees warmer, sending a flush crawling up the back of Yuta’s neck. His mouth runs dry as he pictures Taeyong in the outfit that Sana described. “I see,” he wheezes, descending into a brief coughing fit not a second later. Where are their drinks, again? He could really use one right about now.

Yuta wills himself to calm down as he turns to the counter with the napkins and straws, fumbling for their cups. It’s not like he’s ordinarily shy about topics like these, and there’s no reason to start now. There’s just something different about it when he factors Taeyong into the equation.

It seems that’s always the case with Yuta, these days: everything around him is influenced by Taeyong, amplified and electric. It’s a fact of life as unyielding as the sky being blue.

The conversation turns away from the maid café for the sake of everyone involved. They chat idly for a little longer just to pass the time and see Sana off at the door when she announces that she has to run. “Say hi to Momo for me,” Yuta calls, waving until her back has been absorbed into the larger crowd on the street.

When he steps back inside, Taeyong is biting down on his straw and doesn’t make eye contact right away. “Did it shock you?” he asks eventually. Yuta’s brain takes a moment to play catch-up, rewinding.

“Maybe a little,” he answers honestly. Taeyong’s knuckles pale just slightly around his cup. “I wouldn’t have guessed, but it doesn’t matter, anyway.” 

“I was strapped for cash and still trying to figure out what I wanted,” says Taeyong distantly. “I’d been rejected from a couple programs and everything was up in the air. But I liked the few months I spent there. Everyone was kind to me. Sana actually helped me with my next round of applications.”

“And now you’re here.”

Taeyong’s shoulders drop, the tension seeping out of him. He swipes a thumb across the plastic of his cup, collecting beads of condensation like so many pearls on a string. “Now I’m here,” he agrees.

“You must not have known many people at the time,” muses Yuta. “Were you lonely?”

“Like you said, it doesn’t matter. I’m tougher than I look.” Taeyong cracks a smile, bumps his shoulder against Yuta’s.

Yuta takes a sideways step like he’s going to do it back, but then he aborts the gesture and just stays there. They’re pressed together, now. The window behind them breathes a wash of sunlight onto the tops of Taeyong’s cheeks, weaves it through his lashes, and Yuta experiences a crest of vertigo as sharp as the one he’d felt standing on top of a skyscraper. It’s possible that the sensation has less to do with elevation and more with the company he keeps.

“I know you’re tough,” Yuta says quietly. “I asked if you were lonely.”

“I used to be.” Taeyong’s hand brushes his, a question. Yuta doesn’t think twice before he entwines their fingers. “Not anymore.”

*

It’s another week before Taeyong’s wrist is completely healed. He sheds the compression bandage with uncontained joy, flexing his hand back and forth like he’s never seen it before. He’d been so visibly frustrated by the limitation, in fact, that Yuta might’ve believed he just took off the bandage because he was sick of it. But then he sees Taeyong catch a falling glass before he leaves for the office, razor-sharp reflexes restored and not a flicker of pain on his face, and laughs in relief.

By the time Yuta gets back, he’s almost singing. They’re finally wrapping up the monotonous forest scenes in favor of working on city backdrops for a while, bustling streets and glowing buildings freshly added to the menu. The change of pace is right in sync with the slow transformation of the world outside: as spring tightens its hold on the city, cherry blossom season approaches its peak. There’s no better time to fall in love with Osaka anew.

“Tyong!” he calls, loosening his tie. “You wanna go to dinner?”

The door to Taeyong’s room cracks wider until there’s a head peeking out. “Right now?”

“Yeah, why not? The night is young.” 

“I don’t know,” says Taeyong, appearing in slivers. First his forearm, then shoulder, then a broad stripe of his torso. He’s already discarded the clothes he was wearing this morning in favor of a slouchy, worn hoodie and thin sweats. “It’s been kind of a hectic week.”

Yuta pouts. “We could go somewhere really fancy to celebrate your wrist healing! I’ll wine and dine you. Think of it like our next practice date, except this one’s on me.”

“It’d probably be a hassle to get ready again and find somewhere without a crazy wait time,” Taeyong returns, pulling a face. “Can we just stay in?”

“Sure, if you want. Let’s at least put on a movie, though. Just give me fifteen to shower.”

Taeyong nods. “I’ll heat something up.”

As it turns out, he does a little more than that. Yuta emerges from the bathroom with his hair lying in damp, piecey clumps over his eyes, and at first he thinks he’s just not seeing quite right. But even after he pushes a hand back through his bangs, the vision is the same. Taeyong’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with a spread of reheated pasta, chocolate-covered strawberries, and two bottles of umeshu on the table in front of him.

“I see you brought date night to us,” says Yuta, taken aback. “Where’d you get the dessert? And the liqueur?”

“Bought the strawberries because I was craving them, but the bottles were already in the cupboard. I think you received them as Christmas gifts?”

“Huh,” Yuta goes, “I guess I did.” He does vaguely remember them coming wrapped in muslin and ribbons, and the idea that he should save them for a small occasion. This is probably as good an occasion as any.

He settles in, legs spread comfortably. Taeyong has picked out a movie in the action/fantasy realm whose name Yuta didn’t catch because he was too busy trying to balance his bowl on his knees while the title card played. Ordinarily, he’s more attentive, but it’s hard to focus on the screen tonight.

To begin with, they clean out the entire dish of pasta less than twenty minutes into the film. The next step, naturally, is to move on to strawberries and plum wine, but here’s where things go sideways.

Taeyong bites into one of the berries with a hand cupped under his mouth to catch any stray pieces of chocolate, but he startles at the amount of juice that gushes out in tandem. It trickles down his chin and across his palm, tracing a wet path from the knob of his wrist towards the hem of his sleeve. And without a napkin in reach, he just tilts his whole arm and licks it off.

Yuta chokes on his own fruit the moment he sees the flash of tongue. Thankfully, it doesn’t spray everywhere, but he does feel the need to make a grab for a bottle of umeshu after hastily swallowing. It’ll make this—the sudden, tremulous shift in mood that only Yuta seems to notice, the increasingly familiar heat at his collar—that much easier to handle.

Three glasses in, however, the situation is only deteriorating faster. Taeyong has realized the latent danger of exposing the strawberries to his long sleeves and pushed them up past his elbows. The pale skin of his inner arm is stained with meandering drips of red, and his lips are painted even redder. They shine, slick, in the light of the TV screen.

“You’re kind of,” begins Taeyong, then falters. He’s had about the same amount of alcohol as Yuta so far, but he’s never been able to hold it. The end of the sentence dies in his mouth, either bitten off or forgotten.

A series of loud gunshots rings out from the screen’s general vicinity as the movie reaches its climax. Yuta has no idea what’s happening, or even what the main characters’ names are. He’d stopped pretending to pay attention the second Taeyong first tipped his head back to drink and exposed the line of his throat.

“I’m kind of?” Yuta repeats.

Taeyong makes a floppy gesture that could mean anything or nothing at all. “Your leg. Kind of squishing me.”

Looking down, Yuta finds that oh, yeah, he’s practically pushing Taeyong into the divot between the couch cushions. He doesn’t remember scooting so close, but the draft of air he feels immediately upon separation is uncomfortably chilly. “Sorry,” he offers, drawing his legs back in.

“It’s fine,” says Taeyong, tracking Yuta’s movements, the way he starts to curl into himself. “Cold?” He reaches for a glass from the table before Yuta can answer, downing the dregs and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I guess I’m a little—fuck.” If Yuta thought he was having trouble thinking straight before, that was nothing—a raindrop in the pond—compared to the giant fucking maelstrom that he’s experiencing right now. Taeyong has risen up on his knees and crawled right into Yuta’s lap.

“Now you won’t be cold,” Taeyong says, placing his hands on Yuta’s shoulders while he shifts around to find balance. “And I won’t be squished. We both win.”

Yuta becomes gradually aware of Taeyong’s slim thighs tightening around his sides, clinging on. He keeps repositioning his arms to get a better hold on Yuta’s torso but sighs once, then again, dissatisfied.

So gingerly that he may as well be handling glass, Yuta leans into the couch and brings both hands up to Taeyong’s lower back. They hover there, a centimeter away from the thick fabric of Taeyong’s hoodie, before settling. Hummingbirds on the lip of a flower, as close to weightless as nature will permit. The loving rustle of wind through cherry blossom boughs. Every gentle analogy Yuta can think of crackles into static within seconds. He thinks that if he adds even a touch more pressure, Taeyong’s tiny waist will snap in half.

“Okay?” murmurs Yuta.

The voices coming from the TV sound distorted, as if underwater. Taeyong presses into him, plum wine breath as heady as incense, or maybe prayer. It curls down Yuta’s spine, pulling a shiver in its wake.

“Yeah,” answers Taeyong, left hand coming up from the junction of Yuta’s neck and shoulder to stroke the side of his face. The metal band on his fourth finger, warm and smooth, drags against the hollow of Yuta’s cheek. “You can hold tighter.”

Incrementally, Yuta tightens his grip. “Like this?”

There’s a beat of silence, during which Taeyong appears not to have heard him. He’s staring so intently at Yuta’s mouth that there’s apparently no room left to think about anything else. 

Yuta knows that feeling, has felt it just about every time he’s looked at Taeyong recently. He recalls the out-of-body sensation that gripped him on top of Abeno Harukas, giddy and terrifying and electric, and decides that this must be the polar opposite. Now every centimeter of skin prickles with expectation, attuned to this moment. The weight of Taeyong’s body against his. The hold Taeyong still has on his face. The way Taeyong is leaning in, and in, and in, and Yuta meets him halfway.

Taeyong tastes sweet and tart, more like a dream than anything else. Truthfully, Yuta would be inclined to believe this is a dream if it weren’t for the way Taeyong angles his head and licks across the seam of Yuta’s lips, wet, undeniably real. Underneath him, Yuta opens up and kisses back in earnest. His fingers twist in the folds of Taeyong’s hoodie, one hand slipping underneath the hem to run up the curve of Taeyong’s spine.

This draws a surprised little sound, something that starts out deep before it twists in the middle, breathy and full of want. Every drop of blood in Yuta’s body seems to rush south on hearing it. It definitely doesn’t help that Taeyong shudders in Yuta’s lap, the thinness of his sweats doing nothing to disguise the feel of him. 

All at once, the room is unbearably hot, and reprieve comes only from the cool satin of Taeyong’s skin. Dizzy, Yuta pulls back to get some air and catches the look Taeyong wears, eyes still closed, cheeks flushed, his hoodie pushed up to his ribs and lips spit-slick. It’s easily the hottest thing Yuta’s seen in his life. He feels almost like he shouldn’t have been allowed it.

Then, Taeyong’s eyes flick open. He looks scared and caught out, hands immediately withdrawing from Yuta’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, chest rising fast and shallow now. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t… can’t… ”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” soothes Yuta immediately, even as his heart plummets straight into the pit of his stomach. He raises a hand to pet Taeyong’s shoulder, but Taeyong flinches.

“Sorry,” says Taeyong for a third time. He scrambles to get off Yuta’s lap, yanking his hem and sleeves down, covering up as much as possible. “I’ll just, um. Good night.”

He disappears around the corner with near inhuman speed, and now Yuta’s alone on the couch with just his stiff dick and regrets.

For a long minute, Yuta buries his face in his hands and wonders what the fuck he’s done. He can hear the ending scenes of the movie playing, supporting cast gasping and cheering as the main character proposes to his girlfriend. It makes him want to hurl an empty bottle of umeshu at the screen, or perhaps himself out the window.

Eventually, he scrubs his face and stands. The only thing left to do now is run a second shower, a cold one, and hope that they’ll be able to look each other in the eye tomorrow.

*

Among Yuta’s favorite quotes, there are two that have always stood out to him. The first is from The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, and it goes: “I realized that the two types of courage—the courage to judge reality exactly as it was, and the courage to fight that judgement—could very easily be reconciled with each other.” He held that one close to his chest when he first stepped on the plane to Korea, still holds onto it when he wants to feel brave. 

The second one goes, “There’s only one thing that can heal the heart… only one… it’s love.” This was said by a philosopher whose wisdom Yuta particularly trusts, known to the masses as Gaara from Naruto.

Doyoung gives him a look so withering after he says this that every decorative flower arrangement in the entire building probably wilts and dies. “That’s your big revelation?”

“Yes,” defends Yuta. “And? Naruto is a very thoughtful piece of animation that remains relevant to our times.”

Doyoung’s stress ball bounces off the lunch table when he tosses it at Yuta’s head. Yuta catches it and sticks his tongue out. The stress ball is actually really cute: Pom Pom Purin is printed all across its surface doing miscellaneous adorable activities, encouraging anyone struggling creatively to give him a squeeze. Yuta bought it for Doyoung last year as a souvenir from a weekend trip he and Taeyong had taken to Kyoto. 

“How does that help your situation at all?” asks Doyoung, exasperated. He motions for Yuta to throw the ball back.

“Love is always the answer,” says Yuta, lobbing it. “Or something, I don’t know.”

“In this case, I think there’s a little more involved.”

“Okay, obviously! But we’re supposed to go to dinner with my family on Sunday and end the fake engagement right after. Where along the way do I ask him to make out with me again?”

Doyoung rolls his eyes, working on a mouthful of salad. “I would re-evaluate that choice of words to begin with.”

Miserably, Yuta stabs his own salad and watches his flimsy plastic fork oscillate from the force. “I just don’t know what he wants.”

“I don’t think you know what you want, either.”

Yuta doesn’t have a retort for that one, because Doyoung’s right. He’d spent all weekend reflecting and still come up with no helpful solution. 

On Saturday, Taeyong had holed up in his room and worked for hours with no interruptions. When he finally emerged for dinner, he’d sat rigidly at the end of the table and spoken only to ask if Yuta wanted the last gyoza. Yuta had said no, I’m okay, you go ahead. And Taeyong hadn’t touched it either, and they’d both just looked at it until Taeyong rose to clear the dishes.

Sunday was better. They discussed it, kind of. Really, the extent of the conversation was Taeyong apologizing profusely for “that thing a couple days ago” and Yuta bemusedly assuring him that it was fine. 

“I just thought we could try it once,” Taeyong had said, fiddling with his ring, “because we’re supposed to be engaged and all. Practicing for the role, kind of.”

“You were just getting into character, you mean?”

“Yes,” said Taeyong, relieved. “Like you with your pet names. Like that.”

For the record, Yuta hadn’t believed that one bit at the time and still doesn’t. They’ve been friends too long to not recognize the tells of dishonesty; he just gave Taeyong an out to put the awkwardness to rest and buy himself some more time to think it over. There’s no point in a confrontation if you don’t have an end goal in mind, Yuta reasoned.

The issue is that it’s the middle of the work week and he’s still coming up blank. By now, the fact that he’d enjoyed kissing Taeyong is irrefutable, and he’s mostly made his peace with it, anyway. But does he want to—to date Taeyong? Bring him home to meet his real, actual mother under the pretenses of getting married and stick to that story for however long they stay together? 

Yuta doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, or if Taeyong is. He doesn’t want to lead Taeyong on, only to realize that his attraction stems from a stupid arrangement he’d thought up, panicked, in the ER of the university hospital when he thought Taeyong’s fall might’ve rendered him permanently comatose or something. What a lousy getting-together story. Besides, Yuta would rather fall off a ladder himself than hurt Taeyong, even unintentionally.

No, he decides, he won’t bring up any of this. That’s the safest option available, and while Yuta has been known to take a risk or ten in life, his existing relationship with Taeyong is one thing he’s not willing to sacrifice.

That evening, Yuta takes the elevator going down and jumps when it slides open on the eleventh floor to reveal Momo’s equally surprised face. 

“You look stressed,” she announces, skipping clear past the ‘hello, how are you?’ like no one else (except Doyoung, probably) would dare.

“Thanks,” Yuta tells her. “It’s my advanced age showing.”

She giggles, stepping in next to him. “You didn’t even give me the chance. What, is there trouble in paradise?”

Yuta’s measured silence gives away more than enough. 

“Nooo,” Momo cries, one hand theatrically flying to her mouth. “Not the soulmate! Sana told me about how she ran into you both the other day. Said she’d never seen someone look more lovesick, which is crazy because she sees me every day.”

“I looked lovesick?” 

Momo mulls it over. “Could have been either of you. There’s a good chance she was referring to your fiancé, though.”

Yuta’s breath catches in his throat. “Really?”

“Sure. They used to work together, did you know that? Apparently, you’re all Taeyong’s talked about since he moved in with you. It was only a matter of time until you started dating—Sana’s words, not mine.”

“Huh,” says Yuta, remembering Ten’s enthusiastic congratulations through the phone. “We’ve gotten that before.”

“It’s a sign that everything’s going to work out,” insists Momo. The elevator stops at the ground floor, and she strides out ahead of him. “Take it easy!” she adds, waving.

Before she’s gone from view completely, Yuta promises that he will, but he’s got a nervous premonition that he won’t keep it. The balance that he and Taeyong have encountered just recently is too fragile to be upset by confessions and the like. It certainly won’t withstand the termination of whatever cosmically predestined thing it is that flickers between them.

Outside, the evening is pleasantly warm on Yuta’s skin, an embrace. He supposes the sky must know he needs it.

*

The calendar on Yuta’s fridge has the 30th of March circled in bright red marker and double underlined for good measure. Neither he nor Taeyong ordinarily bothers with paper calendars, preferring instead to schedule events digitally like the rest of the inhabitants of the twenty-first century, and yet there it stays.

It’s because this date marks something mildly ominous, something to fear. Yuta scrawls “D-1” in the box adjacent and caps the marker with a distinct sense of dread.

“Is there a reason you’re labeling dinner with your family like a war campaign?” asks Taeyong, laughing. He’s wandered into the kitchen with prominent bedhead and his glasses perched at the tip of his nose, so marvelously domestic it’s near painful. 

They’re good now, mostly. They avoid the couch as if someone had been murdered there, but other than that, it’s cool. Yuta’s always thought that the teal upholstery was tacky. Also, Yuta feels like he’s bursting at the seams every time he’s so much as in the same room as Taeyong, but that’s cool, too.

“It’s a big deal,” says Yuta. “They’re all going to meet you. Doesn’t that make you nervous? It makes me nervous.”

“I can tell.” Taeyong rifles through the cupboards, looking for more shitty instant coffee. He’s not really a habitual coffee drinker, but this week seems to be getting to them both. “I mean, I would be scared, but you’ve got enough jitters for the two of us. Also, weren’t you the one constantly saying this would be no big deal in the beginning?”

“Yeah, before the date crept up on me. My dad called yesterday to let me know he’s back from his trip and excited to meet you. I think a little panic is fair game.”

Taeyong’s eyes are puppy-round when he turns back around to reach the water boiler. “I hope I don’t let him down.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.” The words are out before Yuta even knows they’re hiding under his tongue. It’s like there’s a dormant switch in his genome that activates every time Taeyong expresses even the tiniest doubt about himself, automatically placating. At this point in Yuta’s evolutionary timeline, it’s probably hardwired deeper than fight-or-flight.

Pinking, Taeyong flaps a hand at him. “Don’t just say that to be nice. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.” Regardless, it appears that Yuta’s words have produced the intended effect because Taeyong’s stiff posture of a minute ago has thawed. The shirt he’d worn to sleep is at least three sizes too big and slides to expose a generous stretch of shoulder when he shifts to grab the coffee from the shelf above. Yuta averts his eyes.

The memory of Sana describing Taeyong’s old uniform conveniently chooses now to flash into mind. Aprons, she’d said. Frills. The image is way too easy to paint, complete with lace-trimmed sleeves and a bouncy skirt, and Yuta slams the brakes on this train of thought so hard it leaves him physically winded.

He almost leaps out of his skin when Taeyong puts a cautious hand on the crook of his elbow. “It’ll be okay,” he says, imploring. “We’ll figure it out like we always have.”

“Yeah,” says Yuta, more exhale than sound. He really, really needs to get himself under control if they want to pull this off. 

It rains in the afternoon, a soft, benevolent shower that gifts a Gaussian blur to the apartment windows and glosses the city outside in sparkling droplets. It’s the best antidote for Yuta’s nerves he could have asked for, all things considered. He stays in his room with a sketchbook propped up against his knees, drawing aimlessly. By the time the rain has stopped completely, the sketch has taken shape: it’s a glance at someone’s silhouetted profile, sprawling skyline in the distance. Yuta squints at it, shading in a wisp of hair. There’s no getting around whose face it is.

He sighs and puts it aside. Maybe he’ll show it to Taeyong after everything is over.

The day of rolls around like the breaking of a wave. It tastes charged, somehow. Normally, Yuta would laugh at how seriously he’s treating this type of harebrained scheme, but the unsteady rollicking motion of his stomach makes it hard to see the humor.

“Here’s the game plan,” he drills Taeyong as he tackles the dishes. “The story of how we met is exactly as it happened in real life, except we embellish the sparks flying. By the time you moved in, we were head over heels for each other.”

The corner of Taeyong’s mouth lifts. “Okay,” he says softly.

“My sisters are going to come up with weirdly specific questions because they’re annoying that way, but the strategic dates we went on should cover most of it. If they ask you something dumb like what you like best about me, feel free to wing it.”

Taeyong continues wiping down the counters, unfazed. “I’m sure it won’t be too difficult.” 

Yuta, personally, has no shortage of traits he can compliment Taeyong on, but he keeps that tidbit to himself. “You know what, though,” he says, changing the subject, “we never did find a pet name that worked. They were all kind of stale.”

“It was especially bad when you started looking up the English ones online,” Taeyong agrees.

Grimacing, Yuta concurs. “I still think it’d be cute. Terms of endearment are kinda sweet if you use them right.”

Taeyong shrugs, eyes dancing. “You’ll just have to keep looking.”

In the end, though, Yuta doesn’t need to look any further. They retreat to their separate rooms to get ready for dinner and regroup by the door before it gets dark out. Taeyong is wearing a rich burgundy sweater that makes him look touchably soft, hair unstyled and falling neatly in line with his brows. In one hand, he carries a wrapped gift box. (“Chocolates,” he explains. “It seemed like the safest present.”) His other hand, adorned with the ring, gleams under the ceiling light of their entryway.

Yuta’s heart flips in his chest so hard that the echoes reverberate all the way down to his feet. “Let’s go, baby,” he says, trying for casual.

A moment passes while Taeyong holds very still. “Right,” he answers eventually, but he blinks dazedly a couple times. That’s the one, Yuta realizes. The knowledge thrums, strange and thrilling, in his veins.

From here on out, it’s a matter of waiting. The subway is predictably congested, and the platforms whirl with sound and color. Yuta doesn’t register much of the surroundings, too absorbed with the reassuring weight of Taeyong’s hand in his. He figures this is something they’ll have to stop doing after tonight and tries not to feel too broken up about it.

Finally, they arrive at the door that’s been haunting Yuta’s subconscious for the past month. It sinks into him, tremendously delayed, that Taeyong is the first person he’s ever brought home to meet his family. Aside from grade school friends who lived in the same neighborhood, Yuta’s never bothered to introduce outsiders, never even thought of it. This home and the people within it comprise a part of him untouched by who he is in the world beyond.

But here they stand, having come this far, and it doesn’t feel uneasy in the slightest. With Taeyong beside him, Yuta is serene, and this turn of events that should be fantastically improbable only feels like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He raises a hand to ring the doorbell.

For a scenario that Yuta’s mentally worked out a dozen bad endings to, dinner goes exceedingly well. Taeyong manages to hit it off with every member of Yuta’s immediate family, which, despite being predictable, is no less amazing to watch. The gifting of the chocolates draws a round of pleased thanks, and it’s all uphill from there. Taeyong compliments his mother’s cooking and charms an anecdote about Yuta’s infancy out of her in the same sentence, parries a volley of questions from Momoka and Haruna each, and makes Yuta’s father laugh on five separate occasions without really even trying. Most incredibly, he does all of this while holding Yuta’s hand under the table.

Yuta laughs along, of course, and is grateful to soak up the familiar warmth of his childhood home. Yet if he’s being honest, he spends most of the meal just watching Taeyong unabashedly. He fits into this environment, this table, like he’s always belonged. It’s too easy to picture him returning in a few months’ time, and then again after that.

Surprisingly, neither of Yuta’s parents ask any direct questions about their purported upcoming wedding until dinner is almost over. Even then, it’s a vague one, probing more at the nature of their relationship than anything else.

“Can you really imagine staying with him forever?” asks his mother, lips quirked like it’s a joke. Her eyes are intent, though.

“Nothing would make me happier,” replies Taeyong in his perfect Japanese, with his perfect smile. Secretly, Yuta squeezes his hand tighter.

Once it’s well and truly over and the sky is purple-black above their heads as they head back to the station, the night feels eerily large and quiet. Taeyong walks with both hands in his coat pockets, which Yuta understands to mean no touching. He makes a little space for Taeyong on the train, too, consciously folding his legs instead of letting their thighs press against each other.

“They’re wonderful people,” says Taeyong, gentle and low. His head is facing the opposite way.

“I know,” says Yuta. “I’m glad you met them.”

“So am I.”

One of them says something inane about Yuta’s baby pictures after that, and the other laughs. The dessert of the evening, a fluffy roll cake, is complimented once more. They lapse into silence.

Yuta thumbs through his messages. One from Momo, asking if he’s doing any better. Five from Doyoung, some about work and the rest full of curiosity about dinner. One from Haruna, laden with exclamation marks, requesting that Yuta bring his unbelievably charismatic fiancé over again soon. He locks his phone and decides to answer later.

The apartment is drafty when they come home. Yuta will have to mess with the A/C tomorrow to fix it. He takes extra time to remove his shoes, placing them in the entryway cabinet in slow motion, and when he looks up, Taeyong is standing in the kitchen with his back turned.

“Guess this is the end,” says Taeyong once Yuta approaches. His eyes are watery, maybe. Slowly, he lifts his left hand and twists off the engagement ring with the other; it clatters noisily against the counter when he drops it. For some reason, it’s a gut punch.

“Why are you taking it off so soon? It’s still my birthday gift to you,” tries Yuta weakly.

“I just ended my engagement,” says Taeyong. “Would you get over it that easily?” It’s probably meant as a joke, but it lands flat and wrong.

Yuta thinks no and I wish I could in rapid succession, but finds no more words to voice out loud.

Neither of them bothers with saying good night before they go to sleep.

←

“You have a ton of boxes for someone who hasn’t been here long,” declares Yuta, grunting as he puts down the last one. It thumps solidly against the floor, heavier than it has any right to be.

“I like to hold onto things,” says Taeyong, flustered. “Thanks for helping me move all of them.”

“Yeah, of course.” Yuta stretches, listening for the telltale pop in his lower back. “Now that your manga are in my place, I hope you know it’s until death do us part.”

Taeyong’s eyes widen. “How’d you see the manga? I stacked all mine at the bottom.”

“I could just tell,” Yuta says. “One reader to another.”

“No, really.”

“This box was straining so much from the bottom that one of the little flaps came loose. I don’t read minds.”

“Oh,” says Taeyong, prodding delicately at the sagging cardboard. “That’s a relief.”

“I will say, I’m a little surprised by your taste.” Yuta gives him the best Cheshire cat grin he can manage. “Lots and lots of shoujo romance.”

“They’re heartening,” insists Taeyong. “And the art is really good in lots of them. I read plenty of other stuff.”

“I’m just teasing,” says Yuta. “Who doesn’t like a little romance every once in a while?”

Hands on hips, they assess the bounty. Sheer quantity of belongings not included, Taeyong’s move-in day has gone a lot smoother than Yuta expected, especially given that the only times they’ve spoken between now and graduation (a lifetime ago) were about logistical things like splitting rent. The atmosphere is already friendly, if not totally comfortable, and Taeyong makes interesting conversation. Yuta feels almost like he’s in college again.

“I’m used to doing a lot of cooking,” volunteers Taeyong as he sifts through a box of kitchen utensils. “So I can handle that for both of us.” 

Yeah, Yuta thinks this is going to work just fine.

“Are you also a fan of romantic movies?” Yuta flops to the ground, running a hand through his hair. 

“Sometimes, why?”

“Oh, well, I ask because it seems like the pining in half of them is jumpstarted by cohabitation. You never know with roommates.”

“Shut up,” says Taeyong good-naturedly.

“I’m just saying! They almost always fall for each other in the end.”

Taeyong snorts, settling cross-legged on the floor a safe distance away. “I’ll try my best to resist your many charms.”

“But there might be times when you can’t resist,” Yuta sings. “Or maybe it’ll be me who can’t, who knows. I heard that the feeling is like drowning in a pool. You fall into it headfirst without meaning to, and by the time you process what’s happened, you’re underwater.”

“That’s a pretty morbid analogy,” says Taeyong. “I think I’ll just have to take my chances.”

“Basically,” agrees Yuta, reaching over to help Taeyong start unboxing the rest of his things. “Oh, hey, I use this toner, too!”

→

It’s been days and Yuta’s focus is still absolutely demolished. Not even a stress ball to the head can snap him out of it, which as far as Doyoung is concerned constitutes grounds for national emergency.

“I’m fine,” Yuta groans, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to get them to cooperate. “Seriously.”

“Seriously thick-skulled,” says Doyoung, unimpressed. “Why don’t you just go talk to him? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know, he could refuse to speak to me ever again?”

Doyoung shrugs. “That doesn’t sound too different from what’s going on right now, honestly.”

“I hate you,” says Yuta because he's right.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Yuta agrees. “I’m just stuck because there’s no good way to approach this. Taeyong clearly doesn’t want to get into it, either, because he’s been staying late at his office on campus every night.”

“From what I can tell,” Doyoung asserts, “you both care about each other too much for the weird radio silence to go on very long. I don’t think he’ll be mad if you try to open a dialogue.” He puts his chin in hand, pondering. “Have you figured out what it is that you want yet?”

Yuta rubs his thumb over the band of his ring. He can’t quite bring himself to remove it. “I think so,” he says. It only took seven whole years of knowing Taeyong to put his finger on it.

If he’s being honest, he didn’t really intend to start the conversation that night. He’d walked home with a faint headache left over from squinting at the million and one botched layers of color he’d scrapped today and a worse crick in his neck than usual. The very second he stepped inside the apartment, he made a beeline for the bathroom, stripping and showering to try and wash off some of his frustration.

It only kind of helped, though, so he’d wandered defeatedly back out to the living room, thinking maybe he’d watch something until he felt sufficiently sleepy. Instead, he found Taeyong curled up at the end of the couch.

“Hi,” says Taeyong, eyes huge like he’s never seen Yuta before. “When did you get home?”

“Maybe half an hour ago. You?”

“Oh, uh, just now.” He certainly looks like it, still dressed in layers with his hair styled up. It’s unusual that he hadn’t changed straight away, more so that he came here to sit in the dark.

“Cool,” says Yuta mildly. Taking care not to accidentally brush against Taeyong, he maneuvers to the other side of the couch and sits as well. The A/C hums in the quiet. “Another long day?”

“The usual.”

Yuta nods, fiddling with his hands. The simplest thing to do now would be to end the exchange here and call it a night, but he feels something persistent clawing at the inside of his chest. 

It’s just—it’s like this. The more Yuta reflects on the time they spent masquerading as a couple, the more it dawns on him how little they had to adjust their routine at all. Way before any of this, the two of them were already glued to each other day and night. They’d surprise each other with gifts and play grab-ass in the kitchen. They can rattle off each other’s favorite movies, manga, and songs by heart. The photo of the two of them displayed on Taeyong’s bookshelf? It’s a picture from their Kyoto trip, the first place they’d traveled together. In it, Yuta and Taeyong’s heads stick out from the bottom right corner of the frame, both beaming wide as the historic Golden Pavilion catches the sunset in the background. It had been Taeyong’s idea to go see it.

Yuta knows every detail of that photo, from the precise shades of green in the trees to the jacket Taeyong had worn. He has it framed, too, on the shelf beside his own bed.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice steady even as his stomach starts doing cartwheels. “I’d really appreciate it if you heard me out the whole way through.”

Taeyong sits up straight, wearing the expression of someone who’s been sentenced to the guillotine. “Okay.”

“You’re my best friend,” begins Yuta. “We’ve known each other long enough that I can say that without thinking twice about it. I’m reasonably sure you know more about me than anyone else on this planet, and that would be scary if I didn’t trust you so completely.”

“Why do you sound like you’re about to make me sole beneficiary of your will,” says Taeyong.

Yuta cracks a smile despite himself. “Shut up, I’m trying to be serious. Anyway. In light of all of that, I’ve concluded that I went about this fake engagement thing all wrong. I should’ve asked you out on a real date first.”

The blood is draining from Taeyong’s face now. “Stop. Don’t do this to me.”

“Do what?” Yuta breaks off his train of thought, puzzled.

“This—I don’t know, this game. It’s over now, and I’m not going to play along anymore. Just let it be.”

“There’s no game, I swear. I told you I was being serious!”

“Do you understand what this sounds like?” Taeyong is almost shouting now, fists clenched in his lap, and Yuta is so astonished that his next sentence sputters to its death in his throat. “Do you just want to hear me say it? That I’m in love with you, and I have been since forever, and doing this whole meet-the-parents tour was the best and worst time of my life because I wanted you to mean it so badly?”

“Oh,” says Yuta, pulse slamming in his ears like the spray of the ocean. “No, I didn’t—wasn’t asking for that at all. I was just trying to tell you I love you too. And I do mean that.”

The anger evaporates from Taeyong all at once, and he looks even smaller in its wake. “You do? You’re not joking this time?”

Yuta leans across the couch to take Taeyong’s hand in his own, then presses it to his heart so that Taeyong can feel how fast it’s beating. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a long, tense moment, Taeyong searches his face. Then he nods, once, eyes flicking back down, and Yuta’s carefully suppressed hopes crackle to life.

“Can I kiss you?” Yuta whispers. “Am I allowed to do that?”

Taeyong laughs, swiping the back of one hand across his eyes. “Yes. You have my permission.”

“Good,” says Yuta, and then he can’t say anything else because he’s already surging forward.

If the first time was great, this time is downright transcendental. They start out slow and tentative, then a little messier, and then Yuta licks into Taeyong’s mouth and it turns full-on needy. Taeyong winds one hand into Yuta’s hair and the other around his neck, clutching on like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. A moment later follows his familiar weight in Yuta’s lap, thighs spread shamelessly wide. He tilts his head to find a deeper angle, ass shifting as he moves, and Yuta moans out loud at the contact.

Breathing hard, Taeyong pulls away. There’s a string of saliva still connecting his mouth to Yuta’s, and his eyes are blown wide, pleased and surprised and still a bit disbelieving. Yuta definitely gets that.

“Should we go—”

“My room—?”

“Please.” 

One word is all it takes. Yuta scoops Taeyong into his arms, marveling at how light he is, how pliant and warm. Taeyong’s mouth finds the spot right behind the hinge of Yuta’s jaw and coerces out another groan.

Even after all of this, Yuta isn’t prepared for the sight of Taeyong, flushed and disheveled, against his sheets. There’s something unearthly about Taeyong’s aura, skin luminous as dew. His hair falls even wilder when he sits up and pulls his sweater off before moving on to the buttons of his shirt.

“You too,” he says, inclining his head in Yuta’s direction.

“Right,” says Yuta, trying desperately to remember how to take off clothing. Where does he grab it? What the fuck is his name, again?

Taeyong smiles a little. “Come here, I’ll help.” He makes quick work of Yuta’s sleepwear, discarding his own pants next. He holds the bundle of fabric to his chest for a second, clearly pained at the idea of scattering everything loose, then performs a two-second fold job on each article before placing the stack gently on the floor. “Sorry,” he says, bashful, “I just had to.”

It’s so sweet, so quintessentially him, that Yuta aches with fondness. “I love you,” Yuta repeats, crawling onto the bed to cradle Taeyong’s face in his hands. “Just in case it didn’t get through before.”

“I could be convinced a little further,” murmurs Taeyong between a string of fleeting kisses.

Yuta slides one hand down Taeyong’s torso, brushing a nipple with one finger, adoring the gasp it earns him. “I’ll try my best.”

Every stripe of bare skin is more miraculous than the last as Yuta ventures further and further down. He can’t stop touching, traces his tongue down the midline of Taeyong’s chest. Kisses south past his navel and over his waistband, then lower still. Taeyong shivers with his whole body, mouth slack. Yuta loves him, loves him.

And when they’re even closer, Taeyong biting down and moaning brokenly when Yuta rocks into him, lips meeting collarbone, unbelievable heat and slickness and pressure—when they’re here, Yuta thumbs at Taeyong’s damp lashline and tells him again.

“Yuta,” says Taeyong, then arches so beautifully right off the mattress. “Yuta,” he tries again, but he’s trembling too much to manage anything else. It becomes a request, an echo.

“I’m here, baby,” says Yuta, trailing his mouth against Taeyong’s jaw. “I’m here.”

Shuddering, Taeyong closes his eyes. Yuta finds his hand, an anchor like always, and that’s all either of them needs.

*

It’s still dim when Yuta wakes, the morning light young and diluted. Taeyong is asleep in his arms. He finds it near impossible to believe, even now, with the weight of a body curled into him, that they’ve come this far.

He’s beat his alarm by a slim few minutes, meaning that he has to get up and mute it now if he doesn’t want to disturb Taeyong. He tries to grab for his phone without moving too much, but the stealth operation proves fruitless when Taeyong stirs against his side anyway.

“Hi,” rasps Taeyong into his neck. His lashes dust Yuta’s skin when he blinks.

“Hey. You’re up early.” Yuta combs through Taeyong’s bird’s nest of hair, affectionate.

“Not used to this bed.”

“I’m looking to change that.” 

“Greasy.” Taeyong covers his mouth when Yuta leans in for a peck, scrunching up his nose at the same time. “No kissing before you brush your teeth.”

Yuta sighs and kisses Taeyong’s fingers instead. “This is our real day one, you know. It’s all official this time.”

“Are you gonna woo me all over again?”

“Yeah,” says Yuta, nosing at the warmth of Taeyong’s throat. He brushes his lips once, carefully, against Taeyong’s Adam’s apple. “I’ll go even bigger. Paint you a portrait, with an easel set up in the other bedroom and everything. Just as long as you move out of there and come sleep with me every night.”

Taeyong giggles at how blatantly corny Yuta is being. “I can do that.” He rolls over, searching for Yuta’s hand under the blanket, and pauses once he’s found it. “You still have your ring on. I didn’t notice last night.”

“I like it,” says Yuta. “Wherever I am, I think of you when I see it.”

“There’s really no stopping you today, is there,” Taeyong says wryly, but his face softens almost immediately. “I like that about mine, too. Not totally sure about the marriage thing right now, though.”

“That’s okay, neither am I.” Yuta laces their fingers together, reveling in this simple privilege, this moment that is theirs alone. “Right now, let’s just worry about breakfast.”