keycard woes

Doyoung is a very organised person.

He has a place for everything – the door to his fridge is arranged by level of usefulness (soda at the top, apples at the bottom, a box of Eggos somewhere in the middle). His bookshelves are categorised and more well-kept than the ones in the State’s library. His desk is always clutter-free and his stationary are sorted and meticulously arranged by colour.

Everything has a place and a purpose.

Like the fancy-looking ceramic bowl by the front door. It’s a nice shade of pale blue and it’s been there since the first day Doyoung’d moved in. It holds loose change and a card case with some cash, two out of his three credit cards, and the keycard to his apartment.

The keycard that he needed to get in to his apartment with.

Okay. Doyoung has a system.

Day in and day out, grabbing and leaving the card case by the front door is a good idea. He’s physically reminded of the card case’s existence every time he goes out the door, and it’s become memory work to picking the pleather case up and tucking it into his back pocket. When he gets home, he leaves it back in the bowl so that it’ll be there again for him in the morning. Rinse and repeat, it’s clockwork.

Presently, Doyoung is standing on the other side of his front door, doing the three-item-pat-down; wallet, yes, phone, yes, card case? No? But – I’m sure I took it before I left?

He’d come in late the previous night from having hung out at Taeil’s place all night, and an urgent call from the university had come in so early this morning that he’s out the door two minutes after the call had ended. Really, it’s a miracle Doyoung’d managed to get his pants on front face right amidst the rush.

The system fails him today.

“Great,” he mutters, patting at the back and front pockets of his jeans, but coming up with just a receipt from last night’s drinks and a half chewed off peanut. Helpful. “Just – great, Doyoung, you’re so intelligent.”

This wouldn’t be that big of an issue if his building’s manager hadn’t just left for a luxurious two-week long round-trip cruise that morning, making it virtually impossible to get into his apartment without the master key or a second keycard.

Right. His second keycard.

Rolling his backpack off a shoulder and letting his laptop thunk unceremoniously against the carpeted hallway, Doyoung dials Taeil immediately, current best friend and current holder of his spare keycard.

“You’re locked out?” is what Taeil mumbles when Doyoung’s done explaining the present state of things.

“Yes, and I need my extra keycard. You have it, don’t you?”

The silence is worrying, “Er.”

Doyoung feels every bit of hope evaporate from his soul. “Please tell me you have it.”

“I have it,” Taeil says, starting to wake up fully. It’s already evening, but Taeil’s a standard night owl from having work late nights in recording studios as a cartoon voice animator. “I just – I don’t really know where I put it?”

Doyoung groans, “Why am I not surprised?”

“I’ll find it, I’ll find it,” Taeil sighs. There’s a rustling of bedsheets and the sound of someone speaking in the back. Oh? “I’ve to go. I’ll call you when I do.”

“Gross, Moon!” Doyoung says to the dial tone, jabbing at his screen. With a sigh, he contemplates his next plan of action.

There’s no way he’s going to get into his apartment without the spare keycard, and a handyman wouldn’t be able override the electronic pass without the building manager’s master key. Going to stay with his brother, Gongmyung, would be out of the question, not when their tiny apartment’s full with Hyesung, their two kids, a new baby and an overgrown Labrador Retriever. Taeil would be a better option, honestly, even with the mystery guy he’s been not-so-subtle about seeing over the past couple of weeks.

Defeated, Doyoung sinks to the floor, grabbing his backpack and clutching it to his chest.

A good amount of time passes, long enough for his eyes to lose focus and for his mind to tune into nothing. He has placement assignments for school and nearly three essays on lesson plans due in the next week and all he can think about is how his laptop’s probably drained of battery by now.

It’s when Doyoung’s thinking that Taeil’s really lost his spare keycard that the sound of footsteps hurls him back to reality.

His neighbour stands at end of the hallway, small and petite, drowning in a black sweatshirt and a pair of matching sweatpants. There’s a McDonalds take out baggie in his hand, and his phone in the other, a pair of white headphones connected to them, looped once. He has on a nondescript baseball cap, hair flopping over his eyes, large and wide and bright, even from such a distance.

His neighbour?

Doyoung’s never really interacted with him. He’s maybe seen the other once or twice, the boy who lived across from him, 10A, who seemed like they rarely left home. It’s the first he’s gotten a good look at the stranger, hair a shade of caramel, skin fair, wrists thin and ankles slim, peeking from under his outfit.

He blinks at Doyoung’s pathetic position by the foot of his own apartment, 10B.

Doyoung looks away immediately, feeling his cheeks burn.

His neighbour resumes his gait, shuffling over, a pair of ratty shoes coming into view, visible from where Doyoung has his head ducked down. The door unlocks with the swipe of a keycard, and Doyoung doesn’t expect to be spoken to,

“Is everything – okay?”

A swarm of butterflies erupt in Doyoung’s tummy. Just from his voice alone, no doubt.

Mildly startled and a lot embarrassed, he raises his head to meet a questioning gaze, “Yeah. I’m just, uh – locked out of my apartment.”

His neighbour has really nice eyes, Doyoung finds, even if they’re staring down at him from quite a height, “The building manager – ”

“The cruise,” Doyoung supplies helpfully. The boy nods.

“Do you – ” he starts. With a breath, “Do you have anywhere to go?”

Doyoung’s lips part, “Uh. I think so. I’m waiting to hear back – from a friend.”

“Oh.” His neighbour nods again, stepping into his apartment. He seems to hesitate with his hand on the handle for a moment, turning over to ask, “Do you want to come in? While you wait?”

Doyoung’s mind whirls, “Huh?”

The boy splutters, “I mean – it’s pretty late… and it’d be better than – sitting on the ground?”

Knees creaking, Doyoung rushes to his feet, nodding eagerly when he realises how bad his back is hurting. It’s been an hour and Taeil still hasn’t called back. Unfortunately, it’s starting to become apparent that both Doyoung and his situation has been forgotten. Waiting at his neighbour’s place would deem better than sitting out in the hall, especially when the chances of Taeil calling back are near slim to none.

Right?

“Thanks,” Doyoung says, about as gratefully as he can, dipping his head as he passes the boy to enter his apartment.

Its layout’s exactly like Doyoung’s place, sans the extra bedroom he spots as he passes the hallway towards the living room. Doyoung’s apartment only has one bedroom to it, but this one extends into two down the hall. The place is relatively neat and clean, but the biggest attention catcher’s the large bookcase from across the couch where a television would normally reside, filled to the ends with books of different heights and widths, smaller novels shoved into every crook and cranny.

He sneezes once, out of the blue.

Then, twice. And, thrice.

Someone’s probably just thinking of him.

“Sorry, it’s a little messy,” his neighbour calls from the kitchen, supposedly unpacking his dinner. “I wasn’t, uh – expecting any guests today.”

“It’s not messy at all,” Doyoung answers with a sniffle, still standing a little awkwardly in the living room, taking in the space around him. Now that he’s looking at the room a little more, he spots several bundles and stacks of paper leaning against the whitewashed walls and kicked under the coffee table. Most of them are bounded by strings to the sides or by coils of metal rings, abundant across the living area. “Thanks for letting me wait in here.”

“That’s fine,” the boy emerges from the kitchen, holding onto a McGriddle with both hands, plastic crinkling noisily as he takes a bite. Right, all-day breakfasts. “You can sit wherever you’d like.”

Doyoung listens, dropping his bag beside the coffee table and sitting on the edge of the grey couch.

“You’re Doyoung, right?” The boy asks, perching himself on the couch’s arm rest.

“Yeah – uh, how’d you know?”

The boy takes another bite of his dinner, “Your – mailbox? It’s right below mine.”

“Oh,” Doyoung says dully. He’s never noticed, “Sorry, I don’t – I don’t know your name?”

“Lee Taeyong,” he answers, the corners of his lips turned up into a cordial smile.

Doyoung’s heart beats twice as fast. His nose twitches, and he sneezes again, “‘Scuse me.”

“Bless you,” Taeyong murmurs, leaving some silence between them after.

Thankfully, the heavens are hearing of his prayers and Doyoung’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He excuses himself from their non-conversation, digging for it and pressing it to his ear immediately,

“Did you find it?”

“No,” Taeil sighs apologetically. There’s more rustling in the background. “Are you sure you didn’t give it to Gongmyung instead because I could’ve sworn – ”

“Gongmyung lives an hour away,” Doyoung deadpans, clamping a hand over his forehead. “I gave it to you for safekeeping, Taeil, c’mon!”

“I’m sorry!” Taeil whines. “We’ve been looking since I last hung up and I’ve turned over every single drawer and it’s not here – I’m really sorry, but you can come live with me if you want? Until your landlord gets back?”

Doyoung rolls his eyes because, as nice as Taeil is, he never really considers how awkward situations could become. It’s almost like he’s blissfully unaware of most things.

“With you and your new boyfriend? Thanks, but, no thanks. I hear you guys over the phone and it’s really more than enough for this lifetime.”

“Are you going to stay with Gongmyung?”

“I don’t know,” Doyoung exhales loudly. “It’d be hard to commute back and forth for classes, and they’re just settling in with the new baby – ” he sneezes again, what the – “ugh, and it’s too late to go over now, I’d be getting there past the kids’ bedtime.”

Taeil makes a dejected noise, “Where are you going to go then?”

“You could stay with me?”

Doyoung momentarily forgets that he isn’t alone. He whips his head so hard, taken aback by the sudden offer.

Taeyong is shrugging, picking at his McGriddle with slim fingers. “I mean, it’s only for a couple of days.”

Fourteen days. Doyoung has no confidence in staying in a stranger’s apartment for fourteen days. First off, he barely knows Taeyong (he’d literally just learnt the boy’s name two minutes ago). How is he going to shower and eat and live with someone he’d just met five minutes ago? If anything, Taeyong could have some weird paper obsession and Doyoung could find himself bound up by papier-mache –

He sneezes.

Okay, he’s definitely sick. There’s no way Gongmyung’s going to let him crash while the baby’s still adjusting to new environments. Bugs and immunity and all that.

And at the same time, Taeil’s boyfriend asks, “Is your friend coming to stay with us?”

Doyoung cringes at the idea of having to stay with Taeil and his new beau, which isn’t nearly as horribly sounding as staying with Taeyong. For one, he actually knew Taeyong’s name.

“Who is that?” Taeil asks, having heard Taeyong’s proposal.

“Uh,” Doyoung stalls, eyes never leaving Taeyong, who stares back blankly. Could I really…? “My neighbour, but listen – I’ll – I’ll call you back, okay? Bye.”

“Huh? Wait – Doyoung, what about – ”

The dial tone resurfaces.

Taeyong speaks first, “If you don’t have a place to go, I mean.”

Doyoung’s initial response is to decline out of politeness, “Ah, no, it’s okay – I’d just be imposing, really.”

Taeyong nods, getting off the couch and crumpling the burger wrapper, “Okay. Just thought I’d offer, I’d feel… bad if you didn’t have somewhere to sleep tonight.”            

Where is he going to sleep tonight?

Doyoung’s parents live out of state, much closer to Gongmyung (grandchildren privileges), making it not a viable option since Taeil’s definitely not up for driving him out an hour and a half out and then back dead in the night. Neither is Doyoung at all keen on living with a crying baby for the next fourteen days, nor is he planning on sleeping on Taeil’s couch while he and his new mystery boyfriend have little escapades in their bedroom throughout the night.

His phone tells him it’s near nine.

“Uh, wait!” Doyoung squeaks, before he can stop himself. Taeyong peers from behind the kitchen’s door frame, sipping on a large McDonalds drink. His lips close around the straw prettily. “Can I – can I really stay here?”

“I live here on my own,” Taeyong says instead. “I don’t mind if you stay for a couple of days.” He adds, “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

Doyoung laughs, albeit a mix of awkwardness and nerves, “No, no, definitely not a serial killer.” To match, “Are you?”

“Nope,” Taeyong pads out into the living room again. Doyoung finds it a little hard to concentrate. “Just a struggling author.”

“An author?” Doyoung echoes. Really, the most basic of all lines that could ever come to mind, “Anything I would’ve read?”

“Not unless you’re into fantasy books meant for teenagers,” Taeyong clears his throat. “Ever heard of A Million Flames?”

Doyoung contemplates faking it, but rejects the idea when Taeyong smiles, warm and endearing. God, “No, I haven’t, sorry.”

“‘S’alright,” Taeyong laughs, light and easy, breaking the nervous tension in Doyoung’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know it either. And you? What do you do?”

Doyoung picks at the frays of his ripped jeans. “I’m under a secondary education teaching placement at State… Chances are, my students would’ve read your books, age fitting and all,” he piles on, aiming for brownie points.

It works; Taeyong brightens, “My editor’d be happy to hear that.”

Doyoung wavers, “So, uh, about me – staying here – I still have classes to attend and stuff, so I’ll be out of your hair most days, and I’d – really like to repay you? In some way? Like two weeks’ worth of rent or something?”

“You’re not going to have to pay to stay here,” Taeyong frowns. “You don’t have to do anything, honestly, consider it out of the kindness of my heart.”

Doyoung resists the urge to rolls his eyes at the cheesiness of the boy that’s housing him for the next two weeks, “But I’ll have to compensate you in some way? I can’t just stay here for free, the guilt will eat me alive.”

Taeyong accepts that, thinking it over before, “Can you cook?”

“Uh.” Doyoung could. He often did, back in his own apartment. Distantly, he groans inwardly at the thought of how bad all of his groceries are going to go over the next two weeks. “I’m not terrible at it, that’s for sure.”

“Okay, then you can be in-charge of food,” Taeyong settles, clasping his hands together. “I’ve had takeout for two weeks straight, I could use something that isn’t pure sodium.”

“Two weeks? Everyday?” Doyoung balks, “That can’t be healthy.”

Taeyong narrows his eyes, looking down at his body and then up at Doyoung again, “Do I look unhealthy?”

“Not at all!” Doyoung hurries to amend his words, “You look great!”

Okay.

“On the inside!”

Okay.

Doyoung’s usually not this incoherent, “Yes – yes, I mean I could cook for you! Breakfast and dinner? And I could pay for groceries too? As a thank you?”

Taeyong’s breaks into a smile at the mention of home cooked meals, “Deal!” He gets up just as Doyoung tries to ask about his dietary preferences, trailing back into the kitchen. There’s the sound of snacks falling into a bowl, and Doyoung wonders how much one tiny person can eat.

“Hem! Hem!”

For the first second, Doyoung thinks he’s hearing things. For the next, Doyoung actively regrets his decision to room with Taeyong when the latter reappears with a red pet bowl in his hand, shaking it around, supposedly calling for something. Instinctively, Doyoung raises to sit crossed legged on the couch, tucking his legs away.

He sneezes.

Oh, bother.

Before he gets to voice his question, however, the root of his sneezing spells comes trotting out into the living room, furry with its tail high and poised. Taeyong drops to a crouch immediately, cooing at the cat sweetly as it approaches him for the food in his hands, purring at the sight of its owner. It’s obviously overfed, round at the sides with stubby legs and puffy paws.

Doyoung sneezes again.

It catches Taeyong’s attention, and he scoops the black cat up with minimal effort, bringing the ball of fluff towards Doyoung on the couch,

“Meet Hemingway.”

“Actually – ” Doyoung scrambles up and away when Taeyong nears. It stares at Doyoung judgmentally, eyes an emerald green. “I’m allergic. To cats.”

He sneezes again, making the point.

Taeyong’s face falls, and he coddles the cat close to him, “Oh.” The cat pays no attention, eating from the bowl right in Taeyong’s arms, tail swishing around lazily. Taeyong shifts to leave the cat on the couch, where Doyoung was sitting just mere seconds before, “Are you – deathly allergic? Will you be alright?”

“No, I just,” Doyoung sidesteps when Hemingway gets to its feet – paws –, trying to swipe at his thigh. “I’ll be fine – I can get some over the counter antihistamines from the pharmacy, it’s not any life threatening or anything.”

Taeyong bites on his lip, “Are you sure? I have – I have a lint roller, if you need it.”

Doyoung grinds on his teeth to keep his smile down at how adorable the suggestion is. A lint roller? Really? “No, it’s – it’s okay. Thank you, anyway, for letting me stay here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Taeyong mumbles, waving dismissively. He goes on his tiptoes, “I’ll, uh, show you the place now? And where you’ll sleep?”

Doyoung smoothens his sweaty hands on his jeans, picking his bag up, Sweet, “Sure, yeah, sure.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t think it’s any different from your apartment,” Taeyong starts, walking down the hallway, Doyoung following closely behind. He opens the door to the right, revealing Taeyong’s bedroom and his en suite, the only bathroom in the place. It’s a large bed, and it seems like the room is only meant for sleeping; no work desk nor books in sight.

The question is answered when Taeyong crosses to the room on the left – his work room. Mountains of papers stacked high, worse than the situation in the living room, surrounding the desk pushed up to the wall, looking like a maze of manuscripts and bound books. Doyoung doesn’t get to see much more of it because Taeyong’s closing the door quickly, a faint blush apparent on his cheeks even under the lack of light.

“I have some clothes you could borrow.” Taeyong’s shoulder brushes against Doyoung’s chest as he bumbles back into his room, and Doyoung’s ears heat up embarrassingly quick. When he turns to follow, Taeyong’s already pulling a set of sleep clothes out of a chest of drawers. “These are the only ones that are pretty big on me and they’ll probably fit you fine, but I don’t know about – clothes you can leave the house in,” he says sheepishly, pointing at the tiny holes dotting the hem of the shirt.

“No, no, that’s fine,” Doyoung reassures, taking the fresh set of pyjamas from Taeyong. “I – I have some clothes over at my brother’s house, I’ll go pick them up after school tomorrow. Thanks,” he motions at the ones in his arms. “For these.”

Taeyong smiles, “I’ll leave you to it then. And I’ll change the sheets when you’re in the shower so don’t worry about it.”

Doyoung’s mind blanks, “What?”

“You’ll sleep in here.”

“What about you?” Doyoung hitches his bag further up his shoulder, brows furrowing.

“Uh,” Taeyong licks his lips. Doyoung wishes he didn’t do that. “The couch?”

“No way,” Doyoung says immediately. “I’m the one without a place here, I should be sleeping on the couch.”

“But,” Taeyong pauses, pressing a hand to his cheek, “My bedroom’s the only place Hemingway isn’t allowed in. You’d be better off sleeping in here than out there. What with your allergies and everything.”

Doyoung falters, trying to find a reason to rebut against Taeyong’s fairly excellent point.

“Don’t mention it,” he smiles, soft and straight to Doyoung’s heart. This is not good. “I’d rather sleep a couple of days on the couch than hear you sneezing all night from all of Hemingway’s fur floating around.”

“Are you sure – ”

“Yes, I am, now, please take a shower so that I can at least take mine before the sun rises.”

Doyoung hesitates for just moments more, earning himself a dirty look from Taeyong, who huddles him towards the bathroom.

Locking the bathroom door, he moves again only when he hears Taeyong’s footsteps dwindle to nothing, probably leaving to get a new set of sheets, as promised.

He barely knows Taeyong, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. There aren’t too many awkward hangings between them, and apart from the fact Doyoung’s heart feels like it’s going to stop working anytime soon,

He wonders what he’d done to deserve such genuine generosity and concern from a complete stranger.

x

1APR [21:23] taeyong: you’re not going to believe
1APR [21:23] taeyong: who’s in my apartment right now
1APR [21:27] yuta: who?
1APR [21:27] taeyong: kim doyoung
1APR [21:28] yuta: what
1APR [21:28] youngho: how?
1APR [21:29] taeyong: he got locked out of his apartment
1APR [21:29] taeyong: so i offered to house him
1APR [21:30] youngho: you what?
1APR [21:31] youngho: yong that’s not safe, you barely know him
1APR [21:31] taeyong: it’s fine, he’s really, really nice
1APR [21:32] yuta: just to be clear…
1APR [21:32] yuta: this is the neighbour you have a crush on, right?
1APR [21:34] taeyong: yes

1APR [21:41] yuta: … you’ll be more than fine
1APR [21:42] taeyong: that’s what i thought
1APR [21:46] youngho: you’re both terrible

The excitement brewing in Taeyong’s heart is ungodly, so to say.

Okay, yes, he’s been harbouring a huge crush on Doyoung ever since he’d seen the boy try and haul a thousand grocery bags up four flights of stairs during the first week he’d moved in, unable to locate the lifts (they’re near the end of the building, past the stairs and the rubbish disposal room). Okay, yes, seeing Doyoung locked out of his apartment, curled with his knees to his chest has been the cutest thing Taeyong’s seen in a long time and the fastest his heart’s ever gone in his life. Okay, yes, maybe letting Doyoung stay in his apartment for fourteen days does more advantage to him than to the boy currently sleeping in his very own bed.

Still. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t a good thing he’s doing for Doyoung, right?

“Right,” he mutters to himself, settling back onto the couch. It’s plenty comfortable (he tells himself) for someone of his stature and he’s spent many nights asleep here while trying to reach manuscript deadlines, it’s no big deal.

Of course, letting his crush sleep in his bed is a win for Taeyong too.

He’s never mustered the courage to speak to Doyoung, and there’s never a situation presented that ever required them to communicate. So, he’s really just been catching glimpses of Doyoung off his tiny balcony whenever the boy returned from school (early on Mondays and Tuesdays, late on Wednesdays and Thursdays), or hanging around the mailboxes to see if Doyoung’d ever go to fetch his mail (he rarely does), or listening out for when Doyoung arrives home past midnight, stumbling into his apartment while moderately intoxicated.

It’s a little sad (as Yuta and Youngho have quite often mentioned), but Taeyong spends most of his time cooped up at home writing and writing and writing. Doyoung’s naturally become his source of entertainment for a long time now.

“Hemingway,” he whisper-calls. The Bombay cat is obedient, leaping onto his torso and making itself comfortable between Taeyong’s hip and the back of the couch cushion. It’s a little too fat to fit, but Taeyong thinks Hemingway’s cute like that, pudgy around the belly. “So? What do you think of him?”

The cat purrs softly.

Taeyong tugs the blanket closer to his chin, smiling giddily, “I think he’s cute too.”

Hemingway purrs again.

Pleasantly, Taeyong wakes to the sound of breakfast being made. He wakes with a start, because he hadn’t thought there’d be anything to make in his fridge. For all he knows, it’s been empty for the entire month or so. The deadline to his next manuscript’s quickly approaching and it isn’t Taeyong if he isn’t rushing the final draft within the last two weeks til it’s due.

“Good morning,” Doyoung greets from over the kitchen counter, a spatula with one hand, a saucepan in the other. Frankly, Taeyong didn’t even know he still owned pots and pans. It’s been a long time since he’s used the kitchen.

Right. Kim Doyoung. Neighbour. Long-time crush. Star of Taeyong’s occasional dreams. Living in his apartment. Breathing.

Right. Get it together.

“Morning,” Taeyong’s voice cracks. He hacks the dryness away, sitting up and immediately grabbing his phone off the coffee table. 9:02AM.

The last time he was up before noon was the one time he had to get his light fixture fixed, and even then, the handyman only arrived a quarter past eleven.

“Sorry,” Doyoung says, over the sound of the exhaust going. “I didn’t mean to wake you this early, but I have classes in like a half hour.”

“That’s alright.” Taeyong pretends his back isn’t sore and that he isn’t crying for just five more minutes of sleep. His mind had been running insane thinking of Doyoung sleeping in his bed (on his pillows! under his blanket!) that the lack of shuteye he’d got was just ridiculous. “I’ve to be up anyway.”

“Oh?” Doyoung hums. Taeyong gets up, dragging his feet over to peek at Doyoung’s workings; eggs in one pan, sausages in the other, sautéed mushrooms already on a breakfast plate. The toaster’s turned on too, making it a full breakfast, the works, everything. “Sorry, I just – assumed you usually worked from home.”

“I do.” Taeyong regains control over his jaw before he starts salivating all over the counter just admiring breakfast, “I just have a meeting planned this afternoon.”

Doyoung acknowledges with a small smile, deeming the sausages and eggs ready, turning the stove off and sliding the exhaust back into place. He plates the food, and Taeyong still has enough sense in him to clean up before sitting down for breakfast with Doyoung.

“I hope it’s to your liking?” Doyoung says when he returns, face free of sleep wrinkles and looking minutely more awake than before. “I couldn’t, uh – find anything in your fridge so I went to get just enough for breakfast. I found the spare keycard by the door, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Taeyong swallows hungrily, too distracted by the breakfast spread. He sinks into the seat adjacent to Doyoung’s, ignoring the way his heart jumps when their knees bump. It hammers violently when Doyoung doesn’t inch away. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Doyoung laughs, handing him a pair of cutleries.

“What time do your classes usually end?” Taeyong asks, as if he didn’t already have a rough idea.

Doyoung spears a sausage piece onto his fork, “About five today and tomorrow, and I have late days on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so I won’t be able to make dinner…”

Taeyong has to stop physically himself from picking the plate up and shovelling breakfast down at record speed because, damn, these are some good eggs, “That’s okay, really, you don’t have to make me all three meals.” He jokes, “I’m not actually a child.”

Doyoung gives him a cheeky smile, “If you’re having McDonalds three times a day for two weeks in a row, I’d say you’re pretty darn close.”

Taeyong ignores the jab and hides his grin behind a slice of toast.

“You’re late,” is the first thing he hears stepping into a quaint little café down 2^nd street.

Taeyong snorts ungracefully, plunking down into the soft leather seat across Yuta, “When am I not?”

“As your best friend, I couldn’t care less,” Yuta scoffs, eyes still trained to the phone in his hand, probably surfing through the hundreds of emails he gets a day. “As your editor, I’d prefer it if you had some sense of punctuality.”

“Oh.” Taeyong smacks his lips together. He’s been having a pretty good morning (Doyoung involved, Doyoung-centric, Doyoung, Doyoung, Doyoung), nothing’s going to bring his day down. Not even Yuta’s sour self. “I didn’t know this was a work meeting, I thought it was just a – meeting.”

“You tell me,” Yuta sighs, locking his phone and placing it face down on the table. The bearer of bad news, “Your manuscript deadline’s been pushed up to next Wednesday, 4PM.”

Okay, maybe that could bring his day down.

“What?” Taeyong stuns. Then again, “What? We agreed on the Monday after next, I can’t be done by next Wednesday! No way!”

Yuta groans, “I know, I know – but you’ve been sitting on this sequel for so long, the higher ups and publishers are getting impatient with waiting.”

Taeyong folds his arms across his chest, “Tell them to write it then! I can’t come up with anything substantial – not to mention publishing worthy – by next Wednesday, are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.” He clicks his tongue. “The Monday deadline was an extension given a two months ago, and that deadline was an extension from three months ago!”

Taeyong feels his insides shrivel up. All the joy from breakfast gone in an instant.

“I can’t finish it by Wednesday, seriously! I still have two more story arcs to go, I can’t finish that in a week!”

“It’s not the final draft,” Yuta is sympathetic (barely). “The higher ups just want to make sure something’s happening. You still have time to change it after this submission, so just make sure you have something to prove that you’ve been working on it, Yong, c’mon. I tried to ask for a Friday deadline, but you know how they are sometimes.”

Taeyong groans, slumping against the wobbly table in exasperation. Even on regular days Taeyong knows his writing’s been slowing down a lot, inescapable when he’s so close to finishing the last tens of pages, but now with Doyoung hopping around his apartment with his pretty eyes and gummed smile, Taeyong might as well bid farewell to even the concept of being productive.

“Aside from work stuff,” Yuta raps his knuckles against the table, getting Taeyong to sit up again. “How did you manage to score this easy?”

“I didn’t score,” Taeyong clarifies, mood lifting instantly at the thought of discussing Doyoung. Yes, it’s a crush. Yes, it’s a big crush. Yes, Taeyong just really, really, really likes him. “I’m just doing him a favour since his brother lives out of state.”

“Right,” Yuta agrees with reasonable sarcasm. “And you’d do this for that lady two doors down from you?”

“Madam Kim bakes the nicest cookies, so, yes, I would think so,” Taeyong equals the disbelief. “As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

“The difference is that I already have Jaehyun living with me,” Yuta smirks, dimple forming deep in his right cheek. Taeyong wants to flick it the smile off his face.

“We can’t all have fairy tale romances,” Taeyong says flatly, aware of how grand of a gesture it was when Yuta and Jaehyun’d first started dating back in college, a true case of love at first sight.

“Just you wait,” Yuta picks his phone up again. “I’ve a good feeling about this guy.”

“For my sake,” Taeyong drums his fingers against his knee. “I hope you’re right.”

Their little work meeting is cut short when Yuta reminds him of the new deadline, sending Taeyong away to work on his manuscript. Though, it’s an encouragement of sorts when Yuta lets Taeyong leave without having to pay for his half of their little coffee meeting.

It takes two cups of coffee and too many irrelevant Youtube videos for Taeyong to finally sit at his desk and pull up the Word document holding the unnamed sequel to A Million Flames. The words stare back at him like a mess of black ready to gobble him up, but he bites the bullet, grabbing a pen and some spare paper anyway, trying to pick up from where he left off the last time he was in this very seat.

It’s one incomplete sentence later that he’s back on Youtube, incredibly and unreasonably invested in Grammarly and its functions, something he doesn’t need nor use. When he’s done with that, he tries to find a better music streaming site than Spotify, because doing literally anything else is better than trying to get over his writer’s block. When he’s done with that, the Wikipedia page to every single Nicolas Cage movie is far more interesting than his crappy writing, because it’s a long time in that he finds out Nicolas Cage once did magic shrooms with his cat.

Taeyong would never do drugs with Hemingway, who would (anyway) be far too elegant to let Taeyong get away with any of that.

2APR [19:53] yuta: … you’d better be writing

Taeyong yanks on his hair with a frustrated groan, startling Hemingway, who’d begun to fall asleep in a messy pile of papers nearby his desk.

“Hey.”

He jumps out of his seat at the sound of Doyoung’s voice, scaring Hemingway out of its wits and the room, scattering past Doyoung and back out into the living room.

“Sorry,” Doyoung laughs, leaning against the door frame. “Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“No, no,” Taeyong says a little breathlessly, running a hand through his hair. He must be looking dishevelled from all that… not writing. “I was just – doing nothing, actually.”

Doyoung smiles, gums and teeth and all, like a normal person, seriously, “I just wanted to let you know that I’m pretty much done with making dinner.”

“Already?” Taeyong didn’t hear Doyoung come in. “When did you get back?”

“Back when you were still watching those cat videos,” Doyoung grins. “At least have something to eat before getting back to skiving off?” With less of a smile, he adds, “Judging from the lack of rubbish in the kitchen, you skipped lunch, didn’t you?”

Taeyong’s breath catches at the idea of Doyoung picking up the little things. Oh, god.

“Yeah,” he mutters, stepping out of his workspace. “I had no time between the, uh – cat videos.”

Dinner turns out to be a simple linguine dish with shrimp, accompanied by a light base of garlic and butter. There’s grilled vegetables on the side too, and Taeyong reminds himself that he shouldn’t get too used to this, no matter how warm his heart is feeling.

They fit so easy like puzzle pieces, Taeyong can’t help his mind from running wild.

“What’d you do today?” Taeyong asks, trying to rid his own thoughts, as they start to dig in, forks clinking and knees bumping.

Doyoung finishes the mouthful of spaghetti before speaking, “I had my friend drive me out to my brother’s place to get some stuff I needed to last the next couple of days.”

“Is this the friend that lost your spare keycard?”

Doyoung nods solemnly, “Yeah. I’ve to get two cards replaced now… I sent the building manager a couple of texts, mentioning that I’d be a temporary tenant here too – but he’s probably too busy in the casinos to be checking his messages.”

Taeyong sniffs, “They shouldn’t take too long to get replaced, I’ve lost mine a couple of times too.”

“Really?” Doyoung says, without much interest. Taeyong doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He adds, “Oh, right, I got the antihistamine for my allergies too, so I should be fine sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Taeyong stabs at a piece of broccoli, “Didn’t we already agree that I was going to sleep on the couch, and you, the bed?”

Doyoung props his elbow against the dining table, chin on the back of his hand, trying to catch Taeyong’s gaze, “Isn’t it uncomfortable?”

This is uncomfortable, “No.” It feels like one of Hemingway’s mice plushies had climbed into his throat and gotten stuck in there. Not at all because of how Doyoung’s lips are ridiculously distracting, nor the prominent dip of his cupid’s bow, nor the way his lips curve, making it honestly the prettiest pair of lips Taeyong’s ever wanted to kiss.

“Well,” Doyoung sighs, pulling away and returning Taeyong’s ability to breathe. “We could take turns, right? I could sleep on the couch tonight, and you could take the bed. We can swap tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“You’re too nice,” Taeyong mumbles, mostly to himself, mostly without thinking.

Doyoung is incredulous, “Says the guy who’s letting a stranger stay rent free.”

Taeyong merely shrugs. Doyoung’d sure to be less impressed if he knew Taeyong was really just trying to get to know him thanks to his uncontrollable crush, and not acting purely out of the supposed kindness of his heart.

“Is dinner okay?”

Taeyong nods, “Yeah, really good actually. So was breakfast… but I also haven’t had actual food in ages so that might skew my perceptions a little.”

Doyoung is nonchalant when he says, “At least you know I haven’t poisoned you.”

Taeyong’s eyes cross from trying to stare at the plate in front of him, “I didn’t even think of that.”

“Hm?” Doyoung laughs. Taeyong’s skin prickles. “You don’t overthink situations like I’d expected authors to do, do you?”

Taeyong eats another bite of his food after waving Doyoung’s question off.

If he weren’t careful, he might just go about admitting how he’d spend most of last night overthinking, spinning stories of them both getting together, living together, being together.

Right. Right.

This is only temporary.

Living with Taeyong proves to be easier than Doyoung thought it to be.

Other than the occasional slew of sneezes that has him reaching for his allergy medication, Doyoung has no issues living in Taeyong’s apartment. He’s easily familiarised himself with where most of the necessities are; they conveniently use the same brand of laundry detergent (Tide Pods are always uniting the lazy), and cooking for more than one’s always easier than not. Hemingway doesn’t bother him when he’s working on the couch either and, as much as he’d never admit it to anyone, he’s starting to grow fond of the black cat and its green eyes.

Taeyong is neat, apart from the mess that is his work area, something that just has to be that way in order for his creativity to flow, apparently. (Doyoung doesn’t mention the number of times he’s caught Taeyong surfing through baby animal videos over the past three days of living together.)

If he’s writing, Doyoung knows best not to disturb him, not even to offer food or to remind his temporary roommate to get some well-deserved rest.

If he isn’t writing, however, Taeyong’s all over the place. Mumbling to himself about the most peculiar things, sitting on the couch with his legs propped up against the wall, sprawling across the middle of the living room with Hemingway resting peacefully on his torso; it’s not easy to overlook his silly antics.

Not that he’s any of an eyesore.

Doyoung thinks it’s cute.

Okay, no. Doyoung thinks Taeyong is cute.

Doyoung thinks it’s cute when Taeyong’s overly tired from staring at the screen of his laptop for hours on end, words turning into gibberish when he requests Doyoung get up to please make something that isn’t instant ramen. He thinks it’s cute when Taeyong falls asleep hunched over at his desk, and it’s just a magnetic pull in Doyoung to grab one of Taeyong’s many supersoft blankets up and over his narrow shoulders. He thinks it’s cute when Taeyong thinks he doesn’t know the author’s been staring at his face over breakfast and dinner (for only god knows what reason), jerking away whenever Doyoung so much as tries to revels in the attention.

“You’re telling me,” Taeil reiterates for the fifth time this car ride. “That all this – ” he points at the general direction of Doyoung’s chest (heart), “ – happened over three days.”

“Four,” Doyoung corrects. “If you count today.”

“Today?” Taeil glances at the clock on the dashboard. “You’ve been at school all day!”

“We had breakfast together,” Doyoung fiddles with his seatbelt, sensing Taeil’s questions without having to look up. It’s thick in the air. “Don’t be so judgmental, Moon, c’mon.”

“I just – can’t believe how much you’re loving this – doesn’t he have a cat? You’re allergic, Doyoung.”

He sniffs primly, “I don’t sneeze that much around Hemingway! It’s fine, seriously, it’s like a harmless loaf of bread.”

“You always fall fast,” Taeil sighs, turning into a smaller street. He’s clad in a pair of old boxers and a worn t-shirt, having rushed out of home to pick Doyoung up from school. As a sort of reimbursement for losing his spare keycard, Taeil’s agreed to chauffeur Doyoung whenever and wherever he needed to go over the time he’s staying at Taeyong’s.

Doyoung’s not cruel enough to have Taeil come pick him up at past ten in the night, but it is past ten in the night and he wasn’t about to walk twenty minutes with a stack of ungraded papers shoved into his backpack.

Thursday nights are hard.

“I’m just saying,” Taeil shrugs. “You’ve just met the guy, give it some time before you buy a ring.”

“I’m not going to buy a ring, you’re being so – ”

Taeil snorts derisively, “You sure sound like it.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Doyoung complains. Maybe walking the twenty minutes’d be worth not hearing Taeil nag at him over things that’re out of his control. Being attracted to Taeyong is currently at the top of that list. “As if you aren’t moving at breakneck speed with your boyfriend too.”

“We’re not living together.”

“With how often he’s been going around, you might as well be,” Doyoung points out. “Seriously, what’s going on with you two? How long have you dated? Are you serious about him? What’s with all the secrecy?” He frowns, “I don’t even know how you guys met.”

“Alright, calm down, Inspector Gadget,” Taeil rests an arm on the car’s window ledge. The corners of his lips twitch upwards into a fond smile, “We’ve been dating for a while, and we’re in a really good place – no hurdles to jump, no meet-the-parents, and it’s really nice just being around one another… I really – like him.”

Doyoung can’t keep the excitement from showing, “So it is serious! And you haven’t introduced him to me, your best of best friends?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Taeil drawls, hitting the blinker. “I haven’t heard a peep about his friends either, okay, friends and family are just off the table for now.”

“Okay,” Doyoung relents. But not quite, “But you have to give me something! What’s his name? What does he do? Is he in college? How’d you meet him? Is he older? Younger?”

Taeil groans, elbowing Doyoung away as the younger boy starts to climb over the centre console, “Stop that – I’m not giving you his name –  you’ll just Google him or something. Stop being annoying,” he grumbles, hitting the brakes with a little more force than requirednand pulling up to Doyoung’s building.

“Some best friend you are,” Doyoung sticks his tongue out, easing up. I’ll ask him another day, he thinks, thanking Taeil for the ride begrudgingly before shutting the door and clambering into the building.

The door lock beeps alarmingly loud when Doyoung swipes himself into Taeyong’s apartment, only for him to realise that it only seems terribly loud thanks to the serene state the apartment is in. He’s greeted by a very dimly lit living room, the source of light happening to be coming from the kitchen, drawing Doyoung’s attention.

A box of ordered in fried chicken sits under a netted food cover, grease staining the top with bits of crumbs scattered near it.

Written in Taeyong’s scrawl and the familiar bleed of bright red ink he uses against his manuscripts,

Ordered extras just in case you haven’t had anything to eat…

Doyoung isn’t a fan of eating too late into the night, but he takes a look anyway, tummy rumbling from the long hours in the research room. He finds two pieces of chicken where there would’ve been four, accompanied by a bread biscuit. Just as he pulls the chair out to sit in, a spot of black hops up onto the kitchen counter, and Doyoung bites on his tongue to keep a scream in.

Hemingway purrs loudly, tail flailing in the air as it approaches him with calculated steps.

Perturbed, Doyoung slinks out of the kitchen, only then discovering Taeyong curled up in a foetal position on the couch, motionless under a blanket. His arm dangles off, near hitting the ground and his neck is crooked against the armrest, bent at an angle awkward enough to force a shudder up Doyoung’s spine.

Sleeping on the couch is plenty uncomfortable. They’ve been swapping between bed and couches every alternate night, and it’s Doyoung’s turn to take the rock-hard cushions, so why is Taeyong sleeping out here? Was he still adamant on letting Doyoung take his bed? Or did he fall asleep waiting for Doyoung to return home?

The sight of Taeyong’s discomfort for his benefit has Doyoung sighing, scratching at his nape.

He blinks down at Taeyong’s sleeping form again, taking in his mussed-up hair and parted lips, a steady line of drool staining his chin. He snores softly, a mouth breather at best, and Doyoung is borderline surprised and more disturbed that he still manages to find Taeyong cute.

Drool, and all.

“You can do this,” he mutters quietly to himself, inching forward. It’s Taeyong’s turn to take the bed tonight, Doyoung reminds himself again. He’s sure to lie awake ridden with guilt if he lets his generous neighbour wake up an aching back.

His heart is the loudest thing going in the room.

Biting on his lip, Doyoung halts his actions momentarily to send a short prayer to the heavens that Taeyong not be a light sleeper, because he wouldn’t know where to run if the boy wakes in his arms. He slowly slots an arm under the back of Taeyong’s knees, easy to find beneath the thin covers, and the other arm just slightly under the mid-section of his back. With a quiet groan, he bends his knees and lifts the sleeping boy into his arms, wordlessly thanking the gods when Taeyong doesn’t so much as stir.

Blissful silence doesn’t last very long, however, because Doyoung is losing his balance in the next second (curse his long legs), shins bumping into the conveniently placed coffee table.

By the time he regains his balance, Taeyong is mumbling incoherently, starting to wriggle in Doyoung’s arms.

Doyoung freezes immediately, hoping, hoping, praying Taeyong fall back asleep. He has no reasonable explanation as to why he’s picked Taeyong up instead of simply… waking the boy up, like a regular person.

“Wha – ” Taeyong’s eyes are out of focus as he blinks up at Doyoung, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness. His throat works silently, “What is happening?”

Doyoung tries not to pay attention to the warmth surrounding his torso where Taeyong’s is pressed against his. “I’m, uh – taking you to your room.”

Taeyong is silent for moments, brows furrowing together as he tries to piece the little information Doyoung’s given to the current situation around them. Even with a biscuit crumb on his upper lip, Doyoung still finds Taeyong all too endearing, god, blinking rapidly. He finally breaks the silence just as Doyoung’s about to drop the boy back onto the couch,

“Am I dreaming?”

Doyoung can’t hear anything but his heart in his ears because, You’d dream about something like this?

“Er, do you think you are?” Doyoung counters, shifting his weight from one leg to another, hoping not to startle Taeyong. He isn’t too heavy, so Doyoung attributes to the crick in his back to the fact that he hasn’t worked out in a couple of… weeks.

He swallows a gasp when Taeyong moves to wrap his wiry arms diagonally across Doyoung’s neck and shoulders in his post-sleep haze, pressing the flat of his cheek against Doyoung’s chest,

“Feels like a dream.”

It takes all of Doyoung’s willpower not to drop Taeyong to the ground.

In a daze, Doyoung shuffles his way towards the bedroom, laying Taeyong down onto his bed as gently as he can with trembling arms. It’s more of a task to get Taeyong’s ironclad grip off him, but he manages without waking the boy up any further. Relief floods his veins when Taeyong snuggles further into his pillows, and Doyoung does his best not to scream while tucking him in.

Given the short amount of time they’ve really been around one another, this entire thing should be classified as Area 51 creepy.

Then, Doyoung remembers his only ever one night stand had happened after five shots of pure vodka and three glasses of long islands, and, really, tucking someone he’d just met into bed is about as tame as it’s going to get.

Doyoung changes out into his sleep clothes, skipping a bath. He figures running a shower would wake Taeyong up, and the boy’s been burying himself under so much work lately that Taeyong having a good night’s rest trumps getting the funk of library off Doyoung’s skin. He shuts the door softly, returning to the kitchen to have the fried chicken Taeyong’s left him.

Hemingway makes good company, silently laying on the dining table, far enough to not have any fur flying into Doyoung’s food. He’s tempted to feed Hemingway a piece, but he knows Taeyong doesn’t allow food that isn’t dry kibble or allocated Hemingway Snacks, as the owner likes to call them. Supposedly, they’re for Hemingway’s weight maintenance, but Taeyong feeds the cat so often that there really isn’t any point in having portion control in the first place.

Just for good measure, Doyoung takes two of his allergy pills before settling into the couch.

5APR [23:21] doyoung: taeil
5APR [23:21] doyoung: i think he stayed up waiting for me…
5APR [23:22] doyoung: does that mean anything?

5APR [23:43] doyoung: … you’d think i’d know better by now than to text you when it’s past eleven

Doyoung sighs, rolling to face the back of the sofa. The smell of Taeyong’s cotton candy body wash lingers on the cushions, and Doyoung will never admit that it could quite possibly be one of the best thing’s he’s ever come across. He tugs the blanket higher over his shoulders, closing his eyes and urging his heart to calm down, jittery from the warmth that Taeyong’d impressed with from his earlier nap.

When Doyoung wakes the next morning, he wakes on his own. It’s Friday, which means no classes nor lectures, and his morning starts off great without the sound of his alarm trying to rip his ears off. Sunlight’s already spilling across his aching back and rusty limbs, too hot for it to be just the morning sun.

Groggily, he gets to his feet, stretching out the kinks in his back and groaning when he hears several loud cricks in succession. If he were any older, he just might pull something sleeping on this god forsaken couch. Sleeping on it over a night is fine, two is alright, but three’s just pushing it.

The apartment is still, Doyoung realises after he’s done getting his arms and legs to work. No sign, sight nor sound, hinting that Taeyong would be awake, which is fine. Doyoung’d seen this coming the night before, taking his toothbrush and toothpaste out of Taeyong’s en suite to keep by the dining table, so that he wouldn’t have to bother Taeyong in the morning. Doyoung finds it simply courteous to let him rest.

Hemingway follows him with interest as he drags himself towards the kitchen, probably hungry for breakfast too. He knows where Taeyong keeps cat kibble and allotted Hemingway Snacks, so it shouldn’t be too hard to figure how to feed the hungry feline.

He, however, doesn’t know what to do when he finds Taeyong already awake, sitting on the kitchen’s linoleum floors, back against the pantry cupboard that held dried spices and unopened condiment bottles. Taeyong isn’t aware of Doyoung’s presence, having his head hung low as he stares forlornly at the piece of white bread in his hand.

It’s mouldy at the corners, a dark blue-green spotting the sides, not a bite taken from it yet, thankfully.

Doyoung clears his throat, and Taeyong looks up, moving at a speed too slow to be considered normal.

“Morning,” he tries. A little cautious, “Are you – are you okay?”

Taeyong shakes his head, lifting the bread up at Doyoung as if he should know what to do without any information.

Doyoung steps forward, taking the piece of bread gingerly. Briefly, he wonders where Taeyong’d found one lone slice of bread because Doyoung’s been in charge of groceries and he hasn’t bought bread in the past two days.

“What are you, uh – doing on the floor?”

“I couldn’t find anything to eat,” Taeyong answers miserably.

Doyoung glances at the rotten piece of bread in his hand. It’s unfortunate, sure, but it’s nothing to be sad over. “Did you just wake up?”

Taeyong shakes his head again, sighing gravely, clearly out of his mind, “I’ve been up writing since four – I couldn’t find food to eat, but I found this piece of bread but I couldn’t eat it because it’s all blue and stuff so I’ve just been – sitting here.”

“Sorry,” Doyoung says, realising belatedly that right, he did promise to make breakfast for Taeyong every morning. At the same time, he questions if it’s normal to have someone rely on him so heavily after just five days of living together. He hastily tosses the bread into the trash, going over to the fridge to pull some eggs out for a breakfast omelette. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“No, I’m – ” Taeyong sighs again, looking dejectedly at his hands. “I swear, I’m not usually this – ” he makes an unintelligible noise that Doyoung supposes means clingy or all over the place, “ – it’s just – this draft’s practically breaking me.”

“It’s alright,” Doyoung hums, turning the stove on. He works quickly, grabbing mushrooms and tomatoes and bell peppers to chop up while the pan heated up. At Taeyong’s bummed out self on the kitchen floor, he leaves his work station to pour a glass of orange juice (which Taeyong could’ve so, so, so easily managed on his own), pushing it towards the tired-out best-selling author.

“I lose all ability to function over finals week too.”

“Thanks,” Taeyong mutters, taking it with both hands and pressing it to his lips immediately. He gulps at least half of it down, blinking the bleariness from his eyes. The glum frown painted on his lips has Doyoung wondering if he could sit himself beside Taeyong, take the boy’s hands in his and tell him that everything’ll be fine, that he’s an excellent author, that he’s fretting over nothing.

Doyoung might or might not have asked his placement class about A Million Flames, and the overwhelming response filled with praises and calls for its sequel is enough for Doyoung to want to assure Taeyong that everything’ll be alright.  

That is, if Taeyong wanted him to.

Also, if he hadn’t had to continue prepping breakfast.

Also, morning breath.

Right.

“I feel really crappy that you have to see me like this,” Taeyong says when he’s about halfway done mincing the vegetables. “I’m usually more put together.”

Doyoung laughs over the sound of his knife knocking against the chopping board, “It’s alright, I – you do look really stressed out, and I did promise breakfast in return for a place to sleep, so,” he shrugs, moving to sweep the chopped-up ingredients into the bowl of three beaten eggs.

“Speaking of sleep,” Taeyong steadies himself, leaving the now empty glass on the kitchen counter as he stands, swiping his hands on his shirt, wet from condensation. “I was – I’m – I’m pretty sure I fell asleep on the couch yesterday.”

Doyoung isn’t awake enough to be lying, “Yeah… I – found you passed out on there when I got home late yesterday.”

The look of surprise on Taeyong’s face would’ve been comical if Doyoung weren’t trying incredibly hard not to blush, “Then, you – did you – carry me to my room?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung pours the mix onto the skillet, allowing the sizzle to interrupt their conversation. “It was – your turn to take the bed, so I just – I mean,” he stutters, thank you, brain, grabbing a spatula from the drying rack, “I wouldn’t have slept easy if I let you sleep on the couch two nights in a row.”

Taeyong is quiet, leaning against the counter as he continues to stare brazenly at Doyoung’s face.

“Was that – ” Doyoung’s afraid to ask, “Sorry, if I crossed the line, I just – ”

“No!” Taeyong blurts out, biting on his lip at his own sudden outburst. “I mean – I didn’t – uh, thanks, I mean. That’s what I was trying to, uh, say. Just thanks. For doing what you did.”

Doyoung pays more attention to the omelette cooking than necessarily required, hell-bent on avoiding any sort of eye contact with Taeyong while in such an awkward situation.

“It’s fine,” he teeters nervously, trying to exude as much nonchalance as he possibly can.  

Taeyong sticks around, watching on curiously as Doyoung flips the omelette expertly, letting it simmer on its own. Unable to think with Taeyong standing so close, Doyoung moves away to dump the chopping board and knife into the sink. He adjusts clumsily, standing a safe arm’s length away from Taeyong, who still looks like he’s just seen a murder occur.

The death of Doyoung’s sanity, probably.

And so, he stares back, watching every single feature of Taeyong’s face contort as he continues to take in the fact that his temporary roommate’d carried him to bed the night before. Bridal, no doubt, but Taeyong didn’t need, or seem, to remember that. Doyoung thinks the silence is too far gone to have any kind of rebound, but that changes when Taeyong inches forward to say,

“Do you – ”

The sound of the omelette hissing noisily forces Doyoung off leaning against the sink and reaching for the spatula. He plates it quickly, lest it gets too burnt, switching the stove off and turning back to Taeyong, handing the boy’s breakfast to him stiffly.

“I should – ” Doyoung stumbles. “I should get changed or something.”

Taeyong takes the plate from him. Their hands brush, and Doyoung doesn’t want to know why it feels like he’s just been struck by lightning.

“Oh.”

Unaware of what should be an appropriate response, Doyoung flees the kitchen, hoping to reap the benefits of a cold shower in more ways than one.

“Are you going out?” is what he hears when he re-enters the living area in a comfy shirt and a pair of ripped jeans.

Taeyong is still seated by the dining table, but his plate is already cleared of breakfast, nothing remaining. Hemingway is situated comfortably on Taeyong’s lap, pawing at the expanse of pale skin revealing with him just in tiny boxers.

“Just to get some groceries,” Doyoung says, doing his three-item-pat-down.

It’s between shampoo and conditioner that Doyoung thinks he should probably stock the fridge up with more snacks that could be easily accessed. Just like Hemingway Snacks, maybe Taeyong needed his own round of Taeyong Snacks too, seeing as how he resembled so much like a child, unable to fend for himself. He knows how Hyesung prepared cold vegetables and dip, premade pasta and fruit slices for her respective four and five-year-old sons; it shouldn’t be too hard to do the same for Taeyong while he’s in shut-down mode thanks to the overload of work and writing he’s going under.

Taeyong perks up, “Can I come with?”

“Sure.” Grocery shopping with Taeyong, Doyoung thinks he’d never imagine it in a million years. He doesn’t have a reason to say no, but, “What about work?”

“I know,” Taeyong depresses, bringing Hemingway to his cheek and nuzzling it affectionately. “But I’ve been in here for days, I think I might go crazy if I don’t have any kind of social interaction.”

Doyoung smiles, nodding his head towards the hallway, “It’ll just be a short trip, so I won’t be wasting too much of your time.”

Taeyong sighs, letting Hemingway leap off him, “I wouldn’t mind if you did, honestly, I’d rather be doing anything than write at this point.”

“Didn’t you say your editor wanted you to ‘spend every waking hour writing’?” Doyoung asks, implied with air quotations. “Is your deadline really that close?”

“Wednesday,” Taeyong calls, heading into his room. Doyoung listens while he rummages through his drawers and closet, waiting patiently for Taeyong to reappear in a white shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “He just thinks I goof around too much.”

“Huh,” Doyoung hums, leading the way out the door. He slips a pair of shoes on, and Taeyong does the same, a hand closing around Doyoung’s shoulder to steady himself. Another bolt of lightning shoots up Doyoung’s back, forcing him to stiffen under Taeyong’s palm.

“What?” Taeyong says, unbothered by the proximity of their faces, which is very, very, very close. His grip on Doyoung’s shoulder tightens as he adjusts to have his sneakers on right.

Doyoung doesn’t dare breathe, “Nothing.” The fluttering in his tummy reaches his throat, tongue dry when he sees Taeyong’s brows pinch together, confused.

“What?” Taeyong repeats, dragging the syllable out that, if Doyoung thought about it hard enough, sounded very much like an adorable whine.

“Nothing,” Doyoung says defensively. Then, he adds, for comedic relief, “Just wondering what your editor’s going to think when he finds out you’ve been watching Buzzfeed Worth It videos instead of working on your draft.”

Taeyong narrows his eyes, squeezing Doyoung’s shoulder hard as a sort of punishment, but it’s not enough to hurt, “You make me sound like a child.”

“Well,” Doyoung mumbles, holding the door open for Taeyong, “I cook most of your meals for you – I’d say you’re about halfway there.”

It’s luck that comes into play when Doyoung dodges quick enough to avoid the swipe Taeyong aims at his head, unimpressed by the (spot on) comparison.

x

Despite what Taeyong says about not being afraid of Yuta coming after his ass for not working on his manuscript, Taeyong is afraid of Yuta coming after his ass for not working on his manuscript. Running into his hot-headed editor while shopping with Doyoung out and about is a scary idea on its own, and Taeyong can only hope that Jaehyun would be around if they really do run into Yuta. Maybe then he’d be spared being strangled out of frustration by his editor in the middle of the rice and bread aisle.

Though, he’s finding it a little hard to care with Doyoung beside him as they walk down the sunny pavement towards the nearest grocery mart, arms coming into contact ever so often. He takes the chance to tests the waters a little too, just to see if Doyoung were paying as much attention as he was; slowing his steps to see if Doyoung would follow, and speeding up occasionally too, under the pretence of something having caught his eye.

Taeyong can’t keep the smile off his face when Doyoung does take note, dawdling whenever he did, quickening whenever he did.

It’s the smallest of things that makes Taeyong heart run a thousand miles a second.

The grocery store’s pretty empty for a Friday afternoon.

Taeyong waits patiently as Doyoung retrieves a cart, heading first towards the fruit and vegetables section. Doyoung is mindful of him all the while, asking for his preferences every step of the way down the aisles. They snag a few red apples and mandarin oranges, and Doyoung says strawberries are in season, so they get two boxes of those and two boxes of mixed berries too.

Taeyong offhandedly mentions that melons are his favourite fruit, but he only has them back home since he finds it arduous to cut through the thick skin on his own. At that, Doyoung immediately loads a bowling ball sized one into the cart, promising that his fruit slicing skills are not limited to melons, unlike some people.

“As if it’s easy to cut one!” Taeyong pouts, grabbing the fruit and inspecting its rough, bumpy exterior, the sole reason his weak arms were never considered competition. “Plus, there’re always pre-cut melons on sale already.”

“It’s not fresh that way,” Doyoung chides, moving along after bagging a few potatoes. Taeyong scurries after like a puppy, hugging the melon to his chest. “Who knows how long it’s been sitting out here?”

“But it’s edible,” Taeyong argues, a fan of pre-packaged food, something he senses Doyoung seemed to not appreciate. “And the mess that comes with it, oh god, I once tried fixing a fruit platter together and the aftermath in the kitchen could rival a war…”

“That’s just because you’re terrible in the kitchen,” Doyoung says dryly, as though it weren’t an outright insult. Taeyong finds it difficult to be offended when Doyoung’s smiling so widely at him. “I’ll show you how to cut these up tonight, I promise it’s not that hard.”

Taeyong makes a long face, “I’m just going to make a mess of things. And I’m not terrible in the kitchen, mind you.”

Doyoung shrugs, attention mostly on the array of leafy vegetables (Taeyong can’t tell the difference), “Then I’ll just cut them for you whenever you want to have them.”

Yeah, Taeyong thinks bitterly, “But you’re not going to be around forever.”

The words leave faster than Taeyong registers. His heart pounds loud in his head as he sucks in a deep breath, anxious and wary of Doyoung’s reaction to his words, honest but risky.

Doyoung grabs two packets of similar looking vegetables, studying their labels intently.

He doesn’t seem to notice Taeyong’s current inability to breathe.

“Sorry.” Taeyong watches as Doyoung picks both anyway, laying them carefully in the cart. He blinks twice, looking a little lost, “What did you say?”

Taeyong wasn’t born with immense courage, “Nothing, nothing.”

Doyoung doesn’t push for it, getting behind the cart and having them move along, “So, what else do you usually get when you come here?”

“Uh,” Taeyong’s mind is still in a blunder, haven’t yet recovered from his carelessness. “Anything but bread or milk, I guess.”

Doyoung leads them to the bakery anyway, “Why not?”

“They expire so easily,” Taeyong drifts towards the batch of freshly baked banana muffins displayed behind a plastic case. “I can’t finish them in time, so I end up throwing most of it out.” He picks out a six-pack with blueberry toppings, securing the melon on his hip. A bashful laugh, “These are really good with milk.”

The stare Doyoung gives him is judgemental at best. “Milk and muffins?”

“They’re good!” Taeyong sniffs, “I used to have these everyday back in high school… and I’d eat them all right outside this exact mart.”

“Do you want to get them?”

“I can’t – I crash too easily from sugar highs if I have too many at once now.”

“You don’t have to have them all today,” Doyoung says, stepping up to look over Taeyong’s shoulder. He points at the expiry date, a few days from now, “We can finish it by then.”

“We?” Taeyong echoes when he’s caught his breath. Doyoung’s face is too close.

He arches a brow, “Did you want to have them all to yourself?”

“I mean – ” The plastic box in Taeyong’s hands crinkle loudly from where he’s holding on too tight, “I didn’t – you don’t have to have them if you don’t want to.”

Doyoung takes the blueberry-banana muffins from him, placing them carefully beside the strawberries, shrugging indifferently, “I like muffins too, but I don’t think I’ve had them with milk before. It’s like you’re letting me in on a secret – I’ll have to try it, won’t I?”

It takes Taeyong a minute to regain his senses, and by the time he does, Doyoung is already several paces ahead, question proved to be rhetorical. Taeyong has to jog to keep up, still holding onto the melon like it were his baby.

For the most part, Doyoung decides on what to get, since he is the one in-charge of their meals for the next week or so. Most of them Taeyong’s bought or at least seen before, but Doyoung appears to consider other things when picking groceries too (whether or not the packaging’s been torn, whether or not the cap’s been popped, whether or not there’s even a slight chance of the item being spoiled).

Taeyong doesn’t mind much with whatever Doyoung picks, busying himself with the junk food section, debating between pre-flavoured chips or plain chips with some other kind of dip. He settles with plain ones and choosing two kinds of dip (one salsa, the other nacho cheese), before grabbing three extra-large packets of tortilla chips, piling it into his arms atop the melon he already has. Greed overrules, and he struggles to secure yet another bag, fingers barely brushing the tip of the packaging.

The stack of chips start to wobble precariously, and he lets out a little squeal when his hold starts to loosen on his gluttonous haul. Distressed, he twists around to see if Doyoung would be there to help, lest everything hits the the ground with a splat.

Thankfully, Doyoung is.

And he’s also smiling, “Alright over there?”

“Help,” Taeyong whispers piteously, unwilling to give up on the last bag. Doyoung laughs, hurrying over with the cart when Taeyong makes another impatient noise, helping to move the load from his arms to their growing pile of groceries.

“Do you really need this many bags of chips?”

Taeyong rolls the melon into the cart gently, “I do.”

“That’s not very healthy.”

“I don’t mean – ”

“Yong?”

Doyoung straightens from where he’s hovering close to Taeyong, and it makes him turn, even though he could recognise that voice anywhere.

Oh god, is Taeyong’s first thought. His second is somewhere along the lines of, Busted.

“Hey,” he calls out anyway, because he’s been spotted by none other than Youngho of all people. The only person that has as much contact as he has with Yuta, the only editor he’s trying to avoid. Youngho resembles and nags too much like a mother hen to not be ratting Taeyong out to their best friend later on, which means he’s most positively screwed by the time this conversation’s over.

This could only get worse.

“Uh – this – this is – ”

“Hi,” Youngho ignores Taeyong’s spluttering, taking big strides to where they’re standing with a hand out towards Doyoung. “I’m Youngho.”

“Doyoung,” the latter says, a little strained, probably thrown off by Youngho’s friendliness. (Or height. Most people are.)

“You’re Yong’s neighbour, right?”

“Yes,” Taeyong answers on his behalf, stepping in-between them to have Youngho’s outstretched hand falls to his side. The faster this conversation was over the better; Youngho’d have less to report back to Yuta over their favourite topic – his crush (unbeknownst to the boy himself). “We’re just out buying things, we won’t be needing help – ”

Youngho grins, wide and cheeky, “I never said anything about being helpful.”

Taeyong groans inwardly.

“So, Doyoung,” Youngho shoos Taeyong aside, tucking his roll of paper towels under an arm. It’s those green-tea infused ones, which is definitely out of place knowing how Youngho ran through rolls of them and had no care for scented-infused paper towels. Much less green tea; he preferred most things hojicha, roasted tea. “Taeyong’s mentioned loads about you.”

“I have not!”

Doyoung glances at him, lips parting in surprise, “Has he?”

Taeyong chokes, glaring up furiously at Youngho, completely unfazed, “How’s it like so far, living with him?”

“Er,” Doyoung fumbles, looking between Taeyong, who’s determined on looking away, and Youngho, who’s determined on getting an answer. “It’s fine?”

Youngho goes on his tiptoes, “Just fine?”

Taeyong is speechless at Youngho’s conspicuousness, but he really shouldn’t put it past him (or Yuta) to be interrogating Doyoung in broad daylight between the chips and dip aisle.

“Oh god,” he huffs, kicking at Youngho’s calf to push the giant away. “Don’t answer that,” he tells Doyoung, focused on shoving Youngho out of their sight. “You don’t have to – ”

“I like it,” Doyoung says over his outburst, and Taeyong’s fingers round so tight around Youngho that the taller starts to screech in protest. “I like it,” he repeats firmly, when neither Taeyong nor Youngho moves. He’s speaking to Youngho next, avoiding Taeyong’s incredulous stare now that it’s being given to him. “I like living with him, it’s very, uh – different, as compared to living alone.”

Youngho snatches his arm out of Taeyong’s death grip, whining sorrowfully at the shallow indents that’ve been left.

“You deserve it,” Taeyong grumbles, swatting Youngho’s hand away when he tries to show Taeyong the damage he’s caused. Eager on keeping the conversation off him, he questions, “What’re you doing out shopping alone on a Friday afternoon?”

“I could ask you the same,” Youngho shoots back. “Aren’t you rushing a deadline?”

“I am.” Yuta might be the scariest editor Taeyong’s had the privilege to work with, but Youngho’s all bark and no bite. “I’ll finish it all in good time.”

Youngho has a hand on his hip, “I guess you won’t be crying for an extension on Tuesday night, then?”

“I don’t cry for extensions!”

Youngho, boy that stands between Yuta and Taeyong when they’re going at each other arguing over work deadlines, is unamused, “When have you not?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Taeyong accedes, planting his hands on Youngho’s chest and pushing him towards the end of the aisle. “I’ll work on it the moment I get home, stop nagging me already.”

“Can’t help it!” Youngho lets himself be pushed, waving at Doyoung as he says, “Watch over him for me!”

The aisle between chips and dip has never been in a situation any more awkward than it is in now. Taeyong bores holes into the tip of his sneakers, unsure of what to say.

“Should we go?” Doyoung offers eventually, walking up to Taeyong’s side with their cart full of purchases. “I’ve got most of the things I needed – and you should probably get back to work, right?”

There are a lot of things Taeyong should be doing, and a lot of things he shouldn’t be doing.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

(Thankfully, the delicate quality surrounding them breaks when they realise that the number of items the cashier is ringing up severely outweighs the number of items that can possibly be carried on their arms before they reach breaking point. Taeyong suggests bringing the cart all the way back to the apartment building, and Doyoung argues that if they get caught for stealing, he’s not getting ticketed under his name or paying the hundred-dollar fine.

“I’ll pay the fine,” Taeyong whines, later when they’re two blocks away from home, five plastic bags on each arm near weighing his entire body down. “I’ll pay double the fine! Triple!”

They reach a stoplight, and Doyoung crouches by the edge of the road, catching his breath.

“Give me some of your bags,” he says, already reaching to grab them from where they rest at Taeyong’s feet.

“I can handle it,” Taeyong mumbles, retracting his previous statement, using his knee to block Doyoung’s advances.

“C’mon,” Doyoung sighs, successfully taking three out of Taeyong’s assigned ten, piling his own to thirteen on his lean arms, hooked painfully around his slender fingers. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult,” Taeyong tuts, trying to get them back. Doyoung stands just as the light gives them the okay, heading off with the groceries rustling around, leaving Taeyong behind. “Wait – hey – ” he fumbles with the rest of the bags, still struggling to get them off the ground. “Wait for me!”

Doyoung’s laugh ricochets off the buildings along the empty street, racing Taeyong all the way back to the apartment, listening to the older boy complain noisily as he did.)

Doyoung tells him to go straight to work the moment they step into the apartment, insisting that no help is required in unpacking their haul of food, no matter how hard Taeyong tries to help. He’s effectively removed from the kitchen when Doyoung grabs him by the shoulders, and herds him towards his work station, which would’ve been fine if his touch didn’t leave searing hot reminders on Taeyong’s skin.

Surrendering, he retreats into his work room, shutting the door with a sigh. Inwardly, he’s thankful for the exemption; his hands are trembling from carrying their groceries several blocks down and Taeyong doesn’t want to explain his lack of… good health.

Gathering himself, he pulls the Word document up reluctantly, rereading the last two pages to get his mind working all over again. He checks them against his written notes, tuning his brain back into the world of fourteen-year-old Song Euijin and his life prophecy of defeating the evil overlord when there’s a hesitant knock on his door.

“Sorry,” Doyoung says, stepping into the room with a plate of muffins and a tall glass of milk. Every single thought Taeyong’s ever formed just flies out the window at the sight of Doyoung bringing him food, and his comfort food too. Two ways to get to his heart and Doyoung has Taeyong right where he wants him. “Just in case you get hungry before dinner?”

“It’s okay,” he accepts the food immediately, taking a bite out of the muffin. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” Doyoung says, retreating from the room as quickly as he’d come in.

The door shuts and Taeyong hates it when it leaves him with the reminder that none of this is permanent.

By the end of next week, Doyoung will be moved out and there won’t be any reason to speak anymore. He’d have to go back to his old ways of feeding his growing crush by spying on the younger boy and waiting by the mailroom instead. No more breakfasts that aren’t just McGriddles, and dinners consisting of microwavable herb and butter chicken with stale pasta, and no snacks of milk and muffins.

Refusing to let his thoughts get the better of him and potentially result in a wasted day with no writing done, Taeyong shoves them into the backburner and takes a swig of milk, leaving his fate up to the gods.

It’s after two hours of writing and suppressing tears of frustration from surfacing later that Taeyong figures it’s time for a well-deserved break. He’s done one out of his two final story arcs, the most progress he’s gotten in the past week, which is not a lot, but it’s something at least.

He’s surprised by the darkness the apartment’s enveloped in when he creeps down the hallway, plate and glass in hand. Did Doyoung leave? Taeyong wonders, inching towards the living room, only to find said person sprawled on the couch, laptop perched precariously on his lap, headphones plugged in. His lower lip is trapped between his teeth, eyes focused on the screen illuminating his concentrated expression.

Doyoung realises Taeyong’s presence at the foot of the couch when Taeyong finally gives up staring at him through the dark, resuming his path towards the kitchen. He takes his laptop in his hands and sits up, letting the blanket pool around his hips.

“Hungry?”

Taeyong’ll miss the availability of good food. Yes. “I’m okay. Just – taking a break.” He leaves the plate by the sink, “Why didn’t you turn the lights on? It’s bad for your eyes.”

“Oh.” He hears Doyoung tap away on his keyboard, “I didn’t realise it was getting this dark.”

A peek out the window tells Taeyong that the cloudy skies are more than just the evening approaching. Dark and foretelling, a heavy storm brews overhead, forcing a bubble of nervousness up Taeyong’s throat. Just like Hemingway, he didn’t sit well with thunder and lightning, not quite a fan of loud noises or flashes of white that come with.

“I think it might rain,” he reports, hurrying back out into the living room. The quicker he got back to his workspace, the quicker he could get his headphones in, the less of a chance he’d hear the approaching storm, the less of a chance he’d be too shell-shocked to be doing any sort of work.

Doyoung shuts his laptop, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he waves the concern off, flipping the lights on for Doyoung. He squints. “I’m just – going back to writing.”

“Okay.” Doyoung rests a hand on the armrest, “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready?”

“Sure.”

Work consumes him and Doyoung’s promise of teaching him how to cut a melon up is postponed to a time where he isn’t too busy pulling his hair out. Dinner’s a short event and the roll he’s on has Taeyong scuffling through the meal, returning to his room after thanking Doyoung hurriedly, not wanting to lose momentum.

Against Taeyong’s premonitions, the storm doesn’t arrive for a long while.

It’s after he’s finally finished on his seventh page of writing (for the evening) and crying out for his bed that the first rumble of thunder sounds, deep, and low enough to shake his heart. Their apartment building wasn’t old per se, but it wasn’t exactly brand-new; it feeds his delusional fear of the entire building crumbling to bits and trapping him under concrete.

Going on auto-pilot, he saves the Word document thrice for good measure (and good luck), hopping out of his desk chair and scurrying towards his room,

deflating when he notices a figure tucked snugly under his blankets.

Right. Right.

It’s Doyoung’s turn to take the bed.

He’s already deep asleep, black hair fanned out over one of Taeyong’s down pillows, face turned slightly towards it with a hand clapped over his chest. Though he’s standing in his own room, Taeyong feels like he’s breaching some sort of code, invading Doyoung’s privacy, so he moves to leave for the living area, but not before his eyes rake over Doyoung’s sleeping form once more.   

Taeyong squints at an odd lump by the edge of his bed, realising belatedly that it’s Hemingway, curled up against one of Doyoung’s blanket covered foot, tail flicking around serenely.

“You’re not allowed in here,” he scolds quietly, entering the room to try and grab Hemingway out. The cat, however, isn’t having any of it, getting up to its puffy feet and slinking closer to Doyoung. “Stop!” Taeyong motions for Hemingway to stay away, lest the boy wakes. “You’re with me tonight!”

Hemingway mewls as indignantly as a cat can get, hovering daringly around Doyoung and rubbing itself along the arch of Doyoung’s back. Worried the disgruntled cat might wake his sleeping guest, Taeyong rounds the bed quickly, shooting an arm out to scoop Hemingway up.

It’s a joke from the gods; an inhumanely bright flash of lightning strikes just as his fingers brush against Hemingway’s tail and his hand jerks on reflex, yanking hard. Hemingway hisses loudly, drawing its claws as it pounces away from Taeyong and onto Doyoung’s arm, thankfully protected by his quilt.

Doyoung startles awake anyway and the following crack of thunder makes Taeyong jump, making his existence known with the irrepressible squeak that escapes his lips. Hemingway springs up, growling loudly, vocalising its fright.

To Doyoung’s credit, he doesn’t react too badly to a paranoid cat and its equally stunned owner grappling at the edges of the mattress. Voice rough from sleep, it catches as Doyoung props himself up on an elbow, narrowing his eyes to find Taeyong in the dark,

“ – yong? Wha – ?”

“Hi,” Taeyong squeaks, nerves in a war from not knowing when the next of lightning would strike and not having any music to block the subsequent breaks of thunder. “I’m just – I – Hemingway’s in here.”

Doyoung glances around him, nodding at the feline trying to burrow itself under the covers, “The storm – it was making Hemingway anxious so it followed me in here.”

It’s a feeling Taeyong can’t decipher. “It’s not allowed in my room.”

“Oh.” Doyoung sits up a little straighter, starting to wake up at the tightness in Taeyong’s tone, “Sorry, I just thought – there’d be an exception, since it – seemed like it was going to rain hard tonight.”

As if to prove a point, another pale bolt of lightning shatters across the room, and Taeyong’s shoulders shoot up to his ears, eyes flying shut at the expectation of thunder that’s to come in suspended succession. His curls his hands into fists, clamping his nails into his palm, uneasy.

“Hey,” comes Doyoung’s voice, low and smooth. He doesn’t mask the incredulity, “Are you – scared?”

“No,” Taeyong says through gritted teeth, though he very, very obviously is. “I’m just here to get Hemingway.”

“Okay.” Doyoung says, pulling the blanket off him to reveal the fat cat pacified by his thigh. Traitor, Taeyong accuses bitterly. “Did you want to have it sleep with you?”

The deafening crash of thunder renders Taeyong unable to answer, inhaling sharply at the abrupt shock that runs through his body. His eyes are wide and surely full of terror when he meets with Doyoung’s, wide awake and brimming with worry.

“Would you feel better sleeping in your bed?” Doyoung asks once the thunder passes, already prepared to get out from under the covers.

“No – no,” Taeyong shakes himself out of his frozenness, battling to take Hemingway into his arms. “I just – I usually sleep with Hemingway when it’s – ”

This time, the thunder hits half a second after the lightning does, signifying how close the strike is. It gives Taeyong zero time to brace himself for the it, big, resounding, and compelling him to hurdle into bed in one swift, knee-jerking reaction. His hands find purchase on Doyoung’s shoulders, tangling his fingers into the soft cotton, and his knees knock painfully into Doyoung’s hips. Hemingway makes a run for it, yowling as it clears out of the bedroom at top speed, in search of a better form of shelter now that it’s been taken over by Taeyong.

“Sorry,” he mumbles quickly, yet too shaken to loosen his grip.

Doyoung’s touch is tentative and delicate on his waist, and it’s quiet around the room when he suggests, “Maybe you should – sleep in here tonight.”

Taeyong nods jerkily, hating the easy way storms get right to his nerves. He sinks under the comforter with Doyoung’s minimal help, unfurling his hands from where he was gripping Doyoung too tight to instead secure them on the blanket. With it pulled up to just under his eyes, it gives him the bravery to stare back when Doyoung looks down at him, attention threaded with apprehension.

“I’ll take the couch, so – ”

The darkness bolsters his valour, right hand releasing the quilt to thwack against Doyoung blindly before snagging the hem of his shirt,

“Wait – the storm – ”

Doyoung is convinced by Taeyong’s hold and the beseeching expression etched into his features (or maybe he’s making use of the fearlessness that comes with nightfall), agreeing silently to the unspoken request. He gingerly lowers himself back onto the bed, keeping a space large enough to fit Hemingway between them. Taeyong leaves his fingers in Doyoung’s shirt, too grounded by it to let go.

Doyoung doesn’t say anything about it, tucking an arm under the pillow and the other comfortably by his side. He shifts upwards, angling his face so that he’s looking above Taeyong’s crown. Taeyong is appreciative of it, evading Doyoung to stare straight at his chest in place.

It’s indescribable, how Taeyong feels with Doyoung surrounding him. The smell of him mixing with the lavender-scented dryer sheets he uses with the laundry, creating a mix that relaxes Taeyong to the bone. It’s calming, a contrast to the errs from when they’re struggling to fill the silence over breakfast or dinner, gauging one another on where they stand.

Taeyong worries he might miss it too much.

Over the course of the night, he eventually drifts closer to his neighbour, forehead resting just lightly on the curve of Doyoung’s collar bones when he hunches on reflex at the rumble of thunder. Out of unease from the ongoing storm or the fact that this might be his only chance to have Doyoung like this, he’s afraid to wonder. Taeyong falls asleep sooner than his mind can gather enough energy to work it out, hands still clenched tight onto Doyoung’s shirt.

He doesn’t say anything about that either.

It’s not the sound of thunder, no.

It’s something louder. And a lot closer.

Doyoung wakes to the sound of someone pounding their palm against the door. His eyes are still glued shut over the short night he’s had, no thanks to Taeyong shivering every time the room brightened tenfold at a flash of lightning and then freezing up in anticipation for the ensuing split of thunder. It’s after the fourth bolt of lightning that Doyoung lets his frustration over losing sleep overtake what little morality he has left, inching closer surreptitiously until the smaller boy has his head rested on his chest.

The entire night is a blur itself; Doyoung has never thought heavy rains nor thunderstorms to be any scary, appreciating the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering against window panes, but Taeyong seemed to feel differently. A light sleeper himself, he rouses whenever Taeyong so much as twitches against him, sensitive to the storm’s racket. He can’t recall the number of times the words Are you okay? teetered on the tip of his tongue, even in his haze of bare consciousness, only for him to realise and accustom to the fact that Taeyong was merely restless, but nevertheless soundly asleep.

Though, the intermittent jostling doesn’t stop Doyoung from maintaining the lack of space between them.

Doyoung is painfully aware of how unethical it is to be in possession of a hankering to have Taeyong close, but really, Taeyong asked him to stay… who is he to refuse, honestly?

Not that he would refuse Taeyong, but that’s not the point.

The point is – waking up in such close quarters poses more problems than one.

The obvious: there’s someone at the door, and they’re plenty furious, from what Doyoung can make their screams out to be.

Or, more importantly: Taeyong has his head tucked comfortably into the crook of Doyoung’s neck, forehead against the pillow, breathing hotly over a little patch of exposed skin provided by Doyoung’s ratty sleep shirt. He drools unattractively onto the sheets, but it only makes Doyoung not want to wake him even more.  

There’s no time to appreciate the proximity.

“Lee Taeyong!”

The yelling ascends in volume by the second, and Doyoung contemplates whether or not Madam Kim from two doors down would go so far as to call the cops. Deciding that it isn’t worth the trouble placating a seventy-year-old with homemade cookies, Doyoung breaks away from Taeyong carefully, pushing another pillow upwards to take his place. He breathes a sigh of relief when Taeyong grabs a hold of its corners without protest.

Hemingway is meowing the moment his feet touch the ground, agitated by the loud noise disturbing their otherwise peaceful morning – afternoon.

“You’re not alone,” Doyoung murmurs, quickening his pace when the hammering intensifies. “Coming, coming!”

Thinking it to be a pissed off neighbour, Doyoung cracks the door just a little – to stare down at a boy not much shorter than he is.

A pair of almond shaped eyes filled with energy glares right back at him, jaw set. He gives Doyoung a once over, undaunted by the question of Doyoung’s being, taking in his lanky form and Charmander printed boxers. He has a hand on the handle, and it throws Doyoung off guard when the stranger yanks the door open fully with a great amount of force that didn’t seem to fit his stature, storming into apartment uninvited.

Still clouded with lethargy, Doyoung stuns by the welcome mat.

It’s not until he hears Taeyong’s blood-curdling scream that his legs take him expeditiously back into the bedroom, bewilderment washing over him when he sees the stranger attacking Taeyong with a pillow.

“Tell me why Youngho saw you messing around yesterday when you promised to be working!” He punctuates his words with hard hits to Taeyong’s frame, uncaring of the cries of help falling from the author’s lips.

Ah. This must be his editor. Doyoung weighs the options of leaving the room to let them be, or saving Taeyong, who looks to be suffering plenty just from the sound of thwacks alone.

“I worked, I worked!” Taeyong objects, kicking out at the other’s torso, proving that he didn’t quite need any help defending himself. “I’m halfway done! I swear!”

“Halfway? The deadline’s in three days!”

Guilt trickles into Doyoung’s veins when he realises that he’s the one that’s been distracting Taeyong from work. Not much, but a distraction regardless. Taeyong works hard, but… maybe he’d get more done without Doyoung around and disturbing him.

Taeyong snatches the pillow out of the boy’s hands, resting his foot on the boy’s torso for good measure, keeping him at a distance, “Three days? No – I have five!”

“Today doesn’t count,” his editor snaps. “It’s already two in the afternoon, and Wednesday doesn’t count either, you don’t have a full day for it – you have three days!”

Doyoung looks down at where Hemingway is rubbing itself against his leg, equally confused and watching the scene unfold before them.

“I’ll just submit it unfinished!” Taeyong decides, scrambling away when his editor grabs him by the ankle, wrenching him towards the edge of the bed. “Stop! Stop!”

“You can’t lose this deal, Yong!” His editor warns, releasing Taeyong’s leg when he pretends to wail. “Stop acting like a child and get your priorities in order!”

“I’m not going to lose the deal,” Taeyong shoots up in bed. “Don’t go too far, Yuta, you can’t rush writing – ”

“I’ll go as far as I want,” Yuta, Doyoung catches, answers sharply, matching the venom. “I know you can’t rush anything, but c’mon, Taeyong, you know how important this is – you’ll hate me for not keeping you in line the minute the deadline passes.”

Taeyong seems to acknowledge the sentiment, bowing out of the argument with a grievous sigh, “Right, no, you’re right – but I just needed a break.”

Yuta moves to rest a comforting hand on Taeyong’s shoulder, “I get it.” He lifts his head to stare straight at Doyoung, conveying an emotion meant to be hostile or apprehension, it’s unfathomable. “I wanted to make sure that you were going to be on task, and when you didn’t answer my calls – I didn’t want you sleeping through the day and wasting it.”

“I know,” Taeyong runs a hand through his hair. “I just – it was a long night because it was storming and I – ”

Doyoung tenses at the thought of what’s to be mentioned, knowing that his editor’s more than just an editor, but his best friend too. Surely, sharing beds with his nothing-more-than-just-an-acquaintance neighbour would be an interesting topic of discussion.

Taeyong looks over his shoulder as if he expects Doyoung to still be lying in bed, even after his significant scuffle with Yuta.

“Where’s – ”

“Hi,” Yuta says, directing it over Taeyong’s head, making him twist around to lock eyes with Doyoung. A blush creeps up his cheeks and an image from the night before of Taeyong curling up against him nearly makes Doyoung miss Yuta’s next words, “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced, but considering your state of undress – you must be Kim Doyoung.”

Doyoung clears his throat, naked in his thin sleep shirt, “I am. Nice to meet you.”

“Not so nice when you have my biggest earner in bed past noon,” Yuta quips, but his eyes aren’t as full of grudge like they were five minutes prior. The accusation is phrased quite like Doyoung wanted Taeyong in bed with him… which is true to an extent, but neither of them are supposed to know that.

“Ignore him,” Taeyong cuts, nudging Yuta away with an arm as he struggles to climb off the bed. He averts from Doyoung, “He’s on editor mode today. And you,” he jabs at Yuta’s hip, eliciting a high-pitched groan, “Don’t be so rude – and please feed Hemingway for me, I – haven’t had the chance to.”

It’s an obvious call for Yuta to leave the room, and Doyoung doesn’t judge it, not knowing how to be any less subtle either.

“Sure,” Yuta shrugs, pulling away from Taeyong to skip out of the room, clicking his tongue and enticing Hemingway to follow.

Doyoung shuts the door after Yuta leaves, though unsure of what compels him to, and he rounds to find Taeyong standing with his hands clasped together, looking as out of place as he felt.

Did last night mean anything more than just a convenient circumstance that happened to be in Doyoung’s favor? Did Taeyong think it meant anything more? Should it mean more than that? Should they talk about it? Is there even anything to talk about?

“Thanks,” Taeyong wraps his arms around himself, as if he couldn’t look any smaller than he already is. “For last night – I don’t – I usually – Hemingway – ” he sucks in a breath, settling defeatedly with, “I don’t like storms.”

“It’s okay.” It’s really not, but Doyoung offers a wry grin nevertheless, “And I guessed as much.”

He crosses the room for his phone by the bedside table, and Taeyong’s eyes follow his every step, very much resembling Hemingway whenever Doyoung gets up from the couch for food. Silence festers uncomfortably between them while he thumbs through his messages, pretending to have received more than just a lone invitation for lunch from Taeil.

Doyoung chews on his lip; Saturdays are usually spent lounging at home, but if he’s posing as a distraction to Taeyong, maybe he should leave the apartment for a couple of hours.

He texts back that he’ll be over at Taeil’s place in under an hour, and Taeil’s quick okay is reassuring.

“I’m – ” Doyoung starts, just as Taeyong says,

“I don’t – ”

Doyoung gestures for him to continue, just Taeyong does the same, so he goes first, just to end their game of back and forth, “I’m going out for lunch, so – but I’ll be back to make dinner.” Have dinner with you.

“Oh.” Taeyong blinks, expression clouding.

Oh?

“With Taeil,” Doyoung adds. He berates himself for panicking all on his own. Taeyong didn’t even care, probably, “The friend that lost my keycard.”

The air around them is stifling. “What did you – want to say?”

Taeyong’s not a very good liar, “Nothing important.”

Without a reason to push for it, Doyoung keeps indifferent, “Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll clean up first,” Taeyong backpedals towards the en suite. “And then you can get ready – for your lunch.”

Before Doyoung can voice his agreement, the door to the bathroom is shut, leaving him standing awkwardly on his own as the muffled sound of water running fills the room. The situation outside with just Yuta and Hemingway isn’t welcoming either, so Doyoung picks waiting on the edge of the bed over making small talk with a stranger he’s never met before.

Taeyong doesn’t take too long, making himself available in the room once again with slightly damp hair and splotches of water on his shirt. It’s nothing insanely attractive, but the domesticity of it makes Doyoung’s palms sweat.

With a nod, Taeyong leaves the bedroom, and Doyoung has no choice but to get ready for lunch with an annoying inkling ringing at the back of his mind that he can’t pick apart.

“ – in the same bed? Are you serious?”

Doyoung isn’t surprised to be what Yuta and Taeyong are deliberating over. If anything, he’s a lot more intrigued at Taeyong’s response than mad about being talked about, seeing as he too had no clue where they stood now. It’d do him a lot more good than just waiting around for someone to hand it to him on a silver platter, because that seemed like it wasn’t happening anytime soon and Doyoung needed to know.

Friends, the obvious answer.

But it didn’t feel like they were friends. Sure, Doyoung is friends with Taeil, best of best friends, but his heart doesn’t call to break out of his chest and fly towards the other whenever he so much as looked at Doyoung.

Taeyong is definitely not a friend.

Worse, he won’t be anything more than just a neighbour by the end of next week.

“Yes.”

Doyoung can hear the grimace from where he’s standing in the hallway, adjusting his jacket and his non-existent belt. Eavesdropping, clearly. “I – swear it was just – because of the storm.”

Yuta scoffs quietly, and he drops his voice so low a register that he can’t catch the words. The groan Taeyong returns is louder than enough, however, and Doyoung emerges from the darkness before the unsettling feeling in his gut can grow any more than it already has.

“Hey,” Yuta calls, having seen Doyoung first, Taeyong having had his back turned. He gives Doyoung his second once over of the day, “Going out?”

“For lunch. With a friend.”

Yuta, frankly, looks he doesn’t particularly care, “Are you going to be back for dinner?”

Doyoung looks to Taeyong the moment his gaze snaps up to meet Yuta’s. Taeyong stares at him quizzically, “What’s it to you?”

“I was going to hang around,” Yuta shrugs, petting Hemingway in languid strokes. “Make sure you don’t waste the day.”

“Oh, please,” Taeyong says, chewing ferociously on a slice of pre-cut apple he must’ve found in the fridge. Doyoung had spent the bulk of last night packaging them up in little ziplock bags and storing them away. “I’m not a child, I don’t need to be babysat.”

Doyoung wants to argue that he’s eating pre-prepared snacks that suited toddlers more than they did adults, but shuts the idea down when he registers that it’d cause more damage than none.

“As if I haven’t spent the last three of your releases catering to your every need over the final days to deadline,” Yuta mocks, leaning back in his seat. “If I’m going to be here, I want to be included in dinner too – since Taeyong’s been raving about how good your cooking is.”

Has he? Doyoung doesn’t dare ask. “Sure, I’ll cook tonight.” Yuta gives him a bland thumbs up. “I’ll be – going off now, I’ll catch you guys later.”

He hurries towards the entryway, but he doesn’t miss Taeyong’s soft Bye.

Neither does he miss the loud whacking noise, Yuta’s howl and Taeyong’s soft grumble, “You’re giving me a headache, Nakamoto.”

It doesn’t click with Doyoung until he’s standing on Taeil’s doormat with a paper bag in hand that he really might be meeting Taeil’s secret boyfriend for the first time. He respects Taeil’s wishes, of course, but it isn’t his fault if he just so happened to have arrived while Mr. Mystery was still hanging around the apartment. Not that he planned it, not at all.

However, “You just missed him,” Taeil informs.

“Just?” Doyoung makes his way into the apartment, eyes darting around for any signs of said boyfriend. When he comes up empty, he doesn’t bother hiding the frown, “How soon ago?”

“A while,” Taeil answers evasively. “What did you bring me?”

Doyoung, while unsatisfied with the answer, raises the paper bag nonetheless, “Green tea – Matcha cake. They were having offers on it, so I got them on the way.”

“Ooh, thanks,” Taeil cheers, taking it from his hands and hurrying over to unload them in the kitchen without much care for Doyoung himself.

“I bought them for your boyfriend actually – wanted to make a good impression,” he adds on wistfully, trailing after Taeil.

“What are these?” Taeil dodges the question blatantly, pointing at three round buns wrapped individually in plastic, resting by the cake box.

“Melon bread,” Doyoung supplies, ears twitching for absolutely no reason. “I’m taking those home, but the cake’s for you though.”

Taeil works it out easily, “And the melon bread’s for?”

Doyoung levels his voice, “My neighbour.”

“Your neighbour, Taeyong?”

“Yes.” Doyoung turns his back to dig through Taeil’s pantry for a pair of forks and knives, “Do you want to keep some aside for you-know-who?”

“That makes him sound so villainous.”

“What am I supposed to call him if I’m not allowed to know his name?” Doyoung deadpans sullenly.

“Point taken,” Taeil relinquishes.

“So?” Doyoung repeats, grabbing a Tupperware from the cabinet and holding it up. “Is this big enough?”

Taeil shakes his head, “We can finish this ourselves – he doesn’t like green tea very much.”

Doyoung hums, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I come around. That is,” he amends, “if you ever let me meet him.”

“Why d’you want to meet him so bad,” Taeil remarks. “‘S’not like you’re dating him.”

“I’m just curious,” Doyoung intones, making himself comfortable while the cake is being cut. “Can’t I be curious?”

“Go be curious somewhere else.”

“That’s nice coming from someone I went out of my way to buy cake for.”

Taeil guffaws. “Don’t lie,” he accuses, plating a slice for Doyoung and alotting him one measly piece of white chocolate curl. “You only went in in the first place to get that bun thing for Taeyong, didn’t you?”

The comment is superfluous (because it’s true), so Doyoung ignores it. “This is pretty good.”

Taeil takes a bite and nods in agreement. “So? Updates on your living situation?”

“Everything is as is,” Doyoung threads carefully. “We went grocery shopping together yesterday, and I met his editor this morning.”

“Meeting friends already?” Taeil’s brow jumps. “That’s quick.”

“Unlike some people,” Doyoung mutters begrudgingly, moving on when Taeil raises his fork menacingly. “It wasn’t planned or anything, he just showed up at the door and I answered it.”

“Oh?” Taeil spears another bite. “How was the couch? Still bearable?”

“Hardly, but I didn’t sleep on the couch last night, thankfully.”

Taeil slows, “Then why did you answer the door?”

“Huh?”

“If you sleep in the room, Taeyong would’ve been on the couch and he would’ve answered the door,” Taeil explains, looking at Doyoung dead in the eye. “Why did you answer it?”

Doyoung’s mouth is so unbearably dry. “He didn’t sleep on the couch.”

Taeil stares at him for a good second, then his features smooth out, comprehension and disbelief rising. He drops the fork in his hand over the sudden understanding, and he curses under his breath when the piece of cake splats onto his linoleum tiles.

“You slept with him!” Taeil exclaims. “Oh my god, Kim Doyoung – ”

“We didn’t sleep together!” Doyoung interrupts loudly, stabbing at his own cake. It falls apart. “I mean – we just slept in the same bed, we didn’t like – do anything, Moon.” He carries on, “And honestly, so what if we did?”

“I just – ” Taeil reaches above his fridge (with difficulty) for a roll of paper towels, still in its brand-new packaging. “Well, you can’t expect me to not be shocked, Doyoung. You don’t sleep with just anyone, as far as I know.”

He hands Taeil a pair of scissors from the Mason jar by the counter, “What? Like one night stands don’t exist?”

“Yeah, well, Taeyong isn’t a one night stand, is he?” Taeil dismantles Doyoung’s rationales in one straightforward statement. “Explain, please.”

Doyoung watches Taeil clean up the mess. “I don’t know – it was my turn to take the bed, so I did and he was working when I slept. Then he woke me up in the middle of the night because it was storming, and he was afraid of it I guess, so I offered him the room.”

“Gentlemanly,” Taeil praises, tossing the napkin into the trashcan and returning the paper towels to its place above the fridge.

“And I was going to leave, but he – ” It’s odd, recounting it aloud, “He asked me to stay with him.”

Taeil resumes his position. “Then – do you – ah, no.”

Doyoung furrows his brows, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Taeil shrugs. Doyoung isn’t used to Taeil holding back, so he clinks his fork against the plate to have him go on. A sigh, “Do you like him?”

Doyoung holds Taeil’s gaze, burning with curiosity, but he can’t hold it for long, inspecting his cake instead. He shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Taeil says. Gently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” Doyoung says honestly. “I guess – I mean, I guess I like him?”

“You guess?”

“He’s nice and cute and does this thing with his nose when he smiles.”

Taeil awards him a piece of white chocolate, “Sounds like you like him.”

“I guess,” he says again, picking the reward with his fingers.

“So?” Taeil probes, kinder than Doyoung’s ever heard him. “You like him, and?”

Doyoung breaks the chocolate into two, “What if he doesn’t like me?” Taeil waits for more, “We’re not friends or anything, he’s just my neighbour who, by the way, is housing me out of generosity… I literally have never spoken to him before this, and now I suddenly see him all the time – we’re just going to go back to being neighbours next week, so – I don’t know, what if I’m just being dumb about it?”

“You’re not being dumb, you ding-dong,” Taeil chides. “Well, how much do you like him?”

“How much?” Doyoung echoes. He stares at a sock covered foot, “I don’t know – it just feels nice? Taking care of him and spending time with him, even if we’re not talking or doing anything together.” Doyoung shrugs. “I think about touching him, or – ”

Taeil groans around a bite of cake, “I didn’t need to know that.”

Doyoung tuts, but his cheeks warm up anyway. “Not like that, Moon. I mean – like, I want to hold his hand or wrap my arm around his waist or just play with his hair…”

Taeil eyes him carefully, “That’s – quite a bit.”

“Is it?”

“A little.” Taeil purses his lips, “Why don’t you spend the night here?”

Doyoung doesn’t follow. “What for?”

“See how much you miss him,” Taeil proposes. “If you really like him, you’ll miss him. If you don’t, you won’t even care.”

Doyoung considers it for a moment, “That sounds like something high schoolers would do.”

“The world’s run by high schoolers now, what’s your point?” Taeil says dryly. “Hear me out – sleep here tonight, we can watch some movies or whatever, and if you spend most of the time thinking of him, do something about it when you get back.”

Right. There’s no harm in testing Taeil’s theory out but,

“I already agreed to preparing dinner for him and his editor.”

“Call him,” Taeil plates himself another slice of cake. “Tell him you’re staying over here tonight instead. It’s a sleepover.”

“What about your boyfriend?” Doyoung isn’t chickening out. He’s just being sure. “What if he comes over?”

“I’ll call him too,” Taeil settles easily. “I’ll just tell him you’re here.”

Doyoung fiddles with his thumb, “You call him first.”

Taeil shoots him a pointed look, but reaches for his phone anyway, mumbling as he goes, “Child.” Doyoung starts to argue, but Taeil waves at him to be quiet, already bringing the phone to his hear. It connects in seconds.

He’s got him whipped, Doyoung thinks.

“Hi.” Taeil’s voice is soft, mellow. Far different than the one he uses to berate Doyoung with. “No, no, everything’s fine – ” his smile is nauseatingly sweet, “I just wanted to call and tell you that, uh – my friend’s sleeping over tonight, so… yeah, the one with who lost his keycard.”

Doyoung scoffs indignantly, “You lost my keycard!”

“Hush,” Taeil glowers at him. Doyoung withers under it obediently. “So – don’t come over, okay? Yeah, yeah – no, you don’t have to get dinner, we’re just ordering in, I think… Yeah, I’m sure, I’ll see you tomorrow, definitely.” He turns away from Doyoung, but the hushed I love you is still audible.

“How sweet,” Doyoung drawls, but Taeil hangs up before it reaches his boyfriend’s ears.

“Done.” He turns back on his heels, stare incredibly daunting for a man of such stature. “Your turn, Kim.”      

x

Taeyong’s Yuta-induced headache has yet to subside.

“Back out here again?” Yuta notes, when he practically crawls out of his work room and into the living area, head pounding and limbs weak. Yuta, on the other hand, is lazily sprawled over the couch with Hemingway resting agreeably on his torso, his laptop on his chest with headphones plugged in. He so easily assimilates into the apartment, they should really start building up some boundaries honestly

The scene reminds Taeyong so much of Doyoung; his head must really be hurting.

“I need some Advil,” Taeyong manages a groan, every single inch of his body aching, tell-tale signs of the flu.

“Didn’t you just have some?” Yuta sits up, resting his laptop on the coffee table.

Taeyong shrugs, rummaging through the fridge for the half-opened box, “I had one like an hour ago.”

“You can’t take another yet,” Yuta reproaches, carrying Hemingway with him as he saunters into the kitchen, extending a hand. “It’s too soon – wait three hours.”

Taeyong rests his head to Yuta’s palm, letting him feel for a fever. He sighs when Yuta reports the negative with a frown, letting his hand fall back onto Hemingway, scratching it between the ears, “I can’t wait three hours – I feel… really – bad.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Probably not,” Taeyong sighs again. “Just food, maybe?”

Yuta coddles Hemingway. “Should we call Doyoung to have him buy some congee home instead?”

Taeyong shakes his head and he regrets it immediately when it feels like his mind’s being turned on a screwed up axis, “Ah – no, he’s probably still at his friend’s, I don’t – ”

Annoyingly, Taeyong’s phone rings, loud and filling him with unease, just by the sheer volume of it. Yuta leaves Hemingway on the kitchen counter, jogging into Taeyong’s work room on his behalf.

“Speak of the devil,” Yuta shouts, and Taeyong wishes he didn’t, the words reverberating against the walls of his brain. “It’s lover boy.”

“Don’t call him that.” Taeyong snatches the phone from Yuta, words of thanks forgone. He clears his throat, “Hello?”

The line is a little sticky, but he hears Doyoung fine when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Taeyong repeats, like he’s daft, because Doyoung’s voice just does things to him he won’t ever dare to admit. In his peripheral, he sees Yuta roll his eyes. “What – what’s up?”

“I just wanted to call – to tell you – ” There’s scuffling on the other end of the line, and Taeyong strains to hear what else is being said. He comes up with nothing, catching only, “I just wanted to tell you that I can’t make it home for dinner tonight.”

Taeyong disregards the twinge of sadness that snaps in his gut. He was looking forward to Doyoung’s cooking. “Oh.”

Yuta jerks his chin upwards, What is it?

“Will you be okay?” Doyoung asks, concern so blatant Taeyong doesn’t know what to do with it. “There are some new takeout menus in the second drawer, if you guys order in?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong sniffles. He groans a little when the sound goes straight to his headache. God.

“Are – you sound – are you sick?”

“It’s just a headache,” Taeyong reassures, mind whirling. Doyoung picks everything up. Well, not everything, but most of it. “I’m fine, I just – when,” he takes a breath, snubbing Yuta’s questioning stare. He picks at the hem of his shirt, feeling like a child, “When are you coming back? Should I order extras for you?”

Doyoung doesn’t answer. There’s another round of heated whispers that Taeyong fails to catch, and Doyoung’s voice is a little strained when he returns, “I’m not coming back.”

Taeyong’s heart stops and his hands go numb. Already? You’re leaving already?

“Tonight,” Doyoung corrects, a little too slowly. Taeyong isn’t prepared to say goodbye. “I’m not coming back tonight, I’m staying over at Taeil’s.”

“Oh,” Taeyong mumbles. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Doyoung tells him, a little too tenderly, like a loved one in the waiting room instead of an essentially nonessential temporary roommate. Taeyong wonders if it’s really for his benefit. “For breakfast.”

“Okay,” Taeyong says again. The line goes quiet, and it’s difficult to keep himself from asking Why aren’t you coming back? so he gives a short, “Bye.”

If Doyoung’s any startled by it, he clearly doesn’t show it, “Bye.”

Yuta’s speaking before he gets to tuck the phone away, “Why’d he call?”

“He’s not coming back.”

“Forever?”

Taeyong will never doubt their likeness ever again. “No, just tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Just said he’ll be spending it at a friend’s place.” Yuta opens his mouth again, but Taeyong speaks over him, urging the conversation to move on from Doyoung. He’s spent the last few days working manically, he hasn’t had the time to sort through his feelings, it isn’t time to talk about it with anyone just yet. “What are we going to do for dinner?”

“I was thinking pizza,” Yuta takes the box of Advil from Taeyong, returning it to the fridge. “But you look – well, you look sick, frankly.”

“Thanks.” Taeyong retrieves another set of pre-packed snacks Doyoung had left behind, “I don’t want to go out though, I’m on a roll right now.”

“That’s what I’m here for. What about congee? I’ll go get some from that restaurant two blocks down later,” Yuta hums, leaning against the fridge. It’s times like these Taeyong forgets every single playful smack Yuta has ever landed on his shoulder (as if he doesn’t immediately retaliate). “What do you want? Chicken? Black sesame?”

Simultaneously, both their phones buzz impatiently,

7APR [17:07] youngho: hey
7APR [17:07] youngho: what’re you guys up to?
7APR [17:08] youngho: dinner, anyone?

Yuta scoffs, “His boyfriend must be busy.”

Taeyong blinks, “Boyfriend?”

7APR [17:08] yuta: already at yongs
7APR [17:08] yuta: you’re invited
7APR [17:09] yuta: only if you come over with congee

“Youngho has a boyfriend?” Taeyong asks again when Yuta fails to answer him. “Since when?”

“‘Dunno,” Yuta says unhelpfully. “A while, I think? I found out, like, just a week ago.”

“What?” Taeyong winces when his head pounds warningly. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Yuta ambles back into the living room, “He didn’t tell me or anything. I just caught him texting on his phone.”

“But who is it?” Taeyong tries to join Yuta on the couch, but his editor waves an arm at him, gesturing for him to get back to work. “Is it someone we know? What’s his name? How did they meet? Is he younger? Older?”

“I’ve never met anyone else as nosy as you are,” Yuta settles back into position, swinging his legs leisure over the armrest, agonisingly clam. “Ask him later.”

“Sorry,” Taeyong apologises unapologetically. “But, are we really not going to discuss Youngho’s relationship status which, by the way, has been stagnant for the past year and a half?”

“What do you want me to say, Yong,” Yuta hums, strangely unconcerned.

Taeyong folds his arms across his chest. Being best friends with Yuta also meant being so in-tuned with one another, it was borderline telepathic. “You just want me to get back to work, don’t you?” He accuses, unappreciative of the blank stare Yuta gives him in return,

“Took you long enough.”

Taeyong huffs, retreating into his room and wishing he had another babysitter instead, since it’s been advocated so strongly that he required one. He loves and appreciates Yuta’s form of tough love but, presently, he might prefer a babysitter that brought him milk and muffins, yes.

Exactly that.

7APR [17:12] youngho: seriously?
7APR [17:12] youngho: do i really have to buy dinner to win your affection? 

7APR [17:26] youngho: okay :(

Youngho arrives at half past seven with three servings of piping hot porridge in styrofoam bowls, along with an array of side dishes that he probably got for free (“Ah, the perks of being so evidently good-looking!”). The table is properly set up before Yuta effortlessly lures Taeyong out of his hellhole with promises of warm food and an hour break from writing, slightly harder now that Taeyong’s found his momentum. Hemingway joins them by the kitchen counter, tail swishing around, eyes following whenever Youngho picks up his chopsticks, knowing that he’d be the weakest of the three to succumb to its doleful stare.

“Were you here the entire day?” Youngho asks, tearing apart a piece of minced pork in black bean sauce. He allots himself half, and gives the other to Yuta, on his left, who nods in thanks.

“Basically,” Yuta picks up a yellow pickled radish, nibbling on it slowly. “Had to make sure this one – ” he juts his chin towards Taeyong, across him, “ – didn’t pass out from not eating.”

Youngho makes a sound of surprise. “Don’t you have that neighbour taking care of you now?”

Yuta beats Taeyong to it, “He went out for lunch today. With a friend.”

“Oh?” Youngho glances at Taeyong, on his right, adamantly focused on cooling his spoonful of congee. The connotation of Doyoung’s words takes priority on Taeyong’s Do Not Think About list, and he’d be damned if he had to admit how much it’s worrying him, which is way more than he lets on. Doyoung did mention that it was just his best friend, Taeil… but then again, Taeyong didn’t even know the other, whether how he looked or if he was single. There’s just too much Taeyong doesn’t know at this point, it’s painful to think about.

“He was supposed to be back for dinner too,” Yuta hums. “But he bailed last minute.”

“Where did he go?”

“‘Dunno, he’s supposedly sta – ”

“C’mon, do we really have to talk about this over dinner?” Taeyong groans. To Youngho, he says, “What about you? What’s this I hear about you having a boyfriend all of a sudden?”

Youngho lolls his head to glare at Yuta. “I thought we agreed on not mentioning that.”

“Did we?” Yuta shrugs, unperturbed. He flinches when Youngho lifts his chopsticks menacingly. “It’s been, like, two weeks since us three have sat down and had dinner together, Johns,” he deadpans, bringing up the nickname Youngho went by in college in his international exchange classes. Knowing that, since it was where the three of them met, it’d sure incite a hint of guilt somewhere. “The least you could do is tell us why you haven’t been around lately.”

“You guys were busy too,” Youngho pouts. “It’s not like I only call you guys when he isn’t free!”

Yuta scoffs. “So? Are you ever going to tell us about this mystery guy?”

Taeyong speaks up from where he’d been silently watching, “Yeah – who is he? What’s his name? Do we know him?”

Youngho merely shakes his head, picking apart the steamed fish in his bowl, “Sorry guys, but we agreed to keep it lowkey for now – no friends, no family.”

Taeyong exchanges his inquisitive look with Yuta’s dissatisfied one. Youngho’s never been this guarded about his relationships. The three of them have always been open books with one another, from Youngho’s painful breakup two years ago, to Yuta’s severe fight with Jaehyun over apartment listings, to the first time Taeyong’d seen Doyoung across the hall. It must be serious if Youngho’s being extra cautious.

“Why?”

“We’re at a good place right now,” Youngho says shortly. “Don’t want to ruin it.”

“It’s not like we’re going to scare him off!” Taeyong protests. Yuta nods in accordance, though they all know that not one soul at the table really believes that.

Though it comes from love, Youngho is no stranger to how protective Taeyong and Yuta are over him. His previous relationship had been the catalyst; a mutual breakup with his ex-boyfriend (who they’ve vowed never to name again) when they’d fallen out of love, but it’d still hurt Youngho into months of despair, body simply refusing to function on its own. It took Taeyong everything to hold Yuta back from finding said ex-boyfriend and beating him to a pulp when it happened, feeling just as sorry when they found Youngho in the miserable state he was in (covered in pizza grease and wearing the boy’s shirt, a size too small for his tall frame).

Youngho sighs, resting an arm on the table as he reaches past Taeyong for the sugar snap peas sautéed with red-pepper flakes. “As much as I love you guys, it’s something we’ve agreed on before we started dating, and I intend to honor it.”

“Okay,” Yuta rolls his eyes. “When are you intending to introduce us to this guy then?”

“Does he know about us, at least?”

“No, but I haven’t heard of his friends either,” Youngho chew thoughtfully. “Not by name.”

“Imagine that,” Yuta drones, waving his spoon at Taeyong. “They aren’t even dating, but we’ve already met Doyoung. Twice, collectively.”

Taeyong tosses his half-eaten yellow pickled radish into Yuta’s bowl, scowling. “The circumstances are different.”

“As if,” Yuta eats the radish without batting an eyelash. “Youngho spends so much time at his boyfriend’s place, I bet they see each other more than you see lover boy.”

“Stop calling him that.” Taeyong doesn’t like the way it makes his heart jump. He jabs Youngho in the arm, “You’re going to his place after this then?”

“No,” Youngho polishes the last of his meal. “He’s with a friend,” he leans back, giving his long arms a stretch. He adds, with a grin, “You guys have me the whole night – should we catch a movie?”

“Yes!”

“No,” Yuta says with asperity. “You can hang out with us after your deadline.”

Sometimes, Taeyong wishes for a nine-to-five job. Or an editor that wasn’t his best friend watching his every move. “I’m so close to finishing it though,” he sulks.

“Exactly,” Yuta hums, stirring his leftover congee aimlessly. He points out, “At least lover boy isn’t here to distract you – if you finish your draft early, you’d get more time with him anyway, wouldn’t you?”

We’re already running out of time, Taeyong thinks bitterly. But, Yuta did have a point. If he could finish his draft by tonight, even that would mean less time writing and more time figuring a solution to the mutiny in his heart and mind. Of course, the odds of that are near none.

“You have a point.”

Youngho gets up from the table first, clearing the disposable bowls and utensils into one of Taeyong’s saved grocery bags. Usually they’d be shoved into a drawer, but Doyoung’d taken a habit to folding them into little triangles, saving space and storing them neatly into a paper bag.

“Are you staying the night?” Youngho asks, directing it at Yuta as he unfolds one of the triangles.

“Depends,” Yuta stands to toss his leftovers into a separate double-bag. He looks at Taeyong, “Will you be okay surviving the night?”

Taeyong nods, hurriedly finishing the last bit of his dinner. “There are snacks in the fridge, I’ll be fine.”

“You prepared snacks?” Youngho says lightly, impressed.

Taeyong shrinks, answering in a small voice, “No… Doyoung did.”

Youngho guffaws. “I should’ve known.”

“What about your headache?” Yuta continues, clearing up the empty side dish containers. “Feeling any better?”

Taeyong’d been too distracted by Youngho’s relationship to be bothered with the dull numb at the back of his mind. It’s still there, but it’s also time for another dose of Advil,

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m just going to finish up what I can, then head to bed.”

Yuta’s lips turn upwards into a devious grin, “Can you fall asleep without Doyoung beside you?”

Beside him, Youngho screeches, hand flying up to clamp over his mouth, eyes widening comically, “Already?”

“Oh, shut up,” Taeyong shoots Yuta an aggravated look. “We slept in the same bed – beside one another, alright, it was just a really bad thunderstorm last night.”

“Just beside one another, he says,” Yuta mutters mockingly, a shit-eating smile wide on his face.

“Just from the storm, he says.” Youngho gibes, “Oh, I’m sure, Yong.”

“Thanks for the food.” Taeyong overlooks their needless commentary. He tosses his rubbish into the bag in Youngho’s grasp, ignoring the false apologies the older boy tries to spring him with. Taeyong brushes the following questions of Did you like not-sleeping with him? and Don’t you wish there’d be another storm tonight? off, grabbing one of Doyoung’s pre-packed fruit snacks (melons, this time) and strolling out of the kitchen without sparing his best friends another glance.

“Are you really just going to leave like that!” Youngho whines, peering down the hall.

“No, you guys are.” Taeyong opens the ziplock and pops a melon cube between his lips. Sweet. “Leave once you’re done cleaning up, thank you!”

The long string of expletives Yuta unleashes on him is muffled when Taeyong shuts the door with a charitable reminder for them to take the trash out too.

Without Doyoung (or Yuta, or Youngho, for the matter) around the apartment, Taeyong’s only company is Hemingway. He’s used to it – or rather, he’s trying to get used to it again. It’s ridiculous, Taeyong tells himself, chewing on the cap of his marker pen, feeling a little… lonely.

Plainly because he shouldn’t be.

Being at home alone is nothing new to him, having lived on his own ever since he’d graduated from State; he knew that he needed the solitude in order to have productive days, and having some other person living and breathing in such close quarters would only drive him crazy. Though, maybe that’s changed over the past week.

Having just Hemingway snuggled up on the hammock Taeyong’d bought (it has suction cups on one side, enabling it to be stuck to the window pane), purring periodically, used to be enough company. It used to be enough, taking a break from his writing by watching Hemingway’s tail swing back and forth. It used to be enough, the silence that comes with.

Taeyong isn’t sure when he started to accustom to Doyoung’s rabid keyboard tapping whenever he rushes through lessons plans, or his little groans whenever he pulls away from his laptop to take a break, or the sound of his footsteps pacing the living room whenever he tries to memorise the content for his next full-day of teaching. Taeyong isn’t sure if he’s going to miss these little antics when Doyoung has to leave, but he isn’t sure if he isn’t going to miss them either.

It’s funny, how the universe likes to play with him. Finally getting Doyoung somewhat in his hands, only to have fate plan to take him away before he can clear his mind enough to figure out what to do.  

2:31AM, his phone reads.

Taeyong groans quietly, the words on his screen blurring together, no matter how hard he tries to focus. Despite taking the second dose of Advil, his headache is back and worse than ever, brought on by his incessant thinking and frustrations. To add to that, his back is hurting and so are his legs, the only pain more irritating than the fact that he can’t form a complete, coherent sentence to fill his Word document.

Hemingway looks on worriedly from its spot by the window hammock, purring loudly when Taeyong gets to his feet, wobbling after hours in his office chair.

“I’m fine,” he says to himself (and to Hemingway). “I – give up,” he relents, “I need sleep.”

Hemingway purrs, almost mockingly, Duh.

Begrudgingly, he decides to clear his work desk littered with empty mugs and dirtied ziplock bags (nearly half of the pre-packed fruits Doyoung had made were gone), not risking attracting bugs if he’d left them out overnight. His legs weigh more than they’ve ever have in his life when he finally manages to make it to the hallway, inching slowly towards the kitchen, afraid to anger his headache by making any sudden movements.

It takes Taeyong a lifetime and a half to make it to the kitchen sink, letting go of the mugs without care and regretting it instantly when they clang against the metal loudly. The sound of it still rings in his ears as he lowers himself to rest his forehead against the kitchen counter, breaking out into a cold sweat.

A fever? This is not good.

Taeyong squeezes his eyes shut, disbelieving of his terrible luck. He still had ways to go over his manuscript and only three full days to finish it. Plagued with irritation over his shitty immune system and crappy luck, he shifts to lean half over the counter, too uncomfortable in his own skin to move himself into the bedroom.

It’s got to be the long nights messing his body up.

Even the feeling of Hemingway nuzzling against his calves isn’t enough to tug him back to reality. Taeyong simply closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep on the counter with his head right next to the toaster. Without another soul around, the apartment is eerily quiet. Every brush of wind coming through the kitchen window makes him shiver, but his limbs are too weak and achy to move himself away.

Hemingway growls deeply and Taeyong feels the vibration of it against his ankles, tickling him.

“Go away,” Taeyong mumbles, mind still whirring, confused as to whether the kitchen counter is beneficial or detrimental to him at this point in time. “Leave me be.”

Hemingway purrs again.

Taeyong sighs, only just realising that arguing with a cat would do no help to his headache. Or to anything, ever.

He’s a slight off seriously falling asleep and time has escaped him, unknowing of how long he’s had his cheek pressed to the countertop, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. It doesn’t even phase him; too far gone for his brain to register that it might be a stranger or a burglar or a murderer, just to name a few. All he’s capable of is hoping it’s Yuta, and hoping that his editor would be so kind as to help him into bed.

“Taeyong? What – are you – awake?”

It sounds a lot like Doyoung and Taeyong briefly wonders if auditory hallucinations are a common side effect of the flu. Or to authors suffering from a writer’s block. Or burnout. Whichever fits, Taeyong doesn’t care. Bed, please.

“No.”

“What happened? Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Taeyong feels the shadow hover over him, blocking out the kitchen light even behind his lidded eyes. “No.”

A hand is on his forehead, “You’re burning up. Have you taken any Advil yet?”

“Not after the second one you gave me.”

A stutter in silence. “I didn’t give you any Advil.”

At that, Taeyong summons the will to wrench his eyes open. His eyes don’t log that it is Doyoung staring down at him, worry lines deepening when it takes Taeyong too long to comprehend the situation. In return, he stares open-mouthed up at Doyoung, taking in his furrowed brows, bright eyes and concerned frown. His hair is looks soft and fluffy even after an entire day of being out, and Taeyong fights the desire to reach up and pet it.

“You’re back?”

“Are you okay?” Doyoung ignores Taeyong to ask again, adjusting to have a better grip on his shoulder. His fingers press warmly, reassuringly, through Taeyong’s thin cotton shirt, and Taeyong is whole-heartedly exaggerating when he says it alleviates the ache in his arms.

“I think – ” Taeyong coughs weakly, knowing fully how much he’ll regret it tomorrow morning for acting like such a baby. “I’m having the flu.”

Doyoung reaches to touch the back of Taeyong’s neck with his fingertips, and Taeyong can’t help the small exhale that escapes at the cool relief it brings.

“You’re definitely burning up,” Doyoung bites on his lip, moving to use the back of his hand to feel Taeyong’s sweaty forehead a second time. “Are you having body aches?”

Taeyong nods pathetically, all care for impressing Doyoung flying out the window. “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Doyoung says, pushing the sleeves of his jacket up. He peels Taeyong carefully off the counter, “Okay, let’s just get you to bed.”

Taeyong allows himself to be pulled, falling limp into Doyoung’s arms. It’s embarrassing, so, so, so stupidly embarrassing how much he relies on Doyoung, someone he’s just met for god’s sake, but there’s nothing in Taeyong that wants to fight it. He lets Doyoung huddle him into his bedroom, clutching tight all the while and hoping that the flu is big enough of an excuse to be this touchy.

“Wait here,” Doyoung instructs, after angling him down onto the bed and pulling the covers over him.

Taeyong has no will in him to fight that either, eyelids so heavy that if it weren’t for the pain shooting up his legs, he would’ve fallen fast asleep. With the blanket around him, the shivers start to subdue, but he’s sweating profusely now, body perplexed as to whether he was hot or cold.

At some point, Taeyong isn’t keeping track, Doyoung returns with a wet towel for his forehead. He doesn’t dare open his eyes when he feels Doyoung card his fingers through his hair, undisturbed by the impossibly large amount of sweat that’s gathered there. The cold compress feels good against his skin, and Taeyong lets out another long exhale, curious as to who he must’ve killed in his past life to deserve such sad luck.

Sick, yet too sick to appreciate Doyoung’s care. Right.

“Better?”

Taeyong endures to nod. “Thanks.”

“When did you take your last Advil?” Doyoung’s still threading his fingers through his hair, and Taeyong can’t deny how soothing it feels.

“After dinner,” he mumbles, wanting to just fall asleep. Maybe then everything would hurt less.

Doyoung pulls away for a second, and thankfully he’s back before Taeyong can protest, holding up a mug of lukewarm water and an Advil. Taeyong sits up enough to take the medicine quickly, groaning like he’s aged a hundred years when he lies back onto the pillows.

“I thought – ” Taeyong winces uncomfortably. Doyoung thumbs the edge of his hairline then, lightly, as if to brush the pain away. “I thought you weren’t coming back tonight.”

Doyoung’s movements falter for a moment. “I was – I wasn’t going to, but I – wanted to come back.”

Taeyong stares at him like he’s heard wrong. “You what?”

“Nothing,” Doyoung murmurs. “You should get some rest.”

And Taeyong does, unable to keep himself awake any longer, with Doyoung’s fingers in his hair, lulling him towards slumber. He sleeps, knowing that it’s two nights in a row that he’s fallen asleep with Doyoung by his side. 

Everything else can wait.

Hopefully, morning will too.

Morning doesn't wait too long.

When Doyoung wakes, Taeyong is fast asleep. He’s still a little warm, but the fever has gone down substantially, so Doyoung takes the time to shower and get cleaned up, having forgone it, once again, the night before.

It’s between shampoo and conditioner that Doyoung thinks of three things – the first of it, how sore his back is from being bent over the edge of Taeyong’s bed for a full eight hours. The night was even harder than the night of the storm, Doyoung’s slumber periodically interrupted by Taeyong’s groans and calls for the sickness to just please go away. Without much else he could do, Doyoung concedes to mumbling reassurances he knows Taeyong’ll never hear, yet soothing enough to lull him back to sleep.

The second is the fact that he spent the night by Taeyong’s bedside simply because he’s suffering from a mild case of the flu (the fever subsides after the second Advil Doyoung administers), attending to Taeyong’s every need like a keeper; bringing in new cold compresses, pressing a glass of water to his lips whenever they get too dry to keep him hydrated and checking in to make sure he didn’t get too hot under the blankets.

The third is the sound of Taeil’s voice from last night reminding him to do something about the feelings brewing in his heart. And gut.

Yes, Doyoung missed his temporary neighbour all throughout the first and second Ironman movie, and no matter how menacing Taeil tried to be, asking him to please kindly shut up already – Doyoung couldn’t stop fretting over how sick Taeyong sounded over the phone, something unsubstantial he managed to go on and on for hours. He gives up on Taeil’s affection test half-way through the opening credits of the third Ironman instalment, insistent on leaving to check on Taeyong, worry gnawing so viciously on his nerves that he hurriedly jogs four blocks down to catch the last train home. (The bus would’ve taken a lot longer.)

Which, to his credit, worked out well since he found the boy practically minutes away from passing out alone in the middle of the kitchen, using a toaster for a pillow.

It’s watching Taeyong roll out of bed and him knocking clumsily into several door frames that Doyoung decides, I shouldn’t say anything.

Yes, Doyoung’s come to terms with the fact that he does like Taeyong more than a temporary neighbour should (Taeil wasn’t shy with his efforts to get Doyoung to do something about it). Yes, Doyoung is clueless as to what exactly he’s supposed to do, unsure of where their boundaries lie, but, yes – at some point, Doyoung’s going to do something about it anyway.

Easy.

Seeing Taeyong on the verge of passing out and overworking himself, however, has shed some new light onto his perspective: he should probably hold it off for until Taeyong’s done with his manuscript.

It’s just not good timing, Doyoung thinks as he watches from the kitchen while Taeyong slinks and shuffles around the apartment with two supersoft blankets tugged tight over his shoulders, trailing behind him like a cloak. The office chair in his workroom is too narrow to fit him when he’s all wrapped up, still cold from the slightest breeze, so he’s dedicated time to moving his workstation out into the living room, surrounding himself with new stacks of papers and red markers.

He leaves Taeyong be, since the stressed-out author is too out of it to even notice Doyoung’s questionable amount of care and concern over him over the past ten hours or so, focusing instead on his feedback report due the coming Thursday. He settles comfortably at the dining table, where Hemingway chooses to stick by his side instead of the disease infected creature whimpering on the couch. Infected or not, Doyoung still lifts his head ever so often just to check on whether said creature’s still alive and breathing.

(He is, very loudly, through his mouth, sneezing and hacking and grumbling angrily under his breath too.)

8APR [10:24] taeil: how’d it go?
8APR [10:24] taeil: what did he say?
8APR [10:27] doyoung: i couldn’t do it
8APR [10:27] doyoung: it’s bad timing
8APR [10:29] taeil: ... what next?

A plan.

That’s what Doyoung needed. He only has a window from Wednesday evening after Taeyong’s submitted his manuscript, to Saturday morning when their building manager returns from his two-week cruise, giving him two days.

Except that he’s booked for school all Thursday, leaving him with just Friday. Right.

Another deadline that’s fast approaching.

8APR [10:31] doyoung: i don’t know yet
8APR [10:32] doyoung: but i’ll figure it out

The rest of Sunday morning is spent taking care of Taeyong, who insists on working through the influenza, throwing back litres of orange juice, in hopes the vitamin C would cure him quick. Doyoung doesn’t have the heart to tell Taeyong that vitamin C, especially in juice, pretty much only works as a prevention, not a solution.

Even his usual breakfast omelette goes by unscathed, unlike other days when Taeyong could finish them no quicker.

By the time mid-afternoon comes around, the plastic bin by edge of the couch is brimming with used tissues, like a working piece in an arts’ exhibition, Kleenex upon Kleenex perched precariously atop one another.

“Don’t touch those!” Taeyong yelps, all nasally and… clogged, when Doyoung tries to clear the mess. It’s piling quick and only a matter of time before the entire bin topples over. “You’re going to get infected!”

“I’m pretty sure I already am,” Doyoung reassures, and the horrified look on Taeyong’s face makes him laugh. “I had a flu shot a couple of weeks back, I’ll be fine.”

He knows those only work fifty-percent of the time at best, but that piece of information seems unbeknownst to Taeyong, expression letting up into one of relief.

“Are you staying home the whole day?” Taeyong asks, sniffling again.

Doyoung nods, holding the bin an arm’s length away. He might have gotten a flu shot, doesn’t mean it isn’t gross. “I’m working on an assignment due Thursday.” He adds, “Do you have your appetite back? vWhat do you want for lunch?”

“Something greasy,” Taeyong groans, stabbing at his manuscript with a red marker. It bleeds deep into the pages. “Pizza, or fried chicken, or McDonalds.”

Doyoung tries not to smile, “So… junk food.”

Taeyong scowls, “Yes.”

“You’re sick,” Doyoung says plainly, earning himself an unwarranted glare from Taeyong. Not that it was any scary; it vaguely resembled Hemingway, who would be a worthier opponent than the twenty-four-year-old burrito bundle with a reddening nose.

“I’m also working really hard,” Taeyong argues, gesturing to the mess surrounding him. “I deserve pizza.” He juts out his lower lip, “Please buy me pizza.”

Doyoung blinks down at Taeyong, incredulous. At this point, he’d even make Taeyong a pizza from scratch if he had to, but Doyoung’s moral compass is also ringing, protesting that he has the responsibility to make sure Taeyong made out of this deadline alive.

As appointed baby-sitter, of course.

The lightbulb that goes off is so bright that it startles even himself.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he proposes. Taeyong lifts his head from where he’s been hypnotising himself with doodling concentric circles over his manuscript, interest piqued.

“What kind of a deal?”

“I know a really good pizza place down in Little Italy,” Doyoung shrugs. “I’ll buy you dinner. After you’ve submitted your manuscript.”

Taeyong gapes up at him, uncapped marker resting on his papers, nearly inking the third blanket across his lap. “Buy me dinner?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung says, slipping into a façade of nonchalance easily, going along with his impromptu plan. If Taeyong were to finish his manuscript by Wednesday evening, having dinner together would be the best excuse to come clean with his feelings. Quick, easy.

What could go wrong?

“As a thank you, for everything.”

Taeyong’s eyes shift around the room, and he clamps his mouth shut.

Oh. Wait a second –

“I mean – ” Doyoung wishes he’d thought this through for just a second longer. But he’d been so sure – what if Taeyong didn’t want to have dinner with him? Who was he to go about insinuating that having dinner would be some sort of – of prize? “I mean – since you want pizza?”

Taeyong caps his marker, fiddling with the clip. He swallows thickly, tone almost indecisive when he cuts Doyoung off, “No – we can – we can go for dinner. Together.” Taeyong’s tongue peeks out between his teeth, “It’ll be fun.”

Oh.

Doyoung doesn’t know where to attribute the apprehension. Did Taeyong not want to have dinner together? Did he not want to be bothered with Doyoung outside the apartment? But, no – he dreams of Doyoung? Could there be a bigger billboard sign professing his feelings? Or is Doyoung reading them wrongly?

Doyoung realises that Taeyong is looking at him, evidently waiting for an answer, “Huh?”

Taeyong’s features soften into a smile, “I said I’m looking forward to it.”

If Doyoung’s had to pick one thing that he’s come to learn over the past seven days to living together with Lee Taeyong, it’s how much of a conundrum the boy is. Personality running a wild hundred-and-eighty in a span of twenty minutes (from being frustrated over work to extreme joy over the invention of pudding cups), thoughts and actions polar opposites, mind working like an Etch A Sketch controlled by a monkey on steroids, oftentimes moving too quick for Doyoung to follow.

It does dent Doyoung’s ego a smidgen, having known to own a reasonable level of emotional intelligence.

“Me too,” Doyoung answers slowly, still doubtful of whether or not they’re on the same page. They are, aren’t they?

“Is it good?” Taeyong asks, sitting up on the couch, action fuelled by hunger. Another thing Doyoung’s learnt; Taeyong’s weakness is food, undeniably. “The pizza?”

“One of the bests.” Doyoung nods, “I’ll have to make a reservation too, since it’s always packed there – what do you say to Wednesday? Seven?”

“Yeah.” Taeyong squints, tapping his pen against his chin, “My deadline’s at four, I think I could get out of the editors’ meeting by six.”

Doyoung doesn’t say the words on the tip of his tongue. Instead, “I’ll text you the address.”

“Okay,” Taeyong smiles again, a soft and warm smile, eyes so incredibly wide just to a promise of dinner. It’s probably just the promise of pizza. Or free food.

Doyoung turns to clear the rubbish in his hands, reminded of it only when Taeyong reaches for another Kleenex, and tries to calm is thundering heart, because

Oh, heavens. It’s a date.

“Does he know it’s a date?”

Trust Moon Taeil to be ruining his close-to-perfect Tuesday evening. It isn’t the reaction he’s expecting after pouring his heart and soul into explaining how much courage it took to even think up the idea of having dinner together, let alone get up and verbalise it.

“It’s a date,” Doyoung says offhandedly, bringing his boba milk tea to his lips, taking a long sip. He swirls about the bits of pudding, “Of course, it’s a date – what else could it be?”

“Did you say it was a date?” Taeil questions, his own passionfruit-mix-ten-billion-other-fruits cast aside, forgotten at the revelation of Doyoung’s quick progression. “He could be thinking it’s just dinner.”

Doyoung chew thoughtfully, unappreciative of Taeil’s nit-picking. “Semantics.”

“A very important branch off linguistics, especially in situations like these – he knows it’s a date, right?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Doyoung groans loudly. He swipes at the condensation from his drink with an index finger, drying it off on Taeil’s shirt and earning himself an annoyed yelp. “He knows it’s a date, Moon – it was like, we had a moment.”

That seems to put Taeil at ease, whose concern comes purely from a good heart, Doyoung knows.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Springs’.” Doyoung bites on the tip of his straw, “And maybe gelato on the way back since he likes sweet things so much.”

Taeil hums, impressed, “I take it you’re prepared?”

“Barely,” Doyoung scoffs. “What am I supposed to do? Or say?”

“Be straightforward,” Taeil shrugs. “Tell him you like him.”

“I know that much,” Doyoung sighs.

“Be yourself?” Taeil offers.

Doyoung groans, “This pep talk isn’t working.”

“Well, sorry, Captain Smartass.” Taeil stares at him, “It’s a first date – just do what you do on first dates.”

“I know, I just – I’m too nervous. What if he doesn’t like me back?”

“Isn’t that a given?” Taeil takes a swig from his drink, trying to get the pieces of jelly, “Even if he doesn’t like you back, you’ll never know if you don’t ask, right?”

It’s past eleven when they’re done at the boba shop, and Taeil still sends Doyoung home, despite living just three blocks away, because he’s still under punishment for losing the keycard. Taeil argues that if he hadn’t lost the keycard, Doyoung wouldn’t be given this chance with Taeyong, to which Doyoung ignores him completely.

The hike up to the apartment is long and treacherous and Doyoung’s sure he’ll miss swiping his keycard to enter apartment 10A and not 10B.

As it’s been the last two days, the apartment is dark and perceivably unliveable, sans the lump of blankets and the bright light of a laptop’s screen. There’re still tissues that’ve accumulated over the time Taeyong’s taken over the couch as his brand-new workstation, and no matter how Doyoung insists on cleaning up, Taeyong reduces to a feral snarl, swatting Doyoung away with a bounded manuscript lest he gets (even more) infected.

“Hi,” he says carefully, eyeing the way the blanket fully covers Taeyong’s length, over his head and to his toes.

Taeyong merely grunts in response, a perfectly reasonable response considering how his deadline is tomorrow.

Tough crowd, Doyoung thinks. Their conversation’s been stilted ever since Doyoung’d asked him out two nights ago, but he’s really just playing it off to the approaching deadline, and hoping that it wouldn’t be like this during their date.

Because, yes, their date. Right.

Wednesday morning is tough.

Taeyong is out of the house by nine, skipping both breakfast and saying good morning to Doyoung (not that it’s become their ritual to spend mornings together, of course not). He’s dragged out of the house by Yuta and it’s only when the door is slammed shut does Doyoung wake up, startling both himself and Hemingway snuggled at the foot of the bed.

“Today’s the day,” he mumbles to himself, staring blankly at the ceiling. It’s an odd feeling to be lying in Taeyong’s bed, surrounded in Taeyong’s pillows, snuggled under Taeyong’s blanket, yet not having any guts to be straight with the boy himself.

That could very well change in a couple of hours.

Hemingway purrs, cleaning its paws, very clearly unbothered.

After a half hour of deliberation, Doyoung decides to skip school. He’s not going to do any good in class while thinking of tonight, and he still has a quarter of that term report due tomorrow – even if everything goes as planned tonight, his feelings will be running on too much of a high for him to be completing the paper with a sane mind.

“I should get him flowers,” Doyoung says half past two in the afternoon, to Hemingway who meows in assent.

He’s spent the morning slogging through his paper with an unacceptably low amount of concentration in him, and it’s only deep into the evening when he next gets a text from Taeil that his nerves are back again.

“Wow – this is – ”

Taeil gapes around the messy living room and kitchen, from where he’s standing by the doorway. It’s a lot to take in, seeing as there are still clumps of tissues and balled up papers littered across the living area.

“I asked you here to help with my outfit,” Doyoung calls, skittering from the hallway to show Taeil the third combination he has on – skinny jeans and a plain white shirt with an embroidered rose on its faux pocket. “Not judge the apartment.”

Taeil shoves his hands into his pockets, “You must really like him, huh?”

“The outfit, Moon.”

Taeil hovers by the shoe rack, giving Doyoung a once over, “You’re going to get pizza grease on your shirt.”

Doyoung glances down, “Right.”

It’s after three black shirts (“They all look the same, Doyoung, just pick one.”) that they finally get to leave the apartment. Doyoung leaves a bowl of dry kibble out for Hemingway, and it purrs gratefully, possibly bidding him good luck as he shuts the door lock.

“I haven’t seen you this nervous in a long time,” Taeil comments the moment they hit the pavement. It’s already dark out, a quarter past six.

Doyoung runs a hand through his hair, afraid it’ll lose its fluffiness by the time dinner comes around. “It’s a first date.”

“Yeah,” Taeil taps him by the elbow. Other than having his best friend check for his outfit, Taeil’s also really good friends with a florist a couple of blocks down. With Doyoung clueless as to what kind of flowers one should buy to a date, he figures he’d bring Taeil in for security reasons. “But I didn’t see you running around like a headless chicken when you were trying to ask Kim Yeonjun out last summer.”

“That was entirely different,” Doyoung fiddles with the leather bracelet around his wrist. Did he accessorise too much? Did it look weird? Should he have not worn it?

Taeil gives him a loaded look, to which Doyoung promptly ignores. He isn’t denying that he’s nervous. If anything, Doyoung’s pretty sure this is the most anxious he’s been in a long time.

Confessing has never been Doyoung’s forte. He doesn’t like dealing with things that have no solid endings, and especially when the ending could potentially mean he’ll never get to talk to Taeyong again, friends or nothing. It’s too much of a rush for Doyoung to be computing the pros and cons of this entire situation but with the days passing like seconds on a clock, he hasn’t really got much of a choice before he moves back to his own apartment to wallow in self-pity.

“It’s just different,” he repeats.

“Right,” Taeil returns lightly. “You mean Taeyong’s different.”

“… Right.”

The florist’s turns out to be a quaint little the store on the corner of the street, owned by one of Taeil’s college buddies, a brown-haired boy with a friendly smile who goes by Kun. The flower shop is decked out with rows and rows of potted plants and pre-designed bouquets, having the entire place smelling like someone’s spilled an entire bottle of liquid car air freshener. There’re graduation bears and heart-shaped cushions on sale too, but that’d be over the top, even for Doyoung.

“A first date?” is what Kun asks, after a round of catching up with Taeil. Doyoung stands by politely while they recollect their times at State together, having shared several electives, and this being the first time in a while since they’d last met up.

“Yes,” Taeil answers on his behalf, leaning up against the counter with an elbow propped up against it. He tugs at the ribbon to one of the cactus pots near the register. “They’re going to a pizza place, then having gelato.”

Kun smiles good-naturedly, “That’s… detailed.”

“Quite.”

“Thanks, you guys,” Doyoung says dryly, still tugging on his bracelet. Maybe he should’ve left it at home. “Are flowers on a first date not a good idea?”

Kun shakes his head, “I’ve had a fair share of customers buying flowers for their first dates. It’s a nice gesture.”

Doyoung breathes, slightly relieved. “What would you recommend?”

Immediately, Kun brings out three different kinds of wildflower bouquets, having three to five stalks of roses or daises or lavenders, surrounded by a nice bunch of baby’s breaths and Queen Anne’s lace, tied at the stem with twine. He introduces each of them and the meaning of each individual flower with much detail, an overload of information.

It’s when Doyoung’s mind is questioning the difference between peonies and carnations that a loud clatter in the back startles all three of them. The shop is quiet for a moment, then the door to the backroom is swung open dramatically, revealing a lanky boy with dewy eyes, clutching onto his arm like a child that’d gotten hurt playing at the park.

He has on a navy-blue apron that matches Kun’s, and a basketball cap on backwards, conveniently complementing his large eyes and full lips.

Kun excuses himself politely, turning on his heels to usher the boy (his assistant, Doyoung assumes) back into the backroom, speaking rapid-fire Mandarin under his breath as he did so. The boy whines in response, a little sluggishly in comparison to Kun’s sharp tongue, and they’re out of sight in the next moment, leaving Doyoung and Taeil alone by the register.

“Have any clue what he likes?” Taeil asks, picking up the first bouquet, filled with five stalks of baby pink roses. “I think these are pretty.”

Doyoung bites on his lip, “D’you think buying him flowers are over the top? What if he really did think it was just dinner? Wouldn’t it be awkward?”

Taeil looks over a stalk of wheat, “What?”

“I mean – ” Doyoung picks up the second bouquet, filled with blush peonies and apricot stocks. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“You’re overthinking this,” Taeil says slowly. “You said you guys had a moment, just – go while thinking of that. You like him, don’t you?”

Doyoung runs his hands through his hair again, “Yeah.”

“Then go for it,” Taeil encourages easily. “What’s holding you back?”

Doyoung doesn’t know.

Thankfully, before Taeil tries to goad an answer out of him, Kun returns, a little dishevelled with his hair ruffled and a faint pink suffusing his cheeks.

“Sorry about that,” he gives Doyoung a small smile. “My assistant – is a little clumsy.” He clears his throat, “Did you make a decision? Or I could show you some other combinations if you’d like?”

Doyoung’s eyes flit to the bouquet in his hands. “I like this one.”

“Peonies, eryngiums, rosemarys,” Kun rattles off without a second to spare. “It’s a classy choice. Do you want this particular one, or I could make a new arrangement for you?”

Doyoung evaluates the large 12-inch wide bouquet and decides that gifting Taeyong a wild shrub in the middle of a busy pizzeria would be embarrassing for either of them, requesting for a smaller one instead. Kun gets to work quickly, picking out fresh flowers and having just enough for it to be reduced to a 6-inch bunch, tinier and cuter.

Just like him, Doyoung relates absentmindedly.

“I’m going out for a delivery!” Kun’s assistant is back, a bike helmet on lopsidedly over his cap. He ambles behind the counter, stalking up behind Kun, who’s still busy cutting the stalks of the flowers laid out in front of him.

“Okay, be care – ”

The boy grabs Kun by the waist, ignorant of the garden shears in his hands, and plants a big, wet kiss on Kun’s cheek, having the florist squawking indignantly. He grins, satisfied, bidding both Doyoung and Taeil goodbye politely before rushing out the door with two abnormally large bouquets in his arms.

Taeil’s the first to speak, “Has a lot changed since I left State?”

Kun doesn’t answer, understandably flustered. The colour on his cheeks are enough to reveal more than he wishes.

Doyoung pays for the bouquet and tips generously (despite Kun repeating insistently that he doesn’t have to) out of nervousness (his hands are all clammy and he doesn’t know what to do with the change so he just shoves them into the mason jar). It’s where he leaves Taeil, who deems no purpose following Doyoung all the way to Little Italy, but he knows Taeil just wants to grill Kun about the tall assistant that seems to be a new addition to the florist’s life. He says goodbye to the friendly florist when his Uber driver pulls up front, thanking him for the beautiful bouquet even with half his long body already out the door.

When Doyoung gets to Springs’, there’re a couple of people waiting in line, standing around the large signage, so he figures he’d wait for Taeyong by the curb, lest he missed the restaurant. In all honestly, Doyoung would fare worse if he’d to sit still in a chair and wait; the nerves in him simply wouldn’t allow it.

11APR [18:56] doyoung: hey
11APR [18:56] doyoung: i’m here, by the entrance
11APR [18:57] doyoung: let me know if you can’t find the place!

Oh, god, it’s so terribly awkward, but Doyoung’ll take it.

He grips the bouquet tighter with every minute that passes, crumpling the pretty brown paper Kun had used to tie the entire arrangement together. Doyoung avoids eye contact with the strangers that walk by, knowing how it looks, standing alone on the street with a bouquet clutched dearly to his chest. Though, he forces himself to look along the street anyway, hoping to see a familiar head of caramel hair that would help alleviate the pressure on his heart.

It’s fifteen minutes later that he wishes he’d brought a pair of headphones because, despite the ruckus coming from the bars and live music being performed, Doyoung can’t fill the silence that seems to fill his ears.

His toes curl at the thought he refuses to think.

11APR [19:18] doyoung: hey, did you manage to find the place?
11APR [19:21] doyoung: [location pin sent]
11APR [19:24] doyoung: we can hold the table for another fifteen
11APR [19:24] doyoung: so, don’t worry about it!

Doyoung tucks his phone back into his pocket and chews on his lip. As a couple excuses themselves as they brush by to enter Springs’, Doyoung presses himself closer towards the brick wall, feeling like his heart’s trying to carve its way through his back and slam itself against it.

Is he late? Did he forget?

Text me, Doyoung grits his teeth.

More people pass. None of them are Taeyong.

The bouquet in his hands starts to look like a trophy for his stupidity, out for the world to see.

Tell me if you don’t care.

“Mr. Kim,” the waitress has an apologetic smile as she approaches him for the third time tonight, iPad in her hands. “I’m sorry but, it’s been an hour past your reservation… Would you – would you like to be seated in the restaurant while you waited?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Doyoung sucks in a deep breath, “No. No – it’s okay. Thank you.”

“ – like to cancel your reservation?”

The bouquet in his hands laugh up at him, “Yeah. Yeah, thank you. Sorry about that.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Kim. Thank you, have a good evening.”

11APR [20:02] doyoung: moon
11APR [20:05] doyoung: i got stood up

x

Going in retrospect,

the day starts off rubbish.

Taeyong is mauled out of bed by Yuta, who doesn’t care whether or not he’s brushed his teeth or changed his pants, which he hasn’t. Following, they’re immediately thrown into a meeting room filled with two other company editors, a copywriter, the public relations team, the marketing team and the creative design team, ready to discuss not only Taeyong’s book launch, but his book tour, the first either of them are hearing of it

Taeyong tries his best to keep professional in a room of so many people involved in and working on his new book, but he just feels like a kid out of place in his sweatpants and ugly sneakers amongst a team of cleaned-up individuals.

The meeting goes on for hours and hours and hours, and it isn’t until past two in the afternoon that they’re finally allowed to break for lunch, unsatisfactory purely because of how long they’ve been in the board room.

“I said grilled chicken, not soaked chicken,” Yuta grumbles, stabbing at the soggy drumstick with one chopstick. “Did they dunk this in water? This is pathetic considering how much money this dumb company makes.”

Taeyong agrees silently, eyeing his own lunchbox, wondering how long it’s been sitting out on the receptionist’s desk. Long enough for the rice to harden rock hard, clearly. He digs in anyway, lacking any sort of energy to be arguing with the higher-ups, no matter how much he wants to. It’s been a tiring last couple of days, and he’s already having trouble keeping his eyes open long enough for the copywriter to regurgitate his spiel.

All he wants is to get this day over and done with.

Plus, he’s set to have dinner with Doyoung, the only thing he’s been excited for in a long time.

Sure, he’s been out of it the last couple of days, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about it. He hadn’t quite registered it proper when Doyoung’d first mentioned having dinner together, but it’s really the one thing that’s been motivating him over the last leg of this manuscript. Which, by the way, isn’t Taeyong’s best work, though it’s been reassured multiple times that he will be given time to look over it again to make any final changes.

“This is gross,” Yuta groans, resting his chopsticks down to grab a bottled water. He nudges Taeyong, “Let’s go out after this, get drinks or something. Celebrate you finishing this monster of a book – I’ll call Jaehyun and Johns too, and maybe he’ll finally bring his mysterious boyfriend.”

Taeyong shakes his head, chewing on the chicken far longer than supposedly needed. “I’ve plans.”

Yuta leans forward earnestly, “Dinner plans?”

It’s a losing game to lie to Yuta, “Yes.”

“With lover boy?”

The public relations kid from across the table stares at them, so Taeyong kicks Yuta under the table. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not?” Yuta takes a large gulp, then caps the bottle shut. “That’s what he is, isn’t he? Now that you’ve started dating?”

Taeyong nibbles at the crown of an overcooked broccoli, “It’s a first date.”

Yuta shoots him a smug look, “So it is a date.”

Taeyong shrugs, but even a five-year-old could spot the smile he’s failing to hide.

“Lee Taeyong,” Yuta huffs, shaking his head, a smile toying his lips. “You’ve come this far from just being lover boy’s Creepy Neighbour.”

“Don’t bring that up,” Taeyong waves the remnants of his broccoli stalk at Yuta. “He doesn’t need to know about that.”

Yuta ignores the threat, asking instead, “So? Where’s dinner?”

Taeyong hooks his ankles like a high-schooler dishing on their first date plans, “He’s taking me to a pizza place in Little Italy.”

“Fancy,” Yuta nods approvingly. “I suppose it’s a negative to drinks, then?”

Taeyong covers his half-finished lunch with the plastic lid, unwilling to eat another bite. “Not tonight.”

Yuta drops his voice, sincerity peeking through, “How’re you feeling?”

Taeyong feels the tips of his ear burn red, “Excited.” He tilts back to look up at the fluorescent lights, “I can’t wait.”

Yuta nods, taking a deep breath and picking up both his and Taeyong’s lunch to get rid of before the meeting resumes. In a sing-song voice, loud and rambunctious, “Someone’s got a date!”

Taeyong plants his foot over the curve of Yuta’s ass, kicking him out the door with enough force to have his editor stumble into the door frame following a magnificent shriek.

It’s halfway through the planning of his book cover that Taeyong thinks this meeting is running way too long. The thought of meeting Doyoung is taking up most of his mind and he’s barely listening as the creative team prattles on and on and on about the possibility of a graphic novel, which is great, thank you, but Taeyong is tired and there’s possibly pizza waiting for him in the next couple of hours.

Pizza and Doyoung.

He swallows thickly, impatience growing.

As discreetly as possible, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, groaning in disbelief when it doesn’t turn on, the sign of an empty battery logo taunting him, demeaning.

He must’ve forgotten to charge it when he was rushing out the final paragraphs last night.

Incapable of controlling himself, Taeyong interrupts the artist’s well-prepared presentation to ask out of turn,

“Sorry, but – what time is it?”

Yuta sighs grievously under his breath.

The secretary from across the room answers quickly, “Half past six.”

What? Already?

The senior editor stares at Taeyong from the head of the table, adjusting her half-rimmed glasses, “Do you have another appointment to attend to, Mr. Lee?”

“Well, actually – ”

“It’s a rare opportunity to have the entire team here,” she goes on without a pause. “Us all that’re working on your new publication, that is.”

Taeyong bites his tongue, because he knows, he knows how good of an opportunity this is. The fact the company even picked up his first book, agreed to a sequel, and gave him complete power over several decisions he could play a part in, from who he wanted to work with (Yuta) to extending his own deadlines (to a certain extent). It hasn’t been an easy ride, becoming an author, but Taeyong considers himself lucky with what he’s got.

But…

Would Doyoung wait for him? What would he think, if Taeyong were running this late? He still has to get home to change out of his lousy sweats and old t-shirt, there’s no way he’s going to make it in time if he doesn’t leave right now.

It is their first date, after all – would Doyoung – would he change his mind?

Taeyong feels his fingers tremble at the thought of it.

“I would advise,” she says slowly, tapping her pen against the freshly printed manuscript set before her. “That you push back your next meeting, because there are a number of things we’ve yet to go over, for both your book launch and tour.”

Taeyong frowns to himself, breathing shallowly. He hasn’t got Doyoung’s number memorised and his phone’s completely drained of battery. There’s no way to call to tell him that he’s running late, or that maybe they could reschedule it to have brunch together tomorrow instead.

His assignment’s due tomorrow, Taeyong recalls belatedly. While he’s been slogging over his manuscript, it hasn’t slipped from him that Doyoung’s been working hard on his lesson plan report too, and the fact that they’d agreed to go on their first date tonight – guilt ebbs deep in Taeyong.

“Yong,” Yuta mumbles under his breath, pulling him back to a meeting room of twenty odd people. “Don’t. He’ll understand.”

Taeyong clasps his hands under the table. He doesn’t want to lose this chance with Doyoung, but he doesn’t want to lose this deal either, not with so much at stake on both ends. He nods for the artist to continue, hoping dearly, dearly, dearly that Yuta’s right.

By the time the meeting comes to a close, it’s half past ten and Taeyong is running on two cups of cappuccinos and a very measly piece of chocolate chip cookie the size of his thumb (“‘Bite-sized’, they said”). Yuta sends him off first, settling the remaining paperwork on his behalf when he spots how distressed Taeyong is, watching the clock without taking a single breath.

He fumbles the entire way down the fancy publishing building, tripping over his own two feet as he goes. When he gets to the landing, not caring that his hair’s a frightening mess, he takes a second to thank god the Uber Yuta’d called for him is already out on the street waiting for him. With it being more than three hours past seven, Taeyong goes straight home, sure that he’d find Doyoung lounging on the couch with Hemingway on his lap.

He doesn’t.

“Doyoung?” Taeyong calls, toeing his shoes off hastily and rushing into the empty apartment, dark and chilly. Hemingway springs from behind the darkness, but Taeyong ignores it in favour of shuffling into the bedroom, hoping to find Doyoung in the shower, or in bed, at least.

He doesn’t.

“Doyoung?” He calls again, stupidly, because the apartment’s only that big.

If he hadn’t heard the first time, he must not be here.

Without wasting another minute, Taeyong plugs his phone into the charger by his bedside, groaning quietly when he realises how long it’ll take for his phone to actually start up. He resigns to sitting on the edge of his bed then, sulking in the dark after having missed flipping the lights on. Hemingway joins him after a while, curling comfortingly against his leg and humming lowly.

It takes absolutely forever for his phone to start working again, and before he can pick it up, his phone buzzes with at least fifteen messages from Doyoung, timestamps spanning from six in the afternoon, to the most recent,

11APR [20:58] doyoung: it’s okay

Taeyong’s mind spins. What did that mean? It’s okay? What’s okay? – it’s okay that you couldn’t make it or it’s okay, it didn’t matter to me anyway or it’s okay, forget about it.

He tries to call Doyoung, afraid a measly text wouldn’t be enough to convey his apologies, but the line goes dead every single time. He sends multiple texts, screw the double text rule – Doyoung, I’m sorry to Please call me back when you can and I’m waiting for you back at the apartment. Every message fails to get delivered; Doyoung must’ve turned his phone off.

Taeyong waits and waits for him to turn it back on,

he doesn’t.

He left.

It’s an hour to midnight by the time Taeyong regains his senses, moving around to check for Doyoung’s belongings. His laptop is still plugged into the wall charger where it usually is by the couch, and his headphones are here too, tangled atop the case. His clothes are still tucked neatly in a corner of one of Taeyong’s drawers, and his toothbrush is still by the kitchen sink.

Taeyong lets himself breathe a little.

“He’ll come back,” he whispers, leaning against the counter. The words are poignant; he wishes he had a time machine, hoping that he could go back just three hours to call the meeting to a close. Or have the sense to charge his phone at the office. Idiot.

“He has to come back.”

Morning arrives slower than Taeyong’d expected, but Taeyong doesn’t wake even then, only fully accepting reality well past the afternoon. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, hoping to hear the familiar beep of the keycard being swiped, but he doesn’t.

Doyoung didn’t come home.

“Wow, you sound like – ”

“Yuta, please.” Taeyong cradles his head in his hands. This is not the time for insults. “What am I going to do?”

“Call him,” Yuta says, voice bright over the phone. He hears someone else, Jaehyun probably, walking around in the back, and then the sound of papers being shuffled.

“I tried.” Taeyong is miserable. His messages have managed to go through, which means Doyoung has his phone turned on, but whenever he tries to call the other, the line either goes dead after two rings or it rings out into voicemail. Doyoung obviously doesn’t want to hear from him, neither is he interested in hearing what Taeyong has to say, “He isn’t picking up.”

“Then,” Taeyong hears Yuta turn over in bed. “Just wait for him to get home. You said he has class right, maybe he’s just busy – what time does he usually get back?”

“Late.”

“Okay, there’s that. You’ll just have to wait til’ then.” Yuta exhales loudly, “His things are still at your place, he’ll go back for them.”

“I know,” Taeyong flops back onto the couch, his back screaming at the motion. It’s virtually nothing compared to the way his gut’s curling into a tight knot. “But – what if I ruined it between us?”

Yuta guffaws, “What’re you saying – you were late for a date! It wasn’t like you didn’t want to go, or – ”

“Our first date,” Taeyong mumbles. Theoretically speaking, if it were like any other relationship, this’d be easier to manoeuvre. It wasn’t like he knew much about Doyoung, him just being a neighbour Taeyong’s barely gotten to know, making it difficult to consider where they’re standing in every situation. Not to mention that they had zero ties between them both other than living in the same building.

“Just talk to him,” Yuta says with finality. “That’s really the only thing you can do, isn’t it? There’s no use feeling hopeless about it now, not when nothing’s over.”

Taeyong closes his eyes and sighs. It feels like he’s on plane destined to crash, that’s what it feels like.

Without much else to do now that his manuscript is over and done with, waiting for the editors’ remarks, Taeyong decides to prepare dinner. To make up for missing last night, for being a big grump the last couple of days, for anything he’s failed to catch.

This, whatever it is, thing with Doyoung – Taeyong doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s like he’s been given a box of blocks with the strongest motivation of creating a full-fledged building without having any blueprints. He knows he wants more, wants something, with Doyoung and last night was quite possibly the first night they’d had to lay some sort of concrete foundation together and he missed it.

“I didn’t miss it,” he tells himself with a little more conviction, changing out of his two-day old sweats and hopping into the shower. “I didn’t miss it,” he says again, “I can just – recreate last night. I can do that.”

Now, he’s never said outright that he’s terrible in the kitchen, though Doyoung seems to think he’s an absolute wreck whenever it comes to making meals. Taeyong’s messy, maybe, pots and pans piling up mountains high, but he can cook something decent enough, just enough to impress, hopefully. He makes do with whatever there is left in the fridge and cupboards, not wanting to leave for groceries lest Doyoung returns home from class early.  

The clock reads, 3:45PM, giving him enough time to get everything all set up before Doyoung’s scheduled to arrive home after his long day of classes. Hemingway keeps him company as he sorts through the array of things Doyoung’d bought over their last trip to the mart, pulling together just enough ingredients to bake a lasagne for two.

By the time he’s done with the mince mix (tomato-based with beef and bacon bits), the entire kitchen is in a well enough mess; there’re spots of tomato sauce on the walls, chopped garlic and onion on the floor, oil dripped across the counter. It’s taken a long time (and a lot of experimenting with salt and sugar) to get it to taste borderline edible, which is great on the effort front. Taeyong follows the instructions from a Googled recipe with immense focus, lining the dried lasagne sheets and spreading the mix evenly. Only when the pan is in the preheated oven that Taeyong allows himself to sit back down on the couch, ignoring his flour stained arms and sauce stained boxers, thoroughly, thoroughly, exhausted.

12APR [19:13] yuta: back yet?
12APR [19:18] taeyong: no… but i made dinner…
12APR [19:18] yuta: i said talk to him, not poison him
12APR [19:25] yuta: i was just kidding
12APR [19:28] yuta: want johns and i to go over with ice cream?
12APR [19:29] taeyong: no, he might just be running late
12APR [19:30] yuta: okay
12APR [19:30] yuta: call if you need anything

It’s been three hours since.

The lasagne’s long gone cold, but still in its perfect form, sitting albeit sadly under a netted food cover. The kitchen’s clean too, a rampage of scrubbing and soaking and wiping that Taeyong’s suffered thanks to the nerves eating him alive, itching for him to do something instead of just…waiting.

Eventually he does tire out, fixing up Netflix to a random episode of Criminal Minds from the earlier seasons. It does little to take his mind off convincing himself that time is certainly slowing down, checking it more often than logically necessary. He gets through at least three gruelling 45-minute episodes before the sound of a keycard being swiped finally resonates from the entryway and across the living area, straight into Taeyong’s very being.

Taeyong shoots up immediately, scaring Hemingway off his lap.

It’s painful, how hard his heart is beating, taking his breath along with it. He clamps his hands onto the supersoft blanket pooled at his waist, something catching in his throat when he sees Doyoung emerge from the dark, pale skin like a beacon of light from under his black shirt and ripped jeans. His hair is a little ruffled up, fluffy and curving a way above his eyes (both red around the rims) that makes Taeyong want to rip his heart out.

Taeyong shifts uneasily, not knowing what to say now that the situation’s presented in front of him. He curses inwardly, wondering if he should’ve prepared a – a speech or an apology of some sort.

Doyoung freezes the moment he sees Taeyong staring, and his grip on the brown paper bag in his hand tightens instantaneously. A million different emotions flit across his face, and Taeyong fails to catch any, fuelling the uncertainty around them.

“Hi,” Taeyong hardly manages, feeble under Doyoung’s blank stare. He doesn’t respond, taking calculated steps into the apartment but straying on the skirts of the living area.

Doyoung nods once, “Hey.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks up in an odd angle.

Taeyong feels the temperature around them plummet. No.

“I – I, uh – made dinner,” he says quickly, words failing him.

Doyoung turns, lips parting when he finds the pan of lasagne sitting out on the table,

“Why?”

“‘Why’?” Taeyong repeats, a little breathless. As if he’d even been breathing all this while.

Doyoung shakes his head, hugging the paper bag to his chest. It crinkles noisily. “Sorry, I just – nothing.” He doesn’t bother looking at Taeyong, “Sorry, but – I’ve already had dinner. I just came by to – ” he trails off, forcing Taeyong near off the edge of the couch, waiting.

Something stirs in Taeyong, and he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

Doyoung doesn’t continue, walking into the kitchen with a hand stretched out. When he returns into view, Taeyong sees that he’s got the toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, shoving it roughly into the brown paper bag.

A shudder runs through Taeyong, and he steels himself to ask, “What are you doing?”

Doyoung moves more resolutely now, still slinking the edges of the living room, past Taeyong without a glance, to grab his duffel bag off the floor, the one that he’d came with.

“Doyoung – ”

“I’m just here to get my stuff,” he says tersely.

Taeyong remains silent, unable to even think of what to do, what to say, watching with his soul hollowed out as Doyoung packs his things into the bag expeditiously, keeping his head ducked low. He slings it across a shoulder and makes his way across again, heading towards the bedroom for his clothes.

Why? Taeyong blinks to keep his eyes from watering. I thought we would – we could have dinner together.

It’s not until Taeyong hears the sound of his drawer being pulled open that he rushes off the couch, laptop thunking loudly against the coffee table, then against the floor, clattering noisily. His legs work half as well as they usually do, taking him shakily down the hall and into his room to see Doyoung scooping his clothes up and stuffing them carelessly into his bag.

Taeyong hugs himself, fingers pinching into skin, needing the assurance as he braves to ask again, “Where – where are you going?”

Doyoung doesn’t hover, cramming his boxers into the crook of the duffel. “To Taeil’s.”

The room feels so terribly exposed. Hemingway enters, unknowing of the deteriorating atmosphere, purring loudly as it approaches Doyoung, squeezing itself between his legs. He crouches to brush his thumb over Hemingway’s cheeks, behind its whiskers, then scratching behind its ears.

As if he’s saying goodbye.

Time stops.

Then Doyoung is straightening, sniffling once.

Your allergies, Taeyong wants to ask, but obviously, obviously, this isn’t about allergies, for god’s sake.

Doyoung zips and picks his bag up again, hitching his bag further up his shoulder. He looks at Taeyong, briefly, uncertainly, before his eyes are back on the ground,

“Congratulations on finishing your manuscript.”

Taeyong gnaws on the inside of his cheek. This is not what he wants to talk about, but – “Thank you.”

Doyoung shifts his weight from one foot to another, stepping forward. “Excuse me,” he murmurs, and Taeyong moves, out of reflex, stupid conditioning, regretting it the moment he catches a whiff of Doyoung’s brush by him.

He grabs the back of Doyoung’s shirt, not registering that Doyoung would stop, crashing into him when he tries to hurry after. His free hand shoots out to circle around Doyoung’s arm, trying to steady himself as the duffel bag digs painfully into his torso.

Doyoung stares down at him fiercely, round eyes flashing, thrown off and bewildered.

Taeyong doesn’t care, “Why are you – leaving?”

Stay.

Doyoung opens his mouth, then closes it, as if he were filtering what he wanted to say. He settles with, “Thanks for letting me stay here, but – I think I’ll be alright living with someone else until I get my apartment back.”

Taeyong can’t take his eyes off Doyoung’s lips. I should just do it. Right now.

“We don’t have to split the remaining groceries, they’re payment, in a way,” Doyoung goes on. He licks his lips and Taeyong’s brain lights on fire. “Anyway, thanks – for the past week.”

“Wait – ” Taeyong knows he’s holding onto Doyoung’s arm too tight and might leave marks in the morning, but he doesn’t want to let go. “Is this about last night?”

Doyoung’s jaw tightens, and, though his expression smoothens out easily in a mere second, Taeyong catches it this time, Is he angry? Did he – did he think I didn’t go on purpose?

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he snatches his arm roughly from Taeyong, who inhales sharply at the harshness – “It’s okay.”

Turning on his heel, Doyoung steps out of Taeyong’s remaining grasp, hightailing towards the door.

“Wait – Doyoung, please – ”

“Let’s not – ”

“No, please – ”

There are two knocks on the door. Loud and jarring.

Taeyong takes Doyoung by the arm again, meekly this time, feeling small and guilty and regretful and wishing Doyoung would just please wait, and let me explain, “Yesterday – ”

Knocks again. Three times in succession, impatient.

Doyoung looks away. “You should get that.”

Taeyong clenches his fist angrily. Why won’t Doyoung let him explain? He wasn’t just some kind of idiot that would go around promising dates to just anyone, he has a valid reason for being late to it – and wasn’t worrying him all day, waiting, waiting, waiting for Doyoung to come home a big enough punishment already? Why won’t he give him a chance?

“Doyoung, why – ”

Four knocks to the door.

Doyoung stresses, “It might be someone important.”

Peeved, Taeyong lets him go, stalking towards the door and cursing furiously in his mind that if it’s either Yuta or Youngho here to create a ruckus, he’ll never forgive them. He throws the door open, a litany of curses on the tip of his tongue when he’s met face to face with,

the building manager, still dressed in a touristy outfit with a fanny pack over his overflowing belly.

He’s back early.

Without any invitation, the middle-aged man peers past Taeyong, exclaiming when he spots Doyoung standing frozen in the middle of the living room. 

Hemingway purrs lowly.

“Thought I’d find you here.” He lifts the two identical cards in his stocky hands,

“Got your new keycards ready, Mr. Kim.”

Time’s up.

The apartment is stale.

Doyoung spends a grand total of two minutes shoving his clothes into the closet and opening just one window for some fresh air before crawling into bed. The thought of all the spoiled food in his fridge gives him an immediate headache but he forgoes checking it tonight, too emotionally exhausted to be doing anything else. When he does get settled into his own bed, however, the first in over a week, he finds that his mind does not want to sleep.

Instead, it’s packed with thoughts and images of Taeyong.

The way he’d stepped aside to let Doyoung take the new keycards from their building manager, eyes cast to the ground and hands by his sides as if he were thinking the same things Doyoung were. The last glimpse Doyoung’d managed to catch of his face when he said his final goodbye, slipping into his own apartment and closing the door without another word. The sound of Taeyong’s door closing only a minute after Doyoung’d closed his.

He tosses in bed.

What’s he supposed to do? Immediately bounce back after being rejected just like that? Did Taeyong expect him to be completely fine with him skipping out on their first proper dinner together, first date or not? Or did it not matter at all? Is that why Taeyong expected him to act like absolutely nothing’s happened?

Doyoung screws his eyes shut and wills the thoughts to go away. He turns his head into the pillow, grimacing when he finds that it smells nothing like Taeyong.

“Stupid,” he scolds himself.

The building manager’s cruise had ended up docking a few days early due to ship faults, and while all customers were properly reimbursed and reassured that the ship has been fixed, he insisted to ending his trip there, unwilling to take the risk for if any mishaps were to happen.

Doyoung is thankful, of course, to be back in his own apartment – but he also wishes the time he had with Taeyong could’ve been longer. Long enough for him to figure out what to do or if there’s even anything he should do to fix the dissatisfaction in his heart.

As much as he wanted to sit and listen to what Taeyong had to say, he can’t find it in him to face another rejection head on, not after what had happened.

Sleep takes him eventually, thankfully, but Doyoung still dreams of the burrito bundle of an author, restless throughout the night.

When he wakes in the afternoon, the solitude is frightening. There’s no sound of Hemingway purring from the kitchen counter, or the sound of Taeyong scribbling on his manuscripts. His own home feels so foreign now, and Doyoung can’t count the number of times he’s opened the wrong cupboard or looked at the wrong shelf on the fridge. It’s after the third time that he pathetically tries to call for Hemingway that Doyoung fears he’s quite possibly losing his mind.

With a text, Taeil is over, standing at his doorway with a grimace on his face,

“Why do you look like that?”

Doyoung brings a hand up to cup his cheek, a little shallow from missing meals, “Like what?”

Taeil enters the apartment, kicking his shoes off, “Like you just won the lottery but lost the ticket.”

“That’s nice,” Doyoung says dryly. He gives one look at the door to Taeyong’s apartment, turning away when the memory of two nights ago come crashing. Forget about it already.

“Have you eaten?” Taeil asks, eyeing the empty kitchen surreptitiously.

“No,” Doyoung sighs. “I had to clear half my fridge out this morning since most of it’s gone bad.”

Taeil wanders towards the kitchen counter, glancing over his shoulder to ask when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, “You gave him the flowers?”

Right. The flowers. The flowers that Doyoung’d gotten. The ultimate trophy to his reign of stupidity.

“In the bag,” he jerks his head to where it lies miserably on the far end of the counter.

“You know these are real, right?” Taeil chides, working without permission to try and salvage the already wilting bouquet. He grabs an empty jar from one of the cupboards and fills it with water and a quarter packet of sugar, “I thought you decided you were going to give these to him anyway.”

The crooked peonies stare at Doyoung with desolation, “Couldn’t do it.”

Taeil sets it by the window sill, under a ray of sunlight, “Walk me through last night.”

“Nothing happened,” Doyoung picks at the hem of his shirt. Taeil leans against the kitchen counter, waiting for him to go on, “I went back, got my things, then the building manager was knocking on the front door the minute after.”

Taeil folds his arms across his chest, “Taeyong didn’t say anything about why he missed dinner?”

Doyoung fiddles with his thumbs. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean,” Doyoung groans exasperatedly. Having to explain his though process aloud, even to his best friend, is torturous. “I don’t know why he stood me up.”

“He didn’t explain why?”

“I didn’t want to hear it,” Doyoung grumbles, walking out into the living room and taking the storm with him. Taeil trails close behind, unafraid. “What if he just wanted to apologise for – for changing his mind about going to dinner? I didn’t need to hear that.”

Taeil stares at him, brows knitting together tightly, “Wait – what? You honestly don’t know why he didn’t make it?”

“That’s literally what I just said.”

“Then why’re you over here moping!” Taeil throws his hands in the air, “He could’ve been running late, for all you know, didn’t he have a meeting for his book publication? Surely that must’ve taken hours?”

“He said he could get out of it by six.” Doyoung knows he sounds like a child, “He could’ve at least called. Or texted me, if he cared.”

“Kim,” Taeil groans in despair, reaching forward to smack Doyoung painfully on the shoulder. “A thousand different things could’ve happened, it does not mean he stood you up!”

Doyoung rubs at where his skin is prickling, “Whatever.” He sulks, “I missed the chance anyway, and I don’t want to have to listen to it.”

“You’re not even going to hear him out?” Taeil deadpans. “You’re just going to give up? After crushing on him that hard?”

Insecurity fills Doyoung again. “I don’t know. Half of me doesn’t want to know.”

“What about the other half of you? Go over there and talk to him,” Taeil says, tugging on Doyoung’s elbow. “You’ve been talking my ear off about this guy for the past week and a half, Doyoung, I’m not letting you just – throw it down the garbage disposal like this.”

Doyoung refuses, pulling against Taeil, “I can’t – I don’t want to. I don’t have anything to say.”

“Come off it,” Taeil exhales loudly. He flicks Doyoung on the shoulder. “You can start by gifting him the flowers you got him.”

“No, forget it,” Doyoung says, heavy with reluctance. “I just need some food in me.”

“Doyoung – ”

“At least,” he cuts Taeil off, not wanting to hear anymore. His stomach grumbles, “At least give me some time to think it over… Being rejected isn’t the best feeling in the world, okay?”

Taeil understands, finally, but he still moves to usher Doyoung towards the door, “Fine, fine, fine – let’s just go for lunch. I can’t stay here knowing he’s just right across the hall and you’re not doing about it.”

Doyoung frowns, snatching his phone and card case off the table before Taeil can lock them both out again, “For someone as small as you are, you’re really pushy, you know that?”

“Just get out of here before I – ”

Taeil pulls the door to 10B open, still jabbering off until the sight of Taeyong greets them, hovering outside 10A, where the door is already open. Doyoung catches a glimpse of someone else in the apartment, enticing Hemingway to follow along. Yuta is there too, three tubs of ice-cream in his arms, bought from the convenience store just right next to the building.

Doyoung feels his limbs lock into place when Taeyong stares at him and Taeil, bold and outright. He’s dressed in the same outfit he was in the first day Doyoung’d moved in, sweats and a jumper, drowning in them. In his hand is another bag full of junk food, nothing of which Doyoung would’ve bought if he were still in-charge of their groceries.

Which he no longer is.

It’s fine.

Something festers in the hallway, between the four of them, like someone’s just thrown a grenade down the line and all of them are afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe.

It’s Yuta who breaks it, “I’m just going to, uh, put these –” he lifts the ice cream tubs, “into the freezer.” He kicks the door open with one foot, slipping a little as he scurries in on socked feet, whispering loud enough when he’s just past the shoe rack, “Johns, oh my god – ”

Beside him, Taeil releases the hold he’s got on Doyoung’s shoulder, mumbling quietly, “I’ll – wait for you in the lobby.”

He goes too, speeding down the corridor, leaving without turning back.

And now, there are only two.

“I – ”

“About – ”

Taeyong halts to a stop, looking scandalised that they’ve both spoken at the same time. He gestures for Doyoung to speak, just as the other does the same. A game Doyoung doesn’t want to play.

Taeyong breathes deeply. “Lunch date?”

Doyoung swallows, choking on his words. “No – no,” he shouldn’t even be this panicked. This is fine. “That was just – a friend. Just lunch.”

Taeyong bites on his lip, hand reaching for the handle. “Okay.”

Doyoung realises, in that snap of a moment, horrified that he’ll let Taeyong slip back into 10A, never to be seen again. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palm. If I’ve to get rejected again then so be it.

“About – yesterday,” he stammers. Taeyong’s eyes widen, guileless, “Sorry, I didn’t thank you properly – for letting me stay with you. I just – wanted to say that.”

“Is that – all?”

Doyoung braves, “And for not hearing you out. I should’ve – and I’m sorry.”

Something in Taeyong clicks, Doyoung sees it so clearly on his face, almost the only thing he’s sure about in the last forty-eight hours. Taeyong releases the handle, stepping to close the space between them.

His breath snags.

“I wanted to explain why – ”

Doyoung’s eyes darts to the spot above Taeyong’s crown, spotting Yuta holding onto Hemingway, with the boy (Youngho, he later remembers) from their grocery trip, watching on curiously from behind the wall. They pile on like floating heads, judgement evident.

Taeyong notices his distraction, whirling around. His friends cough awkwardly, ducking back into the apartment with a loud discussion about today’s weather and the number of clouds in the sky. There’s a ruckus the second later, the sound of pots and pans clanging, Hemingway darting across the apartment with a shrilling meow.

“It’s seems – ” Doyoung eats the rock in his throat. “Your friends are waiting for you.”

Taeyong looks down the hall, “So is yours.” Doyoung near wants to flee at his own idiocy when Taeyong blinks up at him, “But I still want to – talk to you.”

“Oh.” The tension is so thick in the air, Doyoung feels it on his skin. He jerks his thumb towards the general direction of the elevators, “I – lunch – uh – I mean – ”

“I’ll be here,” Taeyong says, voice deliberately low. It sends a shiver up Doyoung’s arms. “Just – knock.”

“Okay.” He agrees haltingly, the space between his words almost audible. “I’ll – I’ll come find you later.”

With somewhat of a second chance under his belt, Doyoung wants to revisit Kun and his flower shop for a fresh bouquet, lest something does happen later on. It never hurt to be prepared, though in this case, if Doyoung does get rejected again, he’s dramatically sworn to Taeil that he’ll never buy another flower ever again for the rest of eternity.

But they go anyway, after a nice meal of tonkatsu that Taeil’s been craving for for a while now. They enter the shop, bumbling with three groups of customers, to which Kun’s busy alternating with, so they take the backseat, heading towards the register to wait for the crowd to clear out. 

“Sorry, you guys,” Kun says, when he’s finally free. He rounds the counter, swiping his damp hands on the denim florist apron he has on. “Busy day, Friday.”

“Thought so,” Taeil lifts the bag in his hand, carrying two portions of gyoza they’d gotten to-go from the katsu place. Kun’d supposedly paid for dinner the last time they were out together, and Taeil isn’t Taeil if he doesn’t weasel a way to return the favour. “For you and that assistant of yours,” he says, air quotations apparent.

Kun ignores the latter half of that sentence, taking the bag with gratuitous thanks and leaves it to the side of his work table. To Doyoung, he asks, “Did everything go alright? Did they like the flowers?”

Doyoung doesn’t know if it’d be insulting to Kun if he mentioned that the beautiful bouquet he’d first gotten is now sitting sadly by his kitchen sink.

“Let’s just say,” Taeil interrupts before he can make the decision. “He’d like to get another arrangement done.”

“Sure, of course,” Kun smiles, congenial. “The same flowers? Or you could go with some blue peonies this time – we just got them fresh at the wholesales this morning.”

Doyoung says okay, trusting his sense of… flowers.

It’s another half hour of chatting and Kun flitting around the shop, finding suitable wildflowers to complement the baby blue peonies, near identical to the blush ones from yesterday. Peonies, flat dusty millers, baby’s breaths, Kun introduces and explains each of them diligently, mixing a few others into the batch as well.

At some point, Kun’s assistant returns from a delivery run, bursting into the store with a loud cheer of victory that he didn’t fall of the bicycle this time. Kun’s cheeks sear pink as he jogs up to the counter, ignorant of Doyoung and Taeil’s presence yet again, pressing a quick kiss to his crown.

“Lunch,” Kun says shortly, handing his assistant the gyoza. He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Taeil bought them for – us.”

“Thank you!” He hums jovially, his wide smile making him look like he’s young enough to be fresh out of high school. “I’m Xuxi, by the way,” he sticks a hand out towards Taeil. “His boyfriend.”

Kun splutters, ducking to hide away as he rings up Doyoung’s arrangement.

“So I’ve heard,” Taeil nods in accordance, matching Xuxi’s excited grin.

Another circle of pleasantries is exchanged, much to Kun’s embarrassment, and they decide to leave before Kun pops a vein trying to keep himself from blushing too hard. Doyoung cradles the new bouquet in his arms, careful not to dent any of the petals as they make their way back to the apartment building when,

“ – think this is enough?”

Taeil turns from where he’s already several paces ahead, “What?”

Doyoung fidgets, “Should I get him something else too?”

“What for?”

“I don’t know – ” Doyoung stares down at the flowers, snubbing the way it makes him recollect the night out at Springs’. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just feel like – I have to try really hard to impress him. I don’t want things to go bad.”

Taeil looks at him with undisguised bewilderment, “Why?” At Doyoung’s silence, he continues, “I mean, why d’you feel like you’ve to try this hard to impress him? He’s just like any other guy, and – you did say that you guys had like – a thing going on, didn’t you?”

“That was before he stood me up,” Doyoung laments. “It’s just hard, Moon, I don’t know how to explain it. I really like him, but at the same time I’ve really only ever lived with him. The only connection we have is living in the same building! I don't know - it’s all happening so quick, I don’t want to make the wrong move.”

“You’re not going to,” Taeil tells him. “You’re doing the logical thing by doing something about what you’re feeling, alright? If you just go on assuming things, you won’t ever find closure.”

Doyoung inhales deeply. As much as he’s on the fence, afraid of getting let-down again, Taeil’s right. He likes Taeyong too much to be leaving things as is, and the severity of regret he’s been feeling over the past twenty-four hours has been too high for him to cope with.

If Taeyong isn’t interested in him, Doyoung’ll just have to take the news straight to the face.

“Will you go with me later? When I’ve to go find him?”

Taeil glares at him, “What – no, that’s weird, Doyoung.”

Doyoung scurries to loop an arm around Taeil’s neck, “But his friends are there too! I don’t know if I can talk to him with them just hanging around, watching.”

“Take him to your apartment then,” Taeil offers. He holds onto Doyoung’s hand, giving him a reassuring pat. “You’ll be fine, and if you’re not, I’ll come over with ice cream after and we can go to a bar or something.”

Doyoung rests his head on Taeil’s shoulder despite it being a reach, since he’s about half a head taller. “Not meeting Mr. Mysterious tonight?”

Taeil ignores him, “What else did you want to get him? Some chocolates?”

x

“You guys have to leave.”

Youngho and Yuta have such matching expressions of sorrow that Taeyong nearly gives in. Nearly.

“I’m serious!” He grabs one of Hemingway’s mice plushies and waves them at the pair of dummies sprawled out comfortably on their couch. They’d both insisted on coming over to cheer Taeyong up after what’d happened last night, overwhelmed over Doyoung leaving so quickly without sparing him the chance to speak, but their presence is causing him nothing but stress right now. “He said he’d be coming over after lunch and it’s been over an hour – you guys have to leave before he gets here.”

“Why?” Youngho pouts petulantly. “We’re your best friends, we can listen in, can’t we?”

“You’re one to talk,” Yuta snorts, waving at Taeyong to stop hovering over them while they ate ice cream from their tubs. To Taeyong he says, “I don’t get it. I thought you said he didn’t want to talk last night.”

Taeyong squashes the mice in his hand, “I told him I wanted to speak with him. I just – don’t want any misunderstandings between us.” He tosses the mice across the living room. Hemingway doesn’t even look up from where it’s perched on Youngho’s thigh. “He was being odd.”

Yuta takes a big bite from his tub of green tea, licking the spoon obscenely, “Are you guys dating again then?”

“I don’t know,” Taeyong tries not to sound too exasperated. Truly, if someone could just point him in the right direction that would lead him to Doyoung, he’d take it, no questions asked. “I want to get things straightened out, which is why – ” he tries to tug the ice cream from Yuta, “you guys have to leave. I can’t have you guys sitting and watching when he gets here, that’s just awkward.”

“Y’know,” Youngho speaks up, just as Yuta kicks Taeyong in the knee, successfully regaining ownership of his ice cream. “Some people would kill for such a support system.”

“Exactly,” Yuta chimes in. “We’re here for you.”

Taeyong groans, “You guys are so – ”

“Loveable?” Youngho interrupts with a grin. He dodges, holding his tub of vanilla ice cream up as protection as Taeyong raises a hand threateningly.

“What are you going to say to him?” Yuta asks, holding up an arm to keep Youngho from falling over him.

“I don’t know,” Taeyong sighs, conceding to his best friends’ insistence to remain on his sofa. He slumps against the coffee table, across from either of them. “Explain to him what happened I guess. Ask him why he was mad, or like – why he wanted to leave so bad.”

Youngho taps his spoon against the rim of his tub of Häagen-Dazs, “Isn’t it obvious?” Taeyong chews on the inside of his lower lip. Youngho blinks, “He thinks you ditched him.”

“But I didn’t,” Taeyong protests. “Ask this guy – ” he jabs a finger into Yuta’s calf. “That meeting ran for more than twelve hours, I didn’t know it takes this many people to publish a book!”

“Launch and tour,” Yuta reminds, equally dissatisfied.

One knock to the door. Then two, hesitant.

“He’s here,” Taeyong hisses, smacking both his best friends on the knee with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe you’re not leaving, seriously – ”

“We’ll be really quiet!” Yuta promises.

“You won’t even remember we’re here,” Youngho hopes.

“As if I could go anywhere without either of you breathing down my neck,” Taeyong snaps without too much venom. His palms grow cold and sweaty instantaneously, and he wipes them on his jeans, hurrying over to the door. He throws one last glare at the duo snickering on his couch, inching the door open,

just enough for him to slip out. He presses his hand to Doyoung’s chest, pushing him further out into the hall and shutting the door to 10A, ignoring his best friends’ calls for supposed justice.

“Sorry, my friends, they – ”

Taeyong’s apology is stopped short when he notices the large bag in Doyoung’s arms, accompanied with a pretty little bouquet of blue and white flowers peeking from behind it. He looks up to find Doyoung looking a little winded, breathing shallow as he thrusts the bag into Taeyong’s torso, a little too painfully,

“For you.”

Taeyong takes it, gaping up at Doyoung, completely at a loss. He glances down into the bag, stifling a snort when he sees that it’s kibble. Specifically, the dry kibble Hemingway lives on. The bag is heavy in his arms, drooping a little as he tries to balance it on his hip.

Doyoung seems equally taken aback, saying nothing as he studies Taeyong’s face carefully.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling to himself. “You really didn’t have to get me – cat food.”

Doyoung seems to have forgotten about the flowers in his hands, waving it around frantically as he tries to explain, “I was going to get you chocolates, but you said you crashed from getting sugar highs and I didn’t want that since it’s unhealthy, and I didn’t know if I should get you muffins, or chips, or – ”

“Hey,” Taeyong moves to rest a hand on Doyoung’s forearm, slowing him down. Cute. “You didn’t have to get me anything. I just – wanted to talk.”

Doyoung gulps visibly. Taeyong doesn’t want to celebrate too early.

“Can we go into your apartment? My friends are still here,” he trails off, watching Doyoung absorb the information slowly. “They’re like parasites, they don't want to leave.”

“Sure,” Doyoung nods jerkily. “Sure, of course.”

He leads the way into 10B, the first for Taeyong to ever enter, holding the door open for him.

The apartment is a lot different from his own. It’s a lot neater with much less of a mess of books and papers and markers strewn across various surfaces. There’s a black couch pushed up against the wall and a television across it, though Taeyong is elated to see that a bookshelf is present in Doyoung’s apartment too, filled with not only books but picture frames and tiny trinkets as well.

He looks around the place, eager to learn more about Doyoung, see more of Doyoung’s usual living setting, instead of it being the other way around.

“Sorry, it’s a mess,” Doyoung says quietly, shutting the door and stepping out of his shoes. He’s definitely just being polite about it, Taeyong knows, since he’s unable to spot even a receipt out of place. “You can – I – please sit wherever you’d like.”

The phrase rings a bell in Taeyong’s mind.

Abiding, he leaves the packet of cat kibble by the entryway, shuffling into the living area with his eyes still wandering around the place. Sneakily, he takes a deep inhale, pinching himself when he shudders giddily. He twists his fingers together when Doyoung approaches, flowers still in his grasp. Neither of them sit, and the tension in the air starts to turn static, erasing away Taeyong’s initial excitement.

Doyoung looks petrified,

“Sorry – ” The only word either of them are too familiar with, “About acting strangely the other night.” He plays around with the twine on the bouquet, stealing Taeyong’s attention away, “I just – I – ” He takes a breath. “I wanted to tell you that it’s okay, we can just be friends.”

That does it.

Taeyong balks. “Huh?”

Doyoung repeats, building in conviction, “It’s okay, we can be friends.”

Taeyong’s heart drops. The ground sways under his socked feet.

“I didn’t mean to spring that date onto you like that,” Doyoung prattles, starting to pace the length across the living room. The flowers shake wildly in his grasp. “And I’d completely understand if you – if you didn’t feel comfortable being friends anymore, since I – like you and everything, I know it’s – ”

Taeyong lifts a hand to stop him. Doyoung clamps his mouth shut.

“I don’t want to be friends,” he says quietly, but hopefully loud enough for Doyoung to hear. He does, staring at Taeyong, straight on, steady, for all the fidgeting he’s been doing. “I don’t want to be just friends,” he clarifies.

“You stood me up,” Doyoung whispers. Gently, as if he were the one that didn’t make it to dinner.

“No, I didn’t.” Taeyong tells him, as adamantly as he can without sounding too sharp. He didn't want to fight with Doyoung. Not over something that's meant to be better than just this.

“I didn’t make it to dinner, but I didn’t do it on purpose.” He cradles his ire like a flame, irritated at himself, at the meeting, at what Doyoung must’ve thought, thinking that he bailed on their first date. The thought of Doyoung waiting for him - standing on the curb for an hour at least. Taeyong's irritation rises, some of it slipping through when he says,

“You didn’t let me explain. You didn't even let me apologise.”

“My publishing meeting ran late,” he goes on, courage building with momentum. Doyoung watches on, waiting politely. “They kept going on about the launch, and tour, and cover – and my phone died, I – I didn’t think to charge it when I was at the office,” Taeyong winces at his excuse, growing sheepish when he hears himself. “I know – it sounds like I’m making it up, but I’m not. I’ve just – been tired over the past couple of days, I wasn’t thinking right.”

He wishes Doyoung would move from his spot, voice hushing just over a sigh, but firm,

“I don’t want to be just friends.”

The bouquet in Doyoung’s hands rustle. “I waited for you.”

Something pierces Taeyong straight through the heart. Raw, new. He studies the apprehension on Doyoung’s face, disregarding the voice in his head that tells him not to move, stepping forward to tangle his fingers into the hem of Doyoung’s shirt. He wants to argue, argue that it was out of his hands, that he just couldn’t leave, that he’s been waiting for this for so long, there's no way - just - 

Did you think I wouldn’t have gone?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers instead. Doyoung’s eyes dart down to his hands, then back up at Taeyong’s face, pupils shaking. “I didn’t mean to – make you think I didn’t like you.” Doyoung bites on the inside of his lower lip. Taeyong wants to pull it free. “I could’ve explained this to you, if you hadn’t left. I don’t want you thinking I don’t – ”

“Because I do.” His drags in a breath, indulging in the way Doyoung’s eyes follow his lips, “I like you.”

Doyoung stuns, a little too much to form a coherent response. “Huh?”

“I like you,” Taeyong moves to take Doyoung’s hand in his, letting out a puff of relief when Doyoung allows their fingers to lace together. God, how good it feels to have Doyoung's hand in his. “I’ve liked you even before I met you.” His cheeks warm under Doyoung’s scrutiny, as if he didn’t believe a single word Taeyong’s admitting, “I’ve seen you around a couple of times. With your groceries and your multitude of books.” He gives Doyoung’s hand a squeeze, “I think – I think you’re cute.”

“I like you.”

Doyoung’s soul seems to slam back into his body, and he startles, dropping the flowers.

Neither of them pay it any attention.

“I’ll – ” Taeyong starts, taking the wheel now that Doyoung’s been reduced to a wax figure. “I won’t ever be late to any date, ever.” He mumbles, “If it’s you.” He tilts his head up, acutely focused on the bow of Doyoung’s lips, dipped and perfect and everything Taeyong’s ever wanted to kiss.

“It’s okay,” Doyoung’s voice barely registers above a whisper. “Just – text me. Next time.”

Taeyong’s mind is hazy, focused on the way Doyoung leans forward, achingly slow. “I promise,” he murmurs, letting himself drift closer.

Everything's so warm. Not a blazing heat like he were standing on the surface of the sun, but just - warmth, spreading straight from his heart and out to his fingers and down to his toes. A shiver crawls up his spine, and Taeong gasps, inhaling a lungful of just Doyoung.

He doesn’t know who closes the gap, but it doesn’t even matter because they’re kissing.

Taeyong closes his eyes, pressing his chest to Doyoung’s with a crave for contact. Doyoung wobbles under him, and their kiss hitches messily, but he’s quick to curl his arm around Taeyong’s waist, steadying them both. Taeyong fumbles, moving his lips against Doyoung’s in a haste for more, more, more, relaxing when Doyoung cups his cheek. He holds onto Doyoung’s wrist, keeping the warmth there as he tugs on Doyoung’s lips, asking for more. Doyoung obliges, parting his lips to let Taeyong taste him greedily.

He kisses Doyoung like his life depends on it, brushing his nose with Doyoung’s and breathing in so deeply, he starts to get a little light-headed. It’s when he thinks he’s nearly about to pass out that he pulls away regretfully, Doyoung chasing after him blindly. He doesn’t go far, latching his lips onto Doyoung’s neck, kissing him softly there, catching his breath.

Doyoung’s fingers dig into his waist, possessive or protective or anything else, Taeyong doesn’t care.

He gives Doyoung a little kiss, giggling when Doyoung squirms.

Silently, he lets himself think. Thoughts of them both getting together, living together, being together.

Right. Right.

This isn’t temporary anymore.

“Are you ready yet?”

Doyoung hides a smile. Even though the nagging’s directed at him, he can’t help but grin whenever Taeyong’s the one rushing him. The boy who’s always late to everything, but never late when it comes to Doyoung. Or at least, when it involves Doyoung.

Three months together and it’s a trait of Taeyong’s that Doyoung is not too fond of learning, despite being the exception.

It takes ages to get Taeyong out of bed, ages for him to get ready, ages for him to do anything. He’s heard stories from both Yuta and Youngho about how many times they’ve gone ahead to watching movies just the both of them, Taeyong running late enough for a quarter of the movie to be over. He’s heard stories from Taeyong’s sister about how he was late to his own graduation, near being banned from receiving his degree on-stage, having missed the call time. He’s heard stories from Taeyong’s mother about how he’s constantly late to family events, going so far as to not attending them half the time, waking too slow to join the festivities.

Taeyong runs an hour later than everyone else does. Point blank.

Except when it comes to Doyoung.

“Babe,” he whines, peeking into the bathroom to find Doyoung already staring at him. He steps into the en suite fully, reaching out to grab his boyfriend by the wrist. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m nervous,” Doyoung murmurs, pulling Taeyong close to bury his nose into his crown. “It’s our first double date.”

Taeyong smoothens the crinkle on Doyoung’s shirt, “Triple date – Yuta and Jaehyun are coming along too.”

Doyoung groans inwardly. It isn’t like he didn’t enjoy hanging out with Taeyong’s friends, nor as if they didn’t get along (because they did), but it’s a big night for their little trio tonight – they’re finally getting to meet Youngho’s boyfriend.

He’s never understood the purpose for their secrecy, but Doyoung is in no position to say anything, so he just goes along with it, barely following along when Taeyong and Yuta go on for hours spinning theories on who it might be. He’s just there to hold Taeyong’s hand when he gets too excited, which is all fine by him.

“Are you upset?”

Doyoung blinks. Taeyong is starting up at him, chin propped against his chest.

He goes on to explain when Doyoung fails to answer, “I know Taeil wanted to have dinner with us this weekend too,” he mumbles apologetically, “but Yuta and I’ve been betting on this for ages.” He pouts, knowing he’ll get his way with it anyway, “We can meet with Taeil next weekend, right?”

There’s another enigma.

Taeil gets along well with Taeyong. They’re both oddly interested in the same things and have an odd sense of humour that Doyoung tries his best to appreciate, so it isn’t out of the blue that he wants them three to hang out. Though, he’s had to turn down the offer once Taeyong and Yuta finally managed to get Youngho to introduce his boyfriend.

Which, again, is fine. He sees too much of Taeil anyway.

Doyoung doesn’t think too much about it. He thinks it’s nice how they get along well like how he gets along with Taeyong’s friends.

“I’m not upset,” he reassures, kissing Taeyong lightly on the forehead. “I’m just – maybe it’s a dinner that you should have with just your friends? I wouldn’t know what to say – I haven’t known them long enough.”

Taeyong frowns, “Jaehyun will be there.” He wraps his arms around Doyoung’s waist, squeezing tight. “He wouldn’t know Youngho’s boyfriend, neither will I nor Yuta.”

Doyoung hesitates.

“You don’t have to come if you really don’t want to,” Taeyong mumbles. “I just – I’d like you to be there. With me.”

Doyoung is weak for Taeyong. “Okay.”

Taeyong bounces in his arms, going on his tip-toes to kiss Doyoung sweetly. “Thank you.”

(He’s always weak for Taeyong.

“What are these?”

Taeyong lifts the mason jar of flowers by the kitchen sink. The ones Doyoung’d first gotten him. He swallows nervously, realising now how much they look alike to the second bouquet he’d gotten. Taeyong’d taken the initiative to familiarise himself with the apartment, since Doyoung’s so familiar with his, scouring the kitchen for something to keep the blue bouquet in.

Yuta and Youngho are still supposedly in 10A, ploughing through ice-cream, including Taeyong’s share, but Taeyong doesn’t seem to mind, thankfully, choosing to hang out with Doyoung in 10B instead. After sorting through both their myriad of unspoken feelings, Taeyong decides to keep the baby blue peonies in water, despite being afraid his lack of green fingers.

It’s looking for a jar that he finds the first bouquet of blush peonies, slowly wilting, but still holding its colour.

“It was for you,” Doyoung mumbles shyly, standing across the kitchen. “I bought those for you. That night.”

Taeyong’s lip quivers, and it’s a sight to see, with both bouquets in either hands.

Though supposedly being the one that’d suffered the most from those flowers, as beautiful as they are, Doyoung takes Taeyong in his arms anyway, hugging his new boyfriend as he tries to blubber through another apology yet again for missing their first date.

All is well; Taeyong presses the peonies carefully, both blush and baby blue, framing them up to where they reside now – the shelf of Doyoung’s bookcase.)

“Oh, hold up,” Doyoung halts by the door to 10B. He lets go of Taeyong’s hand to scurry back into the kitchen, where he’d left his apartment inspection forms that he’d planned on slipping into the building manager’s inbox.

Taeyong reaches for Doyoung’s hand again, lacing their fingers together, palm-to-palm. “Have you made a decision?”

Doyoung lifts their hands to leave a kiss on Taeyong’s, “I don’t know.” He sighs, swinging them as they make their way down the hall, “I still have a month to go before my lease is up.”

Taeyong grows quiet. Doyoung regrets bringing it up; he knows how much Taeyong dislikes entertaining the thought that he might have to move away soon. His year-long lease is approaching its end, and as much as he wants to renew it, his future teaching placement in a high school is yet to be confirmed, affecting his current decision on which part of the city would be most convenient for him to move to.

The elevator doors slide open.

Doyoung huddles his sullen boyfriend in, wrapping himself around him. Over the months, he’s taken responsibility of feeding the both of them whenever he wasn’t running late on classes, and the obvious decrease in Taeyong’s sugar intake had the boy shedding weight. It brings Doyoung into his current phase of overfeeding Taeyong (with healthier alternatives) (like Taeyong does to Hemingway), which is encouraging the presence of love handles on Taeyong’s otherwise skinny hips.

Taeyong whines about putting on weight, but Doyoung is sure to assure him that the weight is good weight and also great for when they’re fuc –

Doyoung presses a kiss to Taeyong’s crown, “I’ll still come over all the time. You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

“It won’t be the same,” Taeyong huffs into his shirt, upset and unafraid to show it.

Doyoung watches as the lift descends. “It’s not like I’ll love you any less.”

Taeyong groans, as he does whenever Doyoung plays the love card.

The lift doors open, and Doyoung moves to huddle them back out, but Taeyong has other plans, holding him in place rigidly. He figures it’s a game to play, trying his best to usher Taeyong out with a small noise of complaint. The doors start to close then,

“Taeyong, we’re going to be la – ”

“Move in with me.”

The lift doors close, but they don’t move.

Taeyong stares at him with a hard gaze; Doyoung has nowhere else to look, “Huh?”

“Move in with me,” Taeyong repeats, licking his lips. He hugs Doyoung then, arms around Doyoung’s trim waist, hiding his face away, “At least until you find an actual place to stay.” He mutters, “Or you could move in for good. Or we could find a place together.”

Doyoung wants nothing more than to do just that, but rationally, “You don’t think it’s too – fast?”

“The first two week’s we’ve ever spent together were in the confines of 10A,” Taeyong deadpans. “I don’t have a problem living with you.”

“That’s different,” Doyoung tells him. “If I move in with you, I’ll have my books, my clothes, my – everything… everywhere, in your closet space, in your kitchen, in your bathroom… Are you sure you’ll be okay with all that?”

Taeyong starts to pull away, “If you don’t want to – ”

“No,” Doyoung says firmly, grabbing a hold of him by the arms. He catches Taeyong’s gaze, uncertain and frankly terrified. “I want to.”

“Don’t just say yes,” Taeyong breathes. “Because I want you to. I don’t – I want it to be because you – want this as much as I do.”

“‘This’?”

“This,” Taeyong echoes. “Us. I don’t – ”

Doyoung kisses him then, unwilling to hear any of Taeyong’s objections. Taeyong sighs in surrender, crawling back into his arms.

“I’ll always want us,” Doyoung says quietly, heavily, trying to prove his want with just words. “I just want you to make sure you know what you’re offering me,”

“We’ll make it work,” Taeyong answers. “If it’s anyone,” he takes Doyoung by the hands, sweaty and cold. “It’s you.”

(It’ll always be Doyoung.

“ – and now I call upon Mr. Kim to share his vows to Mr. Lee, and after, Mr. Lee to Mr. Kim.”

Taeyong glances into the crowd, eyes already brimming with tears when he sees his family clutching onto one another, tissues stuffed in their hands.

“I vow,” Doyoung says quietly, soft even when it’s reverberated through the speakers. Taeyong snaps back attentively, taking measured breaths, knowing he won’t last to the end,

“To love you, and care for you. To be your lover, and your best friend. To be there when you’re sick, and when you’re hurting.”

“I vow,”

Taeyong grips Doyoung’s hands tight. His stupid suit is too small, he can’t breathe. He really won’t make it to his own vows.

It’s the most serious he’s ever seen Doyoung; eyes trained at Taeyong, unabashed but glassy. The sunlight radiates the perfect slope of his nose and bow of his lip – Taeyong just wants to throw his arms around his soon-to-be husband and kiss him squarely on the lips, right in front of everyone.

“To give you whatever you please, and everything more than you can ask for. To give you my heart, and a future forever. To give you my hand, no matter where we go, knowing that we’ll go together.”

Someone weeps from behind Taeyong’s shoulder. He barely registers that it’s Youngho sniffling into his pocket square. Taeil, Taeyong spots from over Doyoung’s shoulder, bites on his lip, to keep from laughing or crying, it’s undetermined.

“I vow,”

Taeyong gnaws on the inside of his cheek, threatening to pierce through.

Doyoung smiles then, and Taeyong’s being practically ascends to the heavens, enamoured by his perfect, perfect smile. His tone turns, light, airy, almost like how his voice goes when he sings for Taeyong; to sleep over the rough nights, to smile over the hard days, to serenade over their long evenings.

Taeyong’s breath hitches,

“To cut fruits for you whenever you want them, so you won’t have to. To eat all the sweets at home, so you won’t be tempted to. To buy you as many flowers you want, no matter how quick they often wilt under your care.”

Taeyong bawls, shuddering to keep himself from climbing over Doyoung, who simply smiles, eyes dewy.

“I vow,” Doyoung takes a breath. And another. “That it’ll always be you. Because if it’s you,” he lets go of Taeyong’s hand to wipe at the never-ending tears rolling down his redden cheeks. In turn, Taeyong grabs Doyoung’s hand with both of his, unwilling to lose contact.

“It’s not work, if it’s you.”

“Today and forever, my love and so much more, my everything – it’ll always be you.”

Taeyong doesn’t make it through his vows. At least, not at all coherently.)

“Did they already get a table?”

“I think so,” Taeyong can’t keep still, jittery even as they walk into the restaurant, bustling with an overload of waiters and patrons, the usual weekend evening rush. Doyoung takes him by the hand, holding back a smile when he sees Taeyong’s shoulder drop, relaxing significantly. “Do you see them?”

Doyoung scans the large booths that would fit six, trying to find Youngho’s tall frame, or Yuta’s newly dyed purple hair, or Jaehyun’s dimpled smile. He doesn’t pick anything up, so he looks again, blinking when he does see a familiar silhouette; petite with a head of black hair, in a jacket oversized that looks even more familiar.

Doyoung then realises that it’s his jacket.

Then, a tall frame, purple hair, and a dimpled smile.

No.

“Is that them?” Taeyong says, already leading the way towards what Doyoung can’t believe. “Is that? Is – oh, my god, is that?”

Four pairs of eyes turn to stare at them as their jaws drop to the ground, completely flabbergasted.

Moon Taeil, cuddled up to Seo Youngho, both of them grinning sheepishly when Doyoung and Taeyong alternate between themselves to splutter brokenly. Even with both minds together, they fail to see how they’d missed the connection.

“Shut up,” Doyoung manages first. Taeil looks as if he’s seen this coming from a mile away. “Shut up, Moon. How long?”

Taeil curls further into Youngho, “Three months.”

“And you didn’t tell me!” Taeyong says, pointing an accusatory finger right at Youngho’s nose.

“That’s my jacket!” Doyoung exclaims, tugging at its sleeve.

Taeyong whirls, gaping like a fish out of water when he notices Yuta unperturbed, “Did you know?”

Yuta flips through the menu, “Should we get a platter for six? Or is that too little?

Taeyong remains astounded, speechless. Doyoung equals in shock.

“I knew too,” Jaehyun speaks up, raising a hand timidly. “Just for the record.”

Taeyong starts to argue, but Yuta simply waves him off, “Look, it wasn’t like Johns specifically told me and not you.” He shrugs, “You were just too busy with lover boy over here that you failed to notice the thousands of signs he was dropping.”

Youngho frowns, “I wasn’t that obvious, I – ”

“You definitely, definitely were,” Yuta interrupts surely.

Doyoung turns to Taeil then, unappreciative of his best friend’s apologetic smile. “I can’t believe you kept this from me, seriously. What – when – why did you have to do that? It could’ve – ” he trails off. Taeil winces, seemingly knowing the realisation that’s to come – “So, we do have a connection!”

Beside him, Taeyong frowns, “What?”

“You and I!” Doyoung can’t believe it. “Before we – starting dating, I told Taeil how I wasn’t sure about – everything because I didn’t know much about you then, and the only connection we had was that we lived in the same building!”

Taeil holds up a laminated menu in defence, “It’s not like we knew then that – we were all oddly related, it just happened!”

“Moon Taeil, I swear to god – ”

“I’m really sorry too,” Youngho speaks up, which is terrible because he’s Taeyong’s best friend and Doyoung’s still trying to assimilate into their friend group, making it hard to try and make Taeil feel bad about all the sneaking around he’s been doing.

Doyoung needs an Advil.

“We just wanted to keep it between us,” Youngho explains. He takes Taeil by the hand, lacing their fingers together. “No friends, parents, siblings – nothing. Just us, and it – it worked out really well.”

Taeyong sulks. He takes the seat beside Yuta, letting Doyoung take the one next to Taeil, across. He jabs Yuta in the shoulder,

“When did you find out?”

(Since then.

“What do you think they’re doing over there?” Youngho asks, staring forlornly at the door. His ice-cream’s long melted, but it’s the part he likes best. Yuta thinks Youngho’s a fiend for drinking it straight from the tub.

Without missing a beat, he snorts, “Making out.”

“You think so?” Youngho mumbles. “From how he was retelling last night, I thought Doyoung wouldn’t be interested.”

“Please,” Yuta lets out a loud exhale. “You should’ve seen the way Yong was fuming when that friend of Doyoung’s had his arm around him.

“His friend?”

“Yeah,” Yuta scrapes the last bit of melted ice-cream. “Taeil, or something.”

Youngho pauses, “Taeil?”

“He misplaced Doyoung’s spare keycard.” Yuta takes his last bite, “Basically, the only reason this entire fiasco happened in the first place.”

Beside him, Youngho gets to his feet, scaring Hemingway off him and onto Yuta.

Yuta glances from his now-empty tub, “What?”

“Nothing,” Youngho babbles. “I – I need to make a phone call.”

Yuta stares at his best friend’s retreating figure, wondering what he’s done to deserve two nutjobs as his closest friends.

Both of whom assume he’s that much of an idiot as they are.)