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“I don’t like it.”
It’s not a surprising statement out of Moondae’s mouth, but the lack of context preceding it has Jaehyun loosening his grip on his wine glass, a half-flinch. He’s heard variations on this before, so much and so often that they barely register; they’re expected, sometimes valid statements, often barbed and pointed attacks modelled after his own words; but a stubborn part of him is still a little surprised—maybe even taken aback—that Moondae still thinks as much, given their extensive partnership. Shared history. Whatever you call it. “Hmm?”
They’re unwinding on the balcony after a long day. It isn’t usually his first choice of location—too public, too cold, with the way the thin spring weather has been slowly cleaving into the creeping chill of nighttime. The rain from earlier, still slick on the rails, has sharpened the air with a muddy restlessness; a soft muted scent that blurs the hour. Yet from here, the view still feels worth it; the city stretched wide between them, streetlights shimmering in puddles, reflections trembling in the glass of wine in his hand—already his third of the evening, though the clock hasn’t even struck nine.
Earlier, he’d barely toed off his shoes at the mat, stepping barefoot into the living room, when Moondae—pink faced and frowning slightly—appeared with an empty glass in hand. He’d been drinking, and it had been obvious, from the way he wobbled unsteadily on his feet, admirably and inexplicably inebriated, unlike how well he usually held his liquor. He would never put himself in these situations, but perhaps he felt more comfortable in his own space. You’re late, he said, tugging him in by the elbow. Jaehyun could have walked in just fine on his own—Moondae’s unsteady gait didn’t inspire much confidence—but Jaehyun, startled, hadn’t refused the help.
Even so, Moondae rarely drank on his own; Jaehyun knew he’d stopped doing so for some time now, though on special occasions they would meet to share a few bottles of soju, usually at family restaurants they’d both vetted personally, or drinking parties with their respective coworkers. Jaehyun would show up in an ugly, oversized outfit; the kind Chaeyul had, on more than one occasion, threatened to set ablaze in protest of its sheer ugliness, though Jaehyun liked the material. And Moondae would show up in his usual TeSTAR hoodie, and the cap he’d kept from Magic Boy—his favourite disguise, hiding himself in plain sight; Jaehyun would laugh and let him, because he’d discovered, to his own surprise, that indulging Moondae’s quiet eccentricities brought him an odd sort of warmth. Being the oldest of their respective groups meant taking care of people came naturally like breath.
There weren’t many points of congruence between them, most days, but if there was one constant, that would be one of them.
“What’s wrong?” Jaehyun asks now, setting his glass down and lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. “It’s not beer or soju, you know.”
“N—uh,” Moondae says, dragging the syllable like a slow pull of thought. “Nothing.” His glass clatters against the table, and Jaehyun winces; his hand twitches toward it on reflex. “Oh. Oh, shit.”
“I suspect,” Jaehyun says, “you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I suspect you’ve—” Moondae parrots, then frowns, pausing mid-sentence as though he’s misplaced the rest of it. “You. Who do you think you are?”
“Your sunbaenim?” Jaehyun offers, amused, the laughter slipping out before he can catch it. Moondae shoots him a look—sharp, unfocused—and Jaehyun, still smiling, presses his hand to his own neck. There’s heat there, a warmth he can’t blame entirely on the alcohol.
“No,” Moondae says again, quieter this time, like the thought is still climbing its way up his throat. “Who do you think you are?” He turns fully then, both feet planted, leaning forward as though to close some invisible distance between them. His tongue darts out, swiping across the seam of his lips, and the light from the city below climbs the planes of his face—soft, refracted, making his eyes gleam darker. “I don’t like—”
Jaehyun tilts his head, a half-smile playing on his mouth. Go on, he thinks, wordlessly. Tell me what it is you don’t like.
There’s a faint touch—the brush of Moondae’s knuckles, against his forehead—then a slow, deliberate motion as Moondae starts rubbing it in small circles, as if trying to erase something that only he can see.
“Hoobaenim,” Jaehyun says, laughing despite himself. “You really are drunk.”
“I’m not,” Moondae huffs, though he doesn’t stop the motion. After a moment, Jaehyun leans back, catching his wrist and lowering it from his face.
“I just don’t like it,” Moondae mutters, still frowning. He snatches his hand away from Jaehyun’s loose hold. “I don’t like it at all.”
“There’s many things I’m able to do,” Jaehyun says, still lightly teasing, “but reading your mind isn’t one of them.”
Moondae’s expression twists, his cheeks crumpling into a sullen half-pout, though he doesn’t seem aware of it. Jaehyun files the image away as something to revisit later.
“Since when,” Moondae murmurs then, his tone quieter, more deliberate, “did you allow the others to touch you so freely?”
“Hm?”
“Chaeyul left a mark here.”
A mark? There's nothing—oh, the broadcast must have gone live today. “You watched it?” Jaehyun asks, smiling faintly.
Moondae’s head dips. He’s making another face, something caught between annoyance and embarrassment. The urge to see it, to know exactly what face he’s making, overtakes Jaehyun before he can think better of it. He tilts Moondae’s chin up gently, studying the faintly unfocused eyes, the small tremor of breath caught between them, the light spilling across his face in faint amber shadows. The scent of Moondae’s breath—faintly sour, faintly sweet—matching the wine in his own mouth.
“Hoobaenim,” Jaehyun begins. That’s a question he doesn’t get to finish, because Moondae’s hand lands in the crook of his neck before the rest of it can form fully. And then he’s leaning in, pressing a kiss to Jaehyun’s forehead. It’s an awkward kiss, almost tender by accident. Moondae’s lips are soft and damp; the contact barely lingers before he draws back, frowning as though the action itself displeases him.
Jaehyun realises belatedly that his own face must mirror that confusion; and Moondae, as if hearing the thought instead of the silence, mutters, “It’s annoying that there isn’t anything there.” It’s quiet enough that Jaehyun has to strain his ears to hear it; the rest of what he says—if he says anything at all—is carried away by the night wind.
His fingers are still splayed against Jaehyun’s neck, but the tips of them have gone cold, the chill of the evening creeping in through his skin, the ache sharp, like a cut across the surface. Jaehyun swallows against the pressure, barely holding back the shiver.
When Moondae pulls his hands away, his expression doesn’t change—he must not have noticed. Even so, Jaehyun can still feel the ghost pulse of his touch against his neck; Moondae’s still close enough that he can see the tiny flecks of light caught in his eyes, the faint quiver of his mouth—his expression already shuttering.
So Jaehyun exhales once, quietly, and asks the only question that comes to mind: “Tomorrow, you’ll forget this, won’t you?”
Moondae’s breath stirs against his skin, his palm moored against the surface of Jaehyun’s jaw again. His fingers are still cold—too cold.
Against himself, Jaehyun brings his own hand up to warm it, leaning into the touch.
“I don’t like that,” Moondae murmurs again, almost to himself this time.
Jaehyun smiles, though he isn’t sure why. “No,” he says softly. “Neither do I.”