Work Text:
1) Wood floors, sneakers squeaking
2) Loud music, the bass reverberating through the floor
3) The sweat on his back, sweat running down his temples
4) His own image in the mirror, distorted
A little past two, Jongseong slips into his room, soundlessly. Heeseung's come to expect it: the smooth glide of the door, a soft click, quiet steps across the floor. He wouldn't have woken Heeseung had he been asleep, but Heeseung is wide awake, mapping his quiet route from the bedroom door to the bathroom. He stirs, curls further into the blanket, hiding his face from the bathroom light when Jongseong clicks it on to brush his teeth. He hopes Jongseong won't do his full skincare routine — he often does, even when it's very late. He likes sticking to principles. But not always when he's staying in Heeseung's room.
A draft comes from the open window. He doesn't remember opening it, and he knows Jongseong didn't stop by the window to open it either. But he hears the wind outside, the sounds of the cars driving down below on the streets, the occasional screech of a police siren, city noise. The room is cold, he feels it on the tip of his nose. It's been open for a while.
He must've opened it before going to bed, too absent to notice what he was doing. Again, time has wound up the bird otherwise known as Comeback Season — they're knee-deep in it currently, and it feels as good as it's exhausting. He hasn't been sleeping enough, not in between rehearsals and promotions; his sleep deprivation caught up with him tonight as he made his sluggish way from the car to the apartment, his head leaning against the mirror of the elevator to feel the cold press against his skin.
As far as he recalls, he'd passed out as soon as his body hit the mattress. But he guesses he must've somehow mustered the energy to crack open the window before that. Driven by sheer force of habit. Heeseung hates waking up too warm; he always opens the window when he knows Jongseong's sleeping in his room.
It isn't a nice feeling, not being fully aware of what he's doing. He's too tired right now to linger much on it.
Jongseong brushes his teeth with the bathroom door slightly ajar. He uses the normal toothbrush and not the new electrical one he'd bought that clicks every thirty seconds so he'll know exactly how long he needs to brush for. Maybe he thinks Heeseung is sleeping. You can use the electrical one, Heeseung wants to say, but his voice is all hoarse and he doesn't feel like opening his mouth, make his lips shape the words. You can use the electrical one, even though I normally hate the way it sounds like it's drilling straight into my eardrums.
Jongseong doesn't hear him, even though Heeseung's trying his best to communicate telepathically. Usually, they're not half-bad at it, talking without words. A language built on nearly a decade of having Jongseong know him so well, that Heeseung sometimes likes him less because of it. They'd usually have to look at each other in order to communicate in their language of silence, though.
Jongseong brushes his teeth with the normal spare toothbrush he keeps in Heeseung's bathroom and finishes without doing his skincare routine. Slips into bed next to Heeseung, fingers cold, smelling faintly of barbecue smoke still. He presses close, he has to if he wants to fit in the narrow space of Heeseung's bed. Did you have fun? Heeseung wants to ask, but his mouth feels glued shut. He squeezes his eyes shut when Jongseong peels back the blanket from his face, so he can press a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Hey. Didn't realize you were still awake," he whispers, toothpaste-breath fanning out on Heeseung's cheek. Their legs tangle, and Heeseung shivers. He's glad Jongseong's here now. Warm fingers slot themselves underneath Heeseung's shirt to trace the outline of his ribs, then his stomach, his thumb rubbing circles. He's been awake for long enough to go hungry again, he feels it now, as if Jongseong's touch on his stomach has reminded his body of its hunger.
He has the absent thought that he hopes Jongseong isn't in the mood for sex right now, because Heeseung really isn't. His sex drive fluctuates and it probably has something to do with how everything else in his life is in constant flux as well; where he sleeps, his energy levels, when he eats and drinks. But he thinks he would do it anyway if Jongseong wanted to, and it would probably be fine. Usually, he likes when they have sex, likes when Jongseong calls him baby, likes when they're kissing and he feels Jongseong everywhere, on him, underneath, inside, around him. He thinks he could like it this time too if he really tried.
But Jongseong doesn't do or say anything; his hand remains there, resting comfortably on the cold skin of Heeseung's stomach. Jongseong knows perfectly well when it's okay to push. Heeseung just has these fleeting thoughts sometimes, ungrounded. They've talked about it before. Jongseong tells him to never apologize for having fluctuating needs, that he gets it, he feels the same way. To talk to him about how he feels, always.
He should probably bring it up at some point, to Jongseong. That he still has these thoughts sometimes. He'd understand, they'd talk about it, all of it.
Jongseong mumbles something else that Heeseung doesn't catch. Something about having worked hard, or catching a cold, something along those lines, his hand touches Heeseung's forehead, a gentle but firm press.
Heeseung goes heavy, lets Jongseong pull him close, where it's nice and warm.
He dreams of a movie Sunghoon has told him about, some apocalypse movie about the end of the world, he's alone on top of a tall building, telephone poles whir, gulls dive low towards the water, cars float, he's a bird, he's falling, he's looking at himself falling through the round lens of a telescope, he's a meteor hurtling towards the water, a bug trapped under glass, wakes in Jongseong's embrace. Feels his heart beat too fast. The room is still dim. The alarm hasn't sounded yet.
The open window didn't help, he's too warm, doesn't like the texture of the blanket on his skin. The fear he'd felt in his dream continues to linger, growing through his cracks like weeds pushing through the brick facades of old buildings. He turns in Jongseong's arms, searching for his warmth although he's sweating. It helps to ground him sometimes, curling into Jongseong, focusing on the way he feels, what he sounds like.
Jongseong sleeps with his mouth a little open. Jungwon had once shared an article in their group chat about how the average person swallows eight spiders a year, and Jongseong's been practicing breathing only with his nose ever since, to keep his mouth firmly shut in sleep. He falls asleep like that, breathing through his nose, but Heeseung knows he switches to his mouth throughout the night. Don't worry. There are no spiders here, thinks Heeseung, but he still can't quite get his mouth to function properly.
Outside, morning traffic rushes by down below; a constant backdrop to Jongseong's breaths. He lies there, looking, thinking, fractions of thoughts tangled in a fishnet.
Eventually, the alarm rouses Jongseong from his sleep, as Heeseung reaches out to turn it off. Jongseong groans, a deep rumble from his chest, burrows deeper into the blanket, "five minutes more," he croaks, and Heeseung crawls back into his embrace.
1) Overlapping speech, red lights on recording cameras
2) The script he'd rehearsed looping in his head
3) His own image on the monitors
4) The familiar weight of a microphone
They're backstage after their Inkigayo performance, a stylist Heeseung feels too ashamed to have forgotten the name of to ask for it again, dabbing the sweat off his forehead. He smiles gratefully, tiredly at her, takes the water bottle Jaeyun hands him, settles down on the couch next to Jungwon.
It went well. It wasn't perfect — it never was. But it was good. Probably not good enough to win; competition was tough this time, and Heeseung hadn't performed as well as he'd wanted to, he was flat in some parts, a bit pitchy. Still good, but for his own standards—
"Hyung," says Jungwon, and puts a hand on Heeseung's thigh. With an apologetic smile, Heeseung forces his bouncing leg to come to a rest.
Whenever he performs, he's not fully present in his mind, not before, not during, not even after. A side-effect of throwing himself so fully into every performance. Every time he steps onto the stage, it swallows him, or he swallows it. If he had to choose one thing he'd do for the rest of his life, it would be to climb up the stage, live there, soak in the artificial lights until he's burned through. The come-down is always ambivalent, his headspace a bit strange, while whatever energy he'd accumulated on stage is too slow to fizzle out. And today, he feels more ambivalent about it all than he normally does.
Heading to the bathroom, he locks himself into a stall just to be alone for a few minutes. He sits on the lid of the toilet seat, leans his head against the wall of the bathroom stall. He doesn't feel bad per se — not mentally, not physically. At least not as bad as he has felt in the past. He's in some kind of slump, he can recognize it as that much. Just a little down, a little unsatisfied with himself — inevitably. And inevitably, he'll get over it. He's gotten a lot better at recognizing his emotions for what they are, better at not internalizing them over the years, or rather, he's gotten better at recognizing when he's internalizing, and when he's doing it to the point of it no longer being productive.
He's also catching a cold, probably. Or maybe he's just lacking sleep. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes; often, one will lead to the other anyway. He breathes in and out. The bathroom smells of sewer, stale underneath the overwhelming scent of air freshener. Cracks his knuckles just to have something to do.
It occurs to him that it's been too long since he's called his family. Maybe that's what's brought all of this on. He's poor at remembering to call during comeback season; too busy during the day, too worried he'll wake someone from sleep to call at night, too drained to have long conversations with anyone in general. Sometimes, he won't call because of his own cowardice. So afraid of what he'll hear. What he's missing out on because he has chosen this path. Big milestones he can't celebrate in person, family gatherings, basketball games, the little things, like having coffee with his mother in the morning, getting his license, driving his old toys to a secondhand store with his parents, helping his brother move out, pulling weeds from the backyard up by their roots again and again. His parents, aging. Sometimes, the question of whether or not he is still a good son will keep him up at night.
Over the years, he's found that often, the cure can be to get over himself. Call home. It's as simple as that.
He almost drags his hands down his face, then remembers he's wearing a full face of make-up. He makes a mental note instead. Call Eomma. He'll have time soon.
In the make-up room he settles into a couch between Jungwon and Jongseong who are scrolling through reels on their phones. Jongseong nudges his foot with his own, a soft tap. He's worried, Heeseung can tell. He nudges back in a way he hopes is reassuring.
1) Traffic
2) Pavement
3) Cold air
The studio is empty save for Heeseung. There's a hole in their schedule today, a day off, and he wanted to spend it working on a track for his mixtape. The whole thing's coming together, slowly, as it has for a long time now.
He's happy — mostly — with the tracks one day, then deeply unsatisfied the next. He doesn't like falling into a slump, spurred by feeling inadequate about what he's made, but he likes when it pushes him to make something even better, loves peeling the elements of a song apart, loves reassembling them. He could go on tweaking every element forever. It's a never ending puzzle. He also feels this burning need to finish it, get it out there, doesn't want to keep people waiting anymore, feels the need to prove himself, show people what he's capable of. This mixtape could make or break him. He needs to finish it. Needs it to be as perfect as it can be.
But this one song isn't working so far; something's off with the instrumentals. The lyrics are embarrassing. As most of his early-draft lyrics tend to be.
A tap on his shoulder startles him, pulling him out of a guitar riff he can't seem to figure out.
"Hyung," says Jongseong, pushing a large iced tea into his hand. In his other hand is a comically large coffee. Sometimes it scares Heeseung, how easily Jongseong can sneak up on him. "You weren't answering your phone."
Not without guilt, he thinks of his phone lying abandoned in the pocket of his jacket. He's lost total track of time in here. Heeseung has another one of his fleeting thoughts. He thinks he would probably be a better lover, had he not given himself so wholly to the stage. He wouldn't be split in this way, he'd be able to give Jongseong his all. He'd be better at a lot of important things, had he not fallen in love with the stage first.
He doesn't know what he'd be willing to trade though.
"Sorry," he says, minimizing the tab and taking off his headphones with his free hand. "Is this for me?"
Jongseong laughs. "Who else would it be for?" He takes a seat on one of the chairs, setting his coffee down on a small table. "How's it going with the mixtape?"
"It's. It's going," says Heeseung, vaguely, taking a sip from his iced tea. It's bittersweet, dries out his mouth. He doesn't think he's had any water today, he only really remembers to drink water when he's singing or rehearsing, and today he's just been sitting in the studio, working on the instrumentals. His voice isn't in peak condition. He doesn't want to strain it more than necessary.
"Just going?" Jongseong's prodding, gently.
Heeseung hums. "Yup. Just going." He's never shied away from talking about music with Jongseong before, but that was— before. A lot of the things he writes now are about Jongseong, somehow. Even when he doesn't mean for them to be. Speaking of early-draft lyrics.
He hasn't told anyone, but Jongseong would know what lines Heeseung had written about him, and even worse, what was inspired by him beyond just the words. Instrumentals, how the songs ebb and flow, the silences, the loudness, the heart of the songs. The thought makes Heeseung want to curl up with humiliation and never unfurl again.
Music had used to be a thing that was just his. From the the kid who taught himself the easy part of Für Elise on his tiny keyboard, to one of the top-ranking trainees working day and night in stale rooms eaten by mold, to the thin, scrawny teenager stuck in a life-altering reality TV-show, to the oldest member of a boy-group at the peak of their popularity, the music he made was always safe, it was his, he was it. He still is. Now it just makes him terrifyingly transparent too. Here. Read into my past and my present, see what's there and isn't there, take my stupid heart and all its past iterations, eat it all.
Well, maybe it has always made him transparent. After all, no one throws themselves as wholly into music as he has without losing parts of himself in it, for better or worse. But there's more on the line now.
Showing Jongseong his music had been easier when he'd just been musician-Jongseong and not boyfriend-Jongseong.
"Hyung," A small, fond smile pulls at one corner of his lips. "You know you can show me, right? What you're working on, I mean."
"I know," says Heeseung, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. "I just— Not yet. I can't. Not yet."
"Why? Because it isn't finished?"
Heeseung shrugs helplessly. He doesn't know how to put any of this into words. Not in a way that won't sound callous. "It's just hard. It's, well. It's kind of a lot."
"I know it is." Jongseong wheels his chair closer to Heeseung's, so their knees press together. He laughs self consciously. "You know I don't like showing you my incomplete songs either, so it's probably hypocritical of me to say this. But I really love hearing about your process, hyung. And I'd never judge you for something you worked hard on. I find you really inspiring to listen to, actually."
"Oh," says Heeseung, searching for something to say that feels adequate. "I feel the same way about you. Listening to you practice guitar inspires me all the time."
It comes to him, as if often does, that Jongseong isn't so different from him at all.
"Hyung," says Jongseong, and then nothing else.
Heeseung clears his throat. "But— but you'd still tell me if something I made sucked right?" He's aiming for a lighthearted joke. It doesn't come out quite as lightheartedly as he wants it to.
Jongseong laughs anyway. "I'll always be completely honest with you. But you have to promise me you'll actually believe me when I say something's good."
For a short moment, they're sixteen and seventeen and trainees again, with bad haircuts and an even worse taste in fashion. The stale air of the practice room, the dim lights, Jongseong's eyes on Heeseung as they work on perfecting a dance routine. They'd been so small, so inexperienced, had never performed for a crowd that wasn't their fellow trainees, so convinced they'd be able to debut together.
A lot of things are still the same, though. Or they've returned to the same, over time. He thinks of how easy touch had come to them, back when they hadn't known each other as well. How they'd grown apart in some aspects as they went from co-trainees to co-members of the same group, as they'd found their friendship suddenly restricted by elements outside of their own control. How they'd come together again, with all the experience they have now, and the newness they'd had back then. Knowing Jongseong worked tirelessly to improve as a trainee pushed Heeseung forwards as much as it does now, listening to him practice on his guitar in the quiet of his room.
Sometimes, Heeseung finds that in moving further away from the past, he gets closer to it. To some part of himself he'd thought was long gone. He wonders if Jongseong feels that way too. Like a part of him also walks a big, circular trajectory.
"Okay," whispers Heeseung and tries to look Jongseong in the eye. It's hard. Maybe it'll always be. He hopes not. He takes Jongseong's hands, and Jongseong goes easily. He rubs the hard callouses of Jongseong's fingertips. "I'll try."
His mother's voice is a familiar stream in his ear, as he watches Jongseong sitting on the chair on the other side of the glass of the recording booth. His back faces Heeseung. He'd wanted to give Heeseung some peace as he talked to his mother. Heeseung turns away from him as she tells him about her day, and how she and his father has started preparing the backyard for the winter season. About how they disagree on when to start turning up the heating like they do every year; his mother doesn't feel like dressing warm inside the comfort of their own house, but his father wants to save money. Heeseung has assured him, time and time again, that he doesn't need to worry about all of that anymore, but old habits die hard.
"I'm doing fine, Eomma," he assures her when she asks about his health. "Just tired. Maybe I'm catching a cold, but it's really mild."
She makes a noise, as if she doesn't believe him. "Did you take cough medicine? How are you eating? Sleeping?"
"Um," he says, taking time to split her questions apart. "No. To the cough medicine. I will though. I think Jungwon or Sunoo has some," he says. "And I sleep fine," he says at first, then thinks better of it. "You know we're in the middle of a comeback. It's hard to find time to get enough sleep. But once promotions are over—"
"You're always in the middle of something, Heeseung-ah."
Heeseung falters. "It is part of the job."
"I know," she says. "Eomma's just pointing it out. It doesn't make sense for you to say that."
Smiling, his gaze drifts to the black ceiling, the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars that's been there since before he became an idol. He doesn't know who stuck them there. He likes looking at them though. The traces of someone else, how this space has been built long before him, and will continue to build. There's something so sincere about it. "Yeah. You're right."
She scoffs. "And the food? Are you eating properly?"
"I am," he says. It isn't a lie — he eats big meals when there's time for it. Sure, his meals fall on inconsistent times of the day — or the night — and he probably doesn't have as many of them as he should, but when he eats, he makes sure to have more than enough.
Scoffing again, she says, "Let Eomma guess: take-out and instant ramyeon?"
"A lot of people actually really love my ramyeon recipe," he says, defensively.
A wistful sigh sounds on the other end. "I know. The neighbor buys eggs like a crazy person because your ramyeon is all her daughter wants to eat. You're the talk of the town. You and that recipe."
"Are you proud of me?"
"Of course I am Heeseung-ah," she says, outraged that he'd ever think otherwise. His stomach hurts, it hits like a sudden spell of dizziness, how much he misses her. He thinks of his parents readying their backyard for the winter, and realizes he doesn't even know precisely what that entails anymore. He hopes they aren't straining themselves. They wouldn't tell him if they were. "I'm always proud of you."
There's a brief silence where none of them say anything. Heeseung looks over his shoulder, back at Jongseong, who sits in the exact same position as before, probably scrolling on his phone, commenting on Weverse posts. As if sensing Heeseung's eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder. They exchange a smile, Jongseong takes a sip from his coffee, and Heeseung turns away again.
"Thank you for being proud of me Eomma," he says, finally.
"You're still my youngest son, aren't you?"
"I am." Absently scratching the microphone in the recording booth, he adds: "I do eat other things, Eomma."
"Such as?"
It's mostly take-out and ramyeon with eggs. Fluffy egg cloud ramyeon or whatever the public had termed it as. A few times a month Jongseong will cook with him though. Or for him. He doesn't know what to say and what not to say. What might give more away than he means to, what his voice sounds like when he talks about cooking with Jongseong.
"We cook together sometimes, me and the others."
"Well, it's no thanks to you, I bet," she says, and it makes him snort in that unattractive way he's gotten from her. The way that only really gets lured out of him when there are no cameras around, and it's just him and the other members, or him and his brother, and most often; him and Jongseong, whenever they're alone and the latter does something that catches Heeseung off guard.
They walk in the dark together, Heeseung with his half-drunk iced tea, the lampposts a trail of lights leading their way. Autumn arrived within the blink of an eye, it seems. Or maybe Heeseung hasn't been paying attention.
He feels hungry, potentially because of the talk he'd had with his mother. Likely because it's been too long since his last meal.
"Let's get some food on the way back," says Jongseong, and Heeseung wonders if he's spoken his thoughts out loud. He doesn't think he has.
"I'm really hungry," he says.
"I know. I am too," replies Jongseong. "Something warm would be good, wouldn't it?"
Heeseung looks down at his shoes, feeling too transparent again all of a sudden. "Mm-hm," he says.
They walk, navigating through narrow alleyways to avoid the crowds. Here, the insides of buildings are exposed to the night air, their organs of wires and pipes jut out from brick and concrete, and street signs, tin roofs and tall apartments block out the sky. He steers Jongseong around a puddle, and Jongseong holds an arm out before Heeseung walks right in front of a cyclist.
They stop by a sparsely crowded restaurant, order two portions of gukbap to-go. As they wait outside the door underneath the lamplight, Jongseong's hands are shoved in his pockets, and foolishly, Heeseung wishes he could shove them in his own pockets instead. He pulls his mask further up, eyes the warm window of the restaurant where people talk over steaming bowls under the yellow glow of the lamps.
A waitress hands them a paper bag with their gukbap, and Heeseung takes it, which means Jongseong takes Heeseung's half-drunk iced tea and it all feels so natural. Not pre-destined, just built in at some point in time, after he met Jongseong.
He thinks falling in love with Jongseong has killed a little part of him, and he isn't sure what part. He feels it when he opens the window before he goes to sleep. Especially when Jongseong isn't there and Heeseung knows he isn't coming, and he opens it anyway. He feels it when he knows what Jongseong is going to say before he says it, and when Jongseong knows what Heeseung's going to say before he says it. He feels it when they communicate without saying anything at all. Jongseong is in him, whatever part of Heeseung had existed before Jongseong is long gone.
He doesn't want to be afraid of love anymore, doesn't want to be someone who breaks others' hearts, someone who leaves, not when he has love right there in his palms. Not when it's all around him. There is no point in being afraid of it, when he knows it will find him anyway. Jongseong is stubborn in that way. It's hard not to be afraid, though.
Being Jongseong's feels like belonging to the stage. Jongseong leaving would kill the rest of him. He wonders whether being told he could never perform again would deliver the same blow to him. He doesn't think so.
And he doesn't know how to feel about that.
Their walk home continues.
Heeseung's last therapist had suggested he try staying grounded whenever his anxiety began to push itself through his cracks by looking at his surroundings, focusing on the tangibility of sensations, but like calling home, he's bad at remembering to do it consciously when comeback season is winding up again, or when he's touring. He's always in the middle of something, as his mother had said.
Jongseong isn't talking and neither is he, content in the silence, so he decides to try. Mapping his sensations, his senses with purpose.
1) Feet hitting solid pavement.
2) The wet crunch of orange and yellow autumn leaves soaked with rain.
3) The way the air in Seoul feels when it has just finished raining; cold and damp.
4) The noises of traffic.
5) The night air on his forehead.
6) His own breaths trapped underneath the mask.
7) The moon, glowing faintly behind the clouds.
8) The handle of the plastic bag in his clammy fist.
9) The guitar riff, still echoing in his head.
10) The back of Jongseong's hand occasionally brushing against his own.
They arrive back at the dorms, eat gukbap while sitting on Heeseung's bedroom floor, passing the iced tea back and forth until it's empty. Jongseong brushes his teeth with his electric toothbrush, does his skincare routine. They aren't supposed to share toothbrushes, it's unhygienic and sort of gross, but Heeseung wants to try using the electric toothbrush and Jongseong wants him to try it too. He makes sure to rinse it properly under the tap when he's done, and his teeth feel all clean and smooth. They look like kids in the mirror, bare-faced. Closer to the kids they'd been years ago. Jongseong kisses him, clean mouth on clean mouth, and Heeseung slumps over him; Jongseong makes it (too) easy to go boneless.
They make it to Heeseung's bed, one tired mass of limbs. The bed is too small for both of them, and yet, it's always his room they go to when they're sleeping in the dorms.
"I just like the way your sheets smell," Jongseong had once said, with a somewhat dismissive air, nose upturned.
"That doesn't even make sense," Heeseung had argued. "We use the same detergent, and I barely sleep in it anyway, it's not like we're ever home to use it."
Jongseong had said something about it being the principle of the matter. He cares a lot about principles.
On Heeseung's bed they have to squeeze together to make it work. Heeseung lies half on top of Jongseong. "Sorry I ignored your messages," he says again, and feels fingers card through his hair.
"It's okay," says Jongseong. "I just want to make sure I can reach you. I want you to stay within reach, hyung."
Heeseung buries his nose in Jongseong's chest. Mumbles a promise. It's easier not to overthink it all when he's this tired. He's not as afraid right now, he feels completely solid, present. He wants to hold onto the feeling he has right now for as long as he's able to. He knows he won't feel unburdened forever; it'll fluctuate constantly, like the shape of water.
He closes his eyes as Jongseong tells him goodnight, as he has done a thousand times before, and Heeseung whispers it back. There are a lot of other things Heeseung wants to tell Jongseong. He'd understand it all. Maybe he already does, even when it's unspoken.
"I want to show you a song," he mumbles, as a start. "The song I worked on today. Want you to play guitar on it."
Jongseong sounds surprised when he says, "Really?" A kiss lands on Heeseung's temple as Heeseung hums again. "Okay. I'll do my best for you."
There's a long silence. Heeseung listens to the traffic, the autumn wind outside the open window.
"You know, speaking of guitars," says Jongseong, his voice very quiet. "I had this thought the other day. I always go to you to tune my guitar."
Heeseung muffles a yawn into Jongseong's chest. Manages a "Hm?"
"It's not like I can't do it myself. I have a tuner on my phone. And you know how you can pretty much tune a guitar just based on one string." He snickers. "But I still go to you. Isn't that weird? Almost pointless in a way? But then I thought, it's not pointless at all, is it?"
Heeseung doesn't know what to say to that. Such a big admission about something so small. He lifts his head to press a kiss to the soft part of Jongseong's neck, right by his heart-shaped birthmark. "Definitely not pointless," he agrees.
Maybe he'll never get used to being loved by Jongseong. Doesn't know if he deserves it. He has hurt people before, has hurt Jongseong, has hurt himself. He'll do it again someday — another unfortunate downside of love: it unfurls you, it forces you to stay that way, it forces others to unfurl for you. When he hurts Jongseong, he hurts himself too, it's all so intertwined, impossible to figure out. Love has so many downsides. He'll just have to keep believing it's worth it, be steadfast.
He knows Jongseong thinks it's worth it too, and sometimes it's easier to cling on to what he knows to be true about Jongseong, than it is to convince himself to stay unfurled. So long as Heeseung stays within reach, stays open, Jongseong will be there, and he has to tell himself that, even on days where he wakes up afraid. And Jongseong will mean it, every time he says that he loves him, and he will and he will and he will.
All these big, complex feelings. Jongseong has fallen asleep, while Heeseung has been lying there, thinking. He's already breathing through his mouth again. Heeseung doesn't believe that silly story about the spiders. Besides the article Jungwon had sent them had been stuck behind a paywall none of them could get past. If they'd been able to read it, they would've probably realized that the study was all bullshit anyway. But he will keep the spiders away while Jongseong sleeps. He will carry them downstairs, outside in little glass jars and release them on the pavement.
1) Quiet
2) His heart beating in tandem with Jongseong's.