Chapter Text
Jihoon is always the first to get dressed the morning after.
Wonwoo knows this to be nothing personal, and takes no offense when Jihoon wakes and separates their bodies, taking the warmth of his chest from Wonwoo’s back as he slips out of bed. The mattress creaks under Jihoon’s weight, a familiar sound, and he makes his side of the bed before dressing himself in silence despite knowing Wonwoo is also awake.
This, for the months they’ve been seeing each other, has always been their routine. Wonwoo, just barely ready to be awake, stretches long and slides his body upward to sit against the headboard, wood cold against his bare back. Quietly, he yawns, pops his neck. Watches a blurry Jihoon fasten his belt.
Wonwoo slides on his glasses in time to watch Jihoon, pensive, combing slow fingers through the sleep-ruined shag of his hair, pale locks spun gold in the thready morning sunlight. Jihoon, feeling Wonwoo’s gaze, sighs long through his nose, and meets Wonwoo’s eyes with his usual severity, mouth quirked in a solemn fashion.
“This can’t keep happening,” Jihoon says, dour and mournful. A hand rests on his hip as the other gestures not between them, but to the bed, an unnecessary distinction that Jihoon feels the need to make. Wonwoo knows what he means, and Jihoon is aware of this, but specificity and clarity are but two of Jihoon’s greatest loves, so Wonwoo says nothing of his redundancy. He should, however, say something, if only to keep that pinch between Jihoon’s brows from wrinkling.
Wonwoo, who has learned by now to be amused by Jihoon’s forlorn theatrics on his own time, corrals his expression into something more neutral and offers a shrug. “Okay.”
As if wounded, Jihoon makes an indignant little noise, a precursor to his morning-after squawking.
It’s a familiar song and dance, one where Jihoon, shirtless, scrunches his faces up before launching into impassioned speeches about how their dalliances are an nth-time-one-time thing, and Wonwoo, also shirtless, listens intently as he elects to get out of bed, smiling privately when Jihoon follows him into the kitchen as he pours himself a bowl of cereal.
Wonwoo, not unkindly, finds his little tirades a touch endearing; Jihoon is wasting his breath and they both know it.
In all of the times they’ve hooked up, Wonwoo hasn’t once tried to argue in his own favor. Sometimes he’d like to—the sex is amazing, and Jihoon makes a wonderful houseguest—but Jihoon has a host of (mostly ex-related) things to work through, and it’s never felt like the appropriate time to sit him down and define just what they’ve got going on. So, although Wonwoo’s thought of talking points aplenty, he doesn’t speak his mind. Not directly, at least.
Instead, he lets Jihoon rant himself silly, prods at one of his fresher hickies just to watch him wince, and offers him a bite of his Cinnamon Toast Crunch when he’s aired his grievances.
This can’t keep happening, said Jihoon a month ago, which was two months into Jihoon prefacing all of their hookups that way. Jihoon insisted, almost emphatically, that this blowjob would be the first and last he’d ever give, then all but dared Wonwoo to enjoy it. Not-really-a-spoiler: he totally did, but again, that was a month ago, and a short few nights later Jihoon was back in his bed, squirming and writhing at Wonwoo’s touch like it was the first and last he’d ever feel it.
That time, they sat in stony silence for forty minutes afterward, and Wonwoo was convinced that it had been their grand finale. Even in the dark, he could still make out the way Jihoon’s color drained, his expression near fraught, but it was ultimately nothing; just Jihoon’s own embarrassment over cumming so hard he cried. Not even Jeonghan had made him react that way, never mind even making the attempt, and Jihoon was unsure how he felt about it.
Wonwoo’s resulting quip of “Good enough to cry", only further soured his mood.
For all his severity, Jihoon has always been bad at holding back his mirth, and not even he in his stubbornness could keep quiet for long. His dread-inducing silence broke on an inelegant snort, quickly turning to unrestrained laughter at the mortified sound Wonwoo had let slip.
Wonwoo has since put more effort into learning what makes Jihoon laugh, how to dispel the dark clouds that hang over his head without shaming him for his rain. if it’s for Jihoon, he doesn’t mind getting wet.
The overwhelming sog of cereal in his mouth yanks Wonwoo from his thoughts and back into his kitchen. When looks up, he sees Jihoon, a man on a mission, fully dressed in double denim and bustling around his apartment in almost hurried strides. He has his phone in hand, checking the time in rather obsessive intervals. It’s barely seven-thirty, and while they’re not due at band practice until the afternoon, Jihoon has never liked to be late for things.
Wonwoo does think it odd that Jihoon, who has never deviated from routine all the time he’s known him, would come over for a hookup the night before any band-related activities, practice included, and he finds himself briefly considering the possibility that he’s contracted some RPG-like status ailment, or maybe he’s starting to loosen up a little. Both are fairly unlikely, but Wonwoo keeps the former in mind in case he might be coming down with something.
“Don’t speed,” Wonwoo says, watching Jihoon check for the millionth time to confirm that yes, he does have enough time to drive home and accomplish his daily to-dos (couldn’t be him) on time. He’s expecting a softball response; a humored exhale through the nose or an eyeroll accompanying a blooming smile he can’t quite suppress—Jihoon’s standards—but gets neither.
Instead, Jihoon throws him a curveball and kisses him goodbye, pressing his lips to Wonwoo’s cheek mid-chew, like unthinking displays of affection are their norm. As usual, Jihoon lets himself out, knowing Wonwoo will separate from his stool to lock the door once he’s finished breakfast. Unlike usual, Wonwoo stares long into the space where Jihoon once stood, processing the morning’s anomalies with a fascinated stare.
After three months of…whatever this is becoming, Wonwoo is sure he knows Jihoon pretty well. He’s easily deciphered all his microexpressions, recognizes the chipper way he says “yeah!” that always means no, knows his go-to at the café up the street from their practice space. Wonwoo is almost certain Jihoon’s little slip-up will resonate with him sometime later, leaving him red-faced and flighty the next time they’re even close to alone, and he’s equally certain he’ll be in a similar place, unwittingly relegating his snarky band member duties to Seungkwan or Seungcheol for the day.
Wonwoo goes to lock the door, quickly washing his dishes before heading back to his room in search of his phone. There’s a text from Jihoon, it’s cold as shit today, and again Wonwoo finds himself endeared and concerned all at once. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt when Jihoon left, and now he’s worried about him getting cold.
As Wonwoo heads to his closet to tug on a t-shirt, he thinks Jihoon is the most complicated, straightforward person he’s ever met.
It’s thrilling.
—
The drive home from Wonwoo’s is pleasantly uneventful.
A creature of habit, Jihoon takes the same route home, only taking exits he’s familiar with and shortcuts he’s discovered himself, humming an unborn song between red lights and midmorning traffic. He’s freestyling the chorus by the time he’s in his driveway, having flown down the offramp (sorry, Wonwoo!) to make it home just that little bit faster. Taking the stairs to his door two at a time, Jihoon rushes into his teeny apartment and makes a beeline for his notebook, mind swirling with ideas that leave him in hastened scribbles only he can decipher. On the other end of his creative surge, he breezily fashions his words into something pretty, and the melody from his morning commute suits them just so.
Jihoon lets out a sigh, somewhere between pleased and relieved. His head is always that much clearer when he’s writing music, but today it’s almost too clear—without the pleasant, cottony feeling of an idea pressing against his skull, there’s a landscape of free real estate for aimless thoughts and random memories. He thinks briefly of last night, of Wonwoo’s hands gripping so assuredly at his waist, and he frowns and clears his throat, suddenly interested in making further sense of his affectionately-titled Idea Dump.
In his mind, Wonwoo’s hands skip down to Jihoon’s thighs, making their way to the backs of his knees to press his body into that position Wonwoo likes. Yes, Wonwoo is maneuvering Jihoon’s body in ways he finds prettiest, but he’s undeniably selfless, massaging at his thighs to keep him loose and tugging at Jihoon’s cock when he lets slip pitiful whines and says he’s close. Wonwoo is tuned in to his pleasure, would hold him close and make him cry again if asked, and Jihoon burns that devoted expression into the backs of his eyelids, holding onto it for dear life he comes.
As if in the blink of an eye, Jihoon is upright and fully dressed, kissing a shirtless Wonwoo on the cheek and skipping out on breakfast.
Then the whole morning comes flooding back, right down to his bitchy text about the weather, which he knows Wonwoo is smart enough to see for what it is. In Jihoon’s defense, it was miserably cold out when he’d left Wonwoo’s place (not even his double-denim ensemble was enough to stave off the chill), and last he saw him, Wonwoo was bare-chested and barreling through a cold breakfast, happy to sit there and shiver until he felt like getting up. He could get sick like that, especially in such finicky weather, and with the way Wonwoo’s colds hang on, he’ll miss more than a little bit of practice, so Jihoon is only looking out for the band, nothing more, nothing less!
He has, however, done them both a favor beyond work, since if Wonwoo warms up from ice block to human, Jihoon might be more inclined to be more than chaste the next time he–– Absolutely not! Nope, nope, think about anything else!
Jihoon feels his cheeks heat up, inadvertently banging his knee on his desk as his body attempts to curl up so he can wail, mortified, into his palms. He’s achieved the wailing part at least, if not for the reasons he originally intended.
It’s almost worse, having made such a humiliating hybrid of sounds into his own hands, but here Jihoon is, hissing in pain and queer anguish in a single breath, all on his lonesome. There’s something truly devastating about embarrassing yourself in your own company, and he really feels it right now; the urge to flee and regroup is gripping the back of his neck like a kitten’s. With care, Jihoon pushes away from his desk, overly mindful of his knee, straightens his chair, and half-limps for the shower, determined to redirect his thoughts any-fucking-where else.
—
The shower does Jihoon’s mind no good.
His knee hurts a little less, thanks to the hot water, but standing around and soaping up on autopilot had given his sneaky little brain just enough free time to think about last night again; fingertips here, a rake of nails there.
Jihoon outright refuses to address his rather persistent hard-on, instead honing in on his vague sensation of hunger, and decides on an avocado smoothie as he dries his hair. It’s a quick breakfast, with few ingredients and a five-minute prep time, with an added bonus of yielding an extra serving, which he usually freezes and saves for dessert. The whir of the blender is an obnoxious but welcome sound, and drastically reduces the likelihood of his thoughts creeping up on him uninvited.
When all’s said and done, and he’s poured his smoothie into two thermoses, he finds himself hesitant—dithering, even—wondering if he should even bother leaving the house today.
Jihoon glances at the clock on his seldom-used smart toaster. It’s just barely nine, and practice is at two. He figures he can engage in a bit of tumult, maybe even figure out why the hell he’s acting so strangely.
Practice is at two. Jihoon usually likes to brood for an hour, two hours tops. Any more and he gets too fatalistic for his own liking; any less and he feels off, like he’s left his hair half-done or his bed half-made. That’s something he really appreciates about Wonwoo, the way his bed is always made whenever Jihoon comes over. Even if Jihoon leaves his bed for the briefest of moments, Wonwoo is quick to smooth the corners down in his wake, giving Jihoon the satisfaction of peeling the bedding back. When Wonwoo noticed he needs that, he doesn’t know, but he’s recognized that he needs it, that bit of routine, and he provides it for him without question.
Jeonghan didn’t really get it.
He was, of course, content to let Jihoon make his bed for him, and would watch the careful way he’d tuck the sheets into crisp little hospital corners before laying his steely blue duvet overtop. When it came time for Jihoon to leave, Jeonghan was always quick to slip out of bed and give Jihoon a wide berth to do his thing, fluffing this and readjusting that, after which he’d whine and wish Jihoon didn’t have to go, saying his bed isn’t the same without him in it.
Jeonghan would often cajole Jihoon into staying another night, gripping onto his fingers and pleading to him with cutesy whines he was always weak to. Jeonghan kept a rather tidy apartment, so Jihoon figured he’d meant he just liked having Jihoon in his bed, or that he couldn’t sleep without him or some other perfumed nonsense boyfriends tend to say.
Maybe fucking around with the Idea Dump isn’t so bad. There’s a lot of loose threads for Jihoon to pull at, most of them relationship-related, and if he starts now, he really won’t stop in time to shift into a decent headspace before practice.
The song from his commute is ringing round his head again, and it spills out of him, nails tapping a half-baked bassline against his tiny dining table, a fingertip symphony for himself and his backsplash. Jihoon eyes the clock again, and figures a quick playthrough would do him some good, take his mind off the oncoming brooding and the smoothies and the long stretch of time between himself and his bandmates.
Itching for something better to do, Jihoon shivers through a hasty breakfast and hunts down his guitar, skipping through warmups and getting straight to the good part.
—
Their practice space is a cozy, average-sized room in a block of rentals nestled in one of the area’s trendier neighborhoods. There’s bright, wooden floors that only creak around the door, and the walls are painted a warm, muted orange, most of which is covered with dark, soundproof padding obscuring the paint in large patches.
They’re on the second of two floors, which makes moving the larger of their equipment around a bit of a pain, but at least they lucked into a unit with natural light instead of those harsh filament bulbs like in their last building. The lone window in the room is dead center of the furthest wall, teetering on obnoxious in both size and the amount of light it lets in. This new unit faces the street, and by midday, the sun is focused right into their not-quite-shoebox of shiny metal instruments and perspiratory men, but the leasing office said they can install a curtain rod without forfeiting their security deposit, and by summer, they’d hung up blackout curtains—white ones, at Mingyu’s behest to not make the room too dark.
When Jihoon buzzes himself in, he sees Seungkwan has the curtains parted to let a little light in, and a bottle of Fiji water in hand as he skims what appears to be an eBook. “Watch out for Gyu’s crap,” the brunette says, eyes trained on his screen.
Jihoon grunts in thanks and sets Mingyu’s bag in the “move-your-fucking-bag” corner, the one they all move his shit to, and gathers from the single open zip that he’s gone up the street for another pre-practice snack run. This tends to happen when Mingyu arrives early, which only happens if he’s awake on time for Seungkwan, another early bird, to pick him up.
Seungkwan’s eBook gets boring, and he’s no longer the only person in the room, so he sets his phone on the arm of the dinky little loveseat that came with the place and takes a quick sip of his water.
“Ooh, I know that face,” coos the brunette when he finally lifts his head. There’s a set to Jihoon’s mouth that Seungkwan and the band have come to love, one that means–
“I’ve got another one.” Jihoon rings, voice clipped. He’s quick to unzip his gig back and strap on his guitar, tunes the more stubborn of his strings, and gestures for Seungkwan to pick up his sticks. They’re actually Mingyu’s, but he’s out for a quick bite, and Seungkwan knows how Jihoon is when he brings something new. “It’s 4/4,” the blonde says, watching Seungkwan crack his knuckles and loosen up his wrists. “150BPM okay? I know speed is more Mingyu’s thing.”
Seungkwan flaps a hand, dismissive, gives the foot pedal of his drum kit a thump-thump, and follows Jihoon’s lead.
Jihoon is so honest when he sings.
Before an almost-empty room, he describes in detail how it feels to toe the line between outright confession and honesty by omission, purrs his disdain for technicality between fret changes. These private sessions are when Jihoon’s words cut into his chest just so; his sharp rhymes and witticisms dull to something else across the blade of Jeonghan’s tongue. It’s all so different in Jeonghan’s voice. In Jeonghan’s voice, the aching isn’t his.
It doesn’t matter if Jihoon brings in page after page of his innermost thoughts if he gives them to someone who can’t agonize over them as he can.
Bathed in his own reverb, it’s the ache in his back molars that tells him he’s clenching his jaw too tight. He presses a thumb to the bolt of his jaw to loosen himself, and turns to Seungkwan for feedback.
The grin Jihoon finds looking back at him is blinding, so overjoyed and, and– beatific, Jihoon is smiling in kind, blushing and bashful despite the nondescript ugliness festering in the Petri dish of his stomach. Jihoon lets the hand not propping up his guitar neck drop down at his side. “Well?” he asks with a wry laugh.
“Well,” Seungkwan mocks, setting his sticks atop his snare. “It kicked ass! Mingyu’s gonna love this one, might even pitch a fit that you let me play this before him.” Seungkwan’s eyes wander off to the corner of the room, his thinking place. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve made any space for the rest of us, though. It’s very…” He makes a gesture like walls closing in, lacing his fingers together when better words escape him. “It feels like it has to come together a certain way or you’ll want nothing to do with it.”
Jihoon chews his lip. He’s become embarrassingly transparent, it seems, or perhaps he wasn’t as hard to read as he thought. Or hoped.
He reaches for his phone out of habit, eager to glamor himself with the illusion of busyness as a means to escape Seungkwan’s chilling observance. Of course, he’s still nearby, perched on a throne behind a drum kit in the same rented out practice space they always meet in, but Jihoon is disappearing into his bubble, his thinking space, just on the edge of getting so lost in his thoughts he completely checks out. He keeps reality in his periphery as he swipes through his phone, tapping through a short list of unanswered emails and checking the odd text message.
Mingyu texts the group chat at that moment, asking what everybody wants from the café just up the street. Knowing him, he’s probably looking for an excuse to hang out with his favorite barista again, the lanky one with the messy hair and thick eyeliner that makes him look less like a barista and more like a minimum-wage vampire. Similarly, Jihoon, is an acquired taste of his own, what with the blonde perma-mullet and closet full of deceptively hetero jackets, so he’s hardly one to judge.
Typing indicators flash onscreen as Jihoon’s bandmates request their usuals (how Seungcheol can stomach iced matcha lattes, he’ll never know), and Mingyu responds with a thumbs up emoji as the orders come in. It’s mostly drinks, and having borne witness to Mingyu’s dismal bevs-only small talk, Jihoon throws him a bone and orders a turkey, egg, and cheese so that Mingyu has reason to linger. The cafe’s toaster oven is almost always broken, so it’ll take a good five to seven minutes for his sandwich to be ready, and that gives Mingyu plenty of time to be boyish and charming and still somehow miss that his barista is into him.
There’s a reason Jihoon doesn’t accompany Mingyu on these little excursions: the secondhand frustration is all too real, and it does terrible things for Jihoon’s health. Considering the amount of crap everybody ordered today, Mingyu will likely need a second pair of hands to successfully carry everything out, and Jihoon considers going to help him, if for no other reason than to prolong the inevitable passing of the torch of his latest creative offering.
Something about Seungkwan’s reaction to his new song made Jihoon feel a little too exposed, and now there’s an anxiety thrumming steadily within him, as if he can sense just how differently the others will react this time. Jihoon frowns to himself, wholeheartedly dreading the idea of walking his bandmates through the latest in his interpersonal hardships.
For the past three months, every song he’s written has been about Jeonghan to some degree or another, referencing a shared pastime or drawing on the sickly feeling in Jihoon’s stomach when Jeonghan had dumped him, and for the past three months, Jihoon has passed song after song into Jeonghan’s hands, only to be met with a frankly shocking lack of recognition. Their constant togetherness is in a different context now, but regardless, Jihoon had figured after spending so many years together, Jeonghan would be able to slot all the pieces together.
Jihoon’s phone pings. He frowns, upset to have had his thinking disrupted, but the irritation dispels when he sees it’s just Mingyu, as expected, asking for a hand. “I’ll get him,” Jihoon says, hopping to his feet before Seungkwan can beat him to it.
Seungkwan gives him his thanks, and now it’s Jihoon’s turn to wave a dismissive hand. It’s only an errand, and he’s desperate for fresh air and something to do–it’s a win-win, really.
—
Jihoon shivers once he steps outside. Framed with evergreens, the parking lot is always colder than the street, and in his haste to get away from a meeting that hasn’t happened yet, Jihoon left his hoodie inside. He’s wearing a light jacket, though, so he figures he’ll be alright. Having only walked around this neighborhood once or twice, he checks Mingyu’s location to see just where he’s at, and starts off toward him.
Jeonghan’s usual parking spot is empty, and Jihoon quietly acknowledges there’s a distant part of himself that doesn’t want Jeonghan anywhere near him—merely a wee, infinitesimal thing he’s certain he shouldn’t worry about. The last time he felt this Jeonghan-avoidant was in the first week following their breakup, something he pushed through for the sake of the band, and his feelings about that unease returning are ambiguous at best.
His first thought is to leave, but he can’t exactly skip out and go home; Mingyu’s expecting his help just up the road, Seungcheol’s car has just passed by, and Seungkwan will undoubtedly sweep him into lively chatter about The Song as soon as he buzzes himself in.
Sometimes, when Jihoon is feeling strange and flighty, he’ll make himself participate in conversation in an effort to ground himself, but at present, the idea of socializing makes him feel ill.
He’s none too keen on ditching, but he doesn’t want to be here, either. It’s not the music, or the socializing, or the occasional overwarm turkey, egg, and cheese. It’s just Jeonghan. Or maybe it’s Jihoon himself.
Mingyu waves him down from across the street, and Jihoon reminds himself not to appear too gloomy; Mingyu has always been sensitive to other’s emotions and will check on him relentlessly. It’s not a bad quality to have, and Jihoon is certain his barista appreciates it, but there are times where he needs to think and pout and feel sorry for himself.
Jihoon fist-bumps Mingyu a hello, accepts a flimsy carrier tray teeming with oversized beverages, and lets the very sociable walk back to the studio be more pleasant than not. Mingyu is that joyful sort of jittery, eager to regale Jihoon with the latest goings-on of his love life. Bright as the afternoon sun, Mingyu’s voice is a welcome sound.