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Anton had tried everything.
No, honestly, he had, or at least, it felt like he had. Counting sheep until it felt like his eyes bled, letting quiet music play softly through his earphones while he stared aimlessly up at the ceiling, switching off every light in the apartment until all of the rooms were bathed in complete darkness. At one point, he had even dug the kettle his mother had given to him as a housewarming gift out from the back of one of his kitchen cabinets and made himself some chamomile tea, the warm, herbal scent of it still lingering in the air even hours later. The mostly-empty mug sat now discarded on his bedside table, the surface of it long since gone cold, which ironically felt like a small, almost mocking sort of monument to just how horribly his attempts to fall asleep thus far had failed.
He had been in bed for several hours, he wasn’t sure how many exactly, but it had been long enough that restlessness has started to creep in and settle beneath the surface of Anton’s skin, clinging to him like static, arms and legs fidgeting relentlessly between the fabric of his cotton sheets in some last-ditch effort to get comfortable again, to convince his body against its will to relax, but he knew even in the midst of doing it that it was pretty much useless. Every time the idea crossed his mind that perhaps he was nearly falling asleep, he would jolt awake again and open his eyes to the glaring reality that only a few minutes had passed between each attempt, evidenced by the glowing red digits of the alarm clock that sat facing his view, which was the only source of light left in the room by now.
02:10.
02:19.
02:31.
The problem here, it seemed, was the act of forcing sleep, or in Anton’s pitiful case, attempting to force sleep. It was one of those things where, the harder he tried, the more and more painfully aware he became of the fact that it simply wasn’t going to happen. There was far too much occurring within the confines of his consciousness for his brain to even entertain the notion of actually being able to fall asleep for the night.
02:45.
03:11.
It certainly didn’t aid in his quest that this apartment was still relatively new to him, having moved in less than 8 weeks ago, and though, to many, it would seem like a decent amount of time had passed since then, there was still the overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity, of being somewhere that perhaps he shouldn’t, somewhere foreign and somewhere that didn’t feel like it truly belonged to him, at least, not yet.
It also certainly didn’t help that this very apartment, which otherwise seemed perfect in nearly every way, came with one tiny little predicament in the form of his neighbour. A neighbour who, much like the apartment itself, seemed perfect in nearly every way, a way that made Anton’s heart beat a little bit faster whenever the two of them happened to run into one another in the hall, or on one of the many occasions they had both found themselves out on their balconies at the same time. His name was Wonbin, Anton had learned early on, and it had occurred to him, then, that there wasn’t much else he honestly knew about him aside from that, and his affliction for smoking perhaps one too many cigarettes. That fact was something Anton knew for certain, the smell had often wafted across from Wonbin’s balcony to his, and though he wasn’t a smoker himself, there was something about the aroma that invoked a sense of something akin to nostalgia within Anton. His father had also been a smoker, albeit not as heavy a smoker as Wonbin, but the memory of limber tendrils of smoke curling up, up, up toward the sky was one that had burned itself into Anton’s mind, and so, to him, it was almost comforting. It reminded him of home.
03:33.
Jesus Christ, Anton thought to himself, although at this point, he wasn't sure there was much of anything Jesus could really do for him. Groaning reflexively while swinging his legs over the side of his mattress (which had now become a littered mess of both pillows and blankets strewn about haphazardly, echoing the fragile state of his wellbeing) as he rose to his feet, he padded gently across the cool floorboards of his bedroom until he reached the threshold between that and his balcony, pulling back his blackout curtains and sliding the glass door open with practiced ease. The frigid nighttime air hit him like a brick wall, and it hadn't occurred to him until that very moment that perhaps he should have opted for a hoodie, or a blanket, or anything really that could offer him some semblance of the warmth he was now desperately craving. It took a couple of fleeting seconds for his eyes to adjust to his scenery, the cityscape far beneath him as he leaned his weight against the metal railing, sighing and shaking his head.
Anton had always thought that this was how Seoul was best viewed, from up high enough that everything and everybody became nothing more than a fragmented blur, from up high enough that nothing and nobody could possibly touch him. His eyes focused intently on what little traffic remained on the streets below, singling out a car to absentmindedly follow with his gaze, so intently, in fact, that he didn't notice the slight movement in his periphery, at least, not right away. Anton's nose crinkled up for a moment as a thin wisp of smoke had made its way toward him, the habitual nature of it causing him to finally turn his head and allow his scrutiny to fall upon its source.
"You're up late," Wonbin remarked from his own balcony, a lit cigarette poised delicately in between his fingers. Anton nearly jumped at the sound of the other's voice, not that it was necessarily surprising to him to find Wonbin there, but there was a part of Anton that had hoped all along that maybe he would be, and it was the confirmation of that prospect that prickled Anton's skin with goosebumps. (Was it cold? Anton could no longer find it within himself to recall that possibility. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he was shaking for another reason entirely.) He took a deep breath, stepping once, twice to the right, orbiting just a little closer to his neighbour.
"Could say the same to you," Anton chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest to disguise the fact that he was indeed shaking, visibly so. Wonbin's lips quirked ever so slightly into a knowing smirk, that much Anton could see, the kind that made his heart hammer against his eardrums so loudly, so unmistakably that he could feel the pulse of it against his throat, against the back of his neck, his wrists, anywhere and everywhere, all at once. It creeped up on him in the same way it always had whenever Anton had a crush on someone, with a heat that decorated his cheeks pink and a weight that pooled low and heavy in the midst of his stomach, pulling his awareness taut and making him so acutely attuned to his surroundings, his behaviour, and he silently began to beg, to plead that the darkness of the night enveloping them was enough to camouflage the rosiness that has risen to his face then.
Wonbin nodded his head, carding his free hand through the length of his dark hair before bringing his cigarette between his lips once more, inhaling a deep, pensive drag before casting another plume of smoke into the air around the two of them, blowing the bulk of it in Anton's direction. The older boy ambled a couple of steps closer himself, closing in on what little proximity rested between them. Anton wondered, then, if he was doing it on purpose. It was just a thought, a transient one at that, but it took root within his mind regardless of how long it'd be staying. "Can't sleep?"
"Is it that obvious?" Anton asked, though the question itself hung hollowly in the balance, a faint tremour betraying his best efforts to sound somewhat casual. He hugged his arms tighter around himself, the cold breeze seeping through the thin fabric of his flimsy t-shirt and curling into his chest, but the warmth—or rather, the explict heft of pressure, of anticipation pressing in from the other side of the gap between their balconies—was somehow undoubtedly worse. He could feel it in the steady, measured manner in which Wonbin’s eyes lingered on him, as though he were assessing, teasing, daring him to falter. It felt charged in a way that Anton wasn't used to, and that notion had become obvious as Wonbin continued to look him up and down, his expression sharp and unfaltering.
"Not necessarily. It's just pretty late, hm? Figured you might be sleeping by now, but..."
The older boy's voice trailed off the same way his cigarette smoke did, thin and airy in a way that dissolved like silk into the starry sky cascading just above their heads. Anton idled momentarily as Wonbin began to fish around the contents of his hoodie pocket, retrieving a tattered pack of cigarettes and brandishing them toward him. "Want one?"
Anton himself wasn't a smoker, never had been. Not for any reason in particular, it's not like he was opposed to it, but it had honestly never been something he himself felt the need to partake in. But in that moment? The concept of sharing a cigarette with Wonbin was appealing in a way it probably shouldn't have been, and before he could fight against his better judgement, Anton saw his own hand reaching out to bridge the space between them, soliciting a cigarette from Wonbin's pack and grasping it between his fingers awkwardly. Wonbin snickered a laugh, the breathy kind that is more nose-exhale than anything else, as he offered his lighter to the younger.
"I assume you probably don't have one of these, so," his voice retorted, that same playful, calculating tone oozing from his every word. Anton's hands trembled as he fumbled with the lighter for much longer than he intended to. It took him a bit of time to stop shaking enough to get the gear to spark, but eventually it did (though not before Wonbin laughed, again), and Anton was able to successfully light his very first cigarette, which, sure, perhaps should have qualified as some sort of achievement, but it dawned on him, then, that he didn't actually know how to properly smoke. He slotted the cigarette into his mouth and sucked on it, genuinely sucked on it, barely inhaling at all before erupting into a coughing fit, nearly dropping the cigarette in the process. It was lame, incredibly lame, and that much only became more and more obvious as the seconds ticked by, as Wonbin's laugh rung a little more loudly in Anton's ears.
Wonbin put his own cigarette out, smothering its angry ember in his ash tray before, almost as if on cue, he breeched the railing of Anton's balcony and slung himself across until the two of them were perched side by side, with Anton still attempting to catch his breath. The warmth of a hand came to rest on the small of Anton's back, a dizzying sensation that caused him to cough even more. He was really blowing it now, or so he thought.
"Jesus, you alright?" Wonbin questioned, amused, his lanky fingers absently rubbing up and down the length of Anton's back on autopilot, over and over and over again until it seemed the younger had finally managed to steady his composure. Anton finally managed to take a shuddering breath, dragging it deep into the depths of his lungs as if it alone could somehow steady both his body and the chaos of his thoughts. The cigarette between his fingers had already burned down quite a bit, and he pinched it stiffly, unused to the heat, unused to the sensation of smoke obstructing his airways, unused to the shared intimacy of being this close to Wonbin, of being touched.
Anton nodded his head, shuffling a bit to create the tiniest gap between them. Wonbin's hand fell back limply at his side, empty now in a way that made him look like an unfinished artwork, like something minute and miniscule was missing from his personage that, once added, would complete the masterpiece. They sat in silence for what couldn't have been longer than a few minutes while Anton choked his way through the rest of his cigarette, finding it rude to waste something so generously offered to him. He had hoped that the coughing itself wouldn't be seen as rude. He just had no fucking clue what he was doing. Although, something simmering in the pit of his gut told him that Wonbin probably already knew that, and seemingly took pride in witnessing his struggle. What Anton didn't know what just how endearing Wonbin actually found it, as neither of them would ever say it out loud. But it was there, lingering, buzzing like electricity between them as Wonbin cleared his throat.
"So... I take it you aren't a smoker," he uttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, fixing Anton with a cunning expression. "That is obvious."
If Anton hadn't already been blushing before, he certainly was now. He could sense the warmth of it as it flooded his face, his chest, his entire body from the inside out, licking across the expanse of his skin like wildfire. He wished more than anything that he could retreat back into the safe haven of his empty apartment, that he could disappear from this plane of existence entirely, disintegrate from the reality where Wonbin's gaze lingered just a little too long, a little too deliberately. "No, yeah, no, I'm not. I... Not at all, obviously."
"Cute."
????? was about all Anton's mind could muster then, the heft of his thoughts having been entirely upended at the introduction of a single word. He wasn't fully certain he had even heard it correctly, or rather, convinced himself right away that there was no possible reality where Wonbin would be saying it, much less to him. He attempted to clear his mind, to make some sense where there wasn't any, but it was futile. It just left him feeling more confused, more uncertain, more dazed than ever, and because of that, another part of Anton wished that Wonbin himself would go away, if for no other reason than to cease his overthinking before it could start, but he knew that, too, was futile.
"You're not really much for conversation, are you?" the older boy observed, studying Anton more closely, the same smirk still plastered across his face that had been there since the genesis of their encounter.
"It's not that, I'm just... nervous? I guess?" Anton mumbled, frantically quelling Wonbin's inquisition with the quickest explanation to enter his brain, but he regretted it just as fast upon seeing Wonbin quirk his eyebrow ever so softly.
"Nervous? Do I make you nervous, Anton?"
Great. Just great.
Anton had not a moment to muster a reply before Wonbin was stepping in front of him, obstructing his field of view entirely until it was just him clouding Anton's vision, staring up at the younger with impossibly round eyes that held just a mere hint of something darker, something saturated that Anton hadn't been expecting to see. Wonbin's hand wrapped around Anton's wrist, his thumb rubbing slow, methodic circles into the skin there, smiling slyly.
"You're shaking," the older examined, but Anton wasn't sure he could even hear him any longer. The stifling press of Wonbin's hand encircling any part of his body was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from shuddering. His tongue was all of a sudden too heavy behind his teeth, his throat far too dry, as if every system within his body was actively rioting against him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was an avalanche that had drifted too far from his control, and anything he had ever wanted to say to Wonbin coagulated at the back of his larynx and stayed there, unmoving, while the time continued to pass anyway. Wonbin's grip wandered further up Anton's arm, his nails raking up the younger's bicep before trailing back down again, his eyes transfixed in wonder until their gazes eventually met, mere inches apart from one another.
Anton almost thought he saw the idea enter Wonbin's head just milliseconds before acting on it, the way his expression lit up like one of the many neon signs surrounding them, like one of the many stars blanketing the sky above them, brighter than all of them combined as he found himself leaning in, leaning down, his neck craning towards Wonbin, who was also leaning in, each movement deliberate and unhurried, stretched thin with the tension of anticipation. Time itself seemed to slow, each second stretching like warm honey, thick and sweet, as if the universe had narrowed to the sliver of space between their faces. Anton could feel the heat of Wonbin’s breath, the faint brush of air as it escaped in shallow exhales, carrying the lingering scent of smoke and something a little muskier, something so undeniably him.
By the time their lips would finally brush, it was not explosive, not abrupt—it was careful, testing, almost painfully tender, a brush first, then a gentle pressure that spoke volumes of the weeks of silent longing, the nights spent orbiting each other in thought, the crushes held close and untold. Anton’s eyes fluttered closed to block out the sensory overload, the shiver that crawled along his spine, snaked deep in his stomach. Wonbin’s hand found the small of his back again, grounding him, steadying him, guiding him in a rhythm that was almost a whisper, intimate enough to make Anton feel like the world had collapsed around them, leaving behind in its imprint only this moment.
The kiss deepened slowly, coaxed rather than forced, an unspoken sort of collaboration between the two of them where every pause, every pull of breath held intention. Anton’s hands rose almost instinctively, curling against Wonbin’s shoulders, feeling the tautness of his muscles beneath his hoodie, the weight of him pressing in lightly, insistently, the older boy's tongue sliding slickly against his own bottom lip, and it was all enough to make Anton’s head spin, to make him forget about the cold wind biting at his skin, to make him forget the city below, to make him forget the hours spent tossing and turning, all of which has led up to this moment. All that existed now, as far as Anton was concerned, was Wonbin, the taste of smoke and maybe menthol, the pressure of his kiss, and the thin line they now sat on, someplace between hesitation and surrender.
Eventually, their mouths parted, remaining connected momentarily by a singular thread of saliva, and a wave of embarrassment cascaded over Anton as they separated, instinctively taking a step back. He had always been shy, almost cripplingly so, and that much became overwhelmingly obvious in the way he couldn't even bring himself to speak, words failing him again and again as they had at every opportunity that night. He wasn't sleepy, not anymore, just overwhelmed in perhaps the best way possible. Wonbin stood there in front of him still, his hands resting against Anton's sides now, the fabric of his shirt firm within the older's grasp.
Wonbin’s eyes softened a bit more, scanning Anton’s face with a warmth that made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t quite expecting. The older boy tilted his head slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Anton’s forehead, and in that motion, Anton felt like every nervous heartbeat, every skipped pulse, every moment of anticipation had been leading up to this exact point. He wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out was a shaky laugh, almost a whisper. “I… I didn’t know…”
Wonbin smiled, patient and knowing, leaning in just slightly so his forehead rested against Anton’s. “I think we both knew,” he murmured, the words light, yet saturated with desire. There was a pause then, a hushed breath shared between them, and Anton felt the tension of the night—the restlessness, the inability to sleep, the mind-numbing hum of his apartment—dissolve entirely, leaving only this suspended closeness hovering between them. His every sense was heightened: the faint taste of smoke lingering on Wonbin’s lips, the warmth of his hands on Anton’s sides, the night air wrapping around them like a cloak.
Anton’s hands found their way to Wonbin’s chest almost instinctively, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. “I—” he started, swallowed, and tried again, but words weren’t necessary. Wonbin understood, maybe he always had, in a way that made Anton feel seen and understood without explanation. And so, rather than mindlessly speaking, he leaned in again, capturing Anton’s lips in a slower, more intimate kiss this time, one that promised both patience and possibility, one that carried in its delivery the bulk of all the things they hadn’t dared to say yet, and perhaps never would. Neither of them could be entirely sure of much of anything outside of simply enjoying each other's proximity.
They remained outside like that for a long time, suspended on the balcony under the quiet, watchful eyes of the city of Seoul, the lights below flickering and shifting like the pulse of a feverish heartbeat they couldn’t quite touch. Anton’s shoulder brushed against Wonbin’s, small and accidental at first, and then with a deliberate heft that neither of them pulled away from. Silence stretched between them, not awkward, not empty, but dense, charged—like every thought they’d never said out loud had gathered there, in the space where their bodies met. The wind tangled through Anton’s hair, tugged at the edges of his shirt, and somehow it only made the world feel sharper, more immediate, more alive. He realized then that it wasn’t about sleep anymore, wasn’t about the nights alone or the restless hours he’d spent chasing silence. It was about this: this precarious, electric closeness, the way Wonbin’s gaze melted on him, unflinching, and the distant pull of something they’d been circling for a while.
And for the first time, Anton didn’t need to think, didn’t need to plan or analyze or deliberate. He just allowed himself to lean in, not only to Wonbin, put to the plethora of things he had always wished he had the courage to allow himself. It was no longer about sleep or lack thereof, no longer about Anton or Wonbin or anyone else at all really. Time paused, everything melted into insignificance, and all that remained was the almost imperceptible collision of two hearts, a kiss that was equal parts question and answer, confession and promise, and the feeling, equal parts deep and unshakable, that whatever had waited for them in the dark had finally, irrevocably, arrived.