pt. 9
3:37am(Kyungil POV)
...
You're lying on the floor, resting on your arms, when you hear your cellphone ping at the arrival of a new message. You glance over at it, see his name above the text, scoff in disbelief. He's texted you a million times before, stupid jokes that he knows you'll laugh at or sound clips of songs he's working in or, more recently, increasingly suggestive emojis (kids these days...), but nothing quite like this. You've been gone for less than 24 hours, on a sort of vacation to see an old friend off to the army, and it's the middle of the night and you've been drinking and he texts you three simple words: i miss you
He isn't even following grammatical rules and you think, crap, this really doesn't feel like a hookup anymore, and you've been trying to convince yourself it was for weeks. Then you think, crap, I shouldn't text him when I'm drunk, because you've typed 'I wish u were hre' but it's too late because your phone happily declares that your message has been delivered. (It's not your phone's fault, but you feel like throwing it anyway.)
He texts you back quickly, too quickly, sending a selfie of himself pouting in his studio, and you think, crap, he is the cutest thing I've ever seen, and then you notice that he's taken it from an angle that shows off his neck, because he knows you're kind of especially obsessed with that particular part of him, and you think, crap, why do I have to think he's hot too? You're almost considering leaving early just so you can see him sooner, but you can't abandon your friends and you're too drunk to drive or locate the subway station, so you text back, 'quit playin dir T go to bed ill see u tmrw' and put your phone on silent. (Then you check it anyway to see that he's responded with a 😚 emoji and you think this has gone way too far.)
Your friends are all sleeping, but you're lying awake on the floor, thinking about him. You tried to ask him to come with you, meet your friends, hang out until he was ready to go home, but he said he had to work. (Looking back, it seems like a pretty boyfriend-y thing to do.) You know he actually turned you down because he's one, nervous to meet your friends, two, unsure of how much they know about your current situation (more than he thinks), and three, doesn't know how to introduce himself or keep his hands off you when he's drunk. (You don't either.)
Your friends don't know everything, but they know that you have somebody in your life who makes you happy, even if you can't seem to make him happy much, and that actually seems to be good enough for them. They're usually willing to keep you from drunk-texting him too, but they passed out before they could make sure of that tonight. You miss him too, you have to admit it to yourself, you're used to spending a ridiculous amount of time around him, even when you're on a break or fighting or moping around, so 24 hours feels like a lifetime. (Just because you miss hooking up with him, nothing more.)
You send your friend off while groggy and hungover, as it should be, and then you hightail it back to your dorm to surprise him. You tiptoe to his room, open the door slowly, peek inside and realize he's not there. You sigh, you know exactly where he is, asleep on the couch in his studio. (You should have enlisted a bandmate to force him to sleep while you were away.)
He's not even tall enough to take up the whole couch, and you smile unconsciously, the word 'cute' creeping into your mind again. You sit down on the couch, drum on his calves until he wakes up and opens one eye, his face breaking into a grin at the sight of you. Crap, you think, when did this turn into a relationship?
He sits up and throws his arms around you, and he's real and he feels so familiar, so right, so perfect, his head is sleepily burrowing in your neck and he's kissing your shoulder and you decide never to go anywhere without him again, right then and there, until you realize that is a relationship and that is definitely not what this is, it can't be and you have to make sure of it. (Even if you don't quite want to anymore.)
"Why did you sleep in here?" you ask, trying to sound grouchy but it doesn't work because crap you really missed him. "I was working, I couldn't make it to my room before I out," he mumbles into your skin, essentially climbing into your lap. "You're supposed to go to bed before you get to that point."
"You weren't here to make me, it wasn't worth stopping." You roll your eyes. "I'm allowed to go on vacation, it was one night," and you're not sure why you feel like you have to justify it to him. "Ugh, you smell like stale beer," he groans, pulling away from your shoulder. He wrinkles up his nose for half a second before his eyes light up and you know he's just come up with a reckless idea that you're gonna be powerless to resist. "Want to take a shower?"
"I don't know about that," you say, and you definitely don't stumble over your words because you're not a teenager anymore. "Come on," he whines, pouting a little and crap you want to kiss him so bad, "I'll be really quiet, I promise." You sigh. "For once, it's not you I'm worried about." He coughs and you laugh, because you already know you're gonna risk it, you're gonna risk everything to be with him, because you missed him and this doesn't feel like a hookup anymore and as much as that terrifies you, it doesn't actually make you want to stop, so you just go for it, thank the heavens that the bathroom is connected on one side to your room.
The hot water heater runs out before you're ready, but the weather is still kind of cold and so is the dorm, so you shut off the tap. He wraps a towel around his waist and lays another on his head before he flops onto your bed. You put on your robe and flop down next to him. "I missed you," he says, unashamed. "That makes one of us," you tease as he rolls over to kiss you. His bangs are soaking wet, dripping on your face, so you break contact and use one of his towels to dry his hair roughly. "Hyu-ung," he complains, but you won't stop until the job is done, peck different spots on his face in between vigorous towel drying sessions. "Stop," peck, "being," peck, "such a," peck, "baby," peck, peck, peck. (This is definitely not a relationship-y thing to do.)
"Stop being such a tease," he fires back, grabbing the towel from your hand, tossing it away, kissing you soundly. God, I missed you, you think before you can stop it, was this ever just a hookup? He hops up from your bed, and you still feel unsatisfied, like you haven't made up for the past 24 hours yet. "Who's the tease now?" you say, feeling pathetic. "I have to get dressed, we have a schedule," he explains, smiling happily. "Fine, leave me to suffer," you say, slapping the back of your hand to your head and sighing dramatically. "You're ridiculous."
Yeah, but you love me anyway, you think, and there's that word, the one you're trying not to use, the one that permanently lives on the tip of your tongue now. You look back over at him and he can see it in your eyes, the words you're always holding back. "You're the one that's into that," you reply, like it's any better. "Yep," he agrees without any hesitation before he walks through the bathroom and into the rest of the dorm.
You collapse on your pillows, wonder when you got so deep, realize it's too late to stop it now, accept that you're an idiot, check your phone to see how long you have until your schedule, decide it's not nearly long enough. You get dressed quickly and set out to the kitchen in search of coffee. You're hungover and you missed him so much you didn't even stop for coffee, you realize. (It's official. You're doomed.)
Your schedule runs long and you haven't eaten and you forgot there was a company dinner planned for tonight and you kind of feel like you need to go home and sleep off the rest of your hangover, but it's work and you have to go. Everyone can tell that you're tired, they're probably tired too, but you don't feel like hiding it so you take a seat in the corner and lean against the wall. Everyone's chattering about your latest album and the new choreography you're about to start working on and the reactions to the music video, and you answer questions when you're asked, but your heart isn't in it, because your heart is sitting at the opposite end of the table, getting praised by company management and other artists from your label. (You cope by silently mocking their words of commendation.)
He's soaking it in, he looks so happy, so pleased with himself, you start to think you should praise him more, if only so he'd look at you the way he's looking at the executives right now, the way he's looking at your senior girl group members. You feel a twinge of something, and it's ridiculous and it's only happening because you're tired and you missed him and you don't know what this is anymore. (Is this how he feels when you flirt with girls?) You roll your eyes as one of the girls laughs and puts her hand on his arm, think mine but you don't dare to say it because you still have just enough brain function to remember that he doesn't like those girls, not one of them, he likes you and he doesn't seem to be getting over it. (Yet.)
You're still feeling jealous as you stumble into the dorm, collapse on your bed, reach for your phone to text him, but he must know you're not feeling great, because he follows you into your room and closes the door, sits next to you and runs his fingers through your hair. "How much did you drink?" he asks, sounding worried. "Not that much, I'm just worn out."
"You sure? You were really... quiet at dinner. Did something happen? Did I—" he stops as you interrupt him, turn to face him. "I want to tell you what a good job you did, I want to laugh and touch you and talk to you in public," you blurt out and his jaw drops a little, surprised at your honesty. "You should leave more often," he says. "What?"
"You're actually talking about this. Are you sure you didn't drink at dinner?" You sigh, bury your head in your pillow, close your eyes. "You do get to do those things in public," he continues, "just not tonight." He lays down next to you, still your hair. "And more importantly, you get to do it in private."
"Not enough," you mumble, trying to stop voicing all your thoughts but failing. "It's not perfect, believe me, I know, but... are you trying to say we should stop?" he asks. You turn your head to the side so he can hear you. "No, I'm not, I'm just... tired," you finish weakly. Your eyes are still closed, but it's almost like you can hear him smile as he leans in to kiss you. You suddenly remember how much better this is than talking, and you pull him closer to you, put your hand on his face, smile against his lips. (You must be really tired.)
"Why are you smiling?" he says against your lips. "'Cause it's you," you whisper, leaning in to kiss him again and now it's his turn to smile. You grab his waist, roll him on top of you, prop your head up on your pillows, kiss him urgently. "I missed you," you mutter, finally saying it out loud. "You're right here... and I already miss you."
"Don't," he says, not completely focused. "Can't," you tell him, and you know you have to stop, but you wish you could pretend, just for one night, pretend that this is real and normal and not risky or dangerous. You used to think, you wanted to think that was the only reason you liked him, the danger, that was the only thing making you feel this way, but you were wrong, because now you fantasize about this being normal and uncomplicated and it doesn't make you want him less. (Face it, you keep wanting him more.)
It's a good thing that he seems to be in possession of a little logic tonight, because yours seems to have gone out the window. "It's late, someone's gonna come looking for us," he says, sliding himself away from you. You nod, not trusting your mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, walking out through the bathroom. You lay on your back, exhausted, unable to think of a solution, missing him in a ridiculous sort of way.
This time, you're the one that texts him, typing and pressing send before you can stop yourself, looking at the bubble of words which proudly declares 'i miss you', the same message you received from him the night before. He texts back 'I get it, you're lost without me' and you know he's teasing but you're not sure he's wrong and you're tempted to throw your phone again, because this can't be happening, this can't end well, this isn't how it was supposed to go.
(You fall asleep in all your clothes and you wake up in all your clothes with a suspiciously person-sized lump clinging to your side and at least now you can be confident that he's just as far gone as you.)
Comments