2k words

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Jongin lies on the couch, Kyungsoo’s body curled into him, eyelids heavy from the sleep that threatens to ensue. The weight of Kyungsoo’s head on Jongin’s chest and the heat of his body provides him with a sense of comfort, contentment.

Jongin has known Kyungsoo for years now. He’s watched him grow from an awkward teenager into someone more mature and patient. Yet as the years pass there is one thing about Kyungsoo that never changes. That is: Jongin will never understand what goes on in Kyungsoo’s mind. Kyungsoo is like a complicated puzzle, mind coded and complex, and much too difficult to decipher. He’s anything but predictable, always speaks the first thought that crosses his mind. And this holds true even now, when he lifts his head to look up at Jongin and startles him with a random question.

“Jongin?” Jongin hums in response before glancing down at Kyungsoo, tired eyes staring back at him. “If you had one wish, what would it be?”

A million words run through his brain. He doesn’t necessarily think of one thing that he could wish for. Rather, he thinks about Kyungsoo’s smile. He thinks about the way Kyungsoo’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, a tear sliding down his cheek, stomach contracting.

Jongin thinks about Kyungsoo’s sleepy eyes, and the way his hair sticks up, messy from his night’s sleep—bangs hanging down to cover his hooded, tired eyes. Kyungsoo has a habit of rubbing his eyes when he wakes up, lips pouty and cute despite the way he complains when Jongin calls it that. “It’s not cute; I look terrible in the mornings,” Kyungsoo would say, followed by: “Don’t say weird things,” and a barely-concealed-smile that shows he isn’t upset.

Jongin thinks about the way Kyungsoo’s voice sounds—deep and low. It’s soothing, a lot like honey and chocolate, tangible enough for Jongin to know that it tastes sweet. It never fails to make his heart feel like it’s melting. But that is nothing compared to the way Kyungsoo sings as if the world is his stage. His voice is something sweeter, powerful. It makes Jongin’s knees weak, makes his heart swoon, and makes his jaw drop. Kyungsoo always says that Jongin is talented because of his dancing. He always says that he’s jealous and impressed.

But the truth is that, to Jongin, his dance skills are nothing compared to the way Kyungsoo’s voice sounds when he sings. It’s enough to heal, to grow flowers. And he’d dance to the sound, the melody, any given chance. He’d love to express the emotion and passion reflected in Kyungsoo’s voice through his feet, arms, body. If the way Jongin moves is what Kyungsoo would call art, then his voice and Jongin’s dance would certainly create a masterpiece.

Jongin thinks about the way Kyungsoo cries; how Kyungsoo use to hold it in until he’s locked himself in his room, beneath the covers at night, to let the tears fall. How Kyungsoo would wait until he’s pushed too hard to finally let it out.

Jongin had caught him once. It was exam season, stress slowly dripping into Kyungsoo’s cup until it began to overflow, drowning Kyungsoo. He had been angry then, too. He didn’t want Jongin to see him messy and vulnerable, but Jongin stayed despite the harsh, wavering words—sobs interrupting his sentences. Jongin lent his shoulder that day, let Kyungsoo cry it out, and told him that it’s okay to have an open heart. It’s okay to let others see.

Kyungsoo never hid his tears after that. Instead he went to Jongin with his worries—eyes red from crying, tears staining the skin of his cheeks, and his lips quivering in the slightest. Those were the times where Jongin could see into Kyungsoo’s darker thoughts, darker mind. He was the most vulnerable then. Only Jongin was allowed to see that.

But it’s always hard to watch Kyungsoo cry. It doesn’t happen often. Kyungsoo is someone who likes to use logic, never takes things personally, and always tries to stay optimistic. That is, until he starts second guessing himself, questioning whether or not he’s good enough, trying to better himself. He toes the line of his limits, and when he trips over that line—falling into a pit of darkness—that’s when Jongin shines his light to guide Kyungsoo out.

It’s never a pretty sight, never a pretty adventure. There are scares—some bruises—from the fall. There’s pain on both sides. Jongin hates the way Kyungsoo avoids his eyes, hates the worry lines, hates the red eyes and dark circles. He hates the look of frustration, stress, and hurt. It always squeezes at his chest, makes him want to take the weight of the world off of Kyungsoo’s shoulders and place it onto his own. There was a time—one time—where Jongin had cried with Kyungsoo. It was ridiculous at the time, but in the end they laughed about it.

Kyungsoo had sobbed before realizing that Jongin was sniffing. “Why are you crying?” He asked, confused, worried, yet slightly amused.

“I don’t know,” Jongin sniffed. “Seeing you cry, m-makes me want to cry, t-too.” Kyungsoo’s laugh was nothing but a brief snicker, yet it made Jongin laugh a little too. Kyungsoo whipped at his eyes then, using the sleeve of his shirt to act as a napkin, telling Jongin that he’s a baby which resulted in Jongin retaliating with his own insult.

Jongin thinks about Kyungsoo’s perspective. Kyungsoo is a believer in few chances, loyalty, and trust. He isn’t a bitter person; he’s more humble and forgiving than anything. That doesn’t mean that earning his forgiveness is an easy task. Jongin has been the cause of Kyungsoo’s pain before, his own insecurities and attitude taken out on him. Jongin doesn’t handle himself the same way as Kyungsoo. He wears his heart on his sleeve but when he feels vulnerable and weak, a little afraid and unsure, that frustration turns into anger. He doesn’t care who sees him in his emotional state. He isn’t afraid of vulnerability.

However, that anger manifests into something harmful towards himself and the people around him. Kyungsoo has always forgiven him for it, always told him how to better manage his anger. Yet Kyungsoo isn’t completely innocent either. In those moments, words are shared and sometimes they sting. It’s later when Kyungsoo apologizes without fear of hurting his pride (because saying sorry has never been something that Kyungsoo considers shameful), that Jongin wants to do the same; wants to become someone like Kyungsoo: a better person.

Jongin thinks about Kyungsoo’s lips; how they’re soft from the spare chapstick that he keeps in his pocket at all times, and how they probably taste like strawberries (Kyungsoo’s favorite flavor). Jongin remembers the winter and how he doesn’t have to ask before Kyungsoo is handing over his chapstick. “Your lips are bleeding,” he’d say. Jongin always took it with a smile, secretly liking the way Kyungsoo looked out for him. How Kyungsoo always took care of him. And he does so, even now. 

Jongin thinks about Kyungsoo’s eyes.

In this moment, he can’t help the way his own eyes hold Kyungsoo’s gaze, staring into them for longer than he probably should. Kyungsoo breaks the contact by looking away shyly, nervous. A light pink decorates his cheeks, a hint of a blossoming blush.

Jongin sees galaxies in Kyungsoo’s eyes—a solar system of home. He sees a way paved by stars that lead him back to Kyungsoo, so that each time they part, he’ll always find his way back to him. Kyungsoo, to Jongin, is home. Kyungsoo provides Jongin with a sense of comfort; a sense of belonging.

And Jongin, Jongin would collect galaxies for Kyungsoo—anything to see Kyungsoo’s eyes shine. To make sure that those galaxies are always there to light up the empty space. Jongin would steal stars, the moon, even the sun for Kyungsoo. He’d do anything to see Kyungsoo smile. Anything to make him happy, to erase his pain. Anything for Kyungsoo.

These are all the thoughts that run through Jongin’s mind; a split second of memories, possibilities, emotions.

The truth is that, if Jongin had one wish, it would be: “You,” he says. He does his best to keep his voice steady and nonchalant, void of the slight nerves that’s eating at his stomach. 

Kyungsoo blinks at him, sitting up, and Jongin follows the movement. “What?” He asks before letting out a nervous, breathy laugh. “What are you saying?” Kyungsoo looks away again. This time he’s blushing harder, pink cheeks darkening into a color that borders red.

Jongin tries again. “I want… I would wish for you.”  

“Don’t say things like that.” Kyungsoo plays with his thumbs, keeping his gaze on his lap. Jongin’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, pain wrapping its way around his heart and squeezing its thorns in.

“Kyungsoo—”

Kyungsoo looks at him again, eyes sad and the corner of his lips turned down slightly. “I have feelings too, Jongin. Don’t joke like that.”

That’s when it hits, a little bit of the pain relieving itself as Jongin grasps onto what Kyungsoo means. “No,” he says. “I... I mean that I like you. I’m not joking, I wouldn’t.” Kyungsoo still looks skeptical and Jongin is growing embarrassed and frustrated.

“How long?” Kyungsoo asks, once again avoiding Jongin’s eyes. “Since when?”

“Since high school,” he admits. Kyungsoo’s eyes widen. He snaps his attention back towards Jongin’s face.

“Jongin, that was…”

“Five years,” he continues. He wishes he could hide his face, the blush creeping on his cheeks making him feel flustered and afraid. He’s never been this open with Kyungsoo, never let him in this deep. It’s a part of his heart that he purposely kept chained away. His friendship with Kyungsoo was always too precious, too valuable to lose over something as silly as a crush.

But this is his wish—his only wish. One he’s had for years now. He’s been counting the falling stars, watching as they cut through the sky, counting as they fell one by one and wishing upon each for the courage to admit this out loud. He’s suffered through each of Kyungsoo’s crushes, relationships. He’s watched from afar, even with their bodies sitting so close together. “I’ve liked you for five years,” Jongin adds. His voice is small, tentative.

But that’s not the whole truth. It isn’t “like”; his feelings can’t be summarized with such a weak description. But they’re all too much to say, too soon to say it. The words are clogged in his throat, just on the back of his tongue and waiting to make its way to the tip—waiting to slip into the atmosphere, waiting to be picked up by Kyungsoo’s ears.

That’s for another time, another day. When they’re ready.

“I… I liked you too,” Kyungsoo confesses, his own voice just as small and afraid. He holds Jongin’s gaze again, eyes once again like galaxies and making Jongin think of home, space; Kyungsoo’s mind so beautiful and open, reflected within those pupils. Jongin can see it, appreciates it. Always has and always will.

And there’s the light of a sun within them, bright as if the feeling he holds for Jongin is a weight much greater than “like”. But that light is dim. It’s only just starting to form into something brighter, something blinding.

One day the timing will be right. One day those words that sit in his throat, in Kyungsoo’s eyes, will be said aloud. One day their hearts will grasp onto those words and hold it close, safe, forever. But Jongin is content for now; content with letting it grow until both their lights can intertwine into something stronger. So that both their lights will burn the eyes of those who see.

“Boyfriend,” Jongin says. “That means we’re boyfriends, right?”

“Yeah.” Kyungsoo smiles; fond, happy, relieved. “It does.”

The pain in Jongin’s heart vanishes. He pulls Kyungsoo back onto his chest. Once they get comfortable, once again lying on their couch with their bodies cuddled close, Jongin smiles. “I like that. Boyfriend.”

“Me too, boyfriend.” Jongin’s giggle has Kyungsoo’s smile widening before closing his eyes and letting the moment sink in.