Title: Inhale, exhale
Lenght: one-shot
Characters: Sehun - EXO
Pairings: Sehun/you
AU: none
Rating: pg
Word count: 1.497
Genre: fluff
Summary: Oh Sehun has never been a neat eater.



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“Sorry I’m late.”

An apologetic smile tugs at the corners of his lips, a duffel bag hangs from his shoulder, and when he raises his hand to brush humid hair away from his face, every trace of annoyance at the delay  in your body melts away.

“It’s okay,” you assure as you move aside to let him into the house. Routine far past learnt, the duffel bag lands on the floor with a soft thump, and his fingers are quick to raise your chin, face so close you could count his eyelashes if you really, really wanted to.

“Hi.”

Inhale, exhale.

“Hey,” you reply, and it’s a reflex for you to lean slightly into him.

And he pulls away. Of course.

“I had to stay longer than expected at the studio. And then Kyungsoo stole my turn in the shower.” He follows you into your room, stopping only to pet the Golden Retriever that lays –without permission, and every being in that room knows it– on the living room couch with a soft hey girl, how ya doin?

“Why?” you ask, watching him plop onto the matress, sheets automatically wrinkling under his weight.

“Why did he steal my turn on the shower? Because he’s a .”

“No,” you laugh, “why did you have to stay longer in the studio?”

He shrugs, not seemingly worried about the disorganization of his schedule. “The choreography is fast and weird and we all seem to be going at a different pace. We all got it, but we can’t make it seem like an unified thing,” he explains, arms raising to form a barrier between the dampness of his hair and your pillow. The first time you had scolded him for moistening it, the pout on his lips almost made you retreat, but the thin expanse of visible smooth skin right above the waist of his jeans when he stretched to adjust his position had made it worth it. Like now.

Inhale, exhale.

“I’m not surprised,” you point out, watching him from a safe distance. “You guys rarely ever do it the exact same way.” Or so had you been told, because it’s not like you get to pay attention to anyone else whenever he’s around.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “but it’d be cool if it didn’t look like we’re all doing our own thing.”

Always a perfectionist. “I’m sure you’ll do great. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” You both know it’s a courtesy question, because he’s always hungry, but he’s even hungrier after dance lessons.

“Kay, stay here; I’ll go get something,” you tell him, and he looks up at you and nods, and you still don’t know how you’ve survived for so long.

You’re not even thirty seconds into getting the packet of cookies open when you feel a pair of arms wrap fortly but securely around your waist.

“I thought I told you to stay in the room.” You try to keep your tone cold and monotonous, but you’re at lease seventy percent sure he can hear the smile on your lips.

“You did,” he confirms, resting his chin on your shoulder, pushing your hair aside so that it doesn’t tickle his nose and make him sneeze –again.

“So then?”

“I missed you,” he replies, this time, completely unapologetic. And then you’re sure you’re gone.

Inhale, exhale.

“I need to get the milk from the fridge,” you mention, and his response isn’t the one you’d logically expect: letting go; maybe even getting it for you. Instead, pulling you even closer, he walks sideways towards the fridge, a pair of siamese crabs in seek of a snack. Laughing, you reach out to get it before he guides you back towards the counter. “You’re weird.”

You can actually feel him smile against your skin, and if that’s not the loveliest thing you have ever experienced, then you don’t know what it could be.

Once everything is set, you pick up the tray with the plate and the glasses, but he gets it from you and swaggers back to the room, leaving you behind while calling “Let’s go!”

When you get to the room, he’s sitting right in the middle of it, legs crossed and tray set before him, absolutely disregarding of the perfectly useful desk at his right. And as you open your mouth to ask, he looks up to you, hands placed politely on his lap, and you don’t have the heart to say anything. Why not?

While you settle down next to him, careful not to kick the tray by accident, his hand reaches out for a cookie. “How was your day?” he asks, taking a bite.

“It was okay,” you reply, glass of chocolate milk in your hand. “I started a painting.”

He blinks, back straightening, and pushes: “When will I be able to see it?”

“When it’s done?” His eagerness is kind of hilarious.

“You don’t have it with you?” As you shake your head, his shoulders slouch back down. “That’s not fair. My choreography isn’t done yet either, but if I wanted to, I could show you bits of it.” He stretches his legs, long and slim before him, hands rested flat against the wooden floor and upper body laid back, almost laying on the ground. He his head to the side, looking at you with that I-know-something-that-you-don’t expression he carries sometimes.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Yeah. But you won’t.”

“I could,” he mumbles, eyes fixed uninterestedly on the cookie he’s munching on. “If you showed me the painting.”
A quick study of pros and cons leads you to agree. “I’ll try to get a picture tomorrow, then.”

“Good,” he finishes, a proud half smirk on his face.  From over your glass, you furrow your eyebrows as he dips the last bite of a cookie into his milk a few times before he pops in into his mouth. He catches your gaze, and, mouth full, he asks: “What?”

“That’s gross,” you state, grimacing, and the look he gives you is almost offended.

“You dip your chips in ice cream,” he counters, with a tone so definite he could as well be saying everything you stand for is contrary to family.

“Yes, but-“

“No buts,” he cuts you, glass tipped towards you, its content threatening precariously to spill onto the floor. “Your argument is invalid.”

You shake your head, not wanting to push it any further but definetly not giving in. When it comes to Oh Sehun, losing the battle does indeed mean losing the war.

A silence is enough of a victory to him. With a faint smile, he grabs the empty bag of cookies and brings it to his face, tipping it and tapping it just enough to make the crumbs fall into his mouth.

Oh Sehun has never been a neat eater.

The crumbs stick onto his skin more than they do onto his tongue, but he doesn’t seem to notice. For a moment, he sits there, oblivious to the fact that there’s a trail of cookie specks down his chin. “You have–“ He looks at you, halfway between supermodel and Neverland lost child, and every bit of willpower (inhale, exhale) seems to evaporate.

You lean in gently, quietly, softly. He just stares, seemingly paralyzed in the moment, as you lightly kiss the crumbs on the corner of his mouth away. It takes all but a quick sweep of his head to have his lips on yours.

Breezily, his hand flies up to your cheek, a butterfly touch, just enough to feel you there but with no intention of holding you in place, because he knows you aren’t going anywhere. You couldn’t even if you tried.

It’s with the most absolute of reverences that your own hand finds its place on the back of his neck, hair still slightly damp from the shower and almost imperceptible goosebumps on his skin, whether from the cold or from the caress, you can’t tell.

Soft touches and timid smiles, you go from somewhat close to tangled together,but nothing has ever felt so pure. Nothing is rushed, nothing is harsh; only the tender brush of lips and careful embraces in favor of a stronger connection. Silk lips, velvet skin, satin hair; there isn’t one thing you don’t love, and you hope he knows, because there’s no clearer way to say it than this.

Forget inhaling and exhaling, in hopes of hiding something that shouldn’t be hidden and all, because this is what you need, and this is what he needs, too. A kiss sweet and chocolatey, the hint of akwardness none of you seem to be able to get rid of just yet; the warmth of his back everything you can feel, the faint scent of his cologne everything you can smell, his easy smile whenever your eyes open everything you can see, and the dainty sound of his giggles, low and breathy, everything you can hear.

After all, there’s nothing better than the taste of his laugh.