AMBIENCE

Sometimes Jongin isn’t sociable. He prefers to stay in the shadows, lips bitten down in a shy grin, and watch Kyungsoo who paces around the house in search for his missing sock. Kyungsoo used to be a neat-freak, but Jongin has made his way into every little habit, just like he made his way into Kyungsoo’s head.

Sometimes, Kyungsoo looks up, and his eyes are a dull black, marked with the seriousness of a working man and the sadness of heartbreak. Jongin wants that look to go away, but rarely manages to do anything about it. He’s not enough. Maybe long ago he was, but not now. Now all he can do is watch.

Sometimes Kyungsoo forgets about Jongin. A week can go by without him even glancing at the younger, but Jongin patiently waits. He’s always home to greet Kyungsoo back, and he’s always up in the morning to send him off and tell him he’s beautiful when Kyungsoo fixes his hair for the last time in front of the mirror. Kyungsoo doesn’t always hear him.

Sometimes their dinners are too silent. Wrinkles appear on Kyungsoo’s forehead, as if he’s struggling with something. Dishes clatter in excessive noise. In those moments, Jongin really wants to say something. He usually mutters a quiet “It’s going to be okay, hyung,” but Kyungsoo is too deep in his own world and he doesn’t notice. So Jongin watches. He watches as crystal-clear tears drop down in the already cold dinner, and he reaches out to wipe them away. Kyungsoo doesn’t push his hand away, but he doesn’t seem to be grateful either. He keeps crying. Jongin keeps watching.

Sometimes Jongin is so in love with Kyungsoo that it physically hurts. He wants to stash him away, keep him locked up. Breathe him in. Fill himself entirely with him, until his name is the only thing he can recall. Have him in every way possible, as he used to back when they first started dating. He wants the warmth of closeness. He wants Kyungsoo’s nights and the majority of his days. Sometimes he gets them. Sometimes Kyungsoo drops a hand around his waist without knowing. Sometimes he whispers his name, exhales it straight into Jongin’s mouth and it’s ambrosia; tastes like the sweetest, most divine declaration of love. The night doesn’t seem scary then, and Jongin can watch Kyungsoo sleep.

Sometimes the amount of appreciation Jongin feels towards his lover can’t exactly be put to words. It’s in the small things that make up the entirety of Do Kyungsoo. When he frowns. When shadows drop at the corners of his lips and something like a smile settles in. When it’s seven o’clock in the morning and the sun kisses every inch of his skin as Kyungsoo fixes the tie he got as a Christmas present years ago and the cuffs of his shirt, slowly, and Jongin just absorbs himself in the view. When he talks, or laughs, or sings in the shower that annoying ballad about open arms and his voice is ultimate heaven; satin in a string of melodies. When he cooks something as simple as ramyeon, but makes it look like he’s playing around with a complex puzzle. When he’s Kyungsoo, when he’s Do Kyungsoo and he’s as perfect as every human being, but he’s everything Jongin could wish for. Everything.
And even though sometimes Kyungsoo is rough and distanced, they are brought together for twenty-four hours from the three-hundred and sixty-five days. Jongin lives for those hours.

Kyungsoo comes back earlier today. Jongin is too invested in observing in awe as the elder lazily loosens his tie, takes off his blazer and pops the top buttons on his shirt open to notice that Kyungsoo’s eyes are puffy. Both keep silent, but the hushed breathing ringing in the air isn’t harsh as usual. Jongin likes that. 
Kyungsoo takes his time to prepare a nice meal. He slices beef, because it is Jongin’s favorite. Fries it, then makes the spicy soup. Adds herbs, because Jongin always complained about the food being too mundane. He sings a bit, something Jongin remembers to have been his lullaby once, ages ago. The younger stand right by his side, savoring every tone, but doesn’t dare to touch him. Kyungsoo looks too fragile, like he’s about to decompose any second. His eyes are glassy, jaw tight, fingers shaking in an unsteady rhythm as he drops them one by one on the table in an impatient melody. So breakable that if Jongin reached out, he’d probably go right through him.

They sit down when the night drops a cloth of blackness over the windows. The lights are off, soft music – Bryan Adams and Sting – and no one is, still, saying anything. Jongin desperately wants to. Their eyes meet, somewhere in between the candlelight and the pause between the songs, and Jongin is frantically searching for the words, searching for a way to tell him exactly how much he loves him, how he can’t breathe without Kyungsoo, how he can’t, just can’t continue like this, how Kyungsoo is heaven wrapped in hell, how Jongin wishes – really wishes – to be everything for him too, because they were made for each other; two sides of the same coin, all that spiritual crap about soulmates, and – God! – Jongin can’t even reach out. He grasps the edge of the table, eyes grazing over Kyungsoo’s face, and he wonders why the elder looks so sad. He’s here. Jongin is still here, and he’s never, ever going anywhere.

“Hyung-”

Kyungsoo picks on his dish with a soft smile, torn in a hesitation of a grimace. He glances at the clock, then lights up the candles on the cake. The amber light is too strong. 

Jongin’s heart stops.

Kyungsoo is crying, again.

Jongin can’t do anything. He just keeps watching, with that same shy grin, covered by shadows and inches too far. He's just ambience in the obnoxiously quiet air.

“Happy birthday to you and me, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says. He blows out the candles.

Jongin’s photo on the other side of the table disappears in the darkness.