To hold—

To be held. 

It's like this: when they lock eyes across the practice room, across the backseat of a cramped car, over a staff meal, or through the thrumming stage lights. It's the slow upturn of Jinwoo's mouth and the soft crinkle of his eyes, that smile, breathtaking every time.

It's like spring come early and flowers blooming in his chest, when they're curled around the couch, all four of them close but Jinwoo closest of all. Hesitant, he twirls his fingers loosely into Jinwoo's hair. Jinwoo laughs giddily, maybe tipsy, maybe drunk. It's hard to tell. (Seunghoon wishes he knew enough about Jinwoo to be able to tell. To memorise all of Jinwoo's little idiosyncrasies, to know him, to lov—)

Sometimes Jinwoo might laugh and then some. Swat playfully at Seunghoon, ask Yoonie to pass the remote, take another sip of wine. Tonight, he hums contentedly and turns his cheek into Seunghoon's thigh and— Sunflowers, Seunghoon thinks dazedly. And daisies and bluebells and Seunghoon doesn't know many names but he imagines all of them bloom in Jinwoo's presence, even the blue ones Minho likes so much.

(That's impossible, Seungyoon remarks wryly, Blue roses are artificial. But Seunghoon thinks Jinwoo could make anything blossom.)

It's flowers blooming in his chest, petals a soft flurry in his stomach when Jinwoo holds him close