Kibum eyes the red light ahead, but he doesn’t slow down. A quick glance at the dashboard tells him he has more than enough time to obey traffic laws were he so inclined. He’s not.

When he grabbed his keys and walked out his apartment, he had a set purpose — a quick trip to Baskin Robbins to try their new bonjour macaroon flavor, maybe a walk down the sidewalk as he ate, mind semi-focused on maneuvering between bodies while he sorted through the onslaught of troubling emotions eating away at his nerves — then he took a right instead of a left and, well, now he’s added anticipation to purpose. Lifting his foot off the gas pedal seems like a personal offense against himself and Kibum is nothing if not wholly committed to his own well-being. A well-being that would benefit tremendously from a trip to Apgujeong.

Or at least he hopes the meeting might be beneficial, which he probably doesn’t deserve if he’s being completely (totally and absolutely) honest, because he hasn’t made this particular drive in weeks — has it really been months? When did he lose count? — and.

And.

And.

And he should probably turn around and get that ice cream after all. He ponders it too, for longer than two seconds, but it’s still not enough to keep his foot from accelerating him forward, straight through another red light, straight to the high-rise that looks out over Dongho bridge, a stunning view of the river as the sun rises. It’s Kibum’s favorite time of day, never mind that he’s hardly ever awake for it nowadays.

He really shouldn’t be able to make this drive on autopilot. He shouldn’t be able to make the drive at all. But Kibum is only one man — a handsome, distinguished, wealthy, and esteemed man, but still just one nonetheless — and he isn’t above seeking help when he needs it.

That being said, he only ever needs help once in maybe fifty blue moons, so, yeah, he shouldn’t be able to navigate the backroads of a district not his own.

He knows enough to know the last police car that might attempt making a chase was left behind many kilometers ago, so it’s free road from here. The realization wakes up his desire to regain control and he stops, this time at a stop sign. He takes in his surroundings, fingers drumming idly against the steering wheel. He could drive into the parking garage up ahead and key in the passcode that’s already looping in his mind, or.

Or.

Or.

Kibum tosses all other options from his frontal lobe and closes the remaining distance between possibility and potential.

Kibum stares at the keypad to room 3311. He knows the code, still, he should probably knock. Probably. No, he should definitely knock.

He knocks.

Then rings the doorbell for good measure.

In the minute or so it takes the door to open, Kibum’s hands have gone from being slack at his side, to clasped behind his back, to raking through his hair before finally being shoved into his pockets. The look he’s going for is casual, like it’s completely normal to show up randomly at someone’s apartment precisely twenty minutes before their usual bedtime.

By the look on Jinki’s face, Kibum can tell he missed the mark completely.

He tries for a greeting anyway. Where his hands — and eyes and shoulders and even his feet sometimes — fail him, his voice can usually keep up a façade for a tad bit longer.

“Long time, no see.” Kibum means it in every sense of the phrase. While it would be no problem for Jinki to come across online articles, commercial advertisements, posters, etc. of Kibum, getting a glimpse of Jinki in everyday life wasn’t so easy when he wasn’t a household name in South Korea. It meant Kibum would have to deep dive into his emotions, his past. Actively looking up pictures of the man? Interviews? Out of the question. Every careless thought of Jinki ran the risk of him getting swept away in the memories of late nights, soft whispers, silly promises of not quite forever but something very close to it.

Jinki would wrap Kibum in those strong arms of his, trail his fingers down his sides and call him home.

Looking at Jinki now, Kibum felt the ghost of all those hugs surround him. His words echoed in the silence as Jinki stared back, lips parted in what Kibum could only guess was shocked confusion. He’d once been able to tell what every crease, every miniscule shift in Jinki’s expression meant. Now his guesses were probably as good as the first stranger to walk by.

“No kidding.”

In his pockets, Kibum’s fingers twitched. It took a moment for him to register that Jinki’s words were in response to his greeting rather than him suddenly gaining the ability to read minds. He hoped his smile helped conceal the anxiety sneaking up on him. Just smile and wave, the mantra of celebrity. Though, he supposes he could manage without the waving. Jinki might think he needed more licensed help were he to bring his public persona into a private space. An intimate space. And Kibum would go, if Jinki asked.

“Can I come in?”

“I—” Jinki glances over his shoulder before stepping back with a sigh, allowing room for Kibum to walk in. Kibum raises an eyebrow. Jinki shrugs as the door closes silently behind them, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulders in a way that makes Kibum want to push them into the wall of the entrance hall and feel them strain against his palms. “You really should’ve called. Texted. Anything.”

“I thought you liked surprises?”

“You’re not a surprise.”

“What am I then?”

If Jinki knew the answer to his question, Kibum would gladly hear it, but he doesn’t bother to speak on his way to the kitchen. It’s not Jinki’s turn to have an answer anyway.

Kibum watches him from behind, repressing his urge to follow and instead makes his way to the sectional sofa with sure steps. That is, until he stumbles into an ottoman that’s never blocked his passage before. It’s new. And with one cursory glance around the space, Kibum realizes that so is almost everything else.

“You redecorated.”

Jinki set the glasses down on the table — even the coasters are new and match the black and grey interior of the living room. When did Jinki learn how to accent? — and placed himself in the armchair before responding to Kibum’s non-question with a singular nod.

It didn’t escape Kibum that Jinki chose the farthest seat the room had to offer. He’d be more pressed if it hadn’t given him a full view of Jinki legs parted in a slight manspread, his grey sweatpants bunching up around his thighs, while his black t-shirt, probably having shrunk in the wash at some point, hugged his biceps and chest a little too tightly. Jinki looked comfortable resting on his new furniture and Kibum wanted nothing more than to straddle his lap and make himself just as comfy. Jinki had two days’ worth of stubble growing in and Kibum wondered if he was thinking about growing out his facial hair again. He smiled at the thought, his body heating up even more as he remembered what happened the last time he felt the tickle of Jinki’s mustache against his lips, his neck, his s, and his.

His.

His.

“Did you come here for a reason, Kibum?”

Kibum had the decency to lift his eyes from the middle of Jinki’s legs back up to his face. Eye contact felt too invasive at the moment, so Kibum settled for the space between his eyebrows.

“Many,” he admits, sort of. He still hasn’t figured out the reasoning behind all this yet, but he knows it must be more than one or else it’d be much easier to understand this grand detour. He’s not even sure if there’s a Baskin Robbins near Jinki’s apartment. “I’m hoping they’ll make themselves known sooner or later.”

“To me or to yourself?”

Jinki waits for Kibum to answer and when he doesn’t, he simply takes a sip of his drink (which is probably tea considering the time) and waits some more. Not even a glance at the clock pulls his attention away from Kibum and it’s ridiculous, really, how even after so long Jinki still regards him with such tenderness. Ridiculous enough to have Kibum’s entire insides liquify at the thought that he left this man so many weeks ago for reasons he can’t even remember. And said man still opened the door for him, invited him back into his home, let him sit on his new furniture (which he no doubt bought to get rid of the memories they made on the previous set).

Jinki tries again. “Would talking help?”

It would. It always did. Kibum benefited from talking through his problems, getting them all out into the air, soundwaves breaking barriers. It’s the unfairness of the situation that had him wary to start pouring his heart out to the man he so brutally snatched it from not too long ago. Jinki was once again making Kibum’s feelings, Kibum’s happiness, Kibum’s every ing thing his priority.

Kibum was trying very hard not to take advantage.

“Maybe not just talking,” he said. Jinki studied Kibum from across the room, scanning his face with a slight frown.

“That’s all I can give you tonight, Kibum.”

“Why?” Kibum asked, not expecting the rejection to sting like it did.

It’s unfair for him to ask. Not when he was the one who couldn’t give Jinki what he wanted—compromise, gentleness, faith—never mind what he needed—stability, support, presence. It’s hard to give any of those things from across the river, especially while ignoring phone calls.

“Well,” Jinki starts, leaning back into his armchair, one legged crossed over the other at the ankle. “For one, it’s late and I have an early shoot tomorrow. We also haven’t seen each other in three months. Which, may I remind you, was your idea.” Kibum rolls his eyes when Jinki points a finger at him.

Three months.

Kibum brings a finger to his mouth, not quite biting or picking at his lip, just there to self-soothe. “My ideas are always terrible.”

“I can think of a few times when they weren’t,” Jinki says. Kibum almost catches him smiling before his face morphs with concern and he sits upright. “It’s the new role isn’t it? I talked with Hyejun about easing up on the projected timeline so —”

One more on the list of things Kibum shouldn’t be surprised about. News that he had been cast in Director Hyejun’s new psychological thriller film was all over Naver last month. You couldn’t search for anything without seeing his name on the home page. He topped the trends for a full twenty-four hours. He’s not surprised that Jinki knew about his role, no.

“You checked up on me?”

They hadn’t even begun filming yet, but since the table-read Kibum’s been trapped in a spiral of doubts. A spiral accompanied by mindless drinking bordering on alcoholism (only on days he’s not filming, of course, as professionalism always takes precedence), bouts of insomnia, and a slight decrease in appetite. Really, it’s a miracle Kibum still looks as handsome as he does (and also hasn’t been replaced on the film’s roster).

With his name comes distinction, along with expectations and pressure and the possibility of a failure so colossal every blood cell in his body freezes at the thought. While he might not have been actively thinking of his role as he got in his car tonight, it’s not a stretch to say the horror rests in his subconscious at all times, a constant unsurety to run away from.

Jinki leaves the comfort of his single armchair, crosses the room to Kibum and sits angled beside him so they can look at each other without an entire room separating them. Finally.

“You have people looking out for you everywhere, Bami.”

Kibum’s eyes widen at the use of his nickname and when Jinki places a hand on his knee (! finally!) some of the heat from earlier returns. Jinki reassurance comes unprompted, undeserved, and entirely welcome for the way it eats away at every ounce of bitterness in Kibum’s chest. There were so many times before when Kibum knew he could be doing more for Jinki. Nothing he ever did felt like it was enough for a man who deserved everything.

“Three months really isn’t that long when you think about it,” Kibum says, looking up between his eyelashes at Jinki. With his legs spread, chin resting in his right palm, and hair falling slightly in his eyes, Kibum knows he’s a sight to behold. And he shouldn’t be pushing like this, but.

But.

But.

There are no buts. He shouldn’t be pushing like this. And perhaps that realization shows on his face because Jinki nods, pulling his hand back into his own lap. He doesn’t look away when he asks Kibum, “Do you think about it?”

Kibum shakes his head. He hadn’t known the exact amount of time that had passed till Jinki finally said it. Gods, three months…

“I think about how I missed you,” Jinki says while studying his hands. “For the first month or so, I missed you like I never missed anything else in my life. I even drove by your apartment a few times.”

Kibum’s breath hitches at the confession and what it might’ve meant…three months ago. He tries to remember what he was doing at the time, what he was feeling, but what his mind supplies him with is a murky mess. Which could mean a multitude of things, none of which are exclusive to being blackout drunk for an entire month. That’s definitely up Kibum’s alley of terrible ideas.

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course, you didn’t. I never wanted you to.”

“By the time two months had passed, things started to settle, and I figured you were well on your way to finding whatever ran you out the door.”

“I did not run,” Kibum argues, but softens when Jinki smiles.

“You definitely ran, Bami. If the streets of Seoul were made of dirt, you would’ve definitely left a dust trail.” Kibum laughs along with Jinki, watching his eyes sparkle and fold into crescents. It’s unlike anything he’s seen or heard since he left, and the anxiety sneaks its way back with trembling fingers.

Jinki grabs Kibum’s shaking hands in his own, the chill of his skin works as a calming agent.

“At first I thought you were running from me,” Jinki continues in a half-whisper only because of the vulnerability laid bare.

It was easier for Jinki to show himself because he’d done the work. He was putting in the effort. Jinki would surprise him with breakfast in the mornings when he didn’t have early shoots. He would surprise Kibum with coffee carts for him and his coworkers during long day on set. He’d plan picnics during the weekends and always made sure his fridge was stocked with Kibum’s favorite milk. He ran through his line with him always, without a single complaint. He listened to his impassioned rants, took all the photos for his Instagram, walked his dogs at o’clock in the morning. Kibum has a medium-sized box overflowing with letters from Jinki he’d written on scraps of paper, sticky notes, and polaroid photos.

Everything Jinki did was of his own accord, Kibum never asked him for any of it (he also never told him to stop). Kibum wasn’t his first emotionally constipated partner. He wasn’t even the first person to run away from Jinki. What on earth made Kibum think he was special?

Oh.

Oh.

It wasn’t so much a what as it was a who. And Kibum wasn’t so much an idiot as he was a complete and utter .

Kibum laced his fingers through Jinki’s and moved closer till their knees touched. He took it as a win that Jinki hadn’t tried to push him away. He didn’t know what he should say or what would be appropriate, because, again, this entire visit was poorly (un)planned. But he couldn’t let Jinki think for one more second that he was unworthy of anyone’s time, love, and care, much less Kibum’s.

“I came back. That counts for something, right? I came back.”

Jinki blinked. Okay, that probably wasn’t the absolute best thing Kibum could’ve said in the moment, making it all about him. Again.

“Do you even know why?” There was a hardness in Jinki’s voice Kibum had only ever heard while he was directing, when things were going wrong on set. Things were going wrong now. No, things went wrong as soon as Kibum walked out that door three months ago and told Jinki, “I’ll see you soon.” Kibum felt Jinki’s hand resisting his hold, but he held on tighter, not quite ready to lose that calming touch he had no right to feel in the first place.

“It wasn’t you.” Now his voice was a whisper. “I promise.”

“Don’t.” Jinki tried to free his hands again. This time, Kibum let him go (but not for the last time. It couldn’t be for the last time). “You shouldn’t make promises.”

No contingencies. Just: Kim Kibum should not make promises. To anyone. About anything. Well.

Kibum lowered his head, a futile attempt to hide the tears he felt weren’t too far from falling.

“Can I make amends instead?” A last-ditch effort, but an effort, nonetheless. He just couldn’t imagine walking back out the door with this weight on his chest, with tears in his eyes, without Jinki’s smile to follow him out.

Kibum heard Jinki sigh and prepared himself for a rejection that wouldn’t come. Instead, he felt Jinki’s fingers beneath his chin, lifting his head up so that Jinki could see his face in all it’s tear-streaked glory. And when he speaks, all the hardness from earlier is gone, replaced with a tenderness Kibum didn’t know he was missing till now.

“Is that what you want to do?”

With renewed purpose, Kibum looks into Jinki’s eyes and asks, for the first time in three months—maybe even the first time ever—

“What do you want to do?”