The alarm goes off right on schedule. Sehun rolls off of bed, rubbing sleep crusted eyes, and goes on autopilot.

 

He tries to make as little noise as possible as he moves through his morning routine because he knows that Jongin loves his sleep possibly a little bit more than he loves chicken—and that’s saying a lot. His work hours vary, but no matter if his day ends late or not he usually sleeps until noon and then leaves for dance classes with trainees at the TM Ent. headquarters before two. Not that Sehun has been keeping tabs or anything.

 

And so when Sehun steps out of his room and hears someone puttering about in the kitchen, he immediately stops in his tracks, confused. With light, careful steps he turns a corner and finds Jongin stationed in front of the stove, with one hand on his hip and the other around the handle of a turner.

 

The smell of home-cooked breakfast wafting up his nostrils sends his salivary glands into overdrive. He pictures a simple set of bacon, eggs, and buttermilk pancakes, and it makes his stomach whine. This is something he hasn’t had in a long time.

 

“Oh, hey, you’re up,” Jongin presses a button on the induction cooker. “Omelet’s almost done, just give me a minute.”

 

That Jongin can cook at all is a big revelation and, to be honest, it bumps up his attractiveness score to, maybe, twelve out of ten. The way his white shirt stretches across broad shoulders and how his gray drawstring pants hang low over a firm don’t go unappreciated either. Sehun doesn’t breathe a word as he watches the dancer bring plates of bacon and pancakes out to the table, as if breathing too loud might shatter the illusion. Except this isn’t an illusion, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Jongin speaks again, yanking him out of his trance.

 

“I have an early schedule today so I figured I’d make us breakfast.”

 

Jongin suddenly halts, mid-sprint. He turns to Sehun dubiously, shoulders stiff.

 

“Or are you heading out for a run with Tao and Yifan-hyung? You’re not supposed to run with a full stomach—” He sounds a little deflated, his posture losing the air of confidence that usually clings to his skin, and it grates on Sehun’s conscience.

 

He’s vehemently shaking his head even before the man can finish talking.

 

“No, no, I’m not! Not today.” He says it with so much conviction that it hopefully cancels out whatever the sweats he’s already wearing might suggest. But it doesn’t stop Jongin from eyeing him suspiciously from head to toe.

 

Jongin’s brows twitch.

 

“You’re not?” There’s a teasing grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.

 

 

Sehun flushes pink.

 

“Not... anymore.” He rectifies as he self-consciously rubs at his nose. “I’d rather eat than exercise, okay.” And like hell he’s going to pass up Jongin’s home-cooked breakfast for anything. But he doesn’t say that out loud.

 

The picture of pure delight on Jongin’s face burns in the back of his mind as he pads back to his room on springy feet.

 

 

 

*

 

 

In the days that follow, Sehun comes to discover what Jongin meant when talked about not being ‘all there’. Apparently these moments often occur any time before noon.

 

Getting back from a jog one morning, Sehun goes straight to the fridge to get some water and nearly drops the glass when Jongin pops up right in front of his face. His eyes are closed, hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, like he just teleported straight from bed. He immediately blinks awake, though, when Sehun emits a very un-manly squeak.

 

“Oh. Oops.” Jongin sounds like his vocal chords are barely working. Seeing that it’s only his flatmate, his eyelids draw back down while Sehun clutches at his chest as he struggles to calm his erratic pulse.

 

“You’re gonna give me a ing heart attack!”

 

“Sorry. Thirsty. Can I?” The teleporter mumbles in staccato as he blindly reaches out a hand.

 

Sehun doubts Jongin’s even conscious at all right now. Huffing in exasperation, he places the drink against Jongin’s open palm, smearing it with the condensation forming on the outside of the glass. Fingers automatically wrap around it the moment the cold touches his skin. He brings the glass to his mouth and takes big gulps before handing it back empty.

 

“Thanks.” And then he’s gone again, vanishing in a thin cloud of smoke.

 

It’s come to a point where instances like that don’t bother Sehun too much anymore. He almost expects it every morning like a part of his daily routine. Jongin also often teleports to different places in the apartment at will, fully awake. Sometimes it seems like he does it just to spook Sehun, never mind the risk of getting literally blown off his feet. Sehun has gotten used to that, too.

 

But when Jongin, half-asleep, starts materializing in the bathroom to pee while Sehun is in the shower for a post-run bath, it becomes a real problem. Mainly because the image of Jongin’s morning wood is something that’s impossible to erase. It leaves him in a very compromising state whenever his stupid brain decides to remind him about it at random moments during the day.

 

 

“Okay, how about this,” Jongin begins as he rearranges himself on the couch so that he’s facing Sehun.

 

“How about we... train each other?”

 

Sehun reluctantly tears his eyes away from the screen to make a sulky face at his flatmate. Spider-Man is on again tonight and he really likes this movie.

 

“What?”

 

Frowning, Jongin grabs the remote and switches off the television, much to Sehun’s chagrin.

 

“Hey!” He makes a grab for the controller but Jongin is way faster.

 

“No, listen! This is important if you don’t want me walking into you in the bathroom again.”

 

Sehun’s mouth clamps shut, heat crawling up the apples of his cheeks. If he’s being completely honest, it’s not that he hates it, per se; it’s just rather... inconvenient.

 

“Alright,” he sighs in defeat. “Train each other how?”

 

“I don’t know... maybe you can scream at me every time I sleep-teleport? Throw something at me? Kick me?”

 

Sehun snorts, deadpans, “How is that...” Hands move to draw quotation marks in the air, “...‘training’ you?”

 

“It’s just a theory,” Jongin responds with an offhanded shrug. “But I figured it could make me more cautious about teleporting, on an instinctive level. If that makes sense?”

 

Shockingly, it does. A little bit. In a way it’s kind of like training a puppy. Rewarding good deeds; punishing bad ones. Something like that.

 

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Sehun stares at the other man quizzically. Fingernails dig into the faux leather seat, leaving little crescent marks that disappear almost as fast as they form, while he repositions himself on the couch.

 

“You want me to physically hurt you?”

 

Jongin’s mouth opens, freezes, then closes again. His face scrunches thoughtfully, like he’s considering things from a different angle for the first time.

 

“Well... in a sense, I guess?” He says as he slumps against the pillows, lightly scratching at his cheek

 

“And you think this will work?”

 

“Maybe?” Even as he sounds more and more skeptical by the minute, he doesn’t appear too keen on retracting his proposition altogether. “We won’t know until we try.”

 

Sehun’s head slowly tilts to one side. Well, if Jongin wants to get hit...

 

“I can do that.” Sehun’s mouth pulls up impishly at the corners. Color drains from Jongin’s face, squirming as he chews on his lower lip. He looks like he’s questioning his life choices and Sehun struggles not to laugh. Jongin tries to shoot him a baleful glance but it’s obvious to them both who has the upper hand here.

 

“Just. Don’t have too much fun with it.”

 

“Can’t promise I won’t,” drawls Sehun darkly.

 

He’s pretty sure he’ll end up just yelling at Jongin, or throwing him a weak hit, maybe. He doesn’t have the heart to hurt him for real, but Jongin doesn’t need to know that.

 

“And how will you train me?”

 

Jongin breathes out—resigned to his fate, it seems like—as he slides down until his head is resting on the cushy arm rest. This leaves his lower body in an awkward position, with his spine curled and knees folded tightly, heels planted against his . It seems like the most natural thing to do when Sehun grabs his ankles to stretch the dancer’s legs over his own lap.

 

“I have a feeling I already have,” says Jongin. Sehun hears the smug grin in his voice rather than sees it. “You haven’t thrown me across the floor once since the first time. You’re a quick study.”

 

Sehun chokes on air as the words prompt a flashback of the past weeks, all the way to the time that they met, and he finds that Jongin is right. He's right. Sehun breaths a quiet gasp when he realizes it. He thought it was impossible to even come close to getting a full handle on his ability; that he’ll always have to resort to hiding away to keep himself from hurting anyone by accident. He's never been happier to be wrong.

 

Sehun sniffles, giggling quietly at how Jongin is wriggling his toes to a beat that only exists in his head. He’s never completely still. Some part of him is always, always dancing. He finds it quite endearing.

 

“Hey, why aren’t you at The Lost Planet with the rest of the guys?” Sehun asks, breaking the silence. “Jongdae-hyung’s band is playing tonight.”

 

“The same reason why you won’t get crab when we go out for seafood even though you love it.” Jongin simply says and this catches Sehun off guard. He tries not to let it show.

 

Jongin is allergic to crab. Meanwhile, Sehun loves crab and it’s unfortunate because he knows that the dancer actually does too. When Sehun found out, he opted not to order it again. Jongin never seems to mind, but it just doesn’t feel right to indulge himself when Jongin can’t. He hadn’t expected the other man to notice.

 

“Because you’re watching your cholesterol?”

 

He gets a pillow to his face for the quip.

 

“I’m being a good flatmate and keeping you company, .” Jongin barks, though a tinge of mirth dilutes the harshness of his tone.

 

Sehun hides the fond smile behind a noncommittal grunt as fingers lazily drum on the soft cotton material that covers the dancer’s shin. He falls silent, inexplicably tense. There are secrets trapped in his chest, and he can feel them wanting to break out. He swallows thickly.

 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me why I never go?”

 

Jongin’s toes stop moving.

 

“Am I allowed to know?”

 

Sehun removes his hand from where it rests on Jongin’s leg, lips pressing in a thin line. He doesn't hesitate, just spits it out—

 

“I've killed people.”

 

There's really no way to sugarcoat something like that, he thinks.

 

A beat passes. Jongin sits up, tucking his legs under himself. He doesn’t breathe a word, doesn’t push, just waits for Sehun to speak.

 

“Do you remember—this was a couple of years ago—when news broke about a torrent of powerful winds knocking down billboards in Hongdae? It left two people dead and a dozen others injured. Do you... do you remember that?”

 

“Sehun, that was an accident.”

 

It’s nothing Sehun hasn’t heard before. That was an accident. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself.

 

Something in him snaps and he continues like he hears nothing.

 

“You know what brought it on? It was around the Christmas season, the entire place was packed. You’ve been there, I’m sure you know how easily the streets fill up. I was trying to squeeze past the mob of people because I was running late for a ing date. I was so frustrated that I had this sudden thought of—it’s stupid but I hoped the crowd would part in the middle, like the Red Sea in the Bible, you know, so there would be a clear path for me to pass through. It was just a stupid, selfish thought, but then the air just—”

 

“Sehun—” Jongin moves closer, leans in, like he wants to touch him but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to.

 

The heel of Sehun's hands push against closed lids, willing the throbbing behind them to ease up, the springing tears not to fall. He cards a hand through his hair as he draws a lungful of oxygen; keeps breathing through his mouth until he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.

 

It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, or how long he hasn’t spoken about it. There's a sharp knife impaled in his chest and he doesn’t know if he can ever pull it out. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just stares up at the ceiling with dark, hollow eyes.

 

“I may not have meant it to happen, but it still did and I still had a hand in it. I can’t bring those people back.” The knife twists. It smarts but he swallows it down. “And I vowed never to let it happen again, no matter what.”

 

He barely catches the shift until the space beside him dips heavily under fresh weight. A hard shoulder knocks against his bony one. Without being asked or prodded, as natural as breathing, Sehun’s hand turns over the second the dancer's skin grazes his wrist. Jongin's palm is warm and soft as it gingerly kisses his, fingers easily slipping into the spaces that Sehun purposely makes for him.

 

This time he doesn’t offer any words of comfort. Doesn’t tell Sehun that he’s wrong; it’s not his fault; that he should move on because it’s been so long. Jongin just sits beside him, so close he’s almost sitting on his lap. He holds Sehun’s hand in a stable grip, like an anchor, and somehow it’s enough.

 

A few moments pass and then Jongin begins to climb to his feet, fingers still clasped in Sehun’s.

 

“Come with me,” he says calmly. It doesn't quite look like he’s asking. “I've figured out how I'm going to train you.”

 

Sehun doesn’t let go but he doesn’t budge either. He regards Jongin dubiously. One look at the dancer’s face, at the crooked grin on his lips, and he knows right away that he’s not going to like this. He lets his grip fall loose but the other man only holds on that much tighter.

 

“No, no way, Jongin—”

 

“Look,” He levels Sehun with a stern look. “You want to see me dance, right?”

 

 

*

 

 

The soles of Sehun’s chucks scuff heavily against the concrete as he drags his feet across a busy alley. Or more like, as Jongin drags him along.

 

The Hongik University area shows no signs of slowing down even though it’s late into the night. It’s just as bright and noisy as Sehun remembers and it makes his insides twist into knots. He has no idea where they’re going. Honestly, he doesn’t care just as long as this is over and done with. But he does hope that it’s somewhere his simple, striped long sleeve shirt and ripped jeans won’t look too shabby.

 

Sehun keeps his head low, lets the dancer lead him whichever way, making sure to stay close. He’s got no reprieve other than the feeling of his hand in Jongin’s and he can’t afford to lose that. They come to a stop in front of an entrance—Sehun doesn’t know which one because he’s still intently watching the ground—and calls out a name—Yunho-hyung. Jongin gets several acknowledgements back, and soon enough they’re stepping over the threshold.

 

The pungent, overbearing trails of smoke, alcohol, and vigorous youth instantly hits, and Sehun scrunches his nose in distaste. He bumps Jongin’s back as they shuffle past swinging arms and bobbing shoulders, all the while trying to keep his mood in check. The most he can do is make sure that he has his emotions under control—no unexpected spike of anything extreme that might trigger activity. He feels Jongin give his hand a reassuring squeeze as they make a beeline to where vitality seems most potent. Jongin moves fast despite the throng, as though to eliminate any chance that Sehun will overthink and balk. It’s too late for that anyway, he thinks wryly.

 

The opening beats of an old-school hip-hop track that Sehun recognizes blasts through the speakers. The rhythm permeates his skin, seeps right through his veins, just like it used to when he was young and carefree and still danced to music like this. It gets increasingly louder as he’s taken deeper into the dance floor, the strong bass inviting his heartbeat to pound in time with it. Gradually, it does, and all of a sudden he’s flowing through the crevices instead of pushing against the current.

 

It’s impossibly crammed and dark inside, making one face nearly indistinguishable from another. Everything that’s not veiled in darkness is swathed in blue monochrome. Jongin drops his hand and he abruptly stops. His gaze shoots up, unsettled and frantic at the feeling of loss, until he feels fingers around his waist, steadying him.

 

“You made it. No harm done, see?”

 

Hot breath grazes his ear and he tries not to shiver. From the fact that there are people bumping against his back and his sides, he easily infers that there’s no space at all to retreat. Jongin’s face is still pressed beside his when his hands come up to grip the dancer’s shoulders, hoping against hope that the heavy bass in the air can camouflage the hammering in his ribcage.

 

“I thought I was going to see you dance?” He accuses, though he knows he should have probably expected this.

 

“Oh, you are. But you’re going to join me.” There’s a hint of mischief in Jongin’s deep tone that makes him sound predatory. Sehun’s stomach rumbles.

 

“This is cheating. I thought I was going to get a private show.”

 

Jongin’s head lolls back as he laughs, strobe lights dancing over his skin, making the thin sheen of sweat down the side of his neck glitter invitingly. Sehun’s cheeks color at how he’s a little out of breath already when they haven’t even started yet.

 

Jongin looks at him with a soft smile and it calms Sehun to the deepest of his core even as it steals away another breath. He briefly catches the wicked glimmer in Jongin’s dark eyes before the firm grip at his sides pulls him closer.

 

“Who says this isn’t going to be a private show? I’m not dancing with anyone else tonight, Oh Sehun.”

 

Sehun chokes on his own saliva.

 

For the rest of the night, Jongin makes good on his promise with every deliberate roll of his hips and sensual sway of his body. Sehun gives back just as good as he’s getting, completely forgetting where they are or how many people are around. Jongin an eyebrow, surprised that he knows how to move like that. Sehun merely smirks. He lets his fingers clasp behind Jongin’s neck, biting his lower lip as he rewards him with a slow, subtle grind. The dancer eyes him approvingly, fingers skimming along his waist. Jongin leans in so impossibly close that Sehun feels his breath against his lips, but neither one of them makes that dive.

 

“You’ve got fans.” Jongin whispers, voice a bit tight. Sehun has noticed some eyes on him, but honestly he’s only got eyes for one person tonight.

 

He huffs back. “You’re one to talk.”

 

Guys and girls alike have been crawling up to Jongin’s side, trying to get his attention. Sehun can’t really blame them. He tries not to be upset or to worry that Jongin will eventually want to change partners. It helps that the dancer always finds a way to intercept those attempts, like snaking his arm around Sehun and smoothly whisking him away. The display of possessiveness effectively keeps anyone from trying to snatch either one of them from the other.

 

 

It’s a few hours after midnight when they get back to the apartment. Adrenaline fuels Sehun even as his entire body is icky and sore and begging for the comfort of a bed. He hears Jongin giggling as he toes off his shoes beside him in the doorway.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

Jongin steps past him and offers a hand. It’s strange because it’s just a half step up from where he’s standing and it’s not like he’s drunk or anything that he needs it; but Sehun finds himself taking it anyway. He can get used to holding Jongin’s hand, if he isn’t already.

 

“You.” He says simply and Sehun pouts, indignant. He opens his mouth to protest but Jongin shushes him by leaning in and pressing lips to his.

 

Sehun gasps, heart skipping almost painfully. There's a subtle quiver in the man's lips, tentative yet determined. Something about it tells Sehun that he's not the only one who's been thinking about this the whole night. The thought makes him smile into the kiss. Jongin seems to notice and he pulls back, just a hairsbreadth, his own mouth curving up at the edges. He steps closer, letting Sehun's hand go to skim fingers along the jut of his hipbones. Then he's diving back in. Sehun grips Jongin's arms, feeling the rip of muscles in his biceps, and it makes his knees weak.

 

Sehun inhales the remnant whiff of cigarette smoke, sweat, and subtle perfume. It's kind of unappealing, except he's probably not doing any better and he really can’t complain because Kim Jongin is kissing him right now. He honestly hasn’t done this in a while, and so he tilts his head just slightly and lets Jongin lead, willingly parting his lips wider when the dancer's tongue swipes at the small gap.

 

And then a blinding flash hits the back of his eyes out of nowhere. His head spins. His air passage is clogged, throat pinched tight, lungs clamoring for oxygen. His brain is shutting down. Everything feels weak. He's suffocating.

 

Sehun quickly pulls away, gasping loudly as his eyes flutter open, panicked. He takes another frantic breath, just to make sure that he can. The bizarre sensation lasts merely a second or two but it leaves him shaking all the way to his toes.

 

He hears Jongin calling his name; sees alarm in his eyes. He vaguely registers that the dancer is holding his hands again. For a second he just stares at Jongin’s face—at knitted brows, sharp eyes, kiss-swollen mouth.

 

And then he figures it out.

 

 

It feels like someone dealt him a strong blow to the stomach.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Sehun swallows.

 

“Yeah. Just tired.” He lies without hesitation, fighting the niggling urge to detach from Jongin completely. “I think I should go to bed.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Jongin says even as his eyes keep searching Sehun’s face.

 

Sehun doesn't mean to flinch when Jongin leans in. He sees hurt in the man’s eyes and guilt immediately claws at his chest. Jongin lets him go, but this time it’s Sehun who hangs on tighter. He plants a chaste kiss on Jongin’s mouth in apology.

 

“Good night.” He whispers against the dancer’s lips.

 

“Good night.” Jongin sighs faintly.

 

 

*

 

 

“That can’t be right.”

 

Sehun hears his own thoughts coming out of Chanyeol’s mouth. He doesn’t know how many times he’s repeated that same thing over and over in his mind, trying to convince himself of the truth in it.

 

He squirms in his perch on the floor, pulling his legs up to rest his chin on his knees.

 

“Look, you said you’re supposed to get visions the moment you meet...” Chanyeol hesitates. Sehun forlornly meets big, frantic eyes. The older man exhales, as if doing so will release the tension that has come to mount on his shoulders.

 

“I mean, you’ve known Jongin for months now. Shouldn’t you have gotten it a long time ago?”

 

“I don’t know, hyung.” He sounds so, so tired. “Maybe something changed. Or maybe it just came late. The elemental aptitude didn’t manifest until I was late in my teens, remember? Before then I had no idea I’d inherited the wind thing from my dad.”

 

Chanyeol puffs out another loud breath, slumping back on the cushion as he rakes a hand through his hair. He looks at Sehun sadly.

 

“Man, did you hit the genetic lottery jackpot or what?”

 

Sehun groans. His forehead lands on top of his knees none too gently. With a Red Flag Hybrid for a father and a seer for a mother, he really can’t argue. Just, why did he have to inherit both? Why did his parents have to go and become casualties of the Riot, and leave him with no one to tell him how this is supposed to work?

 

There was his uncle, of course, who had been a seer like his mother, but he didn’t leave Sehun with much in terms of know-how. All he’s come to learn is that for anyone with this ‘gift’, meeting the person who will have a hand in his or her own death will trigger the premonitions. It’s specific and irreversible, he had said.

 

“Maybe it’s not what you think?” Chanyeol offers, his conviction wobbly at best. “I mean, your uncle—when he got his vision, his trigger didn’t... hurt him. Right?”

 

Sehun’s lips press in a thin line.

 

His uncle. Lee Donghae used to work as a foreman at one of the smaller construction firms in the city. His trigger had been one of their clients. A haughty, middle-aged capitalist who was looking to expand his real estate business. His uncle Donghae had been a good man; but even the best of them crumble. He had not been the same ever since the first premonition hit. He spaced out a lot. Never really, truly smiled. Sehun remembers being scared because he almost couldn’t recognize his own uncle anymore. He was on his way home from school when he got a call from police. The client’s skull had been repeatedly clobbered with a large stone. His uncle had been detained.

 

“No, I don’t think so.” Sehun mutters, voice muted by the little cocoon of arms and legs donning washed out denim that he’s built around his face.

 

Chanyeol claps. “See! So maybe it doesn’t always turn out the way we think it does!”

 

Sehun is still hugging his knees when he looks up, movements heavy. His restless toes have taken to a relentless cycle of curling and uncurling again, snagging at the soft wool carpeting underneath.

 

“My uncle was on death row for years because of him. Or because of what my uncle did, but—” Sehun bites his lip, shaking his head. The thought that he might do something to hurt Jongin is even more unbearable.

 

Chanyeol’s shoulders sag, crestfallen. He slides off of the couch to join Sehun on the floor instead, taking the space on the carpet in front of him.

 

“I just can’t see how Jongin could possibly—” Chanyeol winces. Frustration shows in every bit of his features. Sehun would poke fun at how extremely expressive the man’s face is if he weren’t choking on the shards of his broken heart.

 

His head drops back on his knees, blunt bone ridges knocking against his skull, yet he doesn’t even flinch. He sounds as miserable as he feels as he shamelessly sobs into his own lap.

 

“I really, really like him, hyung.”

 

He feels Chanyeol’s hands clasp around his ankles, in lieu of giving him a hug, perhaps.

 

“I know.” He tells him somberly. “In fact, I think everyone knows.” This prompts a half-hearted snort out of Sehun and Chanyeol gives his feet a gentle shake.

 

Sehun straightens up listlessly. He rubs a hand over his face before carding it through his hair.

 

“What am I going to do?”

 

Just then the oven dings. Chanyeol gives his tousled hair a pat before shooting up on his feet.

 

“I really wish I knew, Sehunnie.” He admits regretfully, then adds over his shoulder, “If you want to stay here tonight, you can.”

 

Sehun takes a moment to ponder the offer. He hasn’t seen Jongin the whole day. No. He’s avoided him the whole day. He left the apartment ahead of Tao and Yifan that morning and rely when he’s sure that Jongin had already gone for dance training. In the afternoon, Sehun headed out before Jongin got back, leaving a note on the table that says he’ll be over at Chanyeol’s for a Suits marathon and to not wait up for him. He also has about three or four text messages from him sitting in his inbox unanswered.

 

“I think I should go back.” He replies, ultimately deciding that he’s done enough running for one day.

 

He hears a grunt of acknowledgement as he gets up to leave. It’s half an hour past midnight, according to the faux antique owl clock mounted on the wall. Jongin should be home by now. His stomach flips at the thought, and he’s not even sure anymore if it’s the good kind or not.

 

Sehun stops on his way to the front door when Chanyeol calls his name. The chef is plating Lasagna on the countertop. It smells divine and Sehun almost changes his mind about not staying over. Almost.

 

“I don’t really know about these premonitions,” Chanyeol begins, brows twitching with a hint of brewing conflict, like he wishes it weren’t the case, that he could do more. He rigidly props knuckles on the countertop. The usual zeal in his large eyes is reduced by so much that it leaves an unsettling feeling in the pit of Sehun’s abdomen. Admittedly he hasn’t given any thought to the possible implication of this turn of events for Chanyeol. It’s not every day your best friend barges into your home and tells you that he just had a foreshadowing of his own death.

 

Sehun opens his mouth to mutter an apology, but Chanyeol is already a step ahead.

 

“I do know that Jongin is a good guy, though,” he says. “Who knows, maybe it’s false alarm?” His grin is not as wide or as cheery as it should be, but it’s there. Sehun can only nod indulgently.

 

“Now come here and take this home with you.” The lanky chef waves a fork around the rest of the freshly baked pasta and Sehun does finally light up a little. Although he believes that his stomach is so knotted that anything he consumes right now will only give him indigestion, he draws comfort from the gesture anyway.

 

 

 

Summer is now in close pursuit but the tail end of spring still lends a subtle coolness to the air. Sehun tugs at the hem of his light jacket, pulling it a little bit tighter around his body, but leaves the zipper undone.

 

He thinks about Chanyeol’s words. He considers coming clean, too. Jongin will probably distance himself from him then. Sehun won’t have to avoid him or make lame excuses every time he pulls away. It’s a viable option, but one that leaves a very bad taste in his mouth. And what if Chanyeol is right? What if he drives Jongin away and it turns out to be false alarm?

 

Sehun hears the faint sound of the television when he pushes at the door. Suspecting that Jongin might still be awake, he steels himself as he slowly breaches the entrance. He gathers no sign of movement. He quietly pads closer, stopping only when he finally spots a head of deep brown hair shining under the flickering light. Jongin’s shoulders rise and fall in time with his steady breathing. He’s curled up on his side on the couch, fast asleep.

 

Sehun relaxes.

 

A paper bag carrying a sealed glass container of Lasagna is gingerly deposited on the coffee table as he circles the couch, careful not to jam his feet into anything lest he makes too much noise. He kneels on the floor, sitting on the heels of his feet, all the while never tearing his gaze away from the peaceful expression on Jongin’s face. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs begin to burn. It doesn’t go away even after he lets oxygen back in, though, and he thinks maybe it’s not his lungs. Maybe that’s not what’s hurting. He doesn’t dwell on it too much.

 

For a moment he contemplates staying like this a little longer; but in the end he decides to take pity on the the man’s poor back. Sehun reaches out a hand, hesitating only for a second.

 

“Jongin.” He gives the dancer’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Jongin, wake up.”

 

Jongin grumbles nasally, his nose pinching, making him look and sound like a toddler. Eyelids heavy, he squints against the bright lights. At first, he looks rather miffed about being roused. But then he sees who has woken him and he starts.

 

“You’re home.” He says blearily, voice thick with sleep, as he rubs at his eyes. “What time is it?”

 

“Almost one in the morning.” Sehun answers guiltily and then proceeds to cluck his tongue in disapproval. “I told you not to wait up.”

 

Jongin sputters as he pushes himself into sitting position, considerably more awake now. “I didn’t. I... was just... I was watching TV.”

 

There’s a telltale blush dusting the man’s cheeks even as he denies it and Sehun fails to hold back his amusement.

 

“If you say so,” he drawls, sounding entirely unconvinced, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he asks: “Have you had dinner?”

 

“Have you?” Jongin’s voice comes out choked as he stretches both arms above his head, as far as they can go.

 

Sehun shoots him a look. “I was at Chanyeol’s.” He points out dryly. Nobody ever leaves Chanyeol’s place without being fed.

 

“Right,” he chuckles, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s really, terribly cute, Sehun thinks sorrowfully.

 

There’s a pregnant pause as Jongin peers at him with curiosity, with lidded eyes alight with apprehension. He can’t tell if it’s because there’s something he wants to say, or because there’s something he’s waiting to hear. Perhaps both.

 

Sehun quickly gets on his feet, slipping out from under the dancer’s scrutiny when it proves too unnerving.

 

“Chanyeol-hyung made Lasagna. Do you want some?”

 

Jongin blinks, apparently still not awake enough to keep up with sudden transitions. He doesn’t exactly look particularly interested in food, but he nods anyway.

 

“Sure.”

 

Sehun takes the paper bag to the kitchen with Jongin at his heels. He can feel the dancer’s eyes on him as he collects plates and utensils from the dish rack. It’s difficult to ignore and yet that’s exactly what he does. He cuts himself a serving of Lasagna, willing the shaking of his hands to stop, but it isn't easy when Jongin is watching him so intently.

 

“Sehun, are we okay?”

 

He hears it, just barely, over the pulse drumming impossibly loud in his ears. But he does hear it, and he freezes.

 

“Are we?” Jongin presses reverently, carefully, like they’re on the verge of exploding. In a way, Sehun thinks, they probably are.

 

Sehun finally gets the guts to look up, catches the lump in the dancer’s throat bob as he swallows. Jongin waits, lips pressing tightly. The anguish in his eyes bores into Sehun’s heart and he wonders for a second if Jongin can see it on him, too.

 

Maybe he got it wrong? Maybe Chanyeol is right? Maybe it’s false alarm? Maybe it’s okay? But what if it’s not?

 

Clashing thoughts race in his mind, again and again until they’re overlapping, running each other over, and nothing’s making sense except the fact that Jongin is so, very close to slipping through his fingers. Now that—that is the one ugly thought that sticks, and it surprises him just how much he abhors it.

 

The fork falls on the plate with a loud clunk. In the same second Sehun leaves his seat, pushing the chair back so abruptly it could have tipped over. The noise of wood scraping against wood pierces through the static and grates at Sehun’s ears, but at this point he doesn’t even care. Jongin’s eyes are blown-out, stunned. They follow Sehun’s movements as he flits to Jongin's side, accidentally nudging the table back a centimeter in his haste.

 

Sehun reaches down, taking each shoulder in a firm grip. He raises one leg over Jongin’s knees, straddling his thighs, and carefully lowers himself on his lap. Jongin automatically catches him around the waist the moment he moves in. Sehun doesn't break eye contact once, not even as he feels the tips of his ears blaze. He's never been this bold around Jongin before; but he must admit that the awe-struck look he put on the man’s face is very rewarding.

 

“We’re okay,” he answers softly, and he means it. For how long, he doesn’t know. But just for now, yes, they’re okay.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Dude, you have a lapful of me right now. What do you think?”

 

For a second Jongin simply searches his expression without a word, fingers pressing below Sehun’s waist. And then slowly, slowly the brightest smile blooms on his face.

 

Sehun puts up no fight when the dancer holds the back of his neck and tugs him down. Jongin kisses the way spring raps on the doors of winter; thaws everything that's frozen and breaks the dull monotony with a myriad of colors sprouting from the earth. Burning hands slip under Sehun’s shirt. His heart pounds as they slide up his sides, skittering all the way around the dip of his back, soaking his skin with heat wherever they trail. Sehun’s body archs as he involuntarily moans around Jongin's tongue—

 

—and then he tastes nothing but wisps of smoke.

 

Without anything to hold Sehun's weight, he falls and tumbles off the chair with a squeak.

 

“What the fu—” He grimaces, leaning away from the side of his that caught his landing.

 

In the background, he catches a dull thud. Then a yelp of pain, followed by a hiss and a string of muted expletives. He whips around in the direction of the sound and laughs when he realizes where it's coming from.

 

Pushing up from the floor, he scuttles to Jongin's bedroom. Sure enough, he finds the dancer standing beside the bed, cradling his lower back as he bends backward to stretch it. Sehun snickers, startling Jongin who gives a miniscule jump. He can tell that Jongin teleported by accident, out of pure instinct, by the way he’s looking at him like a rabbit caught in headlights. Something like this very rarely happens when he’s fully awake. He’s always had pretty good control over himself—and that is why Sehun finds himself with a smirk on his face.

 

“So,” Sehun leans against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, and teases. “Bedroom? Really?” He’s feeling a lot bolder now so he adds: "This is where you want to be the most?"

 

Jongin glares at him and admits, equally cheeky. “The bed, actually—”

 

The answer catches Sehun off guard. He flushes a bright pink, but he’s not backing down now.

 

“You couldn't be more creative?” He taunts, mouth curling in a sneer. “I mean, earlier, on the chair—that might have been fun.”

 

It’s Jongin’s turn to look surprised now, but it fades away quickly. He an eyebrow, daring, like he knows he’s flirting with fire and he doesn’t mind getting burned. Sehun’s gaze travels down to his plump mouth. It curves up at one side, lower lip caught between teeth. Paired up with the glint of danger in his eyes, Sehun feels his legs turn to jelly.

 

Jongin moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s leaning back on his hands as he lazily extends long legs forward, ankles hooking on the carpeted floor. He tips his head slightly to one side, hooded eyes inviting his prey. Sehun spies a growing tent in the dancer’s pants and he reminds himself to breathe.

 

“More like uncomfortable. But we can test that theory later, if you want,” offers Jongin, voice low and gravelly.

 

Sehun hums, schooling his features into his default look of boredom.

 

“I think you need to work on your landing, though.”

 

“Oh my God, will you shut up and come here already?” Jongin whines, eyes rolling, annoyed, but not without a lilt of amusement in his tone.

 

Chuckling, Sehun happily obeys.

 

 

*

 

 

A splash of white assaults Sehun’s vision through what little crack he somehow creates with heavy eyelids. He senses something pinning one of his hands down. If the pressure of it hurts, he doesn’t notice it over the tight compression in his air passage. His breathing is labored and painful as he feels energy drain from his fingertips. His mind is calm even though his brain squeezes, lungs begging for more oxygen, but his heart is too weak to deliver. One full breath is all he can manage. And then his heart stops.

 

Sehun jolts awake with a violent gasp. He’s rapidly blinking against the darkness, hands instinctively clenching soft, cotton bed sheets. He struggles to catch his breath, feels sweat bead his forehead. He tries to calm himself down, but fear springs from his very core and racks his entire body. That was worse than the first.

 

Sehun catches a faint, sleepy, grumbling sound. A slight shift in the dip of the pillow. Warmth presses against his back, arms tightening around his abdomen, reeling him into the present. Jongin.

 

Sehun swallows down a rock trapped in his throat. He pales, squeezing his eyes shut, as his heart plummets to his feet.

 

He wasn’t wrong; Chanyeol was. It wasn’t false alarm the first time. And it’s not okay.