Work Text:
He can’t stand it. Saeran can’t stand one more day of his stupid boyfriend looking like a kicked puppy. He can’t stand one more day of beer can pyramids and empty cigarette packages. One more day of sad songs and sadder movies and his boyfriend in sweatpants stretched out on his ancient sofa with a maybe later.
Saeran has only just figured out how to handle the highs and lows of his own moods, he can’t be trusted with someone else’s. Especially not Zens. Zen was supposed to be irritatingly bright at all times. Zen was supposed to be boundless energy, and wide smiles, and terrible mushy sentiments. Saeran was supposed to be the sad lump on the couch with the monosyllabic replies.
Zen had been off since the papers had started picking up the rumours about his recent show, and then the director had said some questionable things. Then ticket sales had all but dropped off and opening night had flopped and production had decided to cut their losses and end it there.
Zen had blamed himself. Saeran isn’t sure how to handle this. Zen blaming himself, slowly spiralling, is this how they felt about him when things got bad? Did other people worry about him the way he was worrying about Zen?
He’s not good at this. Not good at cheering himself up let alone someone he cares about but he’s trying. He tries to remember the things Zen does for him, so the first thing he tries is putting on a movie. Saeran isn’t exactly sure how this works, he decides on something awful, an old b-horror film. He hopes criticising the shitty acting will cheer his boyfriend up. Saeran shimmies himself up behind Zen’s knees and pulls Zen’s arm over his shoulder so he can rest his head against his boyfriend’s chest. He makes a few snide comments hoping for a reaction but the most he gets is a shrug and a quiet “huh.”
This was a stupid idea.
He tries seduction next. It was admittedly not his strong suit, not when compared to Zen. Saeran’s usual attempts at it were rough, aggressive even, and Zen had never complained but those tactics seemed out of place in the current situation.
He’s nervous, Zen always seems to just know when he can be fucked into a better mood but he’s not so sure. Trying to emulate his boyfriend’s techniques is nerve-wracking on it’s own but Zen already looks so dejected he can’t fall back on his usual insults and barking orders to get him in the bedroom.
He misses his chance when Zen gets up suddenly and goes to bed but he doesn’t give up. He wakes up early, he always does and waits. When he feels Zen roll over on his side and check his phone out of habit Saeran mimics the motion.
He wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s waist and presses soft kisses down his long neck, letting out a little appreciative hum, trying to mimic Zen’s mannerisms, the sounds that make him weak in the knees. “Are you going for a run?”
He knows he isn’t, Zen hasn’t even gone for a walk to the food truck in a week.
“What’s the point,” Zen says, but there’s a soft satisfied sigh as Saeran’s hands dip lower and his teeth scrape against flesh.
He thinks it’s working when the actor rolls onto his back. He wraps one leg around Zen’s and covers his mouth in an urgent kiss as he grinds against his thigh. If he can just show him how much he needs him maybe he’ll get the fuck over this.
And for a moment strong arms wrap around him, pull him closer, drag him up and over. Lips crash against his, fingers dig into his hips and then. “Sorry,” Zen whispers gently pushing him away. “Sorry, Babe, I’m uh, I’m going to take a shower.”
Saeran groans, dejected, grits his teeth. That hadn’t worked the way he’d hoped, but at least Zen was taking a shower. It was a step in the right direction.
He tries cooking for him. Saeran likes to cook and Zen likes to help. So Saeran grabs his helmet and the keys to his boyfriends bike and takes himself to the grocery store. He’d never admit it but it’s not the freedom or the danger of the motorcycle he likes so much as the way Zen’s fan’s recognize it. The sadist in him loves the way they see the bike, and the hint of white hair behind the full helmet and that look of hope being crushed when he takes it off.
Zen doesn’t even hold the door when he brings full saddlebags worth of groceries inside.
He hopes that cooking something easy but elaborate will guilt Zen into the kitchen. It usually works. Saeran likes to cook, he doesn’t mind doing it all alone but he also likes that his boyfriend feels guilty when he does and tries to help. Zen isn’t useless in the kitchen but Saeran took cooking classes in rehab, and spent endless afternoons watching nothing but cooking shows.
He likes that Zen’s competitive, even with stupid things like cutting vegetables. He watches Zen’s eyes on him from the couch and purposely does the worst job he can julienning some carrots, hoping he can spark that. Hoping Zen will push himself up and take the knife from him and whisper “let me do that, Babe.”
But all he gets is a raised eyebrow.
At least Zen actually sits at the table to eat that night.
Saeran tries more things, he tries to get him to dance, first to something light and pop-y that he’d never admit to anyone else he likes, then to something soft and slow, but Zen doesn’t budge from his place on the couch. Except for beer and cigarettes.
He tries to get him on his bike, offers to pack some sandwiches and drinks, they could go to that spot in the mountain, have a picnic. He thinks if he can get him up there he might feel better, and if he didn’t he could maybe try seduction again. Zen had always been a bit of an exhibitionist.
But he shakes his head and points to the start of another pyramid of empties.
After another few days Saeran is ready to give up. God damned was he this infuriating? Why does anyone still talk to him? He hates to do it, hates to admit defeat and hates even more that this is the only thing he can think of now but he resigns himself. It’s fucking true love I guess, he thinks as he dials his phone.
A few hours later he’s throwing clothing at Zen when the door slams open.
“Duh dunna, duhhh,” his brother sings triumphantly. Yoosung not far behind him.
“I don’t really feel like doing anything right now guys,” Zen mumbles and Saeran’s heart sinks a little at the hint of a glare pointed in his direction.
“Too bad so sad,” Seven smirks bounding towards the couch and tugging Zen’s day three depression session shirt over his head.
Zen pulls away, very aware that he hasn’t showered since Saeran’s failed attempt at seduction, very aware that he’s been wearing these clothes for days. Very aware that he doesn’t smell anywhere close to good. He gather’s up the clothing Saeran has been tossing at him and mumbles something about giving him a fucking minute before he disappears.
“Is he going to come back out?” Yoosung whispers.
“Don’t worry cutie,” Seven chirps, “if he locks himself in his room the Choi twins can pick the lock. We’ll make him have fun whether he likes it or not!”
They don’t have to employ any of their less savoury skills.
When Zen comes out, dressed in the clothing Saeran had picked out, showered and shaved and looking like himself for the first time in two weeks Saeran can feel his heart soar. He knows it’s a show, knows it’s an act because Zen is a creature of pride who can’t let Yoosung or Seven see just how far he’s fallen. But even that fake smile tossed in their direction makes him weak after a desert of sullen frowns.
Zen isn’t happy. Saeran is thankful for his brother’s cars, thankful for his brother’s perfected art of pretending to drink a beer that keeps him sober and free from harassment. Thankful for the distraction of actual drunk baby Yoosung Kim. Thankful that even these two idiots can see how bad it is when Zen won’t even sing at a karaoke bar.
Zen sits at the booth they’ve claimed, fake smile plastered on his face while they watch Yoosung go from cute to sloppy and Saeran hates that it’s come to this. He hates what he’s about to do. It’s one thing, alone in the bunker or alone in Zen’s little apartment, it’s close sitting under the trees at Zen’s spot in the mountains or on the roof of his building, but people are watching here.
Still he finishes his drink, spares a withering glance at his boyfriend and steels himself as he walks up to look examine his options. It’s a last ditch effort and if it doesn’t work— he’s not going to think about that.
The DJ gives him a look but Saeran inclines his head towards the booth where his brother, his best friend and his boyfriend all sit. He doesn’t take his eyes off the table as he steps up to the microphone, taking in his brother’s smirk, Yoosung’s look of amused shock, and Zen’s—
Zen has leaned forward, elbows on the table, glass empty. He’s watching Saeran with his eyebrows knit together and a look Saeran can’t quite place. He’s thankful for the lengthy instrumental lead in as he tries to interpret that look, but it’s not long enough.
Words pop up on the screen and Saeran’s face feels hot as he starts to belt out the duet, hoping against hope that his boyfriend gets the idea. But Zen just sits there. So long that Saeran squeezes his eyes shut, he knows this song by heart, the two of them sing it while they’re cooking sometimes. Zen sings it to him to cheer him up sometimes, taking him by the hand and—
Fingers dig into his clenched fist and he can hear a familiar voice join his, and—a round of scattered applause? Yoosung whooping and his brother’s shrill whistle.
Zen is standing beside him, holding his hand and smiling. The first genuine smile he’s seen in a week at least. That big hand giving his a reassuring squeeze. Earnest garnet eyes looking at him fondly with something like thanks in the quirk of his eyebrow.
When the song is over the crowd cheers for them in earnest and Zen gives his hand a little tug that pulls him off balance, causing another series of whoops and whistles from their booth in the back as they step off the stage.
“I’m sorry,” Zen says as softly as he can given the circumstances, “you must have been worried to do that.”
Saeran can’t help the stupid grin on his face as Zen’s fingers twitch against his palms and he thumbs through the catalogue of songs.
Can’t help the stupid grin he has all night even as they get progressively drunker and Zen’s song choices get progressively more sappy and disgusting. He can’t even make excuses for the goofy smile while Zen peppers sloppy kisses up his throat in the backseat of his brother’s car while Seven makes eyebrows at him in the rear-view mirror.
“Feeling better,” He chuckles when the door closes behind them and Zen has him pressed against it, nimble fingers clumsy from drink.
“Seem to remember,” Zen slurs against his neck as his jacket falls to the floor, “that I might have left my Jagi in unfit state a few days ago.”
Saeran doesn’t fight being lifted, as soft lips press against his, he tangles his fingers in his boyfriends hair, pulling the stupid ribbon out and tossing it to the side as he wraps his legs tight around his boyfriends waist.
This might have been the single most embarrassing night of his life, but the promises being whispered in his ear as Zen carries him into the bedroom make it worth it.