Work Text:
The gray hoodie Doyoung loved still hangs by the end of the sofa, untouched for the longest time. The yellow light of the torchiere beside it is flickering, so Taeyong turns it off before heading out after keeping to himself in his apartment for the last two weeks.
Taeyong hasn’t seen Doyoung in just about the same time, a few days more than the usual space Doyoung takes whenever they fight. It weighs heavily in Taeyong’s gut, knowing it was him who fucked up this time. He wants to deny that he’s been counting how many days it has been—but how could he, when a day more of Doyoung’s absence pulls him an inch closer to believing he’s had enough? That what happened was the last straw, five years’ worth of relationship be damned.
Fighting and temporary splits have been a common occurrence in their relationship. Both of them know it shouldn’t be, but they manage to always reconcile either through compromise or negotiation. It was a matter of overwriting the sharp words that left their lips when they fought with a fully curated set of apologies to let it seem like the wound wasn’t even that deep.
Leaving is not a new response, either. Taeyong doesn’t even ask where Doyoung goes when he disappears. He has his own place, after all. And sometimes, they just needed space—away from each other—to breathe. It was tolerable at first because of the trust that they’re both adults, responsible enough not to do something stupid or uncharacteristic while on a break. Later on however, escaping after an argument developed into pettiness to not make the other think that they still cared greatly.
He’ll come around when he’s ready. Doyoung always comes back.
A sad tinge of blue colors the sky as the sun sets behind the buildings in the neighborhood. Somehow, the shade of it reminds him of the rose Doyoung once gave him, saying it reminded him of Taeyong while he passed by it on his way home. He didn’t want to ask why before, because Doyoung isn’t really a man of little gestures like this. Taeyong did not want to scare him over his enthusiasm of oh you think of me. No, not when Doyoung was still just warming up to their current change in status as boyfriend-boyfriends. But now, given the circumstances, given the absence and the ambiguity of what is to come, he wants to ask why—why a rose? Why blue? Why love me?
Taeyong’s eyes are having a hard time adjusting to the approaching darkness, but he’s long memorized his way home now. The disconnect he bears feels grave, like he's floating and he's watching himself continue aimlessly. It's difficult, especially when he walks this route almost every day with Doyoung. And if he’s going to be honest, the silence lets his mind drift, thankful for the muscle memory in finding his way home.
The six-pack of beer Taeyong is holding rattles a bit when he spots Doyoung in front of his apartment. He wishes to hide somewhere, together with the box of pizza clutched in his other hand. He didn't want to look ridiculous, especially not when his eyes are pink and puffy from crying himself to sleep in the daybreak this morning. He drags a breath, waiting for his mind to conjure a plan or a speech, anything really. The prospect to hug him tight and kiss him right there is appealing, but so is acting frigid to resemble a sense of maturity.
The light in the doorway shuts when Doyoung doesn’t move for a while. He's standing in front of the doorbell, concentrating on staring at it as if it offended him in some way.
Doyoung's presence is a tad unexpected today--it's a weekday and it's a peak hour. If he's come here now, he must have gotten off of work early or skipped it altogether. It's unthinkable, or just plain unbelievable, that Taeyong's heart trembles at the thought that maybe Doyoung's as miserable as him, choosing not to continue on with the days without seeing him. But how could he be if he's so achingly beautiful, standing in a pair of fit black slacks and a grey button-down, hand resting on his tiny waist while the other pushes his hair back from falling to his forehead?
It's a familiar sight, he thinks, seeing him this intense. It's easy to doubt his next step but the craving to talk to him again after a century wins. Doyoung’s presence has always been a wavering chance, but surely it is something he’s always been eager for.
It's self-inflicting, the exhausting push and pull between his mind and his heart. Taeyong is sure Doyoung feels the swing too. Though he’d hate for Doyoung to know he’s very much welcome again, back in his arms, especially if the reality that they’ve hurt themselves in the course of their relationship lingers, as it has surely strained both of their lives. Separate or together.
Yet still, Taeyong believes he should still try.
Doyoung visibly startles when the light turns on once more after it sensed the movement Doyoung wasn’t keen enough to notice. Taeyong draws nearer, curious and a bit happy about his (ex) boyfriend’s return.
“You don’t have to ring it, you know. You can just enter. You know the passcode.” Taeyong lets out a small laugh that sounds too constrained. He’s never felt so trapped in a situation before, especially with someone he loves and hates at the same time.
The tension in Doyoung’s shoulders eases when he speaks. “I… didn’t know whether you were home or not.” The sigh he lets out weighs more dejected rather than annoyed.
The formality in his voice plays bitterly in Taeyong’s mind. Sure, they’ve broken up, and he was wretched thinking about it for the past days, but Taeyong didn’t really think it was the end. He fucked up, but he’s sure he’s fucked up way worse before as compared to the recent one. They'd get over this one too.
They have a routine. Doyoung goes back in the house, they make out; they make up, and then all is well. It is a routine Taeyong didn’t want to get used to, but tonight he wishes for it to unfold once again, and maybe there is a tiny promise in his head that he will not fuck up anymore. Not again. If that means he gets to keep Doyoung for the rest of their lives.
Him needing Taeyong’s permission to enter what both of them considered their home terrifies him though. It's like he’s implying that he doesn’t consider himself a part of it anymore. Taeyong moves past Doyoung to open the door, pressing the key code lightly on the pad. The frown on his face remains unseen. He regrets reading into this exchange further.
“You could have called?” Taeyong asks, the uncertainty in his voice hidden by the creak of the door’s opening. He places the beer beside the shoe rack and fishes his phone from his pocket. There are two missed calls from Doyoung. “Oh, sorry. My phone was on silent.”
The other man remains where he stood, his gaze drifting lower.
“Doyoung?” Taeyong calls, fighting himself hard not to break into a sob as he utters the one name he’s been saying all these years. He relives the night he last said it: It was after dinner and Taeyong said something horrible, something almost unforgivable. He hears himself say Doyoung’s name in detest, shifting the argument back as if it was Doyoung who was in the wrong in the first place. Taeyong didn’t want Doyoung to misunderstand his point, but it’s not like he said anything to help him not to. If there was anything he did, it was to provoke him further, sending Doyoung into the brink of a break-up they both knew was coming.
He was mad—both when he last said Doyoung’s name and now that he is saying it again. Though it’d be outrageous if he denies that at both times, he was just mad at himself.
Taeyong glances back at Doyoung after disposing of the pizza on the top of the table. Doyoung looks hurt, like he’s about to do something he knew he’d regret. And even if Taeyong stopped himself earlier for reading too much into it, he still favors himself in the tortuous process of trying to unmask what’s underneath his ex’s gloom.
Doyoung moves forward, placing himself just in front of the shoe rack. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, like it was the first time he’s been inside the house. And it pains Taeyong to think how he fits in all the pieces--the spaces specifically occupied by him--and about how the night could end perhaps differently from what he had imagined at first.
“Do you have someone coming over?” Doyoung asks in an attempt for small talk as he eyes the cans of beer and the pizza on the table. He removes his shoes, a good sign that he’ll stay.
Taeyong pulls his jacket off, revealing a white shirt too big for him. “Uh, no, not really. It’s sad food.” Taeyong winces at his words, knowing full well that Doyoung has long memorized his mood based on what he calls his sustenance. Doyoung pouts at him with eyes almost deep-set black, concern undeniably clouding his gaze.
Maybe it was the mere sight of him that made Taeyong practically run to him and cradle his face before clashing their lips together. Maybe it was the two-week break. Maybe it was the distance from each other and the amount of courage it took for them to talk or meet again; or even slightly acknowledge each other.
He doesn’t want to appear desperate, but he misses him so so much. He misses Doyoung’s voice, Doyoung’s cheeks, Doyoung’s limbs all over his body. His hands all over his body. God, he craves for his touch, his lips on his, his cock in him, and he needs—he needs Doyoung in his house, his small bed, his fucking kitchen, or even in his stupid bathroom. He doesn’t need him in the doorway; he doesn’t want him there.
So he pulls him closer, the nape becoming an anchor to what was left of them, as if he’s trying not to let him slip away again.
He leads them to the bedroom and presses Doyoung up against its door. He moans Taeyong’s name as Taeyong kisses his ear, tongue playing wildly while his fingers rashly unbutton Doyoung’s dress shirt. He is almost done with two more buttons left when Doyoung pushes him, head tilted upwards and gasping for air.
“No. No more, Taeyong. No more.” Doyoung is looking up at the ceiling, still catching his breath. It is deafening how his moans turn into angry exhales. His chest is a bit exposed, showing his collarbones. Taeyong’s mind almost short-circuits at the image before him, if it only weren’t for the streak of tears that glistened from Doyoung’s left side that he decides to be more delicate.
Taeyong chooses not to speak. Fuck it, he doesn’t even know if he can. He knows he’d break down if he does, especially when his mistakes come flashing in his head burning in colors, like its some film he never liked watching but he's required to. Fault after fault after fault in all the years they were together, piercing through his chest, breaking the heart of the kind eyes in his mind that Doyoung has always given him whenever he accepts him back. Doyoung’s shortcomings are easy and they always resolved it with such patience and grace and even if it hurt Taeyong too, he knew he deserved it because of all the hurt he’s allowed Doyoung to feel.
Taeyong comes closer to him, hands finishing what’s left of the buttons. His eyes are softer now. Long gone is the urgency of having Doyoung back. Taeyong's faith wavers. Not the first time today but agonizing, nonetheless. He should savor everything in this moment. Regret is something he can't afford now, not with the time he doesn't even know if he has. The future seems so bleak, even with the assurance in all the other aspects of Taeyong's life; what use is it if that future holds no Doyoung with him?
Doyoung's height positions Taeyong in the right position to beg for his attention. His eyes found Doyoung's after he's tried so hard not to make eye contact in the effort to suppress his tears. The small height difference gives him the advantage really—even if it has become a subject of teasing and bickering in their relationship just because Taeyong is older—because he sees Doyoung’s scar near his lips, an imperfection he thinks is oh so perfect on Doyoung. He gets to enjoy and spoil his soft spot too, kissing him just beneath the jaw.
As Taeyong kisses him on the lips again, slowly this time, less bold and more loving, he feels Doyoung’s hand on the small of his back, letting go of the tension he has gathered in the parts of his body Taeyong knows too well. It feels like a small win, really, as he doesn't seem to protest anymore.
The taller cards Taeyong’s hair away from his forehead, his hair has definitely grown longer than the last time they saw each other. The sincerity and intimacy of the act earns him a wail—of heartache or of relief, Taeyong doesn’t dare place it yet.
They move slowly, like they were taking time. It is a slow dance to the bed, hands busy with taking everything off. The fluorescent light from the street filters through the blinds of the bedroom window. It blinks from time to time, possibly from the length of its service or from the fatigue of too much brightness. Taeyong almost wants to look outside as a familiarity creeps in his skin. Like it was some joke that his own mind is playing on him.
In essence, Doyoung's and his relationship is a lot like that light bulb—either it shone too brightly that it wore out, or it exerted itself for such a long time that it just resorted to blinking. Maybe furiously, maybe dimming gradually. Who knows? No matter which route, no matter how many times it switches on or off, in the end, it dies.
Their love will die.
Doyoung wipes the tears in Taeyong’s eyes. Tears he had not realize were streaming down his face. Doyoung takes this opportunity to switch their positions, Doyoung now hovers over him. The courage in Doyoung’s actions excites Taeyong as he feels hope building up again: Doyoung is taking control of their current disposition. It is all what it should be—Doyoung on top and Taeyong on the receiving end. It is Doyoung who deserves more, after all.
The kisses on Taeyong's cheeks are firm and warm—it's light on his eyes, lingering on his forehead, and short-lived on his nose. It's sweet, these little pecks. And it makes Taeyong's heart bloom in tenderness. Taeyong feels butterfly kisses all around him and he basks in it, like something will take Doyoung away from him once he stops appreciating.
Finally, Taeyong catches on that they’re going back to what normally happens after a split: the hello, the fucking, and the sorry that follows.
He promises himself as he traces Doyoung's broad shoulders: no more fighting and no more going away. No more blaming each other and no more sulking even though they knew it was the other who was at fault. He wants what he has right now, for all his life.
The kisses trail downwards and Taeyong couldn't help but breathe heavily, totally blissed out by the ecstasy of their sex. He adjusts himself, propping up near the headboard to have a better access on the lube in their bedside table, almost knocking off the lamp which bulb has burned out for a few months already. They didn’t replace it with another one; they like the darkness anyway--especially when they try to figure out each other as they do most nights, despite dating for five years or so.
Taeyong pulls Doyoung up, kissing him slowly again. Lips warm and soft, like the waiting made them both fonder of each other. He will never tire of these moments with him, especially with the sounds both of them make. It will always be a new experience, a new discovery waiting to be explored.
“Doyoung, baby, I’m really sorry.”
It doesn’t elicit a response, but he kisses, he kisses still, anyway.
Doyoung finds his way to insert a finger coated in lube in Taeyong’s entrance. The room is warm now, with their ragged breaths filling the room. “Fuck, fuck. Doyoung I missed you, fuck.” Taeyong gushes. Another finger makes its way, stretching Taeyong. The pleasure overwhelms him. “Don’t,” Taeyong heaves. “Don’t leave me again, ever.”
As Taeyong’s rim loosens in surrounding Doyoung’s fingers, Doyoung bends down. He sucks Taeyong’s length for a few quick back and forths, before he slides his own cock in Taeyong's entrance. Doyoung pauses for a moment breath hot and lewd in Taeyong's ears. He is aware of the adjustment time both of them need to maximize the pleasure both of them will feel in a matter of a few more seconds.
Taeyong wants to burn this in his memory—Doyoung on top of him and in control, focused like he’s the only one that matters in the world. Pleasure fresh and hot in their skin and in their veins, the world spins as Doyoung pounds into him softly and carefully, like they’re on their honeymoon, passionate and in love. Doyoung pulls Taeyong's right leg up and angles it to above his shoulder, easing the movement into a more satisfying push and pull.
The moans are plenty and are a good enough source of elation. Taeyong was never shy. He likes Doyoung to hear him—pet names, praises, and declarations, because it has only proven to rile Doyoung up. Doyoung touches him, pumping his hard dick more than a few times, and then he was coming over his own stomach. Doyoung grabs onto his shoulders, plants his nails on his skin, and exerts effort, movement harder than the last.
He comes too, whispering Taeyong’s name in his ears. It sounds more like a sob than contentment, and it's painfully familiar. They’ve done this more than a hundred times, in whatever surface is available in his or Doyoung’s apartment, but unlike before where it felt like he was coming home, this time felt more like he was finally leaving.
They were both still panting, satisfied with how the night went, when Taeyong breaks the silence. “I love you.”
Doyoung gets up, declarations of love forgotten as he takes a towel on their nightstand, wets it with a few drops of water in the bathroom outside, and cleans Taeyong with sincerity in his eyes. Not using a condom meant more responsibility after, but Taeyong likes it, the aftercare. It makes him feel special and loved and taken care of as he always is, he might have just taken it for granted before.
He likes the feeling.
And perhaps it is this very same realization that makes Taeyong understand he can’t have it. Yet still, he hopes.
Tomorrow is a new day, after all.
The new day greets Taeyong. The noisy birds resting on the fluorescent lamp post woke him up, urging him to start anew. He extends his arm, looking forward to a warm body beside him. A morning cuddle can never go wrong, as proven by his past experiences with Doyoung. The one and only, Doyoung.
What transpired last night was something special, after all. They have not taken it slow in so long. It was refreshing, invigorating even, save for all the heavy feelings he’s yet to process throughout the day.
He opens his eyes to confirm that no one is there. That the cold space on the bed wasn’t an imagination brought about by his own distrust to a hopeful, hazy morning. He gets up, explores out of the room, and finds the grey hoodie gone on the sofa.
Gone are the smallest things too—Doyoung’s ID picture on the door of the fridge, his favorite eco bag for the groceries, and his mug, the one that says “Taeyong’s dearest.” Even the post-it saying, “Dinner date at The Table at 7 on Friday?” was thrown on the trash can beside it. The clothes, the shoes, every trace of him is gone. Taeyong appreciates the effort, really, of baring his home of anything that might remind Taeyong of him. But it’s not like, it contributes to his moving on, anyway. He laughs at the thought, thinking how dumb Doyoung must be to think that the traces he made in his life would go so easily just like that. With him, it is never just like that.
Memories don’t fade in a day. It lingers, oh and it lingers in the good spaces and the bad ones.
Taeyong could see Doyoung in the kitchen, trying to bake something out of flour, sugar, and milk, as he forces Taeyong to buy some eggs. He could see him on the sofa, brows furrowed as he fixates on that one error in his Excel sheet, forgetting about lunch and dinner altogether. Taeyong could feel his chest tighten as he couldn't try and imagine watching their favorite TV series without him. There's also this one time they fought in front of the fridge, culminating with opening the refrigerator doors and staying there in the cool air it breathes “to let some steam off.” They laughed it off after a while. He also remembers the time he locked himself in the bathroom, when he couldn’t figure out why they were still together, stuck in a cycle of on and off and on and off and the fucking stop it already.
It was never about the tangible things, really. Not the hoodie, not the pictures, not the mug.
It was the warmth of his hugs, the friendship he's offered and given without any expectations for anything in exchange. It was the kindness in his smile, the support he's shown everyday to him and to their friends. The love he has for his family and the love he chose to let Taeyong feel.
It was how they shine and fade—a light bulb illuminating a dark, somber phase in their lives. Doyoung and Taeyong were once the greatest, most brilliant, and wonderful idea after all. They were together during their graduations, promotions, and job offers. They were there in each exam failure, interview rejection, and career missteps. It was a ‘You and Me’ against the world kind of trope but it still… it still dies out.
Taeyong sighs in resignation, the realization hitting him straight to the gut. He blinks, tears falling on the sides of his cheeks; inconsiderate of how much he’s already cried about the only man he’s ever loved in his life.
He’s never coming back.
He knows he’ll think about them--the two of them together--god, he’ll always think about them.
But he has to let go.
He regrets a lot of things, for sure. But he would never wish for the time to turn back. It wasn’t the timing they had wrong anyway—the timing was perfect, even in the eyes of their family and friends: university friends, one year apart, different but complementary fields of work, and looks that could make anyone jealous.
It was their own selves. It was the heat.
For them to have shone so brightly, they needed all the heat they could get. It has gotten too hot, too used. Sometimes the opposite. Sometimes, nothing at all. And that’s both of their faults. Taeyong understands, maybe not all of it for now, but he knows in time he will.
As he stares at the sofa where the hoodie used to be on, he finally accepts it’s time to let go.
He turns on the lamp in the living room, and it’s not flickering anymore. It’s bright and yellow and it shines like it’s new.
Doyoung must have changed the light bulb before he left.