Work Text:
Where the current scene is set, it is exactly one week until Christmas.
But in the alley of town houses glued to one another, with identical red bricks, window frames and yellow wooden doors, in a house numbered 59, the mood is still, time has stopped.
Jeno sits on one of the stools alone in the kitchen as the usual suspect at 2 in the morning, he stares at the blinking cursor for a long moment; disbelieving bloodshot eyes move from his laptop to the ticking clock and then to the gurgling fridge. Eyes scanning words that lead to one last ellipsis. He closes the file. Opens it again. His little open ending with a dot-dot-dot is still present. There’s laughter somewhere far away outside and by the time Jeno can calmly relocate himself in space, he’s already jogging through an endless street of student houses with unlaced sneakers and an ink stained hoodie.
Jeno’s big grand and heartbreakingly sad love story that has become his identity in uni for the last couple of years. He writes, that’s what he does. Every time, his scenes would turn longer than the night before almost on purpose, his fingers refusing to complete the story, as if it’s the only way Jeno can identify himself. A sad sap writing about his ex. Nice to meet you.
Questions about when is he going to finish. When is he going to go out and get smashed without running back to his room after a drunk idea for a perfect sentence sequence. The questions stop after a while too, feeding into his stuck-in-the-past identity.
But when Jaemin comes back home smelling like cheap cocktails, when Jaemin enters his single room at odd hours and sits on the stained carpet reading a book, an apple in his hand, when Jaemin’s eyes flit to Jeno’s every time he’d try to steal a glance, his big grand love story suddenly becomes foreign and out of character for the current Jeno.
Because current Jeno is aware of subtle touches and cheeky smiles. Little wows behind his back at his read out loud sentences before veiny arms would wrap around his body with a low chuckle on his shoulder, saying things like: “You are so serious, Mr writer” or “I love this little frown you do”. Aware of their stunned intakes of breath and widened eyes when their faces come a little too close. When he calls Jaemin —who stumbles into his room with booze in his hand and a request for a cuddle companion— “a hot mess” and the latter blinks at him in silence.
But it never gets past that. As if Jaemin is waiting for Jeno’s last ellipsis, knowing that Jeno does so too. Waiting for Jeno to let go of his ex. Not knowing, or maybe pretending not to know, that Jeno’s let go a long time ago.
Pinpointing the first time he met Na Jaemin comes easy. Maybe because he’s got a peculiar type of image of the houseshare before the trouble entered ever since he can remember - him writing, with mugs and cups of molding coffee remains around him, his fingers reddening and veins on his hands becoming more prominent as the keyboard makes smashing sounds. His page thirteen would quickly jump to page two, cross referencing, editing, him printing papers and reading them out loud as he’d pace around in the communal kitchen with a sleeveless shirt on and a glimpse of a frown that’d later appear on his face more often than not.
So the first time Jaemin enters the houseshare he’s scouted online, yellow doors and a mismatching pebbled pavement doomed to be neglected by students, Jaemin drags his overstuffed suitcase into the common area with a huff, one hand still trying to fumble with the keys and a handful of information leaflets from reception.
Jeno, phased out, writing, has his hunched back to the door when he hears someone clearing their throat with a little: “hello?”
That startles him, an unknown voice, and he abruptly turns around, his bleached strands of hair falling on his forehead and a pointy elbow almost knocking the red coffee mug from the table. He stares at the stranger assessing the room then, eyes flitting to a badly designed mix of a kitchen and a living room smushed into one, where the spotty grey counters are mixed with brown shelves, and a green kitchen table stands next to a purple sofa facing a TV of a questionable looking state. “Okay, this looked much better in pictures,” the guy says, attention back to Jeno. What a pretty smile , he thinks to himself but stops the thought there when the stranger lifts an eyebrow at his silence.
“Oh, sorry. I…thought it was maintenance guys barging in again,” he stands, offers the stranger his best smile, hoping it appears genuine. “Literally been bugging me ever since I’ve moved in. Repairing random items,” he sighs and stretches his hand for a handshake. “I’m Lee Jeno, room four.”
“Na Jaemin. Room” — he checks the number on his keychain — “two.”
Before getting another housemate, Jeno wouldn’t have stirred after hearing the front door slam shut, disregarding it as one of Chenle’s regular attempts to be sneaky when bringing someone to his room or suddenly announcing they are having a “gathering”. The sort which would end up with campus security knocking on their door an hour later with stern faces and this-is-your-first-warning attitude, a small crowd of people running off through the backdoor in the meantime to save their titles as golden library members and straight A students. Jeno would transfer his laptop and his latest brewed coffee to his single bedroom during those moments, occasionally shooing the random couples bursting in, searching for some heated privacy. Maybe he would join the strangers for a drink or two, leaning against the fridge of their kitchen, listening to same banters coming from different pair of lips. What’s your department. Are you in any clubs. I got so smashed during end of the year ball.
But now, as the door loudly slams and Jeno hears a low giggle, he stirs in his seat at the scenario he’s not familiar with just yet. This being the new smiley guy with an overloaded suitcase that’s left new items scattered all over their house with his arrival last week: new set of shower cosmetics, new pair of shoes and a distant smell of cologne that’d linger in the hallway everytime Jeno would wake up midday. Previously empty cupboard in the kitchen now is full of pots and sauces, often left halfway open for Jeno to close before having a nosy. It’s not the first time Jeno and Chenle have gotten themselves a housemate, no, but it is the first time Jeno is aware of it enough to notice traces of a new presence.
When Jaemin stumbles in with a stream of cusses, Jeno’s already up from his seat, relocated next to a kettle he’s surely overfilled and now is waiting for awkwardly. Jaemin, he holds the doorflame and blinks at Jeno, his leather jacket slipped off from one of his shoulders and white sneakers kicked off. “Wow,” he says and clears his throat, straightening up, “hello there.”
Jeno stirs around the instant coffee powder in his mug, a side of his body pressed against the kitchen counter. His “hello” is only a murmur, rather dry, but that’s enough to start another set of giggles from his drunk housemate.
“You know, I was starting to think you’re not real, Mr writer boy,” Jaemin tells him with a tipsy smile and Jeno takes a moment too long to stare at him, overfilling his mug with boiling water as his glorious reaction. “I mean-” the guy does his best to walk straight, making the kind of face drunk people try to make to seem sober which naturally ends up with them looking even more intoxicated. “I mean, I haven’t seen you since I moved in, that’s weird, right?” He takes a seat next to Jeno’s.
“I’m Jaemin,”
“Yes. I know we met-” Jeno stops himself when Jaemin presses his lips together. “You forgot my name?”
Jaemin scoffs with a drunk smile, his fingers coming to a pinching hand gesture in front of Jeno’s face. “A little bit,” he says and Jeno drops his head to laugh.
“It’s Jeno.”
“Ah yes. Room four. I remember your dry introduction.”
“Was it really that dry?”
“A little bit.”
Back to the present, Jeno enters the loud house that is drowning in darkness if not for the blinking Christmas lights and lava lamps, with his chest heaving, glasses foggy. He glances around and nods at people who bump his shoulder and greet him with drunk breaths, acting best of mates for the night that would pretend to be strangers the next time they meet on campus.
He walks forward and stumbles on piles of sand on the ground in the living room, with someone shrugging and trying to explain how “we were supposed to do a Christmas beach party” and “they got drunk before we finished” and “god, what are we gonna do with all this sand”. Jeno shrugs too and does the shot someone forces into his hold before his eyes set to the corner of the room.
Jaemin, he has his arms loose around someone’s neck, his back pressed to the wall and smile suggestive when that someone leans in to whisper - Jeno’s guess - sweet nothings into his ear. They move to the music out of rhythm, all shits and giggles, so easy.
But Jeno takes a few steps forward, his adrenaline running through his veins and welcoming a new Jeno: a confident, assertive, yearning Jeno.
When Jaemin’s attention is drawn to him, his eyes widen just for a split second. He grins then and disentangles himself from the stranger, moves a step towards, ignoring the way his hook up’s arms flap about in annoyance before he storms off.
And maybe the writer in Jeno -the one who seeks for the feeling he thought was lost to him forever- sees more than should, but when they look at each other, their gazes are full of hope and expectation. Undeniable desire.
“You finished it,” Jaemin says.
“Yes.” Jeno sounds relieved, like something that’s been blocking his airflow all this time is finally gone. I can have you now.
It’s funny, how only after Jaemin grabs at collars of Jeno’s hoodie to bring him close, Jeno notices the fake snow that’s started pouring from the broken machine, hears someone’s stressed shouts and how fucked they are if student council finds out. But all he can register at that moment is fake snowflakes in Jaemin’s blue hair, how they land there and on his long eyelashes, how his exquisite neck looks every time the lighting changes, and how his Adam’s apple moves with an expectant gulp.
Jeno easily navigates his palms to press on each side of Jaemin’s head, almost shielding him from public eyes when they smash their lips together. He can still hear corrupted strings of conversations from the people nearby who bump and elbow his back in tries to pass with empty sounding excuse-mes; but it all soon becomes a distant buzzing, especially when Jaemin sighs and parts his lips, letting Jeno’s tongue deepen the kiss instantly. Jaemin tastes that of Baileys mixed with whipped cream, breath hot when Jeno feels him smile, tongue moving languidly against his keener one — as if they have all the time in the world especially reserved for this kiss only.
“I was for real,” Jaemin breathes out after a couple of tugs on Jeno’s bottom lip, making him frown.
Jeno draws back his head to stare at the flushed face in front. Jaemin’s nose is as reddened as his lips, fault of his prickling skin where a beard would have shown if this moment came a week later. “About what?”
A finger shoots out to poke at the line between his eyebrows when Jaemin says: “It suits you, this serious frown.”
“Oh yeah? Because you like me miserable?” Jeno brings his face closer, their noses touching, bodies pressed tighter than just a minute ago.
Jaemin smiles widely, his throat making a little hum sound of satisfaction and his cold fingers touch Jeno’s nape. “A little,” he teases further. “But I can’t wait to know more of Jeno who thinks of me and not of his ex,” Jaemin pecks him, playful.
And oh if only Na Jaemin knew. How Jeno can’t even remember how the smile looked on the person he used to love anymore. But keep that thought for another time.