Chapter Text
Beomgyu spots Yeonjun near the basketball court with Wooyoung, the late afternoon sun catching his hair as he laughs at something Wooyoung says. On any other day, he would’ve gone straight up to them, slid into the conversation without hesitation. He knows Yeonjun would’ve loved that too—he always lights up when Beomgyu inserts himself into his circle of friends, like it means something to him.
Just like it means so much to Yeonjun, it means everything to Beomgyu as well, to be seen that way—an equal, someone Yeonjun thinks belongs. But today, his feet feel heavy, as though set in wet cement, and his stomach twists with the same unease that’s been growing since half an hour ago.
He likes to believe he’s moved past the things that still weigh him down, but that’s rarely true. Time and again, he’s walked into moments like this—hopeful, open—only to be blindsided by a throwaway comment or a look that made his chest cave in. Each time he promises himself he’ll be careful next time. Each time, he forgets. Beomgyu’s always been stubborn that way. He wants to try again. He wants, so badly, for this to go right.
Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Yeonjun laughs or even ask something like, "why?".
He tries not to think about why that is. Why he wants the reaction to be different so badly.
From a distance, he watches Yeonjun and Wooyoung talking intently, their hands moving animatedly. Yeonjun’s brows furrow in concentration, his expression serious. Beomgyu’s palms grow slick with sweat, and he looks down at the small bundle wrapped in pale blue paper in his hands. The paper’s starting to wrinkle where the moisture from his fingers has touched, so he sets it down carefully on the table next to him, and wipes his hands on his jeans, running them through his hair just to keep himself occupied.
When he looks up again, Wooyoung’s hugging Yeonjun goodbye. Beomgyu exhales shakily, his pulse stuttering. He grabs the bouquet and pushes to his feet. The yellows, soft pinks, oranges, whites and greens grabs some attention from the people around as he weaves through the thinning crowd before the next lecture spills out and swallows Yeonjun up
It's not huge—the bouquet—but he imagines it will look pretty in Yeonjun’s hands. A lot elegant and a slight bit whimsical because Beomgyu picked each flower with careful deliberation—for the colours more than the meaning.
To his luck, Yeonjun hasn’t moved yet—he’s typing something on his phone, head bowed, his long fringe falling in front of his face. He looks beautiful. So lovely with the slightest uptick in the corner of his lips.
Beomgyu barely has time to wonder if it might be a text to him before his phone buzzes in his pocket. The corner of his own mouth lifts. He steps forward and pats Yeonjun’s shoulder gently, his fingers shaking.
Yeonjun startles, spinning around, eyes wide for a beat before they soften into a grin so radiant it makes Beomgyu’s chest ache.
“Hey, hyung!” Beomgyu says, raising a hand in an awkward wave before lowering it when Yeonjun chuckles.
“Hello to you too, darling,” Yeonjun says softly, reaching up without hesitation to cradle Beomgyu’s cheek.
The warmth of his palm sends a shiver through him. Beomgyu hadn’t realized how tense he was until his shoulders drop, until the air feels easier to breathe.
“Long day?” Yeonjun asks, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Beomgyu’s ear. His fingers linger, playing absently with his earlobe, and Beomgyu’s breath stutters. Yeonjun knows it wasn’t a long day—two lectures at most—but he still asks. He always does, because Beomgyu has a way of getting overwhelmed even when there’s no reason to—Yeonjun doesn't think so. He thinks it's reasonable to be overwhelmed but Beomgyu would respectfully disagree because he flounders, and in retrospect, to him, it looks very much like an overreaction.
“No bad thoughts,” Yeonjun murmurs, voice gentle enough to make Beomgyu’s eyes flicker up in surprise.
Before Beomgyu can form a reply, Yeonjun tilts his head slightly, smiling. “Now, what are you hiding behind your back? Can I not see it?”
The teasing lilt in his voice makes Beomgyu’s nerves vanish for a moment. The way he looks excited, so genuine with his expressions stops Beomgyu from overthinking. He brings his hand forward, slowly—like he's about to show something so grandeur—revealing the bouquet—fresh blooms wrapped in soft blue paper, the paper just beneath the bow slightly crumpled from how tightly he’s held it.
Yeonjun’s gaze moves between the flowers and Beomgyu’s face, once, twice, before he finally whispers, voice hoarse, “Is this… for me?”
Beomgyu blinks, uncertain. No one’s ever asked him that before. He can only nod, trying but failing to decipher the meaning behind the question.
Yeonjun takes the bouquet with trembling hands, the paper rustling faintly between them. His lips part, close, then part again as though the words won’t come out right. Beomgyu waits. His throat feels tight, but he waits, watching Yeonjun’s eyes glisten as they meet his again.
When the first tear slips down Yeonjun’s cheek, Beomgyu freezes. Panic flickers in his chest—did he do something wrong again? Did he push too far? His hands curl at his sides, clenching and unclenching as Yeonjun’s tears fall freely now.
And yet—Yeonjun smiles. A wide, sweet smile through the tears. He looks like the heavens have parted for the light to come through. So so lovely and ethereal but so real and tangible and here in front of Beomgyu.
“Thank you,” Yeonjun breathes. Just two words, but they land with such raw weight that Beomgyu feels something inside him splinter and mend all at once.
“Darling,” Yeonjun says again, voice trembling. “Thank you. You make me so happy.”
Before Beomgyu can react, Yeonjun moves the flowers to his side, tucking it slightly under his arm, and pulls Beomgyu in—an arm around his waist, curling around him as he buries his face into Beomgyu’s shoulder even though he's just a little taller. His breath comes uneven, warm against Beomgyu’s neck.
Beomgyu closes his eyes, returning the embrace. He can feel every fragile tremor in Yeonjun’s body, every heartbeat pressed against him. Something that used to be loud now beaten down to quietness inside him begins to heal in that moment—something he hadn’t even realized had been broken. The ache he never realized was ever present vanishing like pollen in the wind, swept away.
It feels unreal, to be held like this. To be looked at and spoken to with this kind of tenderness. He’s always known Yeonjun was different—that he’d never be cruel—but being faced with that gentleness head-on still stuns him every time.
He feels strong. Like he could try again. Like he could face the world without shrinking from it.
He exhales, voice low against Yeonjun’s ear. “Don’t cry, hyung.”
Yeonjun nods against him, his breath warm against Beomgyu’s skin, before lifting his head just enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Beomgyu wipes the stray tears away from his thumbs and Yeonjun lets him. Because of course he does, he always lets Beomgyu do anything.
“They’re so lovely,” he murmurs after, voice still trembling from before. “Just like you.” He says pressing another kiss to his forehead. It lingers: a breath and then another.
“Hyung!” Beomgyu protests weakly, his face burning, hand raised in a fist only to tug at the hem of Yeonjun's jacket. But Yeonjun only smiles wider, unbothered, his arm curling easily across Beomgyu’s back, looping in to hold his side, as he steers them toward the café they both love, the one that serves pancakes stacked high with too much syrup and too many toppings.
“Are we going for pancakes now?” Beomgyu asks, tucking himself closer to Yeonjun’s side as they walk, his tone caught somewhere between shy and endlessly fond when he sees the blooming smile on Yeonjun's face, a little tear stained but so so lovely.
“Would you prefer not to?” Yeonjun glances at him, eyes soft with teasing warmth.
“It’s not too long until dinner,” Beomgyu mumbles, fidgeting with the ribbon tied snugly around the bouquet, still in the palm of Yeonjun's hands. Beomgyu was right—the bouquet makes Yeonjun look idiosyncratic but it still suits him well.
“I thought you were sleeping over at mine tonight,” Yeonjun replies easily. “I was planning on cooking for us. I even called eomma this morning. She talked me through her recipe for soondubu jjigae.”
They take a right turn, narrowly avoiding a man who almost collides with Beomgyu. Yeonjun’s hand tightens protectively around his waist, shooting the man a sharp frown over his shoulder when the man looks at Beomgyu with thinly veiled disgust. Beomgyu tugs at Yeonjun’s jacket, wordlessly asking him to let it go. Yeonjun sighs, pulling him in a little closer anyway, pressing another kiss—this one feather-light—to the side of his head.
“Really?” Beomgyu asks, half to distract him and half to steady the strange, aching flutter inside his chest. Yeonjun’s small gestures of care always do that to him—it unravels him, make him realize how starved he’s been for softness. Every time his heart begins to settle, Yeonjun does something that sets it racing again, something that makes Beomgyu question how much he's mistaken love and care in the past with other things. Things that hurt him—things that make him breathe a little faster, eyes roaming around him—observant and wary.
But this—this is different. This feels like warmth he can trust, the kind he wants to hold on to before it cools into memory one day, so far from reach. Yeonjun a far away tune he remembers but can't play because it's a little too faint, a little too wispy.
“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, laughing quietly at himself. “I was half-asleep, and she just kept going on and on. I zoned out halfway through.” His grin turns sheepish, ducking his head to hide his embrrasment. Beomgyu still sees the smudges of pink on his cheeks and the top of his ears. “She noticed, of course, so she sent me both a written recipe and a voice note. I think I can manage to cook without burning anything this time.”
“So what do you think?” he adds as he opens the café door, ushering Beomgyu inside to a quiet nook where they can have a little more privacy, with an easy, familiar touch. Belonging. Safety. Strange, strange things for someone like Beomgyu.
When Beomgyu glances up at him, Yeonjun’s smile is dazzling—eyes crinkling into crescents, the kind of smile that leaves little room for air.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Yeonjun says, ruffling Beomgyu’s hair.
“Why not?” Beomgyu huffs, trying to smooth it back down, hands curling into the strands, discreetly pulling at the roots. Just to make sure it's not a dream. Real.
“Because you look gorgeous, Gyu. Leave it be. The messiness adds to your charm." he says ruffling it a little after Beomgyu folds his hands on the table. "Same order? And an iced Americano?” Yeonjun continues, already half-turned toward the counter, chewing on his lips as he studies the menu on the wall, a furrow in his brow.
“What are you having to drink, hyung?” Beomgyu asks, pretending to study the menu to hide his blush.
“I’m going to get some tea. You want tea too?”
Beomgyu shakes his head. Yeonjun’s hand slides briefly to the back of his neck, a warm squeeze before he leaves for the counter. Beomgyu watches him go, shoulders straight, confidence so effortless that people can’t help but stare. Even the barista’s gaze lingers a little too long. A magnetic force.
Beomgyu looks down at his hands. He’s never been that kind of magnetic. He wonders what Yeonjun sees when he looks at him—what makes someone like Yeonjun stay months later when Beomgyu has offered him very little. Even when Yeonjun calls him gorgeous, it doesn’t feel real. It feels like kindness dressed as truth.
He startles when Yeonjun returns, placing two plates on the table—stacks of golden pancakes dripping with honey and berry compote, crowned with a swirl of whipped cream.
“What were you thinking about?” Yeonjun asks, setting down the plates.
Beomgyu shakes his head too quickly. “Nothing.”
Yeonjun frowns but doesn’t push. His name is called at the counter for their drinks, so he leaves and comes back with a glass of iced americano and a steaming mug of tea.
“Hot tea?” Beomgyu asks, concern creeping into his tone.
“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, sitting down beside him. “I think I’ve got a sore throat. Been practicing all week without a break for the charity event—guess this is payback.”
Beomgyu takes a spoonful of whipped cream and hums when it melts sweet on his tongue. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I’m fine, darling. Just need some tea,” Yeonjun says, mouth half-full, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. Beomgyu laughs quietly—and before he can stop himself, he leans over and presses a kiss to Yeonjun’s cheek, a feat he would usually not have attempted but Yeonjun looked a little too adorable to resist the urge.
Yeonjun freezes for a split second, then turns toward him, eyes alight with pure delight. He nuzzles Beomgyu’s cheek like a cat who adores its favourite human, and the gesture makes Beomgyu’s heart swell so fast it’s almost dizzying.
They eat in a soft, companionable silence. As always, Yeonjun slows down halfway through so Beomgyu can catch up. Then Beomgyu hears a soft click and looks up—Yeonjun’s holding his phone.
“Why did you take a picture?”
“Because you look sweet,” Yeonjun says with a grin. “Lovely boy.” He reaches across the table to wipe something off Beomgyu’s nose with his thumb—a smear of cream, it turns out.
“Hyung!” Beomgyu pouts, reaching for the phone, but Yeonjun pockets it easily and catches his hand instead, fingers intertwining.
“Eat,” he says lightly. “Or I’ll feed you myself.”
Beomgyu immediately ducks his head and focuses on his plate, heat flooding his face. He’s not about to let Yeonjun do that in public. He's not against public displays of affection but that is a little too far, too soon to get that comfortable.
“What were you thinking about before?” Yeonjun asks after a while, tracing idle circles on Beomgyu’s palm. His cheek rests on his other hand, both of them at eye level now.
Beomgyu swallows, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing, really.”
“Liar,” Yeonjun murmurs, sliding closer. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Hyung, really—there’s nothing to say.”
Yeonjun frowns at first, a small crease forming between his brows, but his voice softens almost immediately, like he’s catching himself. “Okay,” he says gently. “Then tell me more about the bouquet.”
“What about it?” Beomgyu asks, blinking up at him.
“It’s sudden,” Yeonjun continues, curiosity threading through his words. “Was it for an occasion? Is it something I need to remember?”
Beomgyu sets his fork down on the edge of his plate, hesitating, but Yeonjun shakes his head at him at once, subtle but firm, gesturing for him to keep eating. So Beomgyu takes another bite, chewing slowly under Yeonjun’s watchful gaze.
“I was on my way back from the record shop,” Beomgyu says once he swallows. “It’s new. The layout was really nice, and the display caught my eye. I just wanted to look.” He glances up from his plate then, meeting Yeonjun’s eyes—already warm, already attentive, that familiar tenderness he carries so effortlessly—on him. “The owner’s daughter was there. She was learning how to make bouquets, and I stood there watching for a bit. It was… nice.”
“Did you pick them yourself?” Yeonjun asks.
Beomgyu nods, reaching for another bite just as Yeonjun finishes his own. “The owner said I could put anything together. Whatever I liked.” His shoulders lift slightly, bashful. “I liked the colours. And I was thinking of you.”
Yeonjun doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, closing the small distance between them, and presses a kiss to Beomgyu’s cheek. It’s more smile than kiss, really—warm, lingering, affectionate. “My darling,” he murmurs. “You’re so sweet.”
Beomgyu turns his face instinctively, chasing the contact, and in doing so dislodges Yeonjun’s lips from his cheek. Yeonjun grumbles softly, mock-annoyed, but his arms come around Beomgyu’s shoulders anyway, pulling him in until they’re almost pressed chest to chest, breaths mingling, foreheads nearly touching. It’s frighteningly easy to forget where they are like this. Easy to forget who might be watching. When Yeonjun looks at him like that, nothing else feels real enough to matter. Everything beyond this moment fades, thinning out, leaving only the warmth and weight of being close to him.
“Usually,” Beomgyu says quietly, “bouquets in our country have five types of flowers. There’s only four in the one I made for you.”
“What did you leave out?” Yeonjun asks.
“Carnations.” Beomgyu wrinkles his nose. “I don’t really like what they mean.” He tilts his head, studying Yeonjun’s face. “Do you recognize any, hyung? Apart from the roses. I hope you at least know what a rose looks like. It’d be a pretty bad hit to your cool-guy image if you didn’t.”
Yeonjun laughs, low and fond. “Brat.” He punctuates it by pinching Beomgyu’s waist, gentle but unexpected.
Beomgyu wriggles just because he can, grinning as he squirms in Yeonjun’s hold. Being tucked into Yeonjun’s cocoon feels different. it's like permission to forget, to be unguarded, to exist without the weight of any of his insecurities. Here, he can just live in the moment: present, breathing and undeniably real. It makes all the difference, he thinks, watching Yeonjun lift his cup and finish the last of his tea.
“I love ranunculus,” Yeonjun says suddenly. “I like the scent.”
Beomgyu frowns. “Ranunculus don’t have a scent. At least, that’s what the store owner said.”
Yeonjun nods, thoughtful, his fingers brushing over the petals with a reverence that feels practiced. There’s a distant warmth in his expression, like he’s reaching backward through time. “They don’t. Not usually. But sometimes, when you grow them at home, there’s a very faint scent. Clover-like, I think. Or citrus. It’s hard to tell. It depends.” He exhales softly. “It’s rare, though. Very rare.”
“Did you have them at home, hyung?”
“Yeah.” Yeonjun’s voice softens further. “When I was younger, I loved gardening. I had this tiny patch at the back of our house. I think there was even a little fence with my name on it.” He smiles faintly. “My mom once got a beautiful bouquet of ranunculus. For her birthday, I think. I got fascinated after that. I knew everything about them.”
“Oh.” Beomgyu brightens. “Tell me.”
He genuinely means it. He loves these moments—when Yeonjun talks about the things he likes, the parts of himself he doesn’t often offer up. So Beomgyu leans in, patient, encouraging, hoping he’ll continue.
Yeonjun’s smile wobbles. Just slightly. Something sad flickers across his face before he can hide it. “Ah—I don’t—I don’t really remember much,” he admits quietly. “It’s been a while.”
Beomgyu doesn’t press. There’s something raw there, something exposed, and it doesn’t feel right to poke at it—especially not here, in public. Yeonjun worries at his lower lip, fingers fidgeting, and that alone tells Beomgyu he wants to move on.
“Any other flowers you recognize, hyung?” he asks instead.
“The tulips,” Yeonjun says easily. “They remind me of the old Windows interface. I used to hate that thing when I was younger.”
“Ah, hyung, you’re so old,” Beomgyu teases, slurping the last of his Americano. “Of course you’ve seen it.”
“By two years!” Yeonjun protests, indignant.
Beomgyu giggles, the sound soft and unguarded, muffled as he sinks comfortably against Yeonjun’s chest. Yeonjun’s arms slip around him again, familiar and sure, his nose nestling into the crown of Beomgyu’s head.
“I once got a baby’s breath bouquet,” Yeonjun says, almost absently, “from one of my dance students. On his last day.”
“Really?” Beomgyu smiles. “That’s so sweet, hyung.”
He means more than just the story. He likes this—this easy, meandering conversation about a bouquet he brought on a whim. No one has ever really asked him about things like this before. Sometimes there isn’t even a thank-you. But now there’s this: warmth, curiosity, shared memories. Little pieces of Yeonjun’s life unfolding in front of him. Beomgyu holds onto the feeling, hoping—quietly, fiercely—that it can last for a long time.
“Mmm,” Yeonjun hums. “Was the foliage your idea, darling?”
Beomgyu stands, the arms around him loosening reluctantly as he peers at Yeonjun through his fringe. “How did you guess?”
“It’s very you,” Yeonjun says fondly. “That artsy side you pretend you don’t have.” His gaze lingers on the bouquet. “I like it. It gives it so much personality. I love how the greenery crowds the flowers—how full it feels. It’s lovely.”
Beomgyu smiles, shy, covering the quirk of his lips with his hand. Yeonjun sees straight through it. His eyes crinkle as he reaches out, capturing both of Beomgyu’s wrists and leaning in to kiss his mouth. It’s light, barely there, but still unbearably sweet.
They fall quiet after that, slipping into people-watching. Beomgyu nestles into the curve of Yeonjun’s body, fitting there like he belongs. Pressed so close, he notices the occasional glances sent their way, but instead of discomfort, there’s only safety. Time slows. The world narrows to Yeonjun’s lips brushing wherever they can reach, and Beomgyu simply existing beneath that affection. He feels relaxed enough that he might actually fall asleep.
“Beomie,” Yeonjun says softly.
He’s not asking for anything. Beomgyu knows that. He’s just saying it—because he likes to, because he always does, as if the name alone reassures them both of something unspoken, something neither of them can fully name.