Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I’ll be heading out.”

The voice came from the kitchen, muted by the wall that bisected the space between them. Hajin couldn’t see Siwoo, but he could still hear all the moving parts of him: the firm close of the fridge door, then the shush of the tap as the water was turned down, slowing into a thin, obedient trickle. Their dormitory was small, and sound travelled through it easily; too small, perhaps, for seven men, though the size of it made it feel more homely, more lived-in, even as it mostly only contained the bare essentials. Exactly as their contract detailed, and as commercially-packaged as they came, bare and sparse with off-white walls, textured—Sparkling liked dragging the backs of his knuckles across them whenever he flung himself against the couch—but ultimately plain, though the rooms were marked with spots of colour: old posters, mismatched cushions, throw blankets that were somewhere in-between, neither matching nor not-matching.

They'd inherited all of that with the unit. Management had given them permission to repaint once when they’d asked; they'd talked about it seriously, and Eunchan's brother had even offered to host them all until the smell of paint thinner cleared, but they’d been too busy then, and too busy after that, until it eventually stopped feeling like something they were going to do at all. 

“Come with me.”

“I don’t wanna move,” Hajin called back. He sank further into the couch, feet slipping free to land on the rug beneath it, worn and faintly threadbare. Siwoo rarely announced his comings and goings; rarer still was an invitation from him, which made it feel exciting and novel, though also strange, a little unsettling, his heart beating faster, just slightly. Even as he questioned why, Hajin’s thumbs moved automatically over his phone, sending a quick message to his brother, cutting their conversation short. Gotta go now. Chat tomorrow. Love you.

Siwoo appeared from the kitchen, hand splayed on his hip, leaning against the doorway, impeccable as always. His eyebrows looked painted on, arched just so, one higher than the other. “Isn’t this the kind of thing you like? Late-night small talk.” He paused. Arms spread wide, magnanimous. “Consider it a birthday gift.”

“What kind of birthday gift is this?” Hajin complained, though there wasn’t any heat in it. He leaned forward, crouching slightly, elbows pressed to his knees, already half-committed to following, more committed to pushing the banter. “Even the aunties at my church show up with enough food for everyone. You’re already a university student and you’re still this stingy. Shouldn’t I get a food truck at least?”

“I’ll treat you to something from the convenience store,” Siwoo said, already slipping on his shoes. He shrugged into a thin, fitted brown coat and, once he was done, held out Hajin’s own without asking.

Hajin glanced back at his phone; Hawon’s reply had already come through. Skimming through it quickly, he slid it into his pocket, brushed his hands down his pants, and rose, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips; ready to follow.

/

Their walk to the convenience store was quiet.

The day had felt unseasonably warm, but now, late enough that the sun had loosened its grip, the breeze felt cooler against the back of Hajin’s neck. It wasn’t cold yet: not even coat weather, barely even wear-a-scarf kind of weather, but the night air still made him reflective, loosening the lump in his mouth when he was around Siwoo. The tension between them had eased, but understanding what he meant still demanded effort. Everything Siwoo said felt angled, annotated with double meanings, stacked layers of intention and implication.

Siwoo chose a can of beer. Hajin drifted toward the ramen shelf, fingers skimming the packaging, then—reminded of Taehyun’s nagging, felt a pang of guilt, before feeling aggrieved by it—put it back. The compromise he eventually settled on: a bag of air-popped caramel popcorn instead of the chips he’d first wanted; two packs of gummies, yoghurt and cola; a leftover triangle gimbap with a half-peeling discount sticker, slick with condensation; and a can of cream soda.

Siwoo rolled his eyes, took the basket from his hands, and paid for all of it without a word.

/

“Do the two of you chat often?” Siwoo asked.

They’d spread Hajin’s snacks across the small table between them, and Hajin was working through them methodically, one by one. The store was otherwise empty; the shop clerk had plugged in both earbuds and was speaking softly, charmingly—probably to a girlfriend or someone close enough that his voice carried that ease, that familiarity.

Siwoo’s fingers rapped the side of his can, shaking droplets of condensation onto the table. Hajin blinked, registering what he meant. “Hawon?” he said, and at Siwoo’s quiet, affirmative hum, he laughed. “Yeah. Of course. He’s my little brother.”

Hawon wasn’t little—not really, at only a year younger than Hajin—but Hajin had always thought of him as such. In his head, Hawon would never grow up; even at twenty-eight to Hajin’s twenty-nine back then, he’d remain something shy and small, a chick that had somehow grown competent yet still carried the blue spring of innocence. Even as he grew more mature, serious, beyond Hajin’s comprehension. It had to be the T in him; Hawon was a total T.

Siwoo tilted his head, thinking. “Don’t you ever run out of things to say? Actually—forget it. I’m more curious how Hawon manages to keep up with you.”

Hajin shrugged and didn’t answer. He reached for another handful of popcorn instead, letting the sweetness bloom in his mouth. He did that a lot with Siwoo, he realised. Letting questions pass. Not-answering. The questions were small, trivial, but he liked that about them. Talking without direction, without needing a destination. There wasn’t a subject, exactly, but there was still a point: easing into someone else’s rhythm, the way you might walk down a street with someone, noticing where your steps synced and where they didn’t, spotting the gaps you could leap across and those you could not. He didn’t think any of this consciously, not in the moment. He’d just thought it before.

From beside him: I don’t understand, Siwoo’s expression seemed to say, though he said nothing. He only shook his head, angling his neck to peer out the window, while Hajin found himself looking at him instead: the clean line of his profile, the blunt bridge of his nose, the small mole there that Hajin always found himself noticing first—a safer place than his eyes. A shadow passed from the street across, a cyclist moving past the glass, and somehow it made Siwoo’s face seem sharper, sterner, the way it looked when muted in shadow, turned from the light.

A blink and it was gone, and there Siwoo was, pleasant and untroubled. What he said was, “Are all older siblings like you?”

“I mean,” Hajin said, leaning into his palm, grin spreading slowly, “you have six younger brothers now, don’t you? So what do you think? As an older brother.”

“It’s troublesome to be an older brother.”

“It’s easy when you love them.”

Siwoo scoffed. “Are you saying my heart isn’t big enough? First you say I'm stingy, now this?”

“No, hyung,” Hajin said lightly, lifting his other hand to frame his face like a flower, playful. “I’m just saying I’m easy to love.”

Siwoo laughed, the empty can crumpling under his fingers as he leaned over to steal the last pack of gummies—yoghurt—and tore it open. Under the grey-green fluorescence, Hajin noticed the lighter flecks in his brown irises, the faint pink rim around them. There was a lingering smudge beneath Siwoo’s eye, likely leftover eyeliner from their earlier shoot. Hajin’s hand shot out instinctively, hovering, wanting to point it out, maybe wipe it away.

“What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?” Siwoo tilted the packet towards him automatically. “You’re strange—I can’t figure you out, Kang Hajin.”

“I feel the same way,” Hajin said, and snatched it back.