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“You’re kidding me.”
Jeonghan sometimes wonders if living with him is worth Seungkwan all the anguish he seems to put him through. “Would you find it funny if I was?”
“Hyung.” There’s an edge to Seungkwan’s tone, teetering somewhere between amazed incredulity and sheer distress. “You’re telling me Oikawa Tooru has been in this house.”
“Mmh.”
“And that you’ve fucked him.”
“Well...”
It’s distress. Most definitely distress. “No, shut up! I don’t even want to know.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence side by side on the couch for approximately ten seconds before Seungkwan buries his face in his hands again. “Hyung,” he wails. “What the fuck.”
“I know, Seungkwannie.” Jeonghan can’t help the amusement that keeps pulling on the corners of his mouth and bleeding into his voice. “I know.”
“No, you don’t!” Seungkwan moves his hands around in broad gestures, as if to make sure Jeonghan truly understands how affected he is by the whole ordeal. Which Jeonghan does. He just finds it extremely endearing. “What the fuck. Oikawa Tooru!”
“Yes.”
“The model! Former promise setter of the Japan National Volleyball Team!”
“Is that so?” Jeonghan hums. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Seungkwan deadpans. “How can you not know that after fucking him—”
“Actually—”
“—in my apartment! Hyung!”
Jeonghan can’t hold the laughter in anymore. It starts to escape past his lips in bursts, under Seungkwan’s judgemental stare. “Where else did you want me to go?”
“I don’t know, but. Come on! This is crazy.”
“I honestly don’t know if you’re mad at me or just jealous.”
“Of course not! I’m—” Seungkwan takes a deep breath for the first time in what feels like an awfully long while. “Well, I’m just in shock, hyung. I can’t believe you waited so long to tell me!”
“It’s been,” Jeonghan makes a point of looking at the overly expensive, gifted watch he forgot to remove from his wrist last night. “Three hours and twenty minutes since he left, Seungkwan.”
“So what? You should have texted me right away.” The fake wounded look on Seungkwan’s face is almost enough to make Jeonghan feel sorry. Almost. “What if I’d been here?”
“Uh… I don’t know? You would’ve said hi?”
“I would’ve been…” Seungkwan seems to take a moment to think his answer through, and Jeonghan’s crippling headache appreciates the momentary stillness. “Scarred for life?”
“If it serves to calm you down, I’ll just say we didn’t do it on the couch.”
At that, Seungkwan has a visibly physical reaction, getting up on his feet as if said couch had just burst into flames. Jeonghan starts cackling again.
“Stop laughing at me!” Seungkwan cries out. “You’re awful, hyung. You really are.”
“Okay.”
After that, Jeonghan only has to wait for a fleeting second before Seungkwan sits next to him again and asks the question he’d been anticipating ever since he walked out into their living room this morning. “So, anyways… How was it?”
“Oh, so now you want to know?” Jeonghan grins, amused. “I thought you were going to be scarred for life if you even heard about it.”
“Just spill it,” Seungkwan frowns. “Come on. I’m meeting Donghyuck for lunch in a while and I don’t want to be late.”
A sigh makes its way out of the depths of Jeonghan’s chest. He reclines into the backrest of the couch, bringing his knees to his chest so he can rest his chin on them as the exhaustion of having spent almost the entire night awake starts catching up to him.
It takes Seungkwan nudging at his thigh with his toes for him to begin. “It was… weird, I guess.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“I’m not sure,” Jeonghan sighs. “I mean, the sex was definitely good. I had fun.”
“Oh.” Seungkwan furrows his eyebrows. “What was weird, then? Did he say something? Made you uncomfortable?”
“Not really.”
In fact, spending the night with Oikawa Tooru turned out to be a better experience than Jeonghan had initially anticipated, given the circumstances.
It’s not often that Jeonghan takes risks like the ones he took last night: taking home a complete stranger that just so happened to become an ambassador for the same sunglasses brand as him, who talked to him in ways that wore Jeonghan’s patience thin like nothing had in years and yet felt like a mirror of his own greatest prides and darkest insecurities.
It happened, though. Jeonghan would know, and the purpling bruises on his collarbones he’s hiding under Seungcheol’s oversized sweater could testify to it under oath. He did it: brought Oikawa Tooru to his apartment, pushed him into his bed without a second thought, and rode him so hard he’d had no chance but to finally shut up and stop driving Jeonghan up the wall like he’d been doing the entire night.
Everything after a professional event on a Thursday evening.
“Just different from my usual, that's all.” Jeonghan smiles with his eyes closed, hoping the tiredness showing on his face will be enough to make Seungkwan drop the interrogation. “But I enjoyed myself, so don’t worry about me, Seungkwannie.”
“If you say so…” Seungkwan keeps eyeing him suspiciously despite it all. “I guess I’ll have to get you drunk to get more out of you.”
“Please don’t,” Jeonghan groans, and his stomach lurches at the very mention of alcohol. “I’m never drinking again. I swear.”
🏐
Contrary to popular belief, brand events turn all the same after the fifteenth one you attend.
Jeonghan has lost count of how many of them he’s attended in the past ten years, and so he’s confident to say he would know his way around one with his eyes closed. Like with so many other things, being an idol for close to a decade has shaped Jeonghan into someone who blends in perfectly in these kinds of atmospheres. Muscle memory keeps kicking in at all the right times, as if chatting people up while looking pretty was second nature to him.
Which, perhaps it is. Jeonghan learned that a pretty face can get you pretty far in life way too many years ago for him to even dare to question if he’s good at having one now.
Either way, and despite the knowledge that comfort is most often an illusion in a life like his, Jeonghan has been following the same routine ever since he struck his first brand deal and learned firsthand that the people involved in them didn’t care about him in the slightest except for the good promo his presence would potentially attract.
Shielded behind an apparently flawless appearance, Jeonghan has mastered the art of hanging around a place without truly involving himself at all. Camera flashes will always catch his most charming smiles, he will always chuckle at the right moment when talking to influencers and brand businessmen alike, and he will always, always find a perfect escape route to grab a drink and go outside to smoke a cigarette without anyone noticing at all.
Which is what he is doing right now, a couple of hours into the first event hosted by the sunglasses brand he only signed up with a month ago. He’s already got his manicured hand wrapped around the neck of a champagne glass and his eyes on the momentarily unguarded backdoor of the hall when he notices, out of the corner of his eye, a camera lens pointed right at him.
Finding them became an instinct close to that of survival when Jeonghan was barely twenty and fresh out into a world of sharks dressed up as sponsors and fans alike. It’s easy to do so by now, but not any less violent despite the way in which the years have chipped away at his personal definition of privacy. Almost routine, really, except that the only photographers allowed inside the hall now are the ones paid by the hosts, and Jeonghan doesn’t really understand why they would want a candid picture of him grabbing a drink in the middle of the night when he isn’t even wearing any brand apparel at all anymore.
Upsetting as it is, his brain is already starting to come up with ideas of the twisted ways in which stalkers could have snuck their way into the event when he notices a man making his way towards him.
“Yoon Jeonghan-ssi,” he calls out to him, a soft accent in his voice. “Do you have a moment?”
The guy in question is both Japanese and taller than him—close to Mingyu’s height, Jeonghan notes when he turns around to face him—, with chocolate brown eyes and dark swept hair. Up close, Jeonghan thinks he might be a few years younger than him, too. He’s dressed in striped dark blue suit pants and a matching oversized blazer that makes his shoulders look incredibly broad, with a satin white shirt underneath that Jeonghan finds oddly familiar.
Hot. Jeonghan smiles at the stranger despite how he’s just busted his self-planned smoke break, muscle memory and everything, and tilts his head to the side in curiosity. “Sure,” he says. “Nice to meet you?”
“Oh— Yeah, right.” The Japanese man only bows at him then, and Jeonghan returns the gesture. “I’m Oikawa Tooru. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
“Yoon Jeonghan,” he answers, out of pure habit. He nods towards Oikawa. “Is that Saint Laurent?”
“Ah, yeah,” Oikawa hums nonchalantly, glancing down at his own clothes for a second. “Spring Summer collection.”
“I know.” Jeonghan takes a sip of the champagne in his hand. “I wore that shirt to Paris Fashion Week.”
“Really? What a coincidence.” Oikawa Tooru’s smile is as media-trained as Jeonghan’s own, but a glimpse of discomfort makes a frugal pass through his gaze. It’s curious, Jeonghan thinks, how recognition almost always leads to self-doubt. “I just got signed as a model for them.”
“A model, huh? How fun.”
“Probably not as much as idol life, no?”
A double-edged sword, pointed right at his throat. Jeonghan’s grin widens. “So, Oikawa Tooru. What do you need, and why is there a guy taking pictures of us right now?”
A sigh makes its way past Oikawa’s lips, as if the conversation he himself started is paining him. The truth is never pretty when unveiled. “Honestly? My manager just told me I should go talk to you at some time tonight. This is news to me, but I heard you’re pretty famous in Japan, Yoon Jeonghan-ssi. Did you know?”
The blow doesn’t land the way Oikawa most likely wanted it to. Jeonghan can’t blame him, though, for he’s been there before; theirs is a world where two makes a crowd. Sometimes, the only way forward is to be a little proud. “Is that so?” he chuckles. “Why are you here, then? Last time I checked, this brand event was locally based.”
“I’m a model here.” Oikawa’s answer comes paired with a shrug, an attempt at pretending nothing Jeonghan says can get to him, but Jeonghan has been here enough times that reading people’s intentions when it comes to him is almost second nature by now. “It’s a good way to attract foreign attention to the brands I work with, don’t you think?”
And indeed, Oikawa Tooru stands before him like an open book—a tale of interest and pretend wrapped in fakeness, all hiding behind the mask of a witty, easygoing, beautiful boy who gets along well with everyone. But there’s something else beyond all that. Something that’s dripping from Oikawa’s gaze now, palpable in the way it keeps shifting from his eyes to his mouth, careless in a way that gives away his inexperience.
It’s almost endearing.
See, Jeonghan knows he looks good. His bleached hair, styled to frame his face without obscuring his features, is now long enough to tickle the very top of his shoulders, and the black shirt he’s wearing under his silk black suit is cut so low that his collarbones and his chest are in full display. He’s already had at least four people shamelessly flirting with him tonight solely because of who he is and how he looks, which is something he’s grown used to by now.
Jeonghan was told at nineteen how good a pretty face like his sells. He’s already learnt that it’s almost enough to cloud the way he can never polish down his edges into something soft enough to make anyone outside of his close circle stay.
Oikawa Tooru is no exception. Even if obviously attracted, he does not seem to be swayed by Jeonghan’s appearance enough to overlook the way in which his self-defence mechanisms haven’t died down a little bit in the past decade.
“Ah.” Jeonghan grins again. “So I take it you’re trying to get me to return the favor?”
“I guess it’s something like that.” It’s not. Jeonghan has seen this film several times before. “But I also noticed you trying to sneak out the back door. Aren’t you glad I stopped you before you got caught?”
“You do not ‘get caught’ in places like these, Oikawa Tooru-ssi,” Jeonghan hums. “I thought you would’ve known.”
“You did, though,” Oikawa says, matter-of-factly. It irks Jeonghan more than it probably should. “By me.”
“My, how careless of me.”
“Right?” Oikawa leans down a little, as if trying to match Jeonghan’s height. It’s only slightly insulting. “So. Will you be a darling and hang around with me for a while?”
The thing is, Jeonghan knows he doesn’t have to. No one did it for him, back in the day, and he never would have asked for something like this in the first place. It’s his hard work that has taken him to where he is today—early mornings spent trying to hit notes way too far out of his range, endless days huddled with twelve other boys who were all so much greater than he could dream himself of being, and late nights looking at his reflection in the mirror and wondering just how much further his appearance would take him before his house of cards crashed down into nothing.
It all had worked out, in the end. Being here tonight is just another proof of it, just as much as the sold-out concert venues and the way his once sharp corners have been turned into smooth lines that no longer prick everything they touch, and the trust of the found family he gets to return to when it gets dark every day.
And yet, fear is still something Jeonghan keeps safe in a cage in the pits of his chest. It’s something he’s tamed, by now, but an existence that haunts him either way. It rattles against the bars, louder when it senses the threat of oblivion creeping closer with each tick of the clock and each new face that shows up, ready to take his spot the second he forgets the place he’s so carefully crafted for himself.
Its only standing enemy, in the rare occasion Jeonghan allows himself to indulge into its call, is the greed that always seems to be ready to flow into his blood.
He tilts his head to the side, watching Oikawa for a moment. “What’s in it for me, then?”
“I’m a nice catch, Jeonghan-ssi,” Oikawa smirks. “I doubt it’s often that you get to meet someone as interesting as me, right?”
A chuckle makes its way out of Jeonghan’s mouth. He keeps his eyes trained on Oikawa’s, searching for a crack in his stupidly perfect façade. “You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
At that, Oikawa visibly tenses. He presses his lips together tightly, and Jeonghan thinks, this is it. Something has shifted, and this is where the truth comes out. Pretty faces tend to hide the sharpest claws. Recognition almost always leads to self-doubt.
Jeonghan is about to ask if he’s okay when Oikawa’s phone starts ringing.
“Fuck,” Oikawa curses, rushing to take it out of the inner pocket of his jacket and staring at the screen for a second. Jeonghan would say something about how much of a rookie mistake it is not to have it on silent mode, but Oikawa simply throws away any and all event etiquette Jeonghan would have imagined him to have and picks up the call. “Iwa-chan? Are you alright?”
Japanese sounds prettier on Oikawa’s mouth than it ever has on Jeonghan’s. It’s a stupid thought to have, Jeonghan knows, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He wonders if Oikawa thinks the same about his Korean, or if the knowledge of carrying a burden twelve times lighter than Jeonghan’s when it comes to his career makes it so that he can bring himself not to care.
The second thing Jeonghan notices is that, contrary to what he’s been showing him so far, Oikawa Tooru is gentle with his words. He speaks to the person on the other side in the same teasing tone he’s been using all night, and yet so warmly that Jeonghan feels wrong just hearing him from his spot. He laughs at something that’s said, then, a kind little sound that is not meant to be heard by the outside world, and Jeonghan sees himself a few years back, clutching his elbow and picking up worried calls from Seungcheol while hiding in a back room in between recordings, brushing off all his concerns for the sake of making sure he was okay.
Younger, taller, obviously fit for his job despite the inexperience he keeps showing off, a natural at social interactions, kind only when he wants to be. It’s been a long time since Jeonghan last encountered someone so similar to him, enough for him to bring forth the insecurities he’s tamed down so thoroughly.
Watching Oikawa carelessly speak to whoever he’s talking to in the middle of this packed hall, Jeonghan wonders how things might have turned out to be if he hadn’t molded his public image into that of perfect idol his company wanted him to be at the expense of all the parts of himself he now sees being thrown back at him, and finds out he does not want to know nor regrets having done so.
In the grand scheme of things, he’s glad to have separated his real self from the picture everyone who encounters him might get at a first glance. He’s fought so hard for what he has now, and he’s still himself despite all the layers he’s had to slowly shed off over the years. By now, everyone he loves knows how much he does, he’s a home to them in all the ways he’d wished someone would be while growing up, and so there’s no one he needs to prove himself to anymore.
Not even beautiful, rapidly-rising stars. Theirs is a road Jeonghan has already walked before.
The knowledge is always freeing.
“Sorry, Iwa-chan, I really have to hang up,” Oikawa says into his phone. “I need to go back to this really annoying guy I need to be seen talking to.”
“Behave,” Iwa-chan says from the other side of the line. “Don’t talk like that in public, you headass! And try to enjoy yourself, will you?”
“Sure.” Oikawa is smiling even though the person he’s talking to cannot see him. “Sleep well, Iwa-chan!”
Jeonghan watches as he pockets his phone in his immaculately ironed pants and looks back up at him with his perfectly crafted smile. “I’m sorry, Jeonghan-ssi,” Oikawa says, switching back to his perfectly learnt Korean. “I thought my best friend needed me for something, but he’d just forgotten I’d be here.”
“Don’t worry, Oikawa-san,” Jeonghan smiles back at him, thoroughly enjoying the way Oikawa’s face turns pale at the sound of the Japanese he’s spent several years of his life polishing. “Friends do that sometimes, don’t they?”
“I—” Jeonghan shouldn’t find so much delight in the flush that comes over Oikawa’s face, but the truth is that he does. “I’m sorry, Yoon Jeonghan-ssi, I—”
“Relax,” Jeonghan laughs, watching the tips of Oikawa’s ears go red. “You’re fine. You can just call me Jeonghan, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Oikawa repeats, obviously flustered. Jeonghan wonders what they might look like if cameras caught a glimpse of them now, and what job that would do to Oikawa’s quest when he’d first approached him inside the room.
“You know what?” Jeonghan hums, a smirk crawling its way into his face. “I know exactly how you can make it up to me.”
The night breeze is cold when they make it outside through the back door.
Jeonghan watches Oikawa frown, tightening his grip on the glass of wine he’d grabbed on their way out as he pulls his blazer closed with the other hand. “This is not what I had in mind when I said we should spend some time together,” he says, letting out a breath that condenses into vapor in front of his face. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m fine,” Jeonghan answers mindlessly, searching for the lighter and one of the stray cigarettes he’d hidden deep at the bottom of his blazer’s inner pocket before he left home. “I really needed to get out of there and catch a break, you know.”
Oikawa’s gaze stays fixed on him as Jeonghan puts the cigarette between his lips and takes a long drag. Jeonghan watches him out of the corner of his eye, appreciative of the attention despite the obvious air of righteousness that surrounds the other man, and hums contently before leaning against the railing of the emergency stairs and taking another one.
“Is it alright for you to be smoking out here?” Oikawa asks then, as if he didn’t know, and makes a face at the smoke Jeonghan blows in the opposite direction.
Jeonghan grins. “I didn’t see any ‘do not smoke’ signs on our way out. Did you?”
“Very funny.” Oikawa rolls his eyes, leaning against the wall by the door. “You’re a singer, are you not? Shouldn’t you be taking care of your voice?”
“And you’re a model, no? Shouldn’t you be trying to strike deals with fashion firms instead of chatting me up for a little fame?”
“Oh, definitely,” Oikawa shrugs. “I told you this wasn’t my idea. It was my manager who told me to approach you.”
“And it was you who decided to go through and stay,” Jeonghan points out in between blows of smoke. “But hey, don’t worry. I get you. We’ve all been there before.”
“I doubt it,” Oikawa chuckles, raising his hands when Jeonghan turns around to look at him. “You seem to be naturally good at these kinds of things.”
“I could say the same.” Jeonghan has seen the way Oikawa walks and how he talked to the few people who crossed them when they were heading towards the exit, all confident smiles and charming words. He’s not about to be fooled in some back alley by an extremely pretty boy who keeps faking an inferiority complex—nor about to take any shade about the job he’s worked so hard for for as long as he can remember. “Just a newbie at this, no?”
“Is it that obvious?” The smile Oikawa keeps on his mouth is still not entirely genuine, but Jeonghan can see he’s starting to loosen up now. He guesses that says something about the two of them—about their pride and their sense of self-preservation, or the lack thereof. “It hasn’t even been a year since I started off here in Korea. Just about a little more back home.”
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows. “And you’re already making it into events like these?”
“Mhm. Guess I’m good at what I do.”
“I’ve always been told a pretty face sells well anywhere,” Jeonghan shrugs. “I’m just a little surprised at the pacing.”
Oikawa pauses, then. He seems to think about it for a moment before deciding to walk back up next to Jeonghan, leaning his weight against the railing and staring at the brick wall on the opposite side. “I had a little reputation before I picked up this career, back in Japan,” he says, careful. “Not from modelling.”
“That sounds a little bit concerning,” Jeonghan tries to joke, but it falls short. Oikawa does not seem to care all that much, though. Jeonghan takes another drag of his cigarette before asking. “So… What did you do before?”
“I…” The same distraught look that flashed on Oikawa’s face during their first exchange makes its reappearance now. Jeonghan watches the way his face pinches, and how Oikawa schools it back into something close to indifference, pride worn like an armor for the battle they believe to be dancing into. He breathes out, shrugs again, and finally says, “It doesn’t matter. It’s been a long time now, anyways.”
“Oh, wow,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes, but doesn’t press any further. “Guess you just wanted to make yourself look interesting, then.”
“Sure thing I did, Yoon Jeonghan.” The practiced smile makes its way back into Oikawa’s face. Jeonghan has to admit he’s a professional at putting up a strong front. “You know, I’d been told you were a darling to be around. I guess they lied to me.”
I would’ve expected you to be, Jeonghan thinks as he keeps his eyes on Oikawa. Somehow, though, the unafraid brashness turns out to be exciting.
“And I’m not?” Jeonghan chuckles, grinning when Oikawa glances at him again. “Ah, is it because I didn’t ask if you wanted to smoke with me?”
“No,” Oikawa hums, shifting to rest his back against the metallic railing instead. “I don’t wish to indulge in any habits that would harm my health, thank you very much.”
“There are no cameras out here, Oikawa,” Jeonghan says, taking one last slow drag of his cigarette before stubbing the butt under his shoe. “You can drop the superiority act the second you feel like doing so. I promise not to say anything about you when we go back inside.”
“Aren’t you sweet?”
“I could say the same thing.” Jeonghan doesn’t really understand what it is that makes a fire burn inside his belly at every word Oikawa says his way, but he suspects it has more to do with what the look in his eyes tells him than with the utter nonsense he keeps spewing just to get a reaction out of him. In any case, this is a game Jeonghan has been good at his entire life. He turns to face him, resting an elbow on the fence, and casually says, “You’re still interested in me, either way. You’re not exactly what I would call subtle.”
Oikawa’s smile makes a return, conceited and proud at a first glance, but outright bashful to Jeonghan’s eyes. Looking at Oikawa feels like looking at his own reflection in a house of mirrors, after all: distorted and unstitched at all the worst places, glued together in a better way that cannot last past the temporary lingering of a fake grin and meaningless words.
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Oikawa tilts his head to the side. “Never said I was,” he answers, and only then does Jeonghan take the glint in his eye as true. “Subtle, I mean.”
He’s quick—this, Jeonghan will concede—, but also more transparent than he probably believes himself to be. There’s a faint blush starting to tint the top of his cheekbones, and sharp teeth that come out to bite down on his bottom lip in a nervous habit that Oikawa takes a few seconds to tame.
Finding out he’s not the only one who’s starting to loosen up the grip on his restraints feels like some sort of victory. Jeonghan is starting to suspect he’s the one who will get to take the trophy home later tonight.
“So,” Jeonghan says, breaching the careful silence that had momentarily settled between them while lighting himself a second cigarette. “Who was calling you so urgently back there?”
Oikawa seems to debate himself between answering the prying question or telling Jeonghan to fuck off, like he most likely has been wanting to do the entire night. There must be something alluring enough in Jeonghan’s eyes that makes him want to stay, though, because he lets out a breath Jeonghan hadn’t noticed him holding and pushes his hands into the pockets of his blazer.
“I already told you,” he says with a shrug, staring at the still closed door in front of him. His nose is reddening, Jeonghan notices. From the cold or the wine he keeps sipping on, he wouldn’t know. “It was my best friend. We always FaceTime at this time, and he just forgot I told him I would be here tonight.”
“Your best friend,” Jeonghan repeats, wondering if there’s anything he’s missing out on going unsaid in his words. “And you really talk every day? That’s impressive.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but whatever you think it is, you’re wrong,” Oikawa responds defensively, shifting to rest his elbow on the railing just like Jeonghan is.
Face to face, Jeonghan can see how the light from the streetlamps reflects off Oikawa’s pointed stare, and how his bottom lip is starting to crack from the way he keeps mindlessly gnawing at it. A thought makes a frugal pass through his mind, too quick to stay, yet strong enough to leave a burning trail behind: what does Oikawa see, looking at him like this?
An enemy? A friend? Whatever of those two he is to himself?
“Hajime and I have been best friends our whole entire lives, since we were little kids,” he continues. “We’ve never stopped talking, not even when we were in different countries. He’s my biggest support and the person who knows me the most in the world. That’s all there is to it.”
And see, this is something Jeonghan understands. He does talk to his own best friend every day as well, after all. Seungcheol has always been there for him, even though Jeonghan never asked him to, and he too would go to any lengths needed to defend their bond from the prying eyes of strangers trying to pick him apart.
A pang of sympathy for Oikawa runs its course through Jeonghan’s ribs, and a smile pulls at the corners of his lips when he blows the smoke he’d been holding in. “And where is he now?” he asks, gentler this time.
“Back home,” Oikawa says, and a fleeting sense of sadness seeps into his voice as he does so. “He’s doing really well over there. I’m happy for him.”
“Nice. I’m glad for him, I guess,” Jeonghan hums, watching the tension on Oikawa’s shoulders dissipate. The calm after the storm, or the afterglow of a heartfelt confession. He stubs out his cigarette again, pushes his hands into his pockets and truly looks Oikawa in the eyes for what feels like the first time since they met. “Your turn.”
“Huh?” Oikawa frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I asked you a question and you answered, so you get to ask me one in return,” Jeonghan grins, as if relenting had ever been something that came to him easily. “Aren’t you curious about me?”
Oikawa narrows his eyes at him, as if he were suspicious of Jeonghan’s intentions—which Jeonghan is not sure he should not be. Despite their constant game of push-and-pull, or precisely because of it, he has to admit it’s been a while since he last had fun like this.
“I suppose I’ve got one,” Oikawa says then. “Why do you speak Japanese?”
A chuckle makes its way out of Jeonghan’s chest involuntarily, and a rare refreshing feeling washes over him. It’s not often he gets to talk to someone who doesn’t know the insides and outs of his public life good enough to look at him as if they knew him better than himself.
“That’s something you would have known if you had conducted a little research on your target, Oikawa-kun,” he teases, nevertheless. Vulnerability is something he’ll only offer up after a fairly lost fight.
“Hey, drop that, will you?” Oikawa groans. “I gave you an answer when you asked. Don’t be unfair.”
“Or else what?”
“Do you want me to answer that as well?” Oikawa raises his eyebrows. “If so, you’ll have to let me ask you another question.”
“No,” Jeonghan hums, sighing before turning his head to look away from Oikawa. “The answer’s really easy, to be honest. I just had to.”
“You sure are a difficult one, Yoon Jeonghan.” Oikawa’s eyes stay trained on him, keeping close watch of his every move. “Why did you have to?”
“That’s a different question.”
“I’ll leave you to freeze out here,” Oikawa threatens, and Jeonghan laughs, but it’s all a bluff. He’s already capitulated inside his head, in spite of the small voice in the back of his mind telling him that showing himself to outsiders only means gaining things to lose. Oikawa was honest with him, after all, and selfishness is a privilege Jeonghan rarely allows himself. It’s only fair that he indulges into it tonight. “I’m serious.”
“Alright, alright.” Jeonghan stares at the blinking lamppost at the end of the street, letting out yet another deep sigh. It’s a habit at this point—one that’s been pointed out a number of times, and that he will keep holding on despite it all. “The truth is that no one in my team knew it. We’ve got Korean, Chinese and English, but not Japanese. I just thought it was the one thing I could do for them apart from listening, back then.”
The question that briefly flashed through Jeonghan’s mind before makes a comeback when he stops talking, and he wonders if Oikawa can see past the walls his words cast over everything he doesn’t say with that piercing gaze of his.
“Your team,” Oikawa repeats, and there’s a kind of tenderness in his tone that most certainly was not there before. “The one thing you could do?”
Recognition almost always leads to self-doubt.
“My team, Seventeen,” Jeonghan confirms with a nod of his head and a shrug of his shoulders. “I just wasn't the best vocalist we had. Not the best dancer, nor the funniest or the best entertainer. But I could listen to everyone’s concerns and make them feel comfortable, and I could speak Japanese. It felt like a fair enough trade.”
When Jeonghan turns to face Oikawa again, he finds the answer to his unvoiced question in the look he gives him, and something shifts between them in that very instant. A house of mirrors. Your own shadow coming to chase you at night. Oikawa’s slightly parted lips and the shine in his eyes are too much of a scream in themselves: I see who you are. I know what it’s like.
“That’s—” Oikawa starts, but Jeonghan’s selfishness ends where his own pride starts.
“Don’t you dare feel any pity towards me, Oikawa Tooru,” Jeonghan is quick to cut him off, and in a fraction of a second the both of them cast their glamours back on, as if nothing had happened a mere moment before. “I’m quite good at all of those things now to be where I am. Hard work pays off, and all of that. These are just the things that came to mind when I started learning all those years ago.”
Even if he wishes to push any more, Oikawa is kind enough to let go.
“Fair enough,” he hums instead, bringing his almost empty glass of wine to his lips. “Guess that leaves us on even ground, no?”
“You still called me annoying to my face thinking I wouldn’t understand what you were saying.” Jeonghan chuckles at the blush the mention of that comment keeps bringing to Oikawa’s cheeks. “I’d think I still have the upper hand here, don’t you agree?”
“And what else do you want me to do? I’ve already apologized,” Oikawa frowns. “Plus, don’t take offence, but you were being annoying. It’s not my fault honesty is one of my gifts.”
As if, Jeonghan thinks. “Get me something to drink,” he says instead, grinning at the incredulous look Oikawa gives him. “It’s what you’d do if we had met in a regular club, no? What’s stopping you?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know, why do you keep looking at me like that?”
The flush on Oikawa’s face doesn’t help his tough act at all. “I’m not looking at you in any way, Jeonghan.”
“And here I thought honesty was one of your gifts,” Jeonghan laughs, right as a shiver makes its way down his spine. “Also, it’s kind of really fucking cold out here, don’t you think?”
“We’re only here because of you?”
“So what?” It’s oddly fun, this game of tag. “Bring me inside, get me a drink, and then we can talk for all your precious cameras. Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for all along, Oikawa?”
There are things that are better left unsaid, like the words Oikawa is probably choking on right now. Something to do with recognition, pride, and the kind of want that swallows it all whole.
“Just call me Tooru, will you?” He huffs, pushing himself off the railing to head for the closed door. “And don’t blame me if I end up calling you annoying again. You’ve earned it yourself.”
Jeonghan just laughs and follows him inside.
🏐
For the most part, Jeonghan’s busy schedule helps him push any and all thoughts about his night with Oikawa to the back of his mind.
Between comeback activities and concert preparations, he barely has time to let his thoughts wander to the way in which Oikawa had followed him into the bathroom at the event that night, both of their cheeks pink with alcohol and their mouths dripping with laughter and endless teasing remarks alike until Oikawa’s lips had smashed into his to shut him up after a particularly pointed jab. Jeonghan had offered to take him home, then, and Oikawa had asked “Is it often in your job, that you pull up offers like these?” and then grinned at the death glare Jeonghan gave him in return.
The rest is history—even to Seungkwan, who’s tired enough not to bring the topic up again after the fifth time Jeonghan tells him he’s not going to give him any more details of what the rapidly rising model is like in bed. Things follow their course: Oikawa doesn’t reach out to him again, and idol life swallows up most of Jeonghan’s thoughts anyways, so the past remains there and stays quiet for a while.
But then, Jeonghan’s manager calls him after a late evening practice, and peace is broken beyond hope of repair.
“The show’s called A Day In The Life,” he says from the other side of the line, unaware of the face Jeonghan is making at every word he says. “Those pictures of you two together at the brand event went viral the second they were released, and Oikawa Tooru’s manager reached out to me a couple days ago. The company thinks it’s a good opportunity to promote yourself, and—”
Too stunned to bring himself to reject the offer, Jeonghan lets out a little sound that passes as an agreement and hangs up his phone.
Which is how Jeonghan ends up here: standing in front of HYBE’s building, dressed in casual clothes but with light makeup on his face, watching Oikawa Tooru walk towards him for the first time since he left his house in the middle of the night while five different cameramen record them from every angle.
“Yoon Jeonghan-ssi,” Oikawa greets him once he’s close enough, bowing at him much more swiftly than he actually did when they first met. “It’s nice to see you again!”
Muscle memory and media training have Jeonghan mirroring the gesture without missing a beat, despite the uneasy prickling he feels crawling over the back of his neck. “Oikawa Tooru-ssi,” he says, looking him in the eye. “It’s been a while, hasn’t?”
“Cut! That was great, you two,” the director calls enthusiastically from next to one of the cameras. “Your chemistry’s already showing through the screen, this is splendid!”
Jeonghan wonders if it really is—if anyone can deduct, from his own closed fists and the tight line of his smile, the train of thoughts that’s rushing through his brain at this very moment. Do they see the licks of embarrassment burning in the pit of his stomach that come from having opened up a vulnerable part of himself to a perfect stranger? Can they understand the confusion that comes from seeing a shadow of yourself in someone else and yet being unable to discern what they want out of you?
Is it obvious that he does not regret a single thing and yet wishes he had not done any of it, if only to save himself the exhaustion of wondering if affection is something he misses, or simply a privilege he’s forever doomed to crave?
“Thank you,” Oikawa responds, ever so polite to everyone but Jeonghan. He chooses not to comment on it yet. “What’s next, then?”
“As you know, this show’s called A Day In The Life,” the director answers, while the assistants rush to pack their stuff up in preparation for movement to the next location. “Your episode will be split in two installments: Jeonghan-ssi will show you, Oikawa-ssi, around Seoul first, and then you two will go to Japan and film the opposite there. It’s a chance for the public to get to know the both of you a little bit better through sharing fond memories of your homes. That’s how we see it, at least.”
“I already shared with the production team the itinerary for this part of the recording, PD-nim,” Jeonghan says. “We can walk for a while, and finish up by the Han River. I think it’ll make for a few nice clips.”
“Excellent!” The director claps his hands. “Let’s get going, then. We’ll start recording again when we get to the starting point.”
Both of them nod in agreement, and the man walks away to give instructions to his crowd without sparing them a second glance.
Oikawa breaks the ice first, always reckless and direct. “Never would’ve thought we’d meet again like this, I must say,” he hums, glancing at Jeonghan with a side smile that feels less fake than the one he gave him upon arriving. “Gotta give you credit and say you didn’t blush, though.”
The chuckle that makes it out of Jeonghan’s chest is full of nothing but disbelief. “As if,” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “I’m quite confident in myself, Oikawa, and I’ve got nothing to blush about. We’re both adults, no?”
“I would hope so,” Oikawa laughs in return. “I meant that, by the way. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Can I say the same?”
“Was I really that bad last time?”
“Not bad at all,” Jeonghan answers easily, because this is a familiar game—a push and pull, a house of mirrors, the entire carnival—, and he was born competitive and hungry to win. “Can’t exactly repeat that on camera, though.”
“And yet you’re taking me on a date around your hometown,” Oikawa teases, nodding towards where the production crew is gesturing for them to follow. “Are you sure you’ve got no second intentions there?”
“This wasn’t my idea,” Jeonghan tries to mimic the words Oikawa wouldn’t stop repeating the night they met, starting to walk towards the cameras that are just now starting to record them again. “And this is actually not my hometown, just so you know.”
“It’s not?” Oikawa asks, falling back into his role of the perfect boy full of nothing but admiration towards him. “How long have you been living in Seoul then, Jeonghan?”
“I was born here, but then moved out and only came back when I was nineteen,” Jeonghan answers, in the exact tone he knows showmakers love. “But I’ve got so many memories to share here, really. It was the start of my idol life, so it’s sort of my home.”
The smile he gets in return is not for him only, but Jeonghan takes from it what he can either way.
In the end, when the cameras stop rolling and the production crew bids them goodbye, Jeonghan does the stupidest thing he could think of.
“I’m meeting for dinner with a bunch of my friends in half an hour,” he casually tells Oikawa, his eyes trained on the screen of his phone. “In case you want to come with us?”
Oikawa seems taken aback by the offer, but he’s not one to let surprise—or any other honest emotion, really—show on his face for too long. “Are you sure?” he still asks, which Jeonghan can’t help but appreciate. “Is it people from your group?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” Jeonghan answers. “They’re great guys. You’ll probably like them more than you like me.”
“Won’t be difficult. You sure are annoying, hyung.”
“You can drop that already. No one’s recording us now, and it sounds fake as fuck coming from you.”
“I’d hope so,” Oikawa grins, walking up until he’s matching Jeonghan’s pace. “Will you treat me?”
“I don’t think you’ve done anything to deserve it,” Jeonghan hums, glancing at him sideways. “But we’ll see. Perhaps I’ll feel generous.”
“Aren’t I lucky,” Oikawa mocks, sighing afterwards. “For real, though. Won’t your friends mind if I show up there unannounced?”
Something warm washes over Jeonghan’s shoulders, quieter than relief. “I already told them you’re coming,” is what he answers, chuckling to himself. “They can be loud, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Not a problem,” Oikawa says, and it’s full of the same familiarity Jeonghan has caught in stray sentences here and there ever since the first day. “Friends are like that sometimes, aren’t they?”
If it pulls a smile out of Jeonghan, he chooses not to comment.
“He’s sort of my anchor, really,” Jeonghan catches Seungcheol saying on his way back from the restroom. “I know I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone like him by my side.”
“Hyung tries to downplay it, but it’s the truth,” Seungkwan adds, shrugging before taking another soju shot. “He acts like everything is fine all the time, but it’s only so that no one will get stuck in place. He tries to bring everyone forward, like a river would, you know? But I worry, sometimes, that he’s not paying enough attention to himself. In this job…”
“Seungkwan-ah,” Jeonghan chooses this exact moment to walk back to the table, narrowing his eyes at both Seungcheol and Seungkwan—who look exactly like two kids getting caught red-handed by their mothers. “What are you guys talking about, huh?”
“Nothing,” Oikawa grins as Jeonghan sits back down on his spot at the table, right next to him. “I was just curious to know if you’re as insufferable around everyone or if it’s me that’s the problem.”
“Hopefully you got the answer you wanted, then,” Jeonghan shoots back, glaring back at Seungcheol and Seungkwan. “You two better have defended my honor, or else.”
Seungcheol laughs around a mouthful of meat, shaking his head. “We didn’t even say much. It’s all stuff you’ve already shared before, so.”
“Stuff like what?”
“Like how you and Joshua almost quit together before we debuted, that you’re good at sports but lazy as fuck, and how you were so jealous of my knee injury that you went and hurt your foot too.”
Jeonghan’s eyes stay fixed on Seungcheol’s, always trying to read between the lines. It’s been like this for them, for most of the time they’ve known each other: Jeonghan is there for everyone else to open up and rely on, and in return Seungcheol stands there as his unwavering support, no matter the headwinds. Jeonghan knows—would gladly do it all over again if he had to, because that’s what love is for. Laying pieces of his truth out for Oikawa to pick, though, feels like a favor Jeonghan did not ask for: Let yourself loose, Seungcheol seems to say, You’ll be fine just like you always are.
To be loved is to be known, and all that stuff Jeonghan lives for. It’s just not easy, accepting for himself what he wants for everyone else.
“Don’t be stupid,” Jeonghan huffs, picking another piece of a nice meat cut and placing it down on Seungkwan’s empty plate. “I would’ve loved for none of us to be injured, and you know that.”
“Well, of course,” Seungcheol shrugs. “You did make me feel less lonely, though.”
“That’s Jeonghan for you, Oikawa-hyung,” Seungkwan chirps. “He’s the most considerate guy in the world.”
“Oikawa-hyung? Seriously?”
“Is he?” Oikawa teases, but there’s something somber in his gaze. Jeonghan briefly wonders how it is possible for him to know this soon, and lets go of the thought when he keeps pressing on. “But anyways, let me finish up what I was saying before I forget—I’m extremely happy that your leg is alright now, Seungcheol. Like, seriously. You’re so lucky.”
“Thank you so much,” Seungcheol responds, a small twist on his mouth. “It’s still not completely healed, but I managed to get back to the group, which was the only thing I ever wanted to do.”
“I get that,” Oikawa smiles, but it’s a small, sad thing. It lodges itself in between Jeonghan’s ribs and solidifies there, like a memoir of a pain not lived through. “Be careful with it, will you? Hajime—my best friend—is an athletic trainer, in case you need anything. I’ll give you my contact so you can reach out, okay?”
It’s not a grand gesture of faux kindness. It’s not for show, unlike most of the rest of things Oikawa does around him. Jeonghan sees the way he looks at Seungcheol, how honestly he offers up his help for something he has no say over, and something clicks.
It might have to do with how Jeonghan places his friends above everything else. With how deep his love for them—all of them—runs. With how he wishes he could take all their pain and carry it on his shoulders, just so they would be able to walk more lightly. With how he tries to be kind to the world, just so the world will be kind to them if needed, too.
It might have to do with the look in Oikawa’s eyes: honest and true, bare to the bone. Jeonghan takes it, takes the genuine smile Seungcheol gives in return, and feels his stomach close up despite the delicious smell of the food on the table.
Recognition almost always leads to self-doubt.
🏐
윤정한
I had fun last night, again
及川徹
Ohh, are you about to praise me, Jeonghan-ssi?
윤정한
Wouldn’t dream on it
It’s true, though
及川徹
I could tell, but still
Sweeeeeet~
윤정한
Yeah
Oikawa, just one thing
Seungkwan told me you went through something similar to Seungcheol
I’m so sorry
I didn’t know
🏐
When the cameras stop rolling in Sendai, Jeonghan stays behind with Oikawa at the Aoba Johsai High School gym.
For a moment, they remain quiet, stuck in a sort of limbo Jeonghan is not sure how to navigate. He glances around the wide, open space and pictures it full of students running around and having fun—pictures Oikawa at seventeen, full of all the teenage dreams he briefly spoke of on camera, tries to think of something lighthearted to say and comes back empty handed.
Oikawa doesn’t pay him any attention. Without uttering a word, he walks towards the benches, picks up a volleyball, and throws it up towards the ceiling as high as it’ll go. Jeonghan keeps his eyes trained on the trajectory it follows: straight up, then down, inevitably headed towards the ground, like a metaphor he would rather not dwell too much on.
And then Oikawa jumps, knees bent and back arched, and slams the palm of his hand against the rough leather of the ball.
The sound it makes when it crashes against the wall in the back breaks the carefully crafted silence in a million pieces, but not as much as the dejected smile on Oikawa’s face does.
“That was a jump serve, right?” Jeonghan chooses to say as he walks up to him, cautious. “A pretty strong one, it seemed to me.”
“Not a serve,” Oikawa replies flatly, his eyes still on the wall. “I would’ve had to run for that.”
“It was still a strong move. I can’t be that wrong about it.”
“You never asked me about volleyball.”
The accusation is blatant and an irrefutable truth. It still comes like a knife headed straight to the neck, so sudden that Jeonghan barely has time to brace himself for the attack. “I had no idea you’d been a professional player when we met,” he says in a rushed attempt at self-defence. “I only found out about it because Seungkwan mentioned it afterwards.”
“And still you didn’t ask me.”
“I didn’t think it was really something that important? All he told me was that you could’ve played for Japan and that’s it. I didn’t even know it was that serious,” Jeonghan tells him, and guilt creeps up on him as the conversation on Oikawa’s past they had while filming plays through his mind: his volleyball journey, all the way from middle school until he signed for a professional team, and how it meant everything to him until it just— “I simply thought your career change had been a voluntary one. That you got tired of the sport or something. I’m really sorry about it.”
Oikawa’s mouth remains a tightly pressed line as he reaches over to pick up another ball, rolling it in his hands. “I thought word would’ve gotten around,” he replies, and Jeonghan finds himself face to face with the same mirage as he did on the night they met: a stone wall, impossible to trespass. “Don’t worry, though. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Jeonghan frowns. “You did not reply to me when I brought it up, so I don’t think it’s okay at all.”
“Because you didn’t ask about volleyball,” Oikawa counters, and the real person underneath the armor starts to peek out: not complacent, not meek at all, but instead fiery and determined and with nothing to hide. “I would’ve expected you, out of everyone, to know how unpleasant it would be to talk about a career-ending knee injury, Yoon Jeonghan.”
“I didn’t want you to talk about it, if you didn’t feel like doing so,” Jeonghan says pointedly, after the blow lands right where Oikawa aimed it to. “But I felt bad for not even knowing and thought I should say something, after how considerate you were to Seungcheol when we ate together. Is that so wrong?”
Oikawa stills and turns to look at him right in the eyes. “You just don’t know what it feels like, losing the one thing you love the most in the world.”
“It’s true. I don’t,” Jeonghan shrugs, taking a step closer towards him. “But I know the fear of doing so. Have known it for way longer than I have not. I don’t think we’re so far off, Tooru.”
The tension dissipates from Oikawa’s shoulders slowly, like liquid draining out through a small hole. He looks down, and suddenly Jeonghan can see him years back from now: a scared teen that took the great risk of leaving home for a different country to chase a dream, who grew into an amazing player rumoured to be destined to become the next big thing in the Japanese National Team, who had the slightest taste of everything he’d ever wanted before it was taken away from him.
Jeonghan will never forget the agony Seungcheol went through when he got injured, nor that of all the following months to come. He imagines Oikawa in a similar situation, not victorious despite the fight, and the back of his mouth burns with the impotence of it all.
“I’ve never had as much fun as I did when I played volleyball,” Oikawa had told Jeonghan on camera that afternoon, unafraid of the audience hearing of it—so honest that Jeonghan had wanted to ask the producer to edit it out, if only so he could keep it for himself alone. “And, whenever I forgot about it and wanted to quit, something would happen and remind me of how much I loved it. The memory of it really is one of the things I cherish the most in the world.”
And yet still, here he is: pushing through with a smile, carrying behind the weight of everything he’s lost and everything that’s yet to come. A past that follows like a shadow. So different from Jeonghan, and yet so alike it almost hurts.
“Was it your friends?” Jeonghan says then, after Oikawa drops the volleyball back into the cart it came from. “The ones that made volleyball so much fun, like you mentioned before?”
“Most of the time,” Oikawa answers. “All of the time, I suppose.”
“Did Hajime play with you?”
“Of course,” Oikawa sounds almost offended, but Jeonghan notices the way in which his tone changes towards something lighter, and it pulls a smile out of him nevertheless. “He’s the one that got me into it in the first place. The one who stopped me from leaving the team altogether several times back in school, sort of like what I heard your friend Joshua did with you.”
“Really?” Jeonghan hums. “I can't believe they brought that up without me there, those two.”
“Mhm. He’s the physical trainer for the National Team now, you know. Such a big shot, that Iwa-chan is.”
“Oh, that’s really cool. He’s the one you talked to Seungcheol about, right?”
Oikawa grins proudly. “That’s right. But also, my kouhai is the starting setter for Japan now. And I’ve got a few more friends there as well.”
“That must be—”
“Awful. Amazing. Couldn't be prouder. Couldn't be more jealous.”
“I'm so sorry,” Jeonghan says again, and this time Oikawa doesn’t fight him on it. He just gives a little nod in return, and Jeonghan counts it as a win. “If it helps, I do think you’re a great model. Like, for real.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Oikawa replies, no bite behind at all. “You know, in a very different way, it is fun too. I was never naturally talented at volleyball, but I worked really hard to get where I wanted to be, and in a way I think that’s a big part of what made it fun for me. Modelling is a little bit of the same thing. I have to keep trying to get better, or else.”
A sweet feeling Jeonghan does not have a name for surges up his chest and clogs his lungs, as if he were choking on smoke but wasn’t sure it’s something he wants to get away from. “I get that,” he says, almost breathless. “I really, really do. It’s been like that for me since the beginning, too. But it’s still the most fun I’ve ever had.”
“You’ve got great friends,” Oikawa tells him then, and the clouds seem to have dissipated from his gaze. Instead, there’s a glint that speaks of bravery beyond constraints, and of joy past the end of the storm. “And I do too. I think we both owe them quite a lot, don’t we?”
“I for sure do,” Jeonghan laughs, tilting his head to the side. “And, if you’ll allow me to say, I’m really glad you keep people you’ve loved for a long time close to you despite walking on a different road now.”
“Yeah,” Oikawa smiles, and the next time their eyes meet, Jeonghan knows he’s done for good. “I’m happy I found you on the sidewalk, though.”
When Jeonghan presses his lips to Oikawa’s to shut him up, it feels like a beginning of sorts.
(“Oikawa pretends to be above everyone else when he feels insecure,” Iwaizumi Hajime says in between cups of sake. “He probably told you he didn’t know who you were when he met you, right?”
“How’d you know?” Jeonghan giggles from across the table at the izakaya Tooru dragged him to tonight, under the pretense of introducing him to his friends since all of them casually happened to be in Tokyo like them. “He also told me he only wanted to be seen around me for fame.”
“Oh my God,” Hinata Shoyo chokes on his own laughter, clutching at his stomach. “He’s been talking to me about how hot he thinks you are for, like, years now.”
Jeonghan blames the blush on his cheeks on the beer he keeps nursing. “Really? You’re not kidding?”
“Oikawa-san is like that,” Kageyama Tobio shrugs. “He rarely says what he’s truly thinking about, unless you push him. Then he’ll just spit it all out.”
“Noted,” Jeonghan grins. “He’s really something. But he always speaks wonders about you all.”
“Does he?” Kageyama asks, his eyes wide. “Wow. He must feel really comfortable around you, Jeonghan-san.”
“Oh, I just know he does,” Iwaizumi smiles, pouring himself another glass. “He told me you convinced him to start training a children's volleyball team back in Seoul, right, Jeonghan?”
“I just saw the ad walking back home one day and brought it up. I think he’s really happy about it.”
“He must be,” Hinata nods. “Afterall, Oikawa is—”
“What am I exactly, Shoyo-kun?”
“Amazing!”
“Annoying as hell,” Jeonghan laughs, and earns himself a slap on the shoulder from Oikawa as he slots himself right between Hinata and him. “Why’d you take so long to order?”
“Miya was trying to make me get gray hairs with his nonsense babbling by the bar,” Oikawa replies, placing his hand down on Jeonghan’s thigh under the table and grabbing his drink with the free one. “Seriously, how do you guys put up with him?”
“Are you talking shit about me again?” Atsumu Miya cries out as he lets himself fall into his spot next to Kageyama, his eyes narrowed at Oikawa. “Because if so—”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Iwaizumi laughs, like this is something usual. Because it probably is, Jeonghan thinks, watching everyone fit together like puzzle pieces. “You two will seriously never change, will you?”
And Jeonghan understands, every day more than the last, how hard it must have been for Oikawa to have to step back from a life shared with people he loves this much. But he also sees how his love for his friends hasn’t faltered, how it only keeps growing bigger with time and adversity, and it feels like a warm embrace that makes hope spark in the bottom of his chest, lighting up his ribcage.
Jeonghan squeezes Oikawa’s hand under the table, and when he turns his head to look at him, leans forward to press a short kiss to his parted lips.
“The Great King, huh?” Jeonghan teases, grinning when Oikawa makes a short, annoying sound. “How cute.”
“Shut up,” Oikawa groans. “I’m going to kill everyone at this table if you all keep saying embarrassing things about me!”
A house of mirrors. Your own shadow coming to chase you at night. Greed and fear, fighting for a spotlight.
Jeonghan’s edges, never polished enough to make anyone stay. Except for, let’s say, those brave enough to look at their own distorted reflection and love it either way.)