Work Text:
To be honest, Taeyang misses the time when Jongseob still considered himself a guest. A polite one. He used to quietly straighten the sheets before leaving in the morning. Never left dishes in the sink. Folded his jacket neatly over the back of a chair.
Yes, Jongseob’s toothbrush and skincare have been in this apartment since before Taeyang even realized, and to be fair, he also keeps backup headphones and his own slippers at Jongseob’s studio. But it wasn’t cohabiting. There were still clear lines. They packed their things, kept their laundry separate, and never spread their belongings out. It was like having your name on a room key at a hotel you visit often.
But now? Taeyang doesn’t even need to check the kitchen to know the takeout containers are sitting there with maybe two bites left, abandoned in favor of a mid-episode nap or some work file Jongseob swears he needs to finish before he forgets the melody. Still, Taeyang wanders over, and yep—box on the counter, sauce packet half-opened, chopsticks shoved in at an angle no human hands could’ve logically achieved.
“You gonna throw out that bowl, or is it staying as a monument?” Taeyang calls toward the living room, not really loud or serious.
Because here’s the thing: they don’t talk about the fact that Jongseob has been here five nights in a row. Or the way his charger has migrated across the apartment and somehow become a permanent fixture. Or how his shampoo has started clinging to Taeyang’s pillows. Or the way he tests any random flat surface as a potential nap spot, curling up near the coffee table like a cat that’s gotten too warm in the sun and wanders off to find a cooler patch of tile.
Taeyang didn’t ask for any of it, but he also hasn’t told him to stop. Sure, Taeyang needs neatness, but he can let the mess happen, especially since Jongseob always gets away with the excuse of “I was composing,” like art justifies crime when he doesn’t clean up after eating. They haven’t started (read: never will) texting things like “I miss you,” but one day, following Jongseob’s “home soon,” Taeyang found himself replying, “get laundry detergent.” Jiung said he stared at his phone like it had just been factory reset.
“One more round to go,” comes the deadpan reply.
“Game or lyrics revision?” Taeyang calls back, already picking up the plastic container with two fingers.
“Compensating for Shota,” Jongseob says, and Taeyang assumes it has nothing to do with choreography.
Not that Taeyang minds Jongseob inhabiting his rug. They just haven’t acknowledged that it’s not really “staying over” anymore. But last week, they made a shared playlist, which has turned into a mood swing between hardcore hip-hop and indie soul. Call it progression.
The energy in studio sessions shifts, too. Now, Taeyang’s fully entitled to mess with Jongseob’s fingers when they’re both past the point of productivity but the mix is only half done, or steal his keyboard, especially one of those Jongseob never used to let him touch.
The next release isn’t official yet, though the rough plan is for winter. Lately, they’ve been mostly pulling up tracks Jongseob never gave to anyone else and giving them a shot. They go back and forth debating whether to try something upbeat or mellow, torn between “Who listens to high tempo in November?” and “What if it goes viral next summer?”
Sometimes, they’re interrupted by Jongseob’s alarm: a heads-up before his next meeting. He usually smiles apologetically and offers, “I’ll bounce the stems and tweak them at my place tonight. Come over?”
Taeyang nods and waves him off, humming backing vocals while sorting through other demos.
But call it a speed bump. Old habits die hard. It happens when they’re leaving for the night. “By the way,” Taeyang says, as he pulls out of the parking lot, “I’ll be in Jeju tomorrow night. One of those resort concept shoots. Jiung said we’ll be back the next morning.”
Jongseob doesn’t look up from his phone, but in Taeyang’s peripheral vision, his eyes flick briefly to his face before dropping back to the screen. After a pause, he says, “Cool.”
Taeyang glances over at a red light. “Need anything before I go?”
This time, Jongseob answers too quickly, still staring at his screen. “Not really.”
He stays completely quiet the rest of the ride. And later, when Taeyang comes out of the bathroom, Jongseob is curled up on the couch like that’s where he plans to sleep for the night.
“Something wrong?” Taeyang walks over.
Jongseob exhales slowly, not looking up when he says, “You said you’d be gone tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Taeyang slings the towel over his shoulder. “Just one night.”
“When were you gonna tell me?”
“An hour ago…?” Taeyang blinks, confused.
“Right,” Jongseob scoffs. The flash of his canine makes him look sharp but composed, and for some reason, that’s more intimidating than if he’d just snapped. “Because I’m just here like your roommate. Or housepet.”
Taeyang’s lip twitches. “It’s not like that.”
“You didn’t even ask if I had plans.” Jongseob finally looks up, his eyes dull. “Maybe I’m not supposed to care when you disappear.”
“It’s work. I didn’t think it was a big deal—”
“Exactly,” Jongseob cuts in, tone even but final. “You didn’t think.”
He slips in two hours later, after Taeyang’s done packing and pretending he’s already turned in. The next morning, Taeyang wakes to find Jongseob sprawled stubbornly at the far end of the bed, barely under the covers like he fell asleep mid-grudge. But when Taeyang’s at the door, putting on his shoes, Jongseob appears. Bedhead impressive, movements slow and sleep-walky.
Taeyang stares at his sleepy eyes, speechless at the thought that this might actually qualify as their first real fight.
Just as he’s about to turn away, Jongseob mutters, “Safe trip.”
Taeyang sighs despite himself, freeing one hand from the luggage to lightly tap the back of Jongseob’s neck. “Go back to bed.”
Say a cat isn’t one to forget kindness or a challenge, and they take notes for future judgment. Later that night, Taeyang sends “didn’t eat enough today”, a statement of fact after barely having time to eat anything on set, and gets a picture back: a sizzling grill pan.
A few minutes later, Keeho drops a link in their group chat, some new TikTok he shot with Intak at the dinner table. Jongseob isn’t on camera, but his jacket is.
Taeyang saves the photo Keeho sends separately: Jongseob, mid-laugh at something Intak said. He ignores the caption: “exes.”
potato digging horse
you got a thing for other people’s men?
[potato digging horse]
jealous much?
[potato digging horse]
he seemed off
so i dragged him out
yw
we fought
kinda
[potato digging horse]
roses are red violets are blue love is true welcome to
not-exes to lovers 101
[potato digging horse]
but he wont shut up about ur song
says intak should feature on it too
right
the duet
[potato digging horse]
?
[potato digging horse]
???
Gimpo at eight isn’t exactly quiet, but it feels dormant compared to the road, which is already busy with morning commuters. Jiung drops Taeyang off and tells him to be ready by three for some media thing.
The apartment is dim and asleep when Taeyang quietly cracks the door open. The lump of a human under the covers doesn’t stir when he slips into the shower, but several minutes later, the shrill beep of the alarm cuts through the wall and the running water.
By the time Taeyang steps out, toweling his hair, the curtain is drawn. Jongseob is brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. His eyes lift the moment Taeyang reaches past him for the fridge, but neither of them says anything.
Silence settles between them as Taeyang blow-dries his hair and gets ready for bed. He’s sitting on the edge of the still-warm mattress, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, when Jongseob steps in. He hovers for a moment, searching for his cap, but doesn’t leave right away after gathering his things. Taeyang looks up when he notices Jongseob shift a little closer.
“Went well?” he asks.
Taeyang nods, then says after a breath, “Early meeting?”
“Yeah,” Jongseob huffs.
“You’ll be late,” Taeyang points out when he doesn’t move after a moment, and Jongseob’s now standing right in front of him.
“I’m not mad,” Jongseob murmurs, holding eye contact. Taeyang sets his phone aside and reaches out, hooking a hand behind Jongseob’s knee to pull him in.
“I mean, I was,” Jongseob finishes, his hand coming up to run through Taeyang’s lightly damp hair as Taeyang rests his forehead against his stomach, arms loosely wrapped around his waist.
“I didn’t mean to leave you out,” Taeyang replies, voice muffled. Then he adds, “Dinner?”
Jongseob hums. “Text later? Think that’s fine.”
Taeyang nods, holding him for another second before letting go.
Dating your coworker can be tricky, even if there aren’t strict rules like “no flirting in the booth.” But things get complicated when you throw in constructive criticism, professional respect, and all the mini recalibrations in between. They agreed on day one that neither of them is responsible for the other’s success, but now Taeyang notices how Jongseob freezes for a split second after they listen to his work with another in-house producer, when Taeyang tells him, “This doesn’t sound right.”
The instrument arrangement is just a little too layered, and Jongseob smoothes it out by rebalancing everything.
They meet Jiung for a quick lunch at a Chinese place. Taeyang nudges a shrimp over with his chopsticks and asks, “Am I too hard in the studio?”
Jongseob picks it up and bites, replying slowly, “No.”
Jiung said it was work-related, and the call ends up stretching on to full teleconference length. When they both glance out the window, Jongseob says, sipping his jasmine tea, “But sometimes I want to hear you say I’m doing good. Even when you’re focused.”
Taeyang gives him a look. “You’ve always been good.”
Jongseob goes oddly quiet after a dry huff of a laugh. “Sure.”
Something seems to be bothering him. Age, work status, talent, everything appealing for a marketable narrative. Taeyang has a similar story, just two sides of the same coin: his first ever end-of-year stage two years ago was cut down to half its original length, leaving behind incomplete debris that made it on air. And now, the very same broadcaster is inviting him back for a mid-year anniversary show with a decent placement.
The offer isn’t final yet; the agency’s still sorting out some logistics.
They’re waiting for a rerun of a TV drama Taeyang sang the OST for, in Taeyang’s living room. Jongseob is on the floor, his back resting against the edge of the couch. Taeyang is sipping the plum juice Jongseob forgot to drink, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, when he starts casually: “Jiung asked again today.”
Jongseob hums, eyes on his phone but clearly not paying attention.
“About the special stage,” Taeyang says, giving it a second.
Jongseob doesn’t respond right away, just hums again and taps at nothing in particular.
“I told him,” Taeyang pauses, “that I wanted to check with you first.”
“It’s whatever you want,” Jongseob replies, voice low in his throat, face unreadable in the bluish tint of the TV.
“That’s not a yes.” Taeyang stretches out his legs to let Jongseob lean back against him, his fingers shifting to scratch under Jongseob’s chin.
“I just said I’m fine with it,” Jongseob says, tilting back into Taeyang’s lap and glancing up.
“It’s not too much? With everything else?” Their eyes meet upside down at Taeyang’s question. Jongseob blinks up at him, then gives a single nod. He tosses his phone aside onto the floor as Taeyang leans down, hands coming up to thread into Taeyang’s hair as their lips meet.
They shift slightly because the angle is awkward, Jongseob’s canine grazing Taeyang’s lower lip with the lightest pressure. The mark is soft and familiar, but briefly different because of the way they’re positioned. His breath is warm, and his half-lidded eyes look distant from Taeyang’s flipped perspective.
The episode is just about to begin when they pull apart. Jongseob’s cheek rests against Taeyang’s knee, Taeyang’s hand brushing gently over his temple.
It’s a summer event, and Taeyang is given three slots. They want him to open with Alone, one of his earliest works, never officially released, and the only track that features Jongseob. His solo performance and the collaboration with Keeho are easier to manage, thanks to fresh production and previous tour prep. But Alone is too nostalgic to land easily; neither Taeyang nor Jongseob is ever fully satisfied with a verse or a chord. The assigned senior producer has already stopped Jongseob twice for trying to completely rewrite his part.
They’ve finished going over the demo together, and now it’s just the two of them. Jongseob mentioned needing to pick up his clothes from the dry cleaner, but he hasn’t moved from the couch since their takeout dinner.
Taeyang’s humming that OST they heard during the rerun when Jongseob says, “We should do that.”
“Do what?” Taeyang doesn’t look up from his practice, plucking the low thrum of a G chord.
“Write a drama OST, become rich, disappear into a forest,” Jongseob replies, puffing out his cheek.
Taeyang huffs a laugh and looks over. Jongseob shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging downward before stretching into a half-mocking smile. He looks sleep-deprived but focused, features soft, legs folded under him like a kid.
There’s something about the way he curls up that hits Taeyang. He sets down his guitar and shifts without thinking. Jongseob turns automatically when Taeyang cups the side of his face, even though his attention is still half on his phone, and their lips meet in a slow kiss. Jongseob blinks, then closes his eyes, their foreheads resting together as Taeyang’s thumb grazes his cheekbone.
“…What was that for?” Jongseob asks softly.
Taeyang’s eyes flutter shut too. “Nothing,” he murmurs, leaning into the warmth between them.
But then Jongseob lets out a low giggle, and it vibrates from where their chests are pressed together. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“And that would be about...?” Taeyang huffs, his mouth brushing along Jongseob’s jaw.
Jongseob leans back, his hood slipping off as Taeyang threads his fingers into his hair. He follows when Jongseob sinks deeper into the couch, guiding them both down until Jongseob is lying back against the cushions and Taeyang is hovering above him. They part for a moment, just enough for Jongseob to settle. He blinks up at Taeyang, eyes glossy, lips curved into an amused smile as he says, “It’s written all over your face.”
“Yeah, genius,” Taeyang says, and leans down to kiss the tip of his nose while thumbing at his lower lip. Jongseob grins, sticking out his tongue and licking around Taeyang’s finger pad, sucking it lightly before releasing it with a wet pop. Taeyang smears the spit across his puffy lips without caring about the string of saliva still attached, the other hand unzipping Jongseob’s hoodie. Jongseob’s hands come up to Taeyang’s waist, fingers pressing into the bare skin, his words half lost when their mouths slot together: “Blame that song.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Taeyang breaks the kiss, raising his arms so Jongseob can pull the sweatshirt over his head and drop it on the floor. Jongseob watches him as he shakes the hair out of his eyes, then grabs Taeyang’s hand and kisses his knuckles.
“Dunno,” he murmurs against Taeyang’s fingers. “Makes me think of the old days.”
Taeyang raises his index finger in Jongseob’s hold, tapping it against his chin, his other hand brushing stray strands from Jongseob’s forehead. “You were so young.”
Jongseob lets go of his hand, pulling Taeyang down instead. “And this…” His voice sends a shiver down Taeyang’s spine. “…Remember? At mine.”
For a moment, Taeyang just looks at him closely. Jongseob’s face is only a breath away, words caught tight in his throat. “…Yeah, that was…”
And in the most inconvenient timing imaginable, Taeyang’s phone vibrates on the desk.
They both snap to attention. Taeyang, unable to help himself, pecks Jongseob on the cheek since he’s so close when he turns his head.
The damn phone won’t stop buzzing, insistent like an annoying bee. Taeyang groans into the side of Jongseob’s face before shifting to reach for it. Jongseob pushes himself up against him, chin resting on Taeyang’s shoulder, and both of them freeze at the display: No Caller ID, either spam or something more uncanny.
Taeyang hangs up with a short huff, chucks the phone aside, and turns into Jongseob’s arms as they hook around his shoulders. Jongseob shuffles back to make space when Taeyang curls his legs in, soothing a hand up and down his back when he clings a little.
“Airplane mode exists for a reason,” Taeyang whispers loudly. Jongseob presses a soft kiss behind his neck without saying anything, letting Taeyang slowly breathe him in.
As if the first whiplash doesn’t land hard enough, Taeyang’s work phone dumps a fresh wave of weariness on him as it starts to buzz minutes later. Jongseob lets out a bitter laugh when Taeyang swears into the warm fabric of his shirt, but Jiung’s name on the screen brings a weird sense of relief as he untangles himself and grabs it.
“Don’t pick it up,” Jongseob mutters, even though Taeyang’s already taking the call.
“What?”
“You free?” Jiung’s low, flat voice comes through. “Jongseob’s with you?”
Taeyang leans down to grab his shirt, watching Jongseob slowly zip up his hoodie before running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, why?”
“Come to the design office. Something’s up with the set. The creative director wants to talk.”
“…Right now?”
“Yes. Both of you,” Jiung says it like a military command. “Need a lift?”
“No,” Taeyang mouths “have to go” to Jongseob in bewilderment. “I’ll drive.”
“Good. Meet you in thirty.” Jiung hangs up without waiting for a reply.
Taeyang gives him a quick brief, and Jongseob collects his bag. When they’re ready to leave, Jongseob murmurs quietly behind him: “Save point?”
Taeyang sighs, turning back to bring him in for a quick press of lips to his forehead. “Of course.”
What’s more marvelous: Taeyang catches a cold during preparation, and he’s trying hard not to cough while the stylist tightens a strap around his neck. The recording still isn’t finished when they finally escape fitting hell. Jongseob’s perched on the edge of the control board chair, watching something on his phone when Taeyang comes back from checking his blotchy face in the bathroom. The promo video dropped last night, and the comments are already going wild on SNS as the lineup is announced.
“See? People are looking forward,” Taeyang says, frowning at his own muffled voice.
Jongseob looks up, his expression neutral. “Yeah,” he huffs. “Glad twelve wasn’t my peak.”
“Don’t be silly,” Taeyang sniffles and grabs a tissue. “I’m not performing if we’re lip syncing.”
Jongseob scoffs. “You’re the one everyone wants on stage. Even in…” He passes over a thermos. “…this state.”
Taeyang gives him a flat stare and unscrews the lid. “You crashing at yours tonight?”
At that, Jongseob checks the time on his screen. “Right.” He stands and starts collecting his things. “Too bad you can’t come. Dad wanted to talk about the choreography by Shota.”
Taeyang waves a fresh tissue in the air. “Next time. I carry germs.”
Jongseob laughs quietly, shouldering his duffel, and Taeyang raises a hand to stop him from coming closer. “Off you go.”
“Have fun with your little beauty,” Jongseob gestures at the Sunburst Strat leaning against the wall, and leaves.
Playing guitar and sleeping do make Taeyang feel better, even if it’s more psychological than physical. The next morning is a rare half-day off, so he cleans, eats a decent meal, and does a bit of online shopping before heading back to the studio in the afternoon. The sound engineer assures him that the tracking sounds fine, and they spend some time discussing the next project since demos have already been submitted for song selection. The arrangement should follow the usual format, but he’s told they haven’t decided yet who’ll handle mixing and mastering.
“Jongseob passed it off,” the sound engineer says, probably noticing that the look on Taeyang’s face isn’t just a cold symptom. “Said he’s only staying on for recording.”
Taeyang nods with a polite smile, but he’s still mentally replaying the logistics later that night, his phone dim in his hand. The TV is on, playing something he’s not really watching. He startles halfway awake when the door unlocks quietly.
Jongseob was supposed to be home. But now he’s standing in the dark hallway like he can’t decide what to do next.
Taeyang lifts his head, blinking the sleep away. “You good?”
Jongseob doesn’t answer. Instead of his usual habit of crashing wherever gravity wins, carpet, couch, the floor, he slowly comes over and pauses in front of Taeyang. His shoulders are tense when he asks: “…Can I stay here?”
Taeyang sits up straighter, trying to see his face in the dim light. Jongseob’s eyes are shadowed by his hood, lips pressed into a thin line, the way they get when he’s holding back tears. Taeyang shifts, then silently opens the blanket.
Jongseob crawls in, molding himself to Taeyang, his arms slipping around his waist tentatively. Taeyang pulls him in by the back of his neck, letting Jongseob slowly settle, and slides them both under the covers. The white noise of some variety show plays on in the background. After a long minute, when Jongseob starts to relax a little, Taeyang murmurs, “Bad day…?”
Jongseob doesn’t speak. He doesn’t nod either, just nuzzles deeper into the crook of Taeyang’s neck, breathing quietly.
For once, Taeyang is sure there’s something Jongseob doesn’t want to be brave about. So he just holds him closer, hoping the shared warmth will be enough for an answer he doesn’t need to hear.
Taeyang’s birthday lands on a packed workday. Jiung drops off a small cake and congratulates him alongside a few staff members in the afternoon. He had planned to have dinner with Jongseob, but it’s past ten by the time a conference finally wraps, so they just grab something quick near the agency. The all-night soup restaurant is mostly empty, save for a few others waiting on their late-night snack-slash-dinner, all glued to their phones.
While they wait for the food, Jongseob says between exchanging memes and shorts, “You might wanna start thinking about birthday wishes, or it’ll be the next day.”
Taeyang looks up briefly. “I can tell you now. It won’t come true anyway.”
“Yeah?” Jongseob glances up too, meeting his eyes as he props his chin on his hand.
“I want to go back in time,” Taeyang says, eyes flicking toward the menu on the wall.
“Then,” Jongseob shifts slightly, tilting his head. “Don’t make it a birthday wish. If you could go back—when would you go?”
“Eleven,” Taeyang answers instantly. “Wanna restart from there.”
“I’d stay in the present,” Jongseob hums. “…Don’t really wanna go through another competition show.”
Taeyang laughs quietly. “That.”
“It was fun, but…” Jongseob trails off. “Or maybe I should start at one.”
“Full reboot?” Taeyang echoes. “Would you still end up doing what you’re doing now?”
Jongseob thinks for a moment. “Dunno. Might not do music,” he says, just as their meals arrive. The steam rises between them, softening the edges of Jongseob’s face in Taeyang’s eyes. “Maybe I’d dance like my parents.”
Taeyang dips his spoon into the soup, letting the warmth seep in before speaking. “I’d be a volleyball player. Or a UFC fighter.”
Jongseob half-laughs into his bowl. “UFC?!”
“Yeah, what.” Taeyang pouts. “I’m young. Life’s full of possibilities.”
Jongseob smiles for real this time. “Sure.”
By the time they step into Taeyang’s living room, it’s dangerously close to midnight. Jongseob sets up while Taeyang digs through cabinets for a lighter. The birthday song is rushed through twice as fast, with Jongseob throwing in melodic raps for the second half. Taeyang blows out the candle without really making a wish.
Neither of them moves to turn on the lights, until Jongseob tugs something out from behind a cushion Taeyang hadn’t even noticed. It’s a simply, almost sloppily wrapped box that he holds out one-handed, tipping his chin for Taeyang to take it.
Taeyang blinks, then reaches out. His fingers pause when he unwraps the box and sees what’s inside: a brand new Souldier strap, Poinsettia Red. He thumbs carefully at the stitching before picking it up, feeling the weight and texture in a way that says this one will last for years. When their eyes meet, Jongseob just shrugs and gestures toward the plastic cake knife.
Taeyang sets the strap down and moves the wrapping aside. Jongseob lets out a surprised sound when Taeyang pulls him from where he’s perched on the armrest, hands catching instinctively on Taeyang’s shoulders as he ends up settled in his lap.
“You like it?” Jongseob smiles, his eyes curving into crescents. “Wasn’t sure about the pattern, I—”
Taeyang doesn’t wait for him to finish. He leans in and kisses him, and Jongseob melts into it with a soft, slurred sound, one hand sliding behind Taeyang’s neck, thumb brushing gently along the warm skin there.
It might be the smell of cream in the air, but Jongseob tastes sweet. Taeyang chases his lips when Jongseob tries to start his little speech about the gift selection. “On the underside…” He pauses briefly when Taeyang sucks on his bottom lip, but picks right back up the moment Taeyang lets him go. “Your initials…”
Taeyang almost feels jealous of his own initials, but the words quickly fade as Jongseob catches on that Taeyang isn’t looking for a backstory right now. Clever and flexible as ever, Jongseob tilts his head, licking into Taeyang’s mouth to deepen the kiss, moaning softly as Taeyang pulls up the hem of his shirt and slips his hands underneath.
His canine digs into Taeyang’s upper lip, and Taeyang hisses into the kiss but doesn’t pull away. The sting feels like a tiny thorn, prickly when he’s reaching for something tender and beautiful, so Taeyang just tongues the spot and pushes deeper, earning a low groan from Jongseob, who rocks their bodies together in return. The room is too dark to see clearly, but with the light from the kitchen faintly bleeding in, Jongseob’s pink cheeks and swollen, ruby lips make him look like everything Taeyang could ever want. Jongseob wrinkles his nose when Taeyang just stares, letting out a breathless laugh before tugging Taeyang close. He presses a quick kiss to Taeyang’s throat, murmuring against his skin: “Let me?”
Taeyang’s hand stills behind Jongseob’s ear, his heartbeat picking up like a sugar rush. Jongseob’s eyes are dark but warm, steady on him as Taeyang leans back slightly, his waist held secure in Jongseob’s palm.
“Here?” Taeyang asks, finger trailing lazily down his spine.
“You wanna move?” Jongseob teases.
“…Too far,” Taeyang murmurs, pressing his lips together to stifle a smile, surprised by how naturally the idea settles in him. There’s always a first time, and of course… it’s Jongseob.
Jongseob flashes him a cheeky grin. “Give me a minute?” He’s already shifting off Taeyang’s lap before he finishes the sentence, and Taeyang gives him a light slap on the lower back. “Ten seconds.”
Jongseob returns in record time, panting softly. Whether from the lingering heat of the kiss or the sprint to the bedroom, it’s hard to tell. He meets Taeyang’s eyes and raises an eyebrow. “You’re smirking like the Cheshire Cat.”
Taeyang isn’t sure why he feels a little lightheaded before anything’s even begun. Maybe it’s the cold that should’ve passed by now. “Does this count as two birthdays?”
Jongseob follows the motion of his hand to the clock on the wall. He shrugs, then climbs onto the couch, kneeling in front of Taeyang where he’s lounging against the armrest. Tugging gently at his wrist, he urges him to sit up. “Sure. We’ll just recycle the cake. As many times as you want.”
Taeyang shivers slightly as Jongseob pops open the first button of his shirt. His own fingers curl into Jongseob’s belt loop, fumbling a bit to find the zipper since Jongseob has a thing for quirky designs. “Then I’ll get too old,” he murmurs.
Jongseob wiggles out of his pants and underwear, then grips Taeyang’s chin and plants a kiss on his jawline. “I’m getting old with you around, huh?”
Taeyang lets out an almost hysterical laugh, caught in whatever high he’s riding, and groans into Jongseob’s mouth as he works on Taeyang’s jeans, his erection growing under Jongseob’s touch. “Since when did you get so romantic?”
Instead of answering, Jongseob just leans into the kiss, his tongue pushing softly to part Taeyang’s lips. But when Taeyang tilts his head in response, Jongseob stays on the edge and licks gently, running a soothing hand down Taeyang’s neck and back. Taeyang sighs, feeling warmth washing over him as Jongseob pushes forward, slowly encircling him between the cushions and his body.
They pause for just a second, Taeyang spreading his legs to let Jongseob settle in between. The way Jongseob looks down at him feels both anchoring and intense, so Taeyang makes the mistake of looking away, and swallows hard as he watches Jongseob reach for the lube. As if sensing a shift in energy, Jongseob doesn’t open the bottle immediately, but wraps a hand around his leaking tip and strokes gently. Taeyang grips Jongseob’s hips, gasping against Jongseob’s skin as Jongseob presses a soft kiss to Taeyang’s forehead and murmurs: “You trust me, right?”
Taeyang takes a breath, trying to quiet his obnoxiously loud heartbeat. “I’m not scared of you,” he mutters, then adds, “Who do you think taught you all this?”
Jongseob pulls back to see his face, his knee adding pressure to Taeyang’s crotch, coaxing out a sharp inhale. “Learned from the best,” he whispers, letting their dicks brush against each other.
“Then…” Taeyang bites hard on each syllable, feeling goosebumps rise up on his arms when he hears the lid pop open. “Stop teasing.”
“You wish,” Jongseob says with a smug smile, one hand guiding Taeyang’s hips and legs upward, the other slipping a cushion beneath him. A few droplets drip onto his stomach, Taeyang clenching instinctively despite the heat pooling in his core, and he curses out loudly as Jongseob half takes him inside his mouth. The heat doesn’t replace the cold sensation of Jongseob’s fingers ghosting around his rim, but Taeyang feels like a cone melting in the warmth of sunshine, slowly dissolving into sugary dampness. The contrast between being split open and wholly enveloped only heightens when Jongseob finally works the first finger into his tightness, his mouth leaving to kiss Taeyang’s thigh and knee.
“…Okay?” Jongseob asks between soft presses, inching forward when Taeyang squirms and hides his face in the back of the couch. He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, then shifts up to kiss the corner of Taeyang’s eye. “Talk to me?”
Taeyang turns slightly, his face burning, and he couldn’t be more grateful for the half-darkness. Their eyes meet briefly before he looks away again, because if that gaze lingers even a second longer, he’s sure he’ll combust. Jongseob reads the cue and presses a kiss to his brow.
“Uncomfortable?” he whispers against Taeyang’s skin.
Taeyang lets out a quiet sound of denial.
“Strange?” Taeyang’s nod is interrupted as Jongseob’s finger inches deeper, and he shudders when Jongseob kisses his closed eyelid.
“But good?” Jongseob asks with silent giggles as he fully pushes in, Taeyang barely managing to kiss him properly on the mouth through the fullness in both his lower body and his heart.
“Don’t laugh, brat,” Taeyang murmurs against his lips, tapping the hand that’s partially connected to himself. His finger comes back a bit sticky, and Jongseob glances up before wrapping his tongue around it, squeezing in a second one inside Taeyang. Taeyang arches backward, trying to relax through a slow exhale, and rubs his fingertip at the pointy tip of Jongseob’s canine before pulling out.
Jongseob then moves to nip at Taeyang’s collarbone, as he slowly, deliberately spreads his fingers, sliding them in and out with a steady rhythm. Taeyang bites back a moan when he prods a certain spot, the other hand dancing around Taeyang’s hip the way he cradles a birthday candle, tracing back to his stomach, chest, neck, and finally, his face. Taeyang leans into the touch when Jongseob cups his cheek, kissing his palm and letting out a low whimper when Jongseob pushes in the third finger.
The novelty of pressure is gone by now, overtaken by the hint of something trying to burst out of his skin. Taeyang props himself up slightly, finding the back of Jongseob’s neck and holding him for a kiss. Jongseob shifts against him when Taeyang reaches down and touches him, mumbling between heavy breaths: “Like how I feel inside you?”
“When did you learn to talk like that?” Taeyang huffs, but the sound breaks into a chuckle. Jongseob just grins, letting Taeyang stroke his dick as he picks up the condom, ripping it open with his teeth. The sight almost makes Taeyang forget that Jongseob’s hand is still three fingers buried inside him, and they both watch as Jongseob carefully retreats, something slick seeping out and staining the fabric. Despite his earlier confidence, Jongseob suddenly looks sheepish. “We might need a new slipcover.”
Taeyang rolls his eyes fondly, falling back on the couch and watching their shadows stretch on the ceiling. “You’re lucky I like you…” His breath hitches when he feels Jongseob’s lubricated fingers skim his entrance, then the rounded tip of his dick. They both gasp when Jongseob slowly pushes in halfway, then pulls out completely before pushing in again, more firmly this time. Taeyang yelps and tightens around Jongseob against his will, his eyes snapping shut as the burning warmth ignites sparks in his stomach. He feels Jongseob sit still inside his body, making the slightest movement as he bends over, then his warm mouth and familiar breath comes closer as Taeyang opens his eyes to a blur, their lips crashing in a loose kiss.
“All good?” The words feel more engraved into his skin than heard. Taeyang’s eyes flutter shut again as Jongseob kisses along his jaw. He nods and throws his head back to let Jongseob kiss his neck. Everything feels different, even though it’s still his space, his (ruined) couch, his person. So Taeyang takes another breath and murmurs into Jongseob’s hair, “…Just move.”
But it’s Jongseob, so of course he gives another long minute before he starts a slow thrust. He’s kissing Taeyang’s shoulder now as Taeyang wraps his arms around Jongseob’s waist, pulling him close for a deeper thrust. Jongseob rises slightly as he works on the pace, their eyes locking for a moment, and Taeyang leans in for another kiss, his hand moving down to grip Jongseob’s ass. Jongseob moans, pulling away to watch Taeyang’s face, and he looks so very affectionate when he hits a sensitive spot inside Taeyang that brings out a sound Taeyang didn’t know he could make.
“How come we never did this?” Taeyang asks between breaths, his thumb brushing over a dimple on Jongseob’s lower back.
“Because we’re newlyweds?” Jongseob tries to joke, but his voice comes out broken. A dull sting rushes through Taeyang, but it’s quickly drowned beneath a rising wave of pleasure.
“You had to mention that?” Taeyang whines into his mouth, nibbling his lip in halfhearted punishment. Jongseob giggles, completely unapologetic, and just pushes harder, his hand wrapping around Taeyang’s dick as he starts to pump.
“Or I’d never…” he stutters when Taeyang kisses his cheekbone, “…have you like this.”
“You could’ve just,” Taeyang swallows a whimper, shivering at the tension that builds in the pit of his stomach, “proposed.”
“And risk losing everything?” Jongseob breathes rapidly. His hand tightens at Taeyang’s base, and their foreheads bump lightly together.
“You never knew until…” Taeyang grits his teeth, failing at another attempt not to chase Jongseob’s warmth and the building orgasm. The incomplete sentence hangs between them, getting filled by the sounds they make together. It’s more breathing into each other’s mouth now as they’re too overwhelmed to kiss, and Taeyang’s only rational thought diminishes to the fact that he can’t leave marks or be marked, no matter how badly he wants to. So he takes a shaky breath, nuzzling Jongseob’s flushed cheek, rolling his hip as Jongseob slows down for a moment before picking up the speed again. Jongseob presses closer when Taeyang pulls his hand off, leaning into the crook of Taeyang’s neck as he trembles. “Hyung, I…” His voice is muffled against Taeyang’s skin, but the words are still loud and clear: “…I love you,” Jongseob murmurs, and comes with a silent gasp.
Taeyang’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t have time to register the sentence as the feeling of Jongseob pulsating inside him takes over first. That alone is enough to make Taeyang lose whatever control he has left, as he comes in turn, hard and hot between them.
Jongseob doesn’t move for a long time, and neither does Taeyang. His body is still catching up, raw and exposed in a way that surprises him. Jongseob remains folded over him, forehead resting against his shoulder, their breaths dragging in slow, steady sync.
Eventually, Jongseob shifts, gently slipping out of him, then pulls back just enough to see Taeyang’s face. His hair is a mess, pupils slow to shrink, and his expression is pure Jongseob like he’s thinking ten thousand things at once but saying none of them.
Taeyang raises a hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles down Jongseob’s cheek, then under his jaw. “Stop overthinking.”
Jongseob blinks. “…I’m not.”
“You’re blinking like a diagnostics screen.”
That earns a soft, barely audible laugh. Jongseob presses a kiss to the hollow of Taeyang’s throat and stays there. He smells like clean sweat, musky heat, and faint pheromones, and Taeyang can feel every slow breath reverberating through his chest.
“That was…” Jongseob begins, but doesn’t finish.
Taeyang exhales, eyes closing as he curls a hand around the nape of Jongseob’s neck and pulls him close before the silence between them tips into something too unbearable.
They should shower, eventually. But for now, Taeyang stays where he is, letting the warmth on top of him gradually slip away. He half-listens to the soft sound of Jongseob cleaning him with a warm towel, feeling the aftershocks settle deep in his body like watching the ocean tides roll in from a distance. When he turns his head, Jongseob is crouching beside him. Their eyes meet as Jongseob gently touches his ankle.
His gaze trails over Taeyang like sunlight through half-closed blinds. The kind of look that observes and worships in equal measure, lazy, unhurried, catlike, and says, without words, that he can be a little possessive, a little obsessed.
“I can’t carry you,” Jongseob murmurs, placing a hand on his knee, then laughing softly when Taeyang smacks it without force.
“Just need a minute,” Taeyang mumbles, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face deep into the couch. His hand finds Jongseob’s wrist, closing around it just as Jongseob presses his forehead between his shoulder blades. “…Make it five.”
Jongseob’s breath tickles across his back. “Fine. Happy birthday.”
And it really does feel like a rebirth.
Taeyang isn’t superstitious, but he believes that sometimes, if you repeat something enough, expectations become reality. That’s how he talks the agency into letting him appear among the audience during concert encores as a surprise. It’s also how Jongseob’s jinxed himself into a small, dry cough after laughing at something dumb Taeyang said, because he ignored every warning about transmission during the contagious period and insisted it was fine to get sick together.
He’s been moving slower since morning, curled into the smallest version of himself, a phone beside him he hasn’t touched. Kim Jongseob not touching his phone like it’s his extra limb is already weird, and Taeyang only realizes how off he is when he stops Jongseob from napping in denim and notices his neck is too warm to be normal.
Now he’s in sweatpants and the hoodie Taeyang left at the studio last week, sleeves swallowed halfway down his hands. His nose is pink, hair flat, fidgety as Taeyang inserts the thermometer tip into his ear and checks his pulse with the other hand.
The fever’s low-grade, but venue rehearsal is scheduled in two days, and Jongseob looks like a piteous cat who bit someone too hard and now regrets it.
“My voice is born husky,” Jongseob rasps, taking the glass of water and the meds, peeling the foil for the capsule.
“Here goes another point for your HP,” Taeyang gives him a pointed look when Jongseob lets out a tired laugh. “Save your breath.”
He’ll need to manage his condition carefully to be in top form for the performance, but they’ve rehearsed it enough times in the practice room. Without choreography, the movement is mostly light interaction, nothing too physically demanding.
The dry run goes mostly smoothly, and Taeyang sticks around for Keeho’s solo since Keeho had asked for his perspective. Jongseob says he’ll wait backstage, but as he’s about to leave, a senior PD, someone Taeyang’s worked with on another music program, approaches from offstage.
“You two looked too natural up there. This your doing?” the PD teases, eyes lingering on Taeyang. His gaze flicks to Jongseob like an afterthought. “Aren’t you the kid from that show? You’ve grown.”
Taeyang opens his mouth, then closes it. Just then, Keeho materializes behind Jongseob and beats him to it. “Hey—I thought I was the only long-term duo project Theo had.”
The PD chuckles, not surprised or bothered by the interruption. “Then how dare you give your comeback stage to Han PD and not me?”
Keeho blinks at him innocently. “Take it up with my agency.”
Jongseob makes a quick excuse and slips out before the conversation drifts further into media appearances and pointed jabs. Keeho runs off briefly to speak with his manager, then returns to where Taeyang’s seated, waiting for Keeho’s upcoming set.
They sit in silence as a cameraman adjusts the crane. The buzzing of the PA system hums like static in Taeyang’s ears.
“It looked like a favor?” Taeyang mutters under his breath. “He was invited.”
Keeho shifts in his seat. “I didn’t say that.” After a brief pause, he adds, “He’s good.”
“But?”
Keeho crosses his arms and sighs. “You did fight to get him back on your production, right?”
Taeyang snorts. “So what?”
“People talk,” Keeho scoffs. “People have eyes. It might look like you’re trying to prove something.”
Taeyang shoots him a glance. “People? Or you?”
“Does it matter?” Keeho pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.
It doesn’t. But the upside is that Taeyang doesn’t have the capacity to process any of it with the show looming. They don’t talk much on the way home, and Jiung drops them off with a quick rundown of when to be ready the next day.
The apartment feels stuffy, like it’s been wrapped in plastic. Jongseob drops his bag at the door and kicks off his shoes without much care. He doesn’t look unwell, but Taeyang notices the way he sinks into the couch like he wants to disappear into the cushions, or the short breath he lets out like he’s holding something in. Taeyang thinks for a moment, then turns on the kettle.
Jongseob accepts the mug without looking up, shoulders slightly hunched as he folds into himself. Taeyang takes a sip of his own tea, then slowly sits down next to him.
They only have a few hours left to rest, but Taeyang reads the silence and doesn’t push. A long beat passes before he says quietly, “Is this another varsity jacket thing?”
Jongseob doesn’t move, just hums. “What?”
“The one you brought first but stopped wearing after I wore the same one for a shoot?”
Jongseob turns the mug slowly in his hands, like he’s trying to warm his fingers despite the midsummer heat. “Didn’t really fit me anymore.”
That’s the same answer Taeyang got years ago. And he still doesn’t know whether Jongseob means physically, emotionally, or reputationally.
“What else did they say?”
Jongseob finally turns his head. His eyes are half-closed, somewhere between too tired to think and deliberately blocking things out. “It’s not like it’s untrue.”
“…What?” Taeyang frowns.
“Theo-nim’s fav,” Jongseob says, raising his hand and folding his thumb into his palm. “Pet project. Shadow. Sponsored talent. Protégé.” One by one, his fingers curl inward until his hand forms a loose fist. “Want me to keep going?”
His voice is flat, not bitter. His eyes aren’t wet or stormy, just a little hollow, like he’s talking about someone else entirely.
Taeyang sets his mug down just as Jongseob finally takes a sip of his own, then places it quietly on the table. He stays leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, rubbing at his temples. When Taeyang doesn’t say anything, Jongseob glances over and gives him a dry, crooked smile.
Their legs are touching now. Jongseob doesn’t pull away, so Taeyang slowly lifts a hand to rest at the back of his neck. After a moment, Jongseob leans in, head tucking beneath Taeyang’s jaw, one arm wrapping around his side in return.
They stay like that for a while. And for now, it feels like the only right thing Taeyang can offer.
The dress rehearsal passes in a blink, and the event day arrives in the middle of a heatwave. The hallway is a blur of organized chaos when they return from sound check: clattering carts, staff weaving through, someone shouting for a missing cable.
Taeyang feels surprisingly calm for a live show. Jongseob’s voice is still a little raw, but the cough is mostly gone, and the instrumental paired with his live vocals blends well enough. Keeho joins their pre-performance chant in a furry coat that makes no sense in this weather. Jongseob gives him a judging once-over, his eyes catching on the fact that Taeyang’s only wearing one side of his in-ear.
“I need to hear the audience,” Taeyang tells him with a grin. Jongseob smirks back and says nothing. They’re in matching custom outfits with silver piping and exaggerated shoulders, and Taeyang can already feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. It’s going to be mind-blowing.
Jiung watches from a few steps away, his brows knitted, but the corner of his mouth quirks into an almost-smile.
“Break a leg,” Keeho says, patting them both on the shoulder like he’s their group leader. A staff member signals for them to wait at the entrance. Taeyang says, “Let’s go,” without looking, and Jongseob follows like he’s been waiting for that cue all along.
The synergy feels unreal even before the lights hit. It’s a big venue, much larger than where Taeyang usually performs, but the pyrotechnics, the crowd, the sheer volume all wire him into the high of it. There’s one faulty speaker blast when the music starts, and Jongseob coughs once in the bridge, but the first stage wraps clean and powerful.
The energy carries forward as Jongseob exits and Keeho rises from the lift, giving Taeyang a knowing, encouraging look before waving to the fans as the intro plays. Adrenaline still hums in Taeyang’s chest as he comes offstage to cheers. He smiles automatically, nods to a few junior artists, and follows the staff guiding him back to the holding room.
Jongseob’s sitting in a chair in the corner, eyes on the live feed, a half-finished water bottle balanced on his knee. He doesn’t look polished, but not unkempt either, still carrying traces of his stage self, not unlike Taeyang when he checks the mirror as the stylist quickly touches up his hair and makeup for a post-stage interview and behind-the-scenes footage.
They walk out together and wait, their eyes meeting as Taeyang glances over at him. Jongseob blinks slowly, like he’s trying to reset something in his head, and the hand hanging by his side swings just slightly, brushing into Taeyang’s for a quiet high-five.
“Killed it,” he offers, soft praise meant for them both.
Taeyang grabs his fingers, gives them a quick squeeze, then lets go.
They’re prompted to say a few kind words about the anniversary, Taeyang’s rising visibility both domestically and internationally, and Jongseob’s current “off-leash” status following the end of his seven-year contract with a major label. It’s obvious their collaboration is both a performance and a sales pitch, but behind the PR polish is the quieter truth of their in-joke: Taeyang teased that Jongseob debuted too young to know certain street foods. The industry still sees him as a washed-up miracle, someone no longer backed by the big machine, even if that’s by choice. That label sticks harder than Taeyang’s own quiet insecurity that Jongseob was famous first, and he’s been climbing ever since without knowing where the top even is.
Sometimes, admiration hurts, and protection can look a lot like power. So Taeyang watches as Jongseob handles it all with a faultless smile—fully at ease, it seems, in Taeyang’s camp.
The networking battlefield extends to the afterparty, which is already in full swing by the time Taeyang makes his way back from a round of greetings. Jongseob stands near the outer edge of the room, drink untouched in one hand, listening politely to a senior director who handles mergers rather than music mixing.
Taeyang slows as he approaches, just in time to hear the director say, “You should really consider making it official.” His voice is oiled smooth. “Now that things are calmer. You could have more reach.”
Jongseob’s expression doesn’t even flicker. His eyes land on Taeyang across the distance for a split second before he replies, “Thank you. I’m comfortable with how things are now.”
“Comfort’s one thing. But opportunity isn’t always on the table. Don’t let it go to waste.” The words land with a light pat to Jongseob’s back.
“Appreciate the advice,” Jongseob nods, his tone respectful. Taeyang reaches his side just as the man moves off, but before he can say anything, they both turn toward a broadcast executive laughing a little too loudly.
“Jongseob-ah, I remember when you were on that survival show—what a spark you had!”
Jongseob smiles and bows. “Thank you, sir.”
“Too bad the industry doesn’t stay young forever, right?” the executive adds. Jongseob raises his hand and takes a sip from his champagne glass. Taeyang is halfway through a breath, mouth twitching open, when Jongseob greets calmly: “Kwon PD-nim.”
The executive turns and shakes hands with a senior producer who’s just retrieved more wine from a passing server. Jongseob follows up without missing a beat: “Didn’t you say earlier you were planning a new project with all first-gen vocalists? I’ve been hearing weird rumors about the lineup.”
“Right,” the executive responds smoothly as the conversation shifts, addressing the PD. “You really need to bring that to us—last time we…”
Jongseob watches them walk off and exhales slowly. He tips his chin, almost imperceptibly, so Taeyang just bumps his shoulder lightly against his.
“Let’s get some air?” he says, setting down his glass on a nearby counter and taking Jongseob’s in turn. Jongseob gives him a quick glance, then nods with a real, tired breath.
They watch the recorded broadcast weeks later, offering feedback to each other in the odd comfort of seeing their names listed side by side in the caption. Jongseob doesn’t hide mentions of poaching or scouting, and Taeyang doesn’t pry or comment.
The heat lingers even though the calendar says it’s autumn, and Taeyang calls his mom to discuss Chuseok plans. The air feels thick from early morning, and for some reason, the recording session is especially bumpy today. Taeyang takes off his headphones when the sound engineer calls for a break after the third take, tapping his ear to loosen the pressure. There’s a new cyclone forming near southern Japan, according to the forecast, though it’s unclear whether it’ll come anywhere close.
The session resumes, and Taeyang wears the headphones on one side to balance the muffled sound in his left ear. But Jiung signals for a pause after the first verse. He and the engineer exchange a few words, then gesture for Taeyang to come out of the booth.
Taeyang raises an eyebrow as Jiung moves to his left side and places a hand on his shoulder, keeping him still. “Taeyang?”
“…What?” Taeyang knows Jiung has his quirks, but this feels oddly deliberate.
Jiung moves to his right and does the same thing, then steps in front of him to speak directly. “Do you hear the difference?”
“A bit…?” Taeyang blinks.
“I called you during the break, in the corridor,” Jiung says, glancing at the sound engineer. “You didn’t respond.”
“…I probably didn’t hear. The weather’s kind of—” Taeyang trails off as Jiung claps his hands together.
“Think that’s where we wrap up for now,” Jiung says, already starting to pack up. He nods at the engineer. “We’ll follow up later.”
The ride back from the clinic is silent. Taeyang leans his head against the car window, watching the sky, now completely blanketed by seamless white clouds. Jiung stands patiently behind him as he fumbles with the lock at the door, his own breathing loud and thick in his skull.
Then, light footsteps echo from the staircase. Jongseob rounds the corner, breathless and wide-eyed as he takes the last few steps.
Taeyang’s heart does a strange, fluttering flip. Jongseob bends over, catching his breath with his hands on his knees. His hair is a mess, shoelaces loosely knotted, and there’s something frantic in the way he straightens and looks at Taeyang, like he’s making sure he’s still whole.
After half a second, Jongseob notices Jiung still standing there and bows quickly, almost too formal. “Thank you, hyung.”
Jiung claps Jongseob lightly on the arm on his way out and doesn’t comment on the confused look Taeyang gives him. Once inside, Jongseob guides him to the couch and presses him down gently. He leans closer when Taeyang gestures, palm facing down, and asks, “What the hell did Jiung tell you?”
Jongseob pulls out his phone without a word and shows him. Taeyang curses at the simple string of “COME HOME RN” and “SSHL” sent within a one-minute span, tugging Jongseob by the wrist when he hovers nearby, reluctant to sit.
Once Jongseob’s close, the loud heartbeat in his chest and the slight tremor in his body become impossible to miss. His hands hesitate, uncertain where they’re allowed to land, so he ends up pointing at either side of Taeyang’s head like a silent question.
Taeyang gestures to his left. “I can hear,” he mutters and winces a little when his own voice comes back too loud in his head. Jongseob’s palm is already cradling the side of his face with the good ear. “…You can talk.”
Jongseob still doesn’t say anything, just brushes his thumb under Taeyang’s eye. His voice vibrates softly near Taeyang’s neck when he murmurs, “Does it hurt?”
Taeyang shakes his head. Jongseob exhales in quiet relief and presses his lips to Taeyang’s temple the moment he leans into the touch. His hand slides down to the side of Taeyang’s neck, like he’s holding himself back from pulling him into a full embrace. Taeyang reaches up, curling his fingers into the back of Jongseob’s sweatshirt.
“I didn’t even know it was short for sudden sensorineural hearing loss,” Jongseob murmurs, his breath warm between them. “Thought Jiung hyung dropped his phone or something.”
Taeyang huffs a small laugh in his throat. “Medical terms.” He reaches for Jongseob’s hand resting on his lap, brushing over his palm. “Not cancer.”
The Little Mermaid trades her tail for human legs at the cost of walking on knives, her feet bleeding with each step. But perhaps this is what humans feel when they first live under the sea, the sound dispersed like an internal echo, a persistent ringing behind his ear in the early days, like the aftermath of a performance. Taeyang’s banned from studio monitoring for a week until the follow-up check. Suddenly idle, he sleeps, cultivates wellness habits he once discarded, or tags along to Jongseob’s studio sessions if permitted. He tried meditation once, following Jiung’s advice, but it was unbearable without background sound. Helping Jongseob with menial admin tasks like prepping stems or organizing label files works far better to clear his mind.
Today, Taeyang curls up on the couch with his notebook, filled with scribbled performance notes. He sketches aimlessly, not drawing anything in particular. At the desk, Jongseob scrolls through vocal takes and works on light editing. A low, familiar instrumental plays from the speakers. Taeyang watches him jot something on a pad. Then Jongseob turns down the volume, spins his chair, and rolls over to him.
Taeyang tilts his head when Jongseob extends a hand, then places his own hand into Jongseob’s palm. Jongseob brushes his thumb over Taeyang’s knuckles and shifts slightly to his right. “When your ears are back,” he says gently, each word extra clear and precise, “I’m making you retake the bridge.”
Taeyang raises an eyebrow and lets a faint smile tug at his lips. “So, you really are just…” He turns to meet Jongseob’s eyes. “Doing recording for that one?”
Jongseob’s expression doesn’t change, though his eyes soften a little when Taeyang adds, “Not that I mind.”
“Felt right to have some space,” Jongseob says, pausing as a frown starts to form on his face. Taeyang taps lightly between his brows, and Jongseob lets out a short laugh. “I used to say yes to everything.”
“It’s changed?” Taeyang’s finger drifts along his brow bridge, playing with a few strands of his hair.
“Now I don’t want to only be valuable to you as a producer.” Jongseob glances down and squeezes Taeyang’s hand. When he looks up again, the corner of his mouth twitches up into a half-smile.
Taeyang tries to speak, but the words stay lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat. He leans forward, resting his forehead gently against Jongseob’s, his hand settling at the nape of his neck. “Idiot.”
Jongseob grins and whispers, somewhere close to his lips, “Yours.”
“Doesn’t mean I like not having you on the full thing.”
“I didn’t ask you to like it.” Jongseob finally closes the distance and kisses him. It’s small, searching, and Taeyang sighs against him, the heavy fog on his mind evening out slightly.
“Fair,” Taeyang murmurs, pressing for another short kiss before Jongseob turns back to work. Taeyang watches him a second longer, then picks up his notes again as well.
His mom freaks out a bit about the idiopathic condition and stops him from traveling back half-deaf, opting instead to come to Seoul for the holiday. They meet at noon, and Jongseob and his parents join them for dinner.
The dizziness is mostly gone, but Taeyang’s still slow on the uptake when conversations overlap unless it’s Jongseob’s voice. They’re seated at the corner table, him in the corner seat, but with too many people talking at once in a public setting, he just retreats into his underwater-hearing state and lets Jongseob take the lead. At some point, their legs brush under the table. Jongseob glances over and gives a brief smile across the table, the warmth lingering where they stay pressed together.
It’s late night by the time they send off the adults and head back. The ride home is quiet and peaceful, with occasional exchanges and no music. They get ready for bed earlier than usual, since Taeyang has a checkup in the morning.
They lie side by side in the dark, doing nothing in particular, just breathing the same air. Jongseob’s fingers run through Taeyang’s hair, scratching gently, when he calls: “Hyung.”
“Yeah?” Taeyang blinks and turns his head slightly when Jongseob doesn’t say anything.
It feels like the kind of affection where a cat paws at you once and then ignores you. But after a long pause, Jongseob says, “You’re doing that sulky cat thing.”
“I’m not,” Taeyang says, turning onto his side as Jongseob’s arm comes to rest loosely around his neck. The temperature has dipped in recent days, crisp autumn air cooling everything down, though the world still feels distant, like he’s seeing it through waterlogged glass. He can’t quite make out Jongseob’s face in the dark, but he’s wrapped in his warmth—soft, familiar, grounding. And before he realizes it, Taeyang is leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.
Jongseob stills like he didn’t see it coming, but his hand moves to trace the curve of Taeyang’s jaw, meeting him halfway. Taeyang pulls back when his head starts to spin, but dives in again immediately, his hand finding Jongseob’s waist under the covers and pulling him closer. Jongseob follows without a word, only hesitating for a split second when Taeyang tongues the seam of his mouth. Taeyang murmurs as he draws back briefly, his voice croaky, “It’s fine.”
Jongseob huffs a quiet laugh, his words slurred as his cheek is squished between the pillow and Taeyang’s hand. “Feels like the time you taught me how to…” He giggles, almost nervously, when the next kiss lands a little off-center. “How to do this properly.”
Instead of answering, Taeyang reaches up to cradle his face with both hands and leans in. He tries to mirror the gesture even though it’s all part of his muscle memory now, thinking back to when things first began to bloom between them. The kiss is still careful but firm when their mouths meet again. Jongseob moves deliberately slow, as if he’s learning how to listen to the silences between lips, matching their breaths. He bares his canine like a feral feline, gloating, owning the space he’s claimed. So Taeyang guides, but lets him explore.
Maybe they really are re-learning each other, just from a new angle.
The ENT allows limited exposure since his recovery is stable, even though his hearing has only partially returned. The sound, once his trustworthy companion, feels wild and hard to tame, especially when Jongseob gives him too much time to prepare. Logically, Taeyang knows he sings just fine; his vocal cords are unaffected and well-rested. Still, he signals for a stop after the second take and steps outside for a breather. He reenters after five minutes, catching Jongseob’s eyes through the glass. Jongseob offers a small smile and a nod before turning back to the console.
Taeyang has never doubted his decision to pursue this career, but there are ups and downs. Fortunately, that tropical cyclone weakened and dissipated before making landfall, but its eye left behind a long stare of atmospheric instability. The wind lingers, the air is humid, and there’s a fullness in his ear that makes him hypersensitive to his own voice, like the first time he heard his singing through a feedback loop. He and Jongseob debated vocal direction and live processing, but the creative chemistry was undeniable. Jongseob has sharp instincts and eclectic taste, always surprising him with small, smart touches in the mix. They never questioned it at the time, but now Taeyang realizes he trusted him long before he knew they were good for each other.
So he just takes a deep breath, adjusts his headphones, and focuses.
The agency decides on a Christmas special for the next release. Preparations peak in mid-November, and Taeyang orders Jongseob a new studio chair for his birthday while he’s out of town shooting the music video. The work was supposed to interfere with any celebration plans, so they had an early lunch before heading to their respective studios. But in the afternoon, Taeyang gets a text: “pick me up?”
Obviously, the late-night meeting is cancelled, so he sends his ETA and heads out once he’s wrapped up.
It’s early winter. The air has a sharp edge, and Taeyang’s fingertips start to sting if they’re exposed for too long. He pulls into a temporary parking spot and sends a quick text: “outside.”
A few minutes later, the building’s entrance swings open. Jongseob slides into the passenger seat, a plastic box in hand. Taeyang watches him buckle his seatbelt, the box balanced on his lap, before Jongseob gives a small smile and lifts it for him to see.
“A nice client gave me this,” Jongseob says, a sweet scent lingering in his fogged breath. “Thought you liked chocolate.”
Taeyang is setting up the navigation, eyeing the size of the piece in the transparent container. “Why does this look huge… did you cut me a half?”
Jongseob shrugs. “Nah. A quarter?”
Taeyang huffs a laugh as he turns on the blinker. “You’re so in love with me.”
In his peripheral vision under the hum of ambient noise and the steadiness of his own heartbeat, Jongseob just blinks silently. When they hit the road, he murmurs, “So are you.”
His voice is low, but not uncertain. Taeyang glances over, waiting for the light to change. “By the way, the laundry basket you ordered doesn’t fit in the rack.”
Jongseob tilts his head down, pulling out his phone, so Taeyang adds, “Already returned it.”
“Drop by Daiso?”
“Yeah.”
They picked the housing item according to Taeyang’s standard, so Jongseob’s old one can finally be replaced. Dinner was at their usual spot, the one that never refills the side dishes but grills the best pork belly. Now, they’re walking home side by side, bundled up, a little tired but full from food and comfortable in the mood.
Taeyang is a step ahead, sipping his hot drink from a paper cup and breathing in the white steam, when they both pause.
At first, it’s just a few stray flakes, barely noticeable under the streetlights. A tiny, cool touch clings to Taeyang’s forehead and cheek. Across the crossroads, another couple notices too. One of them squeals and scrambles to take a picture of the first snow.
Maybe there was a soft call that Taeyang misses, but Jongseob’s already wrapping him in a tight hug from behind. Taeyang freezes for a beat as Jongseob presses his face between his shoulder blades, but then he leans back into the warmth of Jongseob’s body and frees a hand to hold onto his wrist.
“Say it back.”
Taeyang stills again when Jongseob shifts to rest his chin on his shoulder, the words imprinted on his skin, blunt like frostbite.
“You know it already,” Taeyang says, looking down at their fingers hooked together.
Jongseob shakes his head. “Say it.” His arms tighten, needy and mischievous, like the spoiled brat he is. “I love you. Tell me you love me, too.”
For a moment, Taeyang just looks at the snow gathering on the sidewalk, thinking about everything—all the music and love they make, all the moments Jongseob smiles at him, and how easy it feels to smile back, even when things aren’t fine. The metallic scent of warm electronics, layered with upholstery notes of fabric and polished wood. The smell of coffee, steamed rice, and thick broth. Printed text on an album sleeve. Their signatures that once sealed a heartbroken deal, but everything that followed became the grip of reality.
It’s almost a one-year anniversary, and they’ve both grown past the bitterness. It’s not smooth, but it feels like something worth surviving for.
“If…” Taeyang hesitates, caught between avoiding admitting what they have and chasing the moment away too fast. “If that marriage didn’t happen, do you think we’d be like this now?”
Jongseob laughs softly, and Taeyang suppresses the strong urge to turn around, knowing he’d definitely want to kiss him right here, right now. “I don’t know,” Jongseob admits. “But we’re here now. That’s good enough for me.”
Taeyang closes his eyes, letting himself bask in the warmth as snow catches in his hair.
“…Say it again.”
“What?”
“That you love me.”
“…You just did that yourself.” Jongseob giggles against his back, the bright sound bubbling inside Taeyang.
“I do too.”
It comes out softer than he intended, but easy and steady. The snow floats down around them, gentle, a little sacred, like a secret everyone gets to see but only they understand.
When Taeyang turns in his arms, their faces are inches apart. The grin on Jongseob’s face is so wide that Taeyang has to stop himself from leaning in by pulling back, smiling just as much until his face hurts.
The traffic light turns green, and Taeyang loses count of how many times it changes as they finally cross, Jongseob tugging lightly at his sleeve and not letting go.