a/n: hi op... i don't think you even know who the boyz are, but i saw this prompt and really wanted to fill it out ;-; please feel free to mentally or physically ponify into something that might make more sense to you. anyway this was a really good quote i really loved it.
(...)
“Did you ever —”
In a lot of ways, it’s a conversation Chanhee’s been meaning to have — for years and months and days now, the water under the bridge as a river, a stream, as wide as an ocean current. Changmin is stretched out to the end of the couch, the glow of the flatscreen turning him hazy; the shape of his nose, his cheek, the dimple where his mouth is bitten in, all illuminated in blue. It’s a sight Chanhee would know anywhere; and has known anywhere; a second figure in the dark beside him since he was eighteen, huddled in the corner of a practice room watching Inkigayo stages on a Samsung phone with a cracked screen. Ji Changmin, in the same combination of new sweats and an oversized hoodie, on his couch at 4am as they’re watching old reruns of Sky Castle. Chanhee, with a hand reaching out to ruffle his hair, face smushed against the cushion barely a breath away — decides to finally finish the question. “I mean—you obviously did. Get over me, right?”
Changmin frowns at the TV, then flicks his gaze to Chanhee and answers. “What a weird question.”
Which isn’t really an answer at all. But he’s thinking about — well, it’s not a ring, but it is a bracelet — pressed against Chanhee’s cheek, around the hand under his face, clutching at the edge of the sofa. It’s not a ring — but, it is a promise. Changmin’s been here for the whole week, but Kevin’s gone for the next two — and so, Chanhee’s going to force Changmin to stay for the next two. And Changmin will be around, a fixture in Chanhee’s apartment that’s never out of place — passing him the milk, and forcing him to watch shitty horror torrents on his shitty laptop, and butting heads with him and squabbling with him and sending him a screenshot of Sunwoo’s most recent text — even though Chanhee is right there and could’ve just craned his neck had Changmin just —; Chanhee would know him from how his shadow moves through the crack of a door — but he’d never be permanent.
And maybe, that’s a thought that Chanhee will never stop having. Even when his boyfriend comes back, even when his visa comes in and they get married in Canada, and Kevin walks him through the streets in Vancouver Chanhee’s seen six times before and heard about six times before, and would walk through six times again and hear about another six times; because really, in the grand scheme of things, six is a pretty small number. And even then, Chanhee could sit across his counter from Changmin, and wonder.
So, he needs to know — does Changmin wonder too? Black hair in sharp strands across his forehead, Chanhee’s favourite face for how many years now — still a combination of soft and sharp, and sharp now — as it tilts up and looks at him. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“I know,” Chanhee answers — it takes a while, so he says it softly, in case they’d almost forgotten. Another thread left on the ground, never picked up. Chanhee’s never bothered to look at the whole picture; just knows that it’s a mess, that Kevin had looked at it — them, shrugged and said he wasn’t going to get into it. Held one of Chanhee’s hands, and never minded that the other was linked to Changmin’s by the pinky; a promise that was so long held and so long forgotten, that neither of them really know why they’re still doing this but both too stubborn to let go. “But it wasn’t like I didn’t love you.”
Changmin lets that one hang in the air. Then just as evenly, says. “I know.”
“It just wouldn’t have worked out,” Chanhee says — there’s something he’s trying to get at, but — he’s never had the softest words. Kevin’s better at this. Kevin could’ve explained it better. But this isn’t Kevin’s thing. Changmin is Chanhee’s, he’s always been. A strange lick of possessiveness, the same kind as always climbs up his throat — and that — well, that’s always been the problem. Chanhee drags his fingers down the crown of Changmin’s head, and traces around the shell of his ear — remembers where all the earrings used to go, even though the holes are no longer there — and cups his cheek. “I love you, and back then —” Years? Months? When? “— I loved you like nothing else.”
Changmin looks at him, keeps his gaze steady. Hard to tell in this light, whether he’s looking at his favourite face or his least. What matters to Chanhee, is that he’s at the top of the list. “I know.” He says again, even.
This time Chanhee waits, hand down to the line of Changmin’s neck, his pulse a steady flickering beat against Chanhee’s skin.
Changmin lifts up a hand, and flicks his forehead.
the long and short of it - new/q, new/kevin (the boyz) - canon
(...)
“Did you ever —”
In a lot of ways, it’s a conversation Chanhee’s been meaning to have — for years and months and days now, the water under the bridge as a river, a stream, as wide as an ocean current. Changmin is stretched out to the end of the couch, the glow of the flatscreen turning him hazy; the shape of his nose, his cheek, the dimple where his mouth is bitten in, all illuminated in blue. It’s a sight Chanhee would know anywhere; and has known anywhere; a second figure in the dark beside him since he was eighteen, huddled in the corner of a practice room watching Inkigayo stages on a Samsung phone with a cracked screen. Ji Changmin, in the same combination of new sweats and an oversized hoodie, on his couch at 4am as they’re watching old reruns of Sky Castle. Chanhee, with a hand reaching out to ruffle his hair, face smushed against the cushion barely a breath away — decides to finally finish the question. “I mean—you obviously did. Get over me, right?”
Changmin frowns at the TV, then flicks his gaze to Chanhee and answers. “What a weird question.”
Which isn’t really an answer at all. But he’s thinking about — well, it’s not a ring, but it is a bracelet — pressed against Chanhee’s cheek, around the hand under his face, clutching at the edge of the sofa. It’s not a ring — but, it is a promise. Changmin’s been here for the whole week, but Kevin’s gone for the next two — and so, Chanhee’s going to force Changmin to stay for the next two. And Changmin will be around, a fixture in Chanhee’s apartment that’s never out of place — passing him the milk, and forcing him to watch shitty horror torrents on his shitty laptop, and butting heads with him and squabbling with him and sending him a screenshot of Sunwoo’s most recent text — even though Chanhee is right there and could’ve just craned his neck had Changmin just —; Chanhee would know him from how his shadow moves through the crack of a door — but he’d never be permanent.
And maybe, that’s a thought that Chanhee will never stop having. Even when his boyfriend comes back, even when his visa comes in and they get married in Canada, and Kevin walks him through the streets in Vancouver Chanhee’s seen six times before and heard about six times before, and would walk through six times again and hear about another six times; because really, in the grand scheme of things, six is a pretty small number. And even then, Chanhee could sit across his counter from Changmin, and wonder.
So, he needs to know — does Changmin wonder too? Black hair in sharp strands across his forehead, Chanhee’s favourite face for how many years now — still a combination of soft and sharp, and sharp now — as it tilts up and looks at him. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“I know,” Chanhee answers — it takes a while, so he says it softly, in case they’d almost forgotten. Another thread left on the ground, never picked up. Chanhee’s never bothered to look at the whole picture; just knows that it’s a mess, that Kevin had looked at it — them, shrugged and said he wasn’t going to get into it. Held one of Chanhee’s hands, and never minded that the other was linked to Changmin’s by the pinky; a promise that was so long held and so long forgotten, that neither of them really know why they’re still doing this but both too stubborn to let go. “But it wasn’t like I didn’t love you.”
Changmin lets that one hang in the air. Then just as evenly, says. “I know.”
“It just wouldn’t have worked out,” Chanhee says — there’s something he’s trying to get at, but — he’s never had the softest words. Kevin’s better at this. Kevin could’ve explained it better. But this isn’t Kevin’s thing. Changmin is Chanhee’s, he’s always been. A strange lick of possessiveness, the same kind as always climbs up his throat — and that — well, that’s always been the problem. Chanhee drags his fingers down the crown of Changmin’s head, and traces around the shell of his ear — remembers where all the earrings used to go, even though the holes are no longer there — and cups his cheek. “I love you, and back then —” Years? Months? When? “— I loved you like nothing else.”
Changmin looks at him, keeps his gaze steady. Hard to tell in this light, whether he’s looking at his favourite face or his least. What matters to Chanhee, is that he’s at the top of the list. “I know.” He says again, even.
This time Chanhee waits, hand down to the line of Changmin’s neck, his pulse a steady flickering beat against Chanhee’s skin.
Changmin lifts up a hand, and flicks his forehead.
(...)