Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jihoon Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: Introspection, light angst, confessions, hopeful ending Permission to remix: Please ask
***
Jeon Wonwoo shrugs off the coat as soon as he steps home.
It doesn’t feel like it, though. The mismatched furniture tells nothing about who he is to the sterile white walls, so they can’t make him feel like he belongs here.
It only becomes more obvious when the silence stretches between the thick walls and makes him painfully aware that something is missing. By now, he should be used to it: something is always missing when it comes to Wonwoo, nothing is ever enough to placate the hunger that gnaws at his guts.
Wonwoo reaches his bedroom in three large steps, daring his mind to keep whispering stupid things to him. It’s deliberate, the way he ignores the itch on his fingertips to fish the phone from his pocket and see if Jihoon has forgiven him yet.
He discards his clothes on the floor, phone still tucked in the back pocket of his pants, and lets the cool air caress his skin for a moment that draws for too long. He should take a shower. He needs to take a shower.
Forcing himself under the hot stream of water is harder than expected, but he supposes this is just how things are, now. The white tiles feel foreign, too, too clean and too pristine in comparison to the ones he was almost getting used to at home.
But home isn’t that place anymore.
Once upon a time, when Wonwoo could still take hold of all the unsaid words floating in his mind, he made himself at home by folding his too-tall body into the curve of Jihoon’s body and the vacuum of his room.
He was at home when he helped Jihoon with dinner, he was at home when he made his way from work to the tiny apartment without even thinking, he was at home when Jihoon showed him one of his poetries, he was at home when Jihoon held his body against the mattress and thrust into him.
Wonwoo shuts his eyes closed and draws a sharp breath, trying to wash Jihoon’s face away from his brain, but it’s no use.
He was at home when Jihoon wore his shirt, collarbones exposed, and sat against his chest with a cup of tea. Once the sound of his voice finds its way to him, Wonwoo can’t shut it off anymore: Jihoon’s laugh ringing like bells in his ears, Jihoon humming along to a song he wouldn’t really know otherwise, Jihoon asking quietly what they were. If Wonwoo loved him.
And Wonwoo’s own voice, rusty by disuse, couldn’t find its way out fast enough, paralyzed by what it would mean, to allow Jihoon to see him whole.
And the thing is, Wonwoo was sure Jihoon already knew by then. It was impossible not to know, not when all of Wonwoo’s gestures were a breath that said I love you, and you’re the best thing that happened to me.
He was sure specific words weren’t needed when everything about him was Jihoon’s to take and do as he pleased.
Before the thoughts could develop into roots and plant even deeper inside Wonwoo’s brain, he cuts off the water and steps into the fog, breathing the humidity in until his lungs feel about to explode.
He’s the one to blame, anyway, so he can’t bury himself in self-pity and pray that, somehow, Jihoon will see it. He didn’t see more important things, anyway. Wonwoo knows he needs to eat and needs rest, but he can’t put these stupid body necessities first when he still doesn’t know whether Jihoon decided to believe him or not.
He opens the fridge, still too empty to look like it belongs to a home that’s alive, and crouches to take some vegetables. Jihoon wouldn’t really eat these, would push them to the corners of his plate as he played with the food and wait until Wonwoo was distracted to throw it all away, pretending he wasn’t living off just rice and meat.
They didn’t even fight.
Jihoon just turned around and slept, ungluing his body from Wonwoo’s enough to make it clear it was intentional and he didn’t want to be touched. In the morning, Jihoon told him it would be better if Wonwoo went back to his own apartment, he needed time and air and he wasn’t feeling like himself anymore after spending so long with someone else.
It was too late when Wonwoo realized what those gaps in his speech really meant, when he realized he could’ve asked to stay, could’ve told Jihoon he would be back when he wanted him to, could’ve, should’ve, would’ve.
By then, the silence was already stretching for five days, then ten, then fifteen, then forty. And then Wonwoo realized how much he fucked up by believing Jihoon could read his mind, too late to really do anything about it but ask if Jihoon was still mad at him.
But this was three days ago, and Jihoon hasn’t replied yet.
Wonwoo sighs and slices everything into small pieces to keep his hands occupied, away from his phone.
These days, he’d been relearning all about living by himself, about turning around to laugh at something just to remember there was no one there, anymore.
Once the food is done, Wonwoo eats diligently, even if he’s not that hungry. He does the dishes, brush his teeth with more force than he should (and Jihoon would always put a hand over his when Wonwoo pressed the toothbrush too hard, making his muscles go all soft instantly), and lies flatly on the twin bed that, somehow, feels too large for him.
It’s only then that Wonwoo allows himself to pick up the phone, and stares at it until his eyes go unfocused. The screen is almost turning off again when a new notification lights it up, Wonwoo’s heart scrambling inside his chest as he reads Jihoon’s name.
“it depends”, the text says, “are you ready to be honest w me?”
Wonwoo could say it right now. He could tell Jihoon how much he misses him, how much he means to him, but it wouldn’t be right. Not when it’s been long so long since they saw each other that it feels like he’s texting a stranger.
“i am”, Wonwoo types, thumbs hovering over the screen like bees. He doesn’t know what else to say, scared he might drive Jihoon away again when it took so long to get him to talk to him.
“ok. we can meet up now and get over with it already.”
Wonwoo doesn’t even think before replying.
“where?”
“i’m heading back home now. i can stop by yours if you want to.”
“i’m waiting for you.”
There isn’t much he can do until Jihoon arrives, but Wonwoo gets hectic nonetheless. There’s nothing to clean, no mess to hide, so he ends up sitting in the living room just to stare at the minutes dragging slowly.
Despite his head always being filled with words, Wonwoo isn’t sure what he can say to convince Jihoon he’s being honest. The timing was lost long ago, and his voice only got rustier since then. He isn’t sure if a simple I love you could encompass everything he keeps locked inside himself, isn’t sure if such simple words would ever be enough.
Wonwoo is still drowning in his thoughts when the doorbell rings. He rushes to the door, only then realizing he’s wearing mismatched socks, but he supposes Jihoon knows him well enough not to care about such a thing.
“Hi,” Jihoon says. His nose is reddened from the cold, hair is tucked inside a beanie that Wonwoo is mostly sure belonged to him, at some point. It makes him feel all warm inside, that Jihoon kept his things.
“Hello,” he whispers. “Come in.”
The juxtaposition of Jihoon standing in the middle of this living room, his living room, makes something churn inside Wonwoo. It’s weird seeing him there, fitting in that space as if he’s always been there.
Wonwoo follows him back inside, still trying to convince himself he’s not in some fucked up dream right now.
“I don’t plan on staying too long,” Jihoon warns, his body relaxing visibly when he gets out of the cold. Wonwoo’s hands itch to touch him. “What you wanted to tell me?” This is the question that’s been rolling around Wonwoo’s mind ever since he realized he fucked up. What does he wants, needs to tell Jihoon? He’s not sure if he figured it out already.
When he says nothing, Jihoon turns to stare at him, a sharpness in his eyes that makes it clear this is the last chance he has of ever trying to make it right. That half words won’t be enough, it doesn’t matter if it is too hard to say out loud.
“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo blurts out, and once he starts, he can’t really stop the words from flooding out of him. “I… I hope you know I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you aren’t important, or like you don’t matter to me. You do, a lot, it’s just that… I just can’t…”
He trails off when Jihoon removes the beanie, combing his soft hair between his long fingers. He doesn’t say anything, though, still waiting until Wonwoo is done, still giving him a chance to figure out all the things he can’t do for Wonwoo.
“I thought you knew I loved you,” he says, quietly. “But I guess it was dumb of me to assume you did just because I know I do. And I’m so scared you hate me for real and I miss you so much, I don’t know what I could say to convince you I’m being honest when I try to tell you that I love you. You deserve better words than this, but it’s just so…”
“It took you long enough,” Jihoon says when he trails off again. “I want to punch you.”
“I’d let you,” Wonwoo doesn’t need to think, “I’d let you do anything you want with me.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you feel like you couldn’t tell me things,” Jihoon mutters. Wonwoo wants to end the space between them and hold Jihoon against his body as he was so used to, but he doesn’t know if he can. If Jihoon even wants it. “I don’t know why you chose to run away than to say you loved me, but I can’t help but think I was being too much. Pushy.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I get that you needed to hear me saying it, I just wish I had something better than just a bunch of I’m sorry’s and I love you’s as if you didn’t deserve anything better.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can I hug you?”
“Yeah,” Jihoon sighs, all the hard lines of his face going soft at once.
Wonwoo doesn’t waste time in pressing Jihoon against his chest, breathing him in as his eyes fall shut with relief. So, at least, Jihoon doesn’t hate him.
“We need to get better at communicating, though. I can’t go for over a month without hearing from you whenever we have a fallout.”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear from me.”
“You also need to stop assuming things,” Jihoon mumbles. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” now that he already said it once, twice, three times, the words come more easily to him. Wonwoo can’t help the desire to say it again and again, make them the only words that will ever come out of his mouth.
He wonders if this is what religion feels like, a compulsion of finding words that can fit his emotions, even if he can’t fully grasp its enormity.
“I love you too, by the way,” Jihoon tells him once they break the embrace. “Just so you know. Always did.”
“I knew,” Wonwoo smiles a little. “I could tell.”
He’s still standing between sterile walls with mismatched furniture when Jihoon leaves but, now, he feels at ease.
[FILL] the homes we make for ourselves
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Introspection, light angst, confessions, hopeful ending
Permission to remix: Please ask
***
Jeon Wonwoo shrugs off the coat as soon as he steps home.
It doesn’t feel like it, though. The mismatched furniture tells nothing about who he is to the sterile white walls, so they can’t make him feel like he belongs here.
It only becomes more obvious when the silence stretches between the thick walls and makes him painfully aware that something is missing. By now, he should be used to it: something is always missing when it comes to Wonwoo, nothing is ever enough to placate the hunger that gnaws at his guts.
Wonwoo reaches his bedroom in three large steps, daring his mind to keep whispering stupid things to him. It’s deliberate, the way he ignores the itch on his fingertips to fish the phone from his pocket and see if Jihoon has forgiven him yet.
He discards his clothes on the floor, phone still tucked in the back pocket of his pants, and lets the cool air caress his skin for a moment that draws for too long. He should take a shower. He needs to take a shower.
Forcing himself under the hot stream of water is harder than expected, but he supposes this is just how things are, now. The white tiles feel foreign, too, too clean and too pristine in comparison to the ones he was almost getting used to at home.
But home isn’t that place anymore.
Once upon a time, when Wonwoo could still take hold of all the unsaid words floating in his mind, he made himself at home by folding his too-tall body into the curve of Jihoon’s body and the vacuum of his room.
He was at home when he helped Jihoon with dinner, he was at home when he made his way from work to the tiny apartment without even thinking, he was at home when Jihoon showed him one of his poetries, he was at home when Jihoon held his body against the mattress and thrust into him.
Wonwoo shuts his eyes closed and draws a sharp breath, trying to wash Jihoon’s face away from his brain, but it’s no use.
He was at home when Jihoon wore his shirt, collarbones exposed, and sat against his chest with a cup of tea.
Once the sound of his voice finds its way to him, Wonwoo can’t shut it off anymore: Jihoon’s laugh ringing like bells in his ears, Jihoon humming along to a song he wouldn’t really know otherwise, Jihoon asking quietly what they were. If Wonwoo loved him.
And Wonwoo’s own voice, rusty by disuse, couldn’t find its way out fast enough, paralyzed by what it would mean, to allow Jihoon to see him whole.
And the thing is, Wonwoo was sure Jihoon already knew by then. It was impossible not to know, not when all of Wonwoo’s gestures were a breath that said I love you, and you’re the best thing that happened to me.
He was sure specific words weren’t needed when everything about him was Jihoon’s to take and do as he pleased.
Before the thoughts could develop into roots and plant even deeper inside Wonwoo’s brain, he cuts off the water and steps into the fog, breathing the humidity in until his lungs feel about to explode.
He’s the one to blame, anyway, so he can’t bury himself in self-pity and pray that, somehow, Jihoon will see it. He didn’t see more important things, anyway.
Wonwoo knows he needs to eat and needs rest, but he can’t put these stupid body necessities first when he still doesn’t know whether Jihoon decided to believe him or not.
He opens the fridge, still too empty to look like it belongs to a home that’s alive, and crouches to take some vegetables. Jihoon wouldn’t really eat these, would push them to the corners of his plate as he played with the food and wait until Wonwoo was distracted to throw it all away, pretending he wasn’t living off just rice and meat.
They didn’t even fight.
Jihoon just turned around and slept, ungluing his body from Wonwoo’s enough to make it clear it was intentional and he didn’t want to be touched. In the morning, Jihoon told him it would be better if Wonwoo went back to his own apartment, he needed time and air and he wasn’t feeling like himself anymore after spending so long with someone else.
It was too late when Wonwoo realized what those gaps in his speech really meant, when he realized he could’ve asked to stay, could’ve told Jihoon he would be back when he wanted him to, could’ve, should’ve, would’ve.
By then, the silence was already stretching for five days, then ten, then fifteen, then forty. And then Wonwoo realized how much he fucked up by believing Jihoon could read his mind, too late to really do anything about it but ask if Jihoon was still mad at him.
But this was three days ago, and Jihoon hasn’t replied yet.
Wonwoo sighs and slices everything into small pieces to keep his hands occupied, away from his phone.
These days, he’d been relearning all about living by himself, about turning around to laugh at something just to remember there was no one there, anymore.
Once the food is done, Wonwoo eats diligently, even if he’s not that hungry. He does the dishes, brush his teeth with more force than he should (and Jihoon would always put a hand over his when Wonwoo pressed the toothbrush too hard, making his muscles go all soft instantly), and lies flatly on the twin bed that, somehow, feels too large for him.
It’s only then that Wonwoo allows himself to pick up the phone, and stares at it until his eyes go unfocused. The screen is almost turning off again when a new notification lights it up, Wonwoo’s heart scrambling inside his chest as he reads Jihoon’s name.
“it depends”, the text says, “are you ready to be honest w me?”
Wonwoo could say it right now. He could tell Jihoon how much he misses him, how much he means to him, but it wouldn’t be right. Not when it’s been long so long since they saw each other that it feels like he’s texting a stranger.
“i am”, Wonwoo types, thumbs hovering over the screen like bees. He doesn’t know what else to say, scared he might drive Jihoon away again when it took so long to get him to talk to him.
“ok. we can meet up now and get over with it already.”
Wonwoo doesn’t even think before replying.
“where?”
“i’m heading back home now. i can stop by yours if you want to.”
“i’m waiting for you.”
There isn’t much he can do until Jihoon arrives, but Wonwoo gets hectic nonetheless. There’s nothing to clean, no mess to hide, so he ends up sitting in the living room just to stare at the minutes dragging slowly.
Despite his head always being filled with words, Wonwoo isn’t sure what he can say to convince Jihoon he’s being honest. The timing was lost long ago, and his voice only got rustier since then. He isn’t sure if a simple I love you could encompass everything he keeps locked inside himself, isn’t sure if such simple words would ever be enough.
Wonwoo is still drowning in his thoughts when the doorbell rings. He rushes to the door, only then realizing he’s wearing mismatched socks, but he supposes Jihoon knows him well enough not to care about such a thing.
“Hi,” Jihoon says. His nose is reddened from the cold, hair is tucked inside a beanie that Wonwoo is mostly sure belonged to him, at some point. It makes him feel all warm inside, that Jihoon kept his things.
“Hello,” he whispers. “Come in.”
The juxtaposition of Jihoon standing in the middle of this living room, his living room, makes something churn inside Wonwoo. It’s weird seeing him there, fitting in that space as if he’s always been there.
Wonwoo follows him back inside, still trying to convince himself he’s not in some fucked up dream right now.
“I don’t plan on staying too long,” Jihoon warns, his body relaxing visibly when he gets out of the cold. Wonwoo’s hands itch to touch him. “What you wanted to tell me?”
This is the question that’s been rolling around Wonwoo’s mind ever since he realized he fucked up. What does he wants, needs to tell Jihoon? He’s not sure if he figured it out already.
When he says nothing, Jihoon turns to stare at him, a sharpness in his eyes that makes it clear this is the last chance he has of ever trying to make it right. That half words won’t be enough, it doesn’t matter if it is too hard to say out loud.
“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo blurts out, and once he starts, he can’t really stop the words from flooding out of him. “I… I hope you know I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you aren’t important, or like you don’t matter to me. You do, a lot, it’s just that… I just can’t…”
He trails off when Jihoon removes the beanie, combing his soft hair between his long fingers. He doesn’t say anything, though, still waiting until Wonwoo is done, still giving him a chance to figure out all the things he can’t do for Wonwoo.
“I thought you knew I loved you,” he says, quietly. “But I guess it was dumb of me to assume you did just because I know I do. And I’m so scared you hate me for real and I miss you so much, I don’t know what I could say to convince you I’m being honest when I try to tell you that I love you. You deserve better words than this, but it’s just so…”
“It took you long enough,” Jihoon says when he trails off again. “I want to punch you.”
“I’d let you,” Wonwoo doesn’t need to think, “I’d let you do anything you want with me.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you feel like you couldn’t tell me things,” Jihoon mutters. Wonwoo wants to end the space between them and hold Jihoon against his body as he was so used to, but he doesn’t know if he can. If Jihoon even wants it. “I don’t know why you chose to run away than to say you loved me, but I can’t help but think I was being too much. Pushy.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I get that you needed to hear me saying it, I just wish I had something better than just a bunch of I’m sorry’s and I love you’s as if you didn’t deserve anything better.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can I hug you?”
“Yeah,” Jihoon sighs, all the hard lines of his face going soft at once.
Wonwoo doesn’t waste time in pressing Jihoon against his chest, breathing him in as his eyes fall shut with relief. So, at least, Jihoon doesn’t hate him.
“We need to get better at communicating, though. I can’t go for over a month without hearing from you whenever we have a fallout.”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear from me.”
“You also need to stop assuming things,” Jihoon mumbles. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” now that he already said it once, twice, three times, the words come more easily to him. Wonwoo can’t help the desire to say it again and again, make them the only words that will ever come out of his mouth.
He wonders if this is what religion feels like, a compulsion of finding words that can fit his emotions, even if he can’t fully grasp its enormity.
“I love you too, by the way,” Jihoon tells him once they break the embrace. “Just so you know. Always did.”
“I knew,” Wonwoo smiles a little. “I could tell.”
He’s still standing between sterile walls with mismatched furniture when Jihoon leaves but, now, he feels at ease.
At home.