Work Text:
Changbin knows Chan like the back of his hand. Better, if he’s being honest.
Knowing Chan has become an intrinsic part of him. Looking for him first thing in any room, reaching out the moment he comes close enough to touch, reading his expressions and his body language whenever he’s in sight.
Easy as breathing. Just as important.
So it doesn’t come as a surprise, when Chan drapes himself over him, his back, the back of their couch and buries his face into the crook of Changbin’s neck. When he sighs deeply, nuzzles into the skin, his hair tickling on Changbin’s cheeks. He’d known something was up when Chan stepped into their apartment, steps just a bit heavier than usual. When instead of calling out a “honey, I’m home!” in that grating, nasally tone he loves to use to tease Changbin, Chan just stepped out of his shoes, shrugged off his jacket. Most importantly he’d known because of the silence.
Usually, Chan comes home humming. A new melody, or an ancient one. One of theirs, or one of his many friends’. Chan is made of music. Built from notes and chords, strung together with harmonies. He lives it, breathes it, and so his silence is deafeningly loud, a warning.
Changbin brings up a hand to rest on Chan’s forearm where it’s slung around his shoulders. Swipes his thumb back and forth on the skin for a moment while Chan breathes deeply, burrows impossibly deeper. Sometimes, Changbin thinks Chan wants to crawl into his body and make a home there, like a mouse in a burrow. He’d let him.
He’d let him dig deeper every time, fill him with tunnels and caves for Chan to rest in. He’d let Chan hollow him out completely, and then regrow himself so Chan could do it over and over again. He’d tear himself apart if it helped build Chan a shelter.
For now, he waits. Lets Chan breathe him in for a minute, then another. Keeps running his thumb back and forth, repetitive motion on the soft skin of Chan’s arm as minutes bleed into one another. Chan doesn’t say anything. Changbin does.
“Bad day?”
Chan sighs again, breath hot against Changbin’s neck. Stays silent for another heartbeat before giving a hum of assent. Changbin slides his fingers down Chan’s forearm until he meets his hand, twines them together and brings it to his mouth. He waits to press a kiss to each of Chan’s knuckles, slightly paler than the rest of his skin with scar tissue from when he liked boxing, before he speaks again. “Want to talk about it?”
A minute shake of the head. Chan’s lips moving against his skin. “Not really.” Changbin unfurls Chan’s hand to kiss the pads of his fingers, light as a butterfly dropping down on a flower, moving from one to the next. He adores Chan’s hands. Pretty and delicate, a river delta of veins underneath skin that flushes the prettiest pink, along with the rest of Chan’s body. Strong, skilled. Like the rest of him.
Long fingers, elegant, always in motion. Chan knows how to use them. Peeling eggs for a quick meal, paging through a book, flying over his keyboard or strumming the strings of a guitar. Gripping Changbin’s cock, flexing in his hole, teasing over his nipples. Mapping every last inch of his body, tangling in his hair, pressing into his mouth. Chan takes to everything he does like a fish to water, with the determination of bamboo to grow.
Changbin admires him for it.
Adores him for it, even when it pushes him past own limits, leaving him exhausted and irritable. Drives him into an isolation Changbin has known to coax him out of for years. It’s just part of him, like his pretty hands and lips and his laugh and his beautiful brain. Changbin has never seen it as a deterrent, even when Chan begged him to.
“It’s annoying,” he’d whispered once, years ago, with greasy hair after holing himself up in the studio for days. “Doesn’t it get annoying, to have to take care of me? Aren’t you going to grow tired of it?”
“Never,” Changbin had answered. “I’ll take care of you forever, hyung, and I’ll be happy. Please let me.”
And Chan let him. Still does. As promised, Changbin hasn’t grown tired of it, just more adept. He knows exactly what to do, what to say, what Chan needs. Easy as breathing.
“Alright, love. You don’t have to talk about it,” Changbin murmurs now, tilting his head enough to drop a kiss on the crown of Chan’s head. “Have you eaten?”
Chan clings to him even tighter. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“A while ago. ‘M not hungry, though.”
“Okay.” Changbin doesn’t push. It doesn’t help. It’s not what Chan needs. He waits again, for Chan to finally lift his head from the crook of his neck, to shuffle forward and press their cheeks together. Pressing a kiss against the side of Changbin’s nose.
Another sigh. “What are you doing?”
Changbin blinks at the movie he paused the moment he heard Chan’s key in the front door. He doesn’t even remember what it’s about, just put it on to fill the time until his boyfriend’s return. “Nothing,” he says truthfully. “Waiting for you, sweetheart.”
“Ah.”
He hums. Taps against the back of Chan’s hands a couple of times. “Doesn’t your back hurt, being bent over like this?”
Another moment of silence while Chan assesses himself. “A bit. You’ve had me in worse positions.”
Changbin snorts. “Yeah, and if I recall you were begging me for it everytime.”
Chan exhales a laugh, and Changbin can feel his cheeks flush, heat bleeding through where their skin is touching. But he goes quiet again too soon, doesn’t tease him back. One of those days, then. Nights, really. The clock in his periphery, above their dining nook, is inching slowly towards one. Where Chan is too far into his own head, lost in the maze of his own thoughts. He’d described it as the sea once, as diving in and sinking until sunlight is just a memory, where up is down is left is right.
Changbin’s just got to bring him back to the guide rope.
He pulls away from Chan in order to look at him, pats his thighs. “Come here, baby.”
Chan watches him for a moment, undecided. Bottom lip pulled between his teeth, and Changbin gets his first look at his face, still pink, but tired. Eyes downcast, hair hidden under a cap. He pats his lap again. “Come.” It does the trick.
Chan climbs over the back of their couch and into his lap, wraps his legs around Changbin’s waist, his arms around his neck, and buries his face right back into the space between his neck and his shoulder.
“Thank you.” An almost inaudible murmur, accentuated by a soft press of lips just above the neckline of Changbin’s shirt. He takes his time, running his hands up Chan’s broad back, over his shoulders until his nape, squeezing once, twice.
“Not for this, baby.”
Chan nuzzles into his skin again, fingers sneaking downwards and underneath his shirt, resting on his lower back. In turn, Changbin takes his snapback off, starts carding his fingers through Chan’s hair. It’s getting longer, silky soft ink between his fingers that he can play with. When they’re bored Changbin always braids tiny strands of it, thankful to his sister for forcing him to braid her hair when they were kids.
“Do you want to take a bath?” Changbin asks quietly, when the face of the clock has wandered past one. Chan likes baths. Changbin likes pampering him, washing his hair, his body. He takes his time with it – kneading at the tight muscles in Chan’s shoulders and neck or working a mask into his curls to keep them healthy. Kissing Chan’s body, laying down worship wherever he can reach. They both come out of it smelling of lavender and vanilla, usually with a couple of new lip-shaped bruises littering their skin.
“Mh, no. Not today,” Chan says. He’s warm and heavy in Changbin’s lap, exhales shakily as Changbin gently drags his nails over his scalp.
Changbin nods. “You’re tired?”
“I guess?” Chan shifts, thumping his forehead against Changbin’s collarbone, curling himself even further into his body. He sighs, more forcefully this time. “I don’t know. It’s- weird.”
“D’you want me to fuck you to sleep?” It helps, sometimes. When Chan’s uncomfortable in his own skin, feels like it’s too tight and his brain is in overdrive, Changbin fucks him until they’re both exhausted. Until Chan is flushed and drained, too cockdrunk to do anything but doze off while Changbin cleans him off and tucks him in.
Chan shakes his head, a small motion. Voice quiet. “No.”
“Okay,” Changbin says, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head.
“I don’t know what I want. Or need. I just- I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Changbin repeats.
“I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you-”
“Aish,” Changbin interrupts, moving his hands to cup Chan’s face and pull him up so they can look at each other. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. “Stop being silly, sweetheart. What are you trying to apologise for?”
Chan looks sheepish. “You’re trying to make me feel better but nothing is working?”
“ Baby ,” Changbin tuts. Drops a kiss on Chan’s left cheek, then his right. The corner of his mouth.
A new wave of pink, bleeding into Chan’s cheeks like a sunrise over sea. It always reminds Changbin a little of a quiet morning in Australia, when they were still fresh and shy. Pinkies locked in the sand, thighs barely touching. Chan’s hair tickling Changbin’s jaw in the breeze as the sun rose and set the surface of the ocean on fire.
“Your job isn’t to make it easy for me to make you feel better. Your job is to be brilliant and pretty, and you’re mighty good at that.”
More pink, and Chan’s lips twitch in a small, embarrassed smile. “Now you’re the one being silly.”
An idea forming, Changbin nudges their noses together, tilting Chan’s face up the smallest fraction to make sure Chan’s looking him in the eyes as he says it. “I’m serious. You don’t believe me?”
Chan makes a small sound, uncertain. Changbin huffs, as if inconvenienced. Makes a show of it, because he knows being overdramatic always makes Chan smile. “You’re forcing my hand, you know?”
He shrugs instead.
Changbin leans in, kisses him again. Short and sweet, just like his Chan. “Dance with me.”
“What?” Chan doesn’t move, still wrapped around Changbin’s body.
Changbin nods, wriggles enough to get his feet on the ground. "C'mon. Dance with me, pretty boy.”
“Bin-” Chan says. Changbin wraps his arms around his waist and hoists them both up with a grunt. He’d never say it out loud, but being able to carry Chan is a not insubstantial part of his motivation to work out. “Just give me one dance.”
“Baby, what are you doing?” Chan clings to him even tighter, and Changbin starts swaying on the spot.
“Dancing with you, pretty.” He grins, winks. Tries to execute a twirl but with Chan’s added weight his balance is off and he stumbles back. Chan gasps, Changbin yelps.
Chan catches them, gripping onto the armrest of the couch. Exhales something that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. “Seems more like you’re trying to take us on a trip to the ER.”
Changbin pouts. “No, please. Just dance with me. For only one song, I promise. Pretty please.”
He huffs, but– Chan gives in, just like Changbin knew he would. Chan’s every bit as weak for him, gripes and whines and bickers but goes easy anyway. It’s why they work so well. Push and pull, give and take. Like clockwork, made perfect by years and years of perfecting their craft in moving around each other.
“Alright,” Chan keeps his arms around Changbin’s neck but unwraps his legs from his waist. Changbin steals a peck, winks at him. Shuffles them away from the couch and rug, onto the slippery part of empty flooring between their open kitchen and living room. Chan keeps it gleaming at all times, something of a danger for careless socked feet.
“Bixby,” Changbin calls. “Play some music for dancing.”
Classical strings drift out from the speakers of his phone, and Changbin makes a show of bowing, holding out a hand. “May I have this dance?”
Chan smiles, endeared. “If you ask again I’m leaving.” He intertwines their fingers, anyway, lets Changbin pull them close again. Chest to chest. Almost eye to eye, except for the few centimetres Chan has on him that Changbin loves. Chan has to stoop just the smallest amount to tilt their foreheads together, and Changbin has to push himself up just the tiniest bit to steal another short kiss.
They sway from side to side for a bit, some centuries old composition winding around them in the calmness of night. Changbin watches Chan. His shoulders have dropped a bit, his face is less drawn. He starts smiling in earnest when Changbin attempts to start waltzing. Neither of them know how to, and they’re stumbling in circles rather than actually dancing.
Chan starts giggling. Changbin tries to increase their speed, gets dizzy, trips over Chan’s feet and only doesn’t eat shit because Chan’s grip on him is tight. They keep moving. Chan is smiling freely now, bright and gorgeous and dimpled. It sends sparks flying, where Changbin’s heart is crashing against his ribs, ecstatic. Hammer on anvil, relentless.
Blood set on fire, boiling and boiling under his skin. He’s so in love, and Chan is so pretty, laughing that squeaky breathless laugh of his when Changbin almost manoeuvres them into the couch again. He clutches at Changbin, wheezing even though it really isn’t that funny, but does it matter? He’s carefree again, and Changbin drinks it in. Pride a small flame, because he’s the reason Chan looks like this.
His boyfriend, his love. His work to make him happy. His, in moments when he’s down, and moments when he’s on top of the world. Only his, right now, out of breath and watery-eyed, tired and a little bit delirious. Changbin knows he was made for this – for him. It takes Chan a moment to calm down. Another for them to start moving again, once again just swaying on the same spot.
Chan tilts their foreheads together, face sombering for a moment. “Thank you. For knowing me so well.”
“Don’t get emotional on me now, old man,” Changbin teases.
Chan kicks his shin gently. Grins. “I mean it though. Thank you, for always understanding.”
“Thank you for letting me,” Changbin says. “It’s an honour.”
“Cheesy.”
“You like cheese.”
Chan pushes him away, a hand on his chest, the other still tightly holding onto Changbin. Changbin winks at him, pulls him back and executes a twirl that has them sharing a surprised look.
“When we get married, we’ll learn how to ballroom dance for the wedding,” Changbin decides.
Chan raises his brows. “Yeah?”
“Mmh. So I can dip you, and twirl you around, and lift you. All that shit, you know?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one to do ‘all that shit’, since you’re so small?” Chan giggles and Changbin kisses him.
“Maybe, but I wanna show everyone that you’re my darling, darling.”
“Cheesy,” Chan repeats. He’s glowing in the dim light of their apartment, hair a mess. Peachy cheeks and caramel skin. He’s so lovely. Changbin tells him as much.
“I love you,” Chan says in response. Bright and sweet. Kisses Changbin, slow and gentle. His lips are warm, slightly chapped. Intrinsically familiar, just as the soft sigh Chan releases into Changbin’s mouth, the fingers in his hair.
The music still filtering out of his phone fades into the background, and Changbin sinks into Chan’s smell, his touch, his mouth and sweet sounds and the certainty that this is how far they’ll go tonight and that it’s more than enough. He’s got the time. He’s patient. And really, he’s bad at multitasking. So he just focuses on kissing – it’s easy. Easy as breathing.
—
(Later. With the lights out and the city skyline barely bright enough to illuminate Chan’s features, cheekbones and the ridge of his beautiful nose highlighted, he smiles. Presses his hand, slender and pretty against Changbin’s chest, right above where his heart is still rattling, sparking against his ribs.
There’s a teasing lilt to his tone, when he asks. “ When we get married, hm?”
Changbin tilts his head slightly, shrugs. “What else?”
They’ve not talked about this yet. Too distant a future, too far away from their current lifestyle. It feels right, though. To think about.
Chan hums thoughtfully. “Nothing else. Just us.”
“Just us,” Changbin echoes, wrapping his arms around Chan, pressing his face into his hair.
They fall asleep like this, curled into each other. Warm and safe.
Slip into sleep right alongside each other, easy as breathing.