Work Text:
Jongho yawns, entering the living room with tired steps. “Sangie, come to bed.”
“Nope, I need to finish this chapter first,” his boyfriend replies without lifting his eyes from the book. He’s sitting cross-legged, hunched over his book, with a blanket carelessly thrown over his legs. A package of crackers and crisps is scattered on the sofa, and empty mugs decorate the coffee table. “I need to know who the killer is. I’m so close to finding out.”
Jongho sighs tiredly and approaches the sofa as he rubs the grogginess from his eyes. He focuses on his boyfriend, who looks like a total mess; dark hair completely dishevelled with locks escaping his bun, eyes bloodshot from spending the entire day reading, and the corner of his lips stained from whatever chocolate he’d eaten – ah, a bar of Three Musketeers. Jongho can see the crumpled paper discarded on the floor. Yeosang’s glasses are dangerously slipping on the bridge of his nose, and his boyfriend distractedly pushes them up with a finger.
He’s completely oblivious to the way Jongho is observing him while he sits on the edge of the sofa next to him.
Jongho has the mind to regret ever mentioning that book to Yeosang. In an attempt to have his boyfriend read it, he had told him how engrossing it was, with its compelling storytelling and mysterious plot that left the reader on the edge of their seat, wanting to read one more chapter after chapter. He hadn’t expected his boyfriend to actually take his word for it and pick it up. Yeosang usually never reads his recommendations, preferring his cosy fantasy novels with enough romance in the mix to the heavy thrillers and gore Jongho had an appetite for.
The moment Yeosang took possession of the book, however, he was immediately hooked, reading it nonstop – not even stopping to use the bathroom, for he took the book with him even then. He had spent the whole weekend just curled up on their sofa, reading and ignoring Jongho.
“I know who the killer is,” Jongho comments, stroking Yeosang’s hair so he could divert his boyfriend’s attention to him. He tucked a stubborn bang behind his ear, faintly pulling at his earring teasingly.
“Sshh, don’t tell me anything,” Yeosang says. He places a finger on Jongho’s lips to silence him. He also gives him a severe glare, eyes narrowed in seriousness. Jongho blinks at him slowly. His boyfriend then returns his attention to the book, his finger still placed on Jongho's lips. “I’m 20 pages away from finding out everything, Jjong. Don’t ruin it for me.”
“What will you do if I tell you the killer’s identity and spoil the rest of the book for you?” Jongho teases, pushing Yeosang’s finger away. He grasps his hand, bringing it up so he can plant a kiss on each of his knuckles mischievously.
“Stop distracting me, Choi Jongho,” Yeosang warns from the corner of his mouth and through gritted teeth. But he doesn’t retrieve his hand. And Jongho notices a small blush colouring Yeosang’s cheeks.
His plan is half-working, then.
Jongho smiles at those two rosy patches, a low chuckle rumbling inside his chest. He leans a little forward, just enough to be close to Yeosang’s space to conspiratorially whisper, “The killer is-”
“Don’t you dare!” Yeosang practically throws the book in the air so he can push forward on the sofa and clap his hands over Jongho’s mouth, silencing him before he spoils the ending.
Their position is an awkward one, with Jongho leaning back against the arm of the sofa and Yeosang hovering on top of him, stifling his words.
Jongho tries to laugh, but the sound is only a muffled exhale. Yeosang’s eyes are wide and urgent, a plea in those adorable brown eyes that lock with his. His pout is stupidly adorable; it almost makes Jongho sigh like a lovesick idiot.
His boyfriend looks over his shoulder at the book now lying on the floor and whines. His bottom lip puckers forward even more, his pout getting bigger as his shoulders sag slightly. He returns his attention to Jongho, eyes blazing with sadness instead of frustration, which Jongho takes as a good sign.
“Now I don’t know which page I was on,” Yeosang comments miserably.
Jongho shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly and definitely with no remorse. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and offers his boyfriend a leer. Yeosang promptly glares at him before a yawn escapes his lips, such a loud and big yawn that shakes his whole body and waters the corners of his eyes. His hands fall from Jongho’s mouth, and he leans back, giving enough space for Jongho to straighten himself up.
“Someone seems to be tired,” Jongho comments playfully. He catches Yeosang’s hand and squeezes his fingers lightly.
Yeosang blinks sleepily for a moment. “Guess I am,” he then replies, pushing his glasses to his head and groggily rubbing at his eyes. “Didn’t realise I was this tired.”
“You’ve been reading nonstop for hours now,” Jongho continues. The soft pad of his thumb caresses Yeosang’s knuckles as his boyfriend yawns one more time. “It’s time to go to bed now.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Yeosang acknowledges through yet another yawn.
“You can finish the book tomorrow.” Jongho helps Yeosang out of the sofa. The blanket falls to the floor, followed by the package of crisps. But for the time being, he doesn’t care. He can always clean it after Yeosang is in bed, sleeping.
As they both stand up, another yawn escapes Yeosang’s lips. Jongho tries to fight the urge to yawn immediately after. Yet he fails.
“Alright, let’s get some sleep.”
“Are you still capable of telling me the rest of the story?” Yeosang asks as Jongho leads him through the short corridor to their bedroom. He’s dragging his feet, rocking back and forth with each step he takes.
“I can try.”
Jongho finally manages to put Yeosang to bed. He takes his slippers off and tucks him in, arranging the pillows and the duvet comfortably around his boyfriend. Yeosang snuggles in, smiling happily before he sighs contentedly. He looks so small inside their bed, so peaceful, and Jongho feels a swift tug in his heart at the sight.
“I have theories about the book,” Yeosang comments lightly when Jongho jumps into bed next to him.
“You do?” Jongho returns, covering himself. His boyfriend immediately wraps his arms around him and brings him close. Jongho lets him rest his head on his chest, his arms protectively circling Yeosang’s body as he yawns one more time.
“Alright, where were you in the book then?” Jongho asks, kissing the top of Yeosang’s head.
And his boyfriend snuggles closer to him, cold nose tucked in the crook of Jongho’s neck, his breath fanning hotly against his skin. If Jongho wasn’t so exhausted, he’d feel his heart spike dangerously at the gesture. Yet all he does is rub his cheek against his boyfriend’s head and relax.
Yeosang takes a deep breath and replies. But his reply is drunk in tiredness, and his words are beginning to be merely an incomprehensible slur. Jongho knows that in a matter of minutes, his boyfriend will be sound asleep and his theories lost with it.
They always have tomorrow to engage in the theories and analysis of the book. For now, Jongho allows the heartbeat in his chest to encompass Yeosang's breathing and flutters his eyes closed, content in the warmth of domesticity.