"Work, you fucking piece of shit!" A thud as loud and hollow, as when Yangyang sighs—the aggressive smack of his hand against the useless piece of technology, his workplace claims to be a coffee machine, appears to do nothing. The machine stands unaffected, shining black hard plastic, and red lights still blinking tauntingly underneath the touchscreen at the front. Eyes closed, a pinch at his nose and an empty cup in his right hand, Yangyang groans to himself.

Another seemingly endless week at work; draining phone calls that lead nowhere, and Yangyang is about to throw up at the sound of his own customer-service voice. The palm of his free hand hits the black machine once again, as if it would actually make any difference.

"It needs to be cleaned," a voice says from behind. Lazily leaned against the doorframe—a cheeky smile, all Colgate commercial perfect teeth matched with sparkling eyes. But that particular face only brings trouble, Yangyang learned that the hard way. 

"Again? I saw Taeil doing it just this morning..." Yangyang answers, although reluctantly. He clearly recall how his manager had a whole surgery going on earlier that day, tubes and drawers pulled out and all.

Yangyang steps aside, letting his arms fall helplessly at his sides, because he's as much of  an independent twenty-two year old, as a five year old child. The machine clicks open, and the smell of coffee beans blends with the scent Yangyang wishes he had never become familiar with. Fresh citrus into cozy amber.

Brown eyes narrow down, focused for a brief moment, hands fiddling with the insides of the machine. Plastic trays pulled out, emptied into the trashcan standing underneath.

"Come on, you work here too. You know how draining this shit hole is." There's a small chuckle laced into the voice that always sounds like he's just woken up. "There. Try now."

A strained smile, thin like a clothesline swaying in the wind, Yangyang places his cup and taps the touch screen. Finally, the sound of the machine is a quiet buzz, and the smell of low budget coffee fills his nose. It's not good, but it's familiar. And Yangyang likes the familiar. Mostly.

"Thanks, Jaemin..."

"Anytime." Leaned against the counter, arms crossed—the white shirt sits tight around his biceps. Maybe he finally got to spend all the time at the gym he always claimed to. Jaemin smiles again. Wickedly. "See? I'm not all bad."

A game of push and pull, it has always been the same with Na Jaemin. Strategically positioning himself right in front of the sugar packets. Jaemin, the same cunning player Yangyang met on his first day at the company.

Teeth press into the soft flesh of the inside of his cheek, Yangyang eyes the sugar that is just out of reach, debating if he really needs it. But he does. Shoving himself next to Jaemin, hand reaching out towards the small, white packages, and Jaemin's eyes follow. Their arms brush against each other, Jaemin doesn't move.

The scent is stronger now, overwhelming, Yangyang breathes in when he really doesn't want to. It's all freshly washed cotton sheets, and the sun shimmering through lazily hung curtains. Juicy oranges dripping at his lips, caught by a kiss only meant for hot summer days. It's all coming back to him, and it makes him sick.

"You literally just emptied two trays of used coffee grounds, it's not like you saved the world," Yangyang mumbles, stirring his coffee. Plastic spoon against the sides of the styrofoam cup. The sound, uncomfortable—the taste, just the same. Like burnt dirt, but at least it's free.

"Tell that to your face five minutes ago," Jaemin snorts.

"Whatever..." Yangyang, tired of the conversation, heads back to his work booth. Horrible coffee in hand, eyes burning at his back. It's just another day in hell.

The days pass by in a blur. Monday through Friday, it's all the same. Crammed subway rides way too early in the morning, excruciatingly long days at work, then home to hide in his room. Maybe a game or two of PUBG. It is all routine, all so rehearsed and repeated it makes Yangyang sick. No need for formalities, such as making his bed, his body will collapse on it as soon as he gets home anyway.

Dejun would surely scrunch his nose at the mess in Yangyang's room, which only seems to grow bigger by the day. Luckily, he won't notice. Yangyang makes sure the door is closed every single second he is inside his room. In fact, he hasn't seen Dejun all week. Behind the safety of his closed door, Yangyang has settled with the sounds of Dejun coming and going. Of him cleaning, cooking, singing in the shower as he always does.

One week since the two of them shared an awkward moment in the bathroom. One week of Yangyang's head about to explode, while his hand has been dying to dive into his pants. Just one last time. Everything appears to be the same—but at the same time, not at all.

During the weekend Yangyang runs away. He packs his bag and crashes at Chenle's place. Let's Chenle and Ningning violate his hair with box bleach, while Mark plays the newest song he is working on for school. It sounds absolutely horrible, but Yangyang will do anything to escape the even worse sounds of Dejun's nightly conquests. Anything to escape Dejun all together.

Unfortunately, Yangyang has to accept that nothing lasts forever. Sunday evening he returns home, a surprised squeak caught in his throat when he opens the door to the apartment. Dejun, standing right on the other side.

"Oh dear God, what happened to your hair?"

The habits of Xiao Dejun include, but are not limited to, mumbling when frustrated, checking his hair in every shiny surface he comes across, and an absolute inability of hiding his dislike in something. Anything. It's a scrunch of his nose, thick brows pulling downwards in a judgmental frown, an expression Yangyang has already become way too familiar with.

"I- It was supposed to be blonde..." Yangyang mutters, scarf unwrapping from his neck, the striped poly blend tickles against his lips, and his cheeks are still flushed from the cold outside.

"Well, it certainly is not," Dejun states, a bit too fast for Yangyang's liking.

Worn-out Converse stand in stark contrast next to Dejun's polished leather shoes. The entryway feels crammed even when it isn't. The air thickens with every breath. Yangyang's back hits the wall with an unnecessarily loud thud. Dejun's presence feels suffocating.

"I know. Box dye..." A shake of his head, the fried strands of hair barely move. Yellow, brassy, horrible. "Are you... Going out?"

"Yes." Keys clank in Dejun's hand. The walls are closing in, Dejun reaches out, dainty fingers around the collar of the beige trench coat hanging in its usual spot. Their arms brush against each other; electric shivers washing over Yangyang's skin. Dejun doesn't seem affected by it. "To the atelier," he adds.

"Cool..." A low mumble swallowed with a simple bop of his throat. Yangyang's voice drowns itself in an ocean of unsaid words every time Dejun speaks to him. Images are flashing, wild, vivid, jaw clenching and so are his hands. 

Yangyang swallows again. Dejun is occupied putting his shoes on, bent over, hair falling over his face—softly, like the way Yangyang wants to reach out and brush it away. Let his fingers stroke along perfect cheekbones, across lips he wishes were eager to taste his skin. Yangyang shifts in his spot—his body disobedient towards his own brain. Hell, even his thoughts are disobedient towards his brain, if that even is possible.

Sharp and cold, short answers, it doesn't matter how Dejun speaks to him, it only makes Yangyang all the more intrigued. Often brash, Dejun's words have a tendency to leave a lingering sting. But Yangyang doesn't really mind. He kind of likes it. Shit, maybe Yangyang actually does have some sort of kink?

The door clicks open, a whiff of cold air escapes into the apartment. 

"You know," Dejun pauses, hand at the door handle, eyes locked onto Yangyang while he inhales slowly, like he is really considering his next words. "I have an appointment at my hairdresser's tomorrow. Come with me."

More than three months have passed by since Yangyang moved in, but Dejun has never shown any interest in doing anything that goes beyond the fundamental meaning of being roommates. Neither has Yangyang, other than what has happened in his own head, but that is beside the point. Yangyang nearly chokes on his own spit, his feet cold against the wooden floor, he stands frozen.

"I-I have to w-work..." he stutters, and for once Yangyang wishes his voice would have failed him like times before. The idea of being alone with Dejun has lingered in Yangyang's mind ever since they first met. Alone, besides their daily life in the apartment. Now the chance is being handed to him, dangling right in front of him, and he doesn't grab it right away? Panic, absolute and only panic destroys every other thought in Yangyang's head, erases them until there is nothing but the blank stare he gives Dejun in return.

"So do I?" Dejun raises a brow, like he so often does, like Yangyang is talking nonsense. And he kind of is. "What time do you get off?"

"I... I get off at 4 on Mondays..."

"Good. I'll text you the address. Meet me there at 4:30. Don't be late." The door slams shut. Dejun has left.

"Well, that's a different look." Should Yangyang ever hear Dejun sound anywhere near impressed, this would be it.

"Just my work clothes. I didn't have time to change," Yangyang mutters, but he does catch the brief smile that easily can be misinterpreted as being impressed, while he shakes his jacket off his shoulders.

A fresh splash of pink, his cheeks look radiant compared to the rest of his face, Yangyang realizes when he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the wall. The air is getting colder, he should have brought his scarf.

"It suits you," Dejun suddenly says.

"It's actually kinda uncomfortable..."

"Just take the compliment," Dejun scoffs with a roll of his eyes. Then, his fingers suddenly wrap around Yangyang's wrist, sneak under the cuff of Yangyang's white work shirt, effortlessly, like they belong there. Dejun drags Yangyang further into the hair salon, and Yangyang has to wonder if this is becoming a new habit of Xiao Dejun—dragging Yangyang around. Not that Yangyang would mind, should it be so.

But bliss is fleeting, and so is the warmth that so gracefully has wrapped itself around Yangyang's wrist. Dejun lets go, the touch of his hand fading but the bubbly feeling in Yangyang's stomach stays for a little while longer.

"Dejun!" Fiery red hair, just like the shade Yangyang used to have, big eyes, slim face, a hint of an accent. He greets Dejun with a kiss on the cheeks, like Yangyang has only seen French people in movies do. Then, the attention is turned to Yangyang; it makes him freeze. "Hi, I'm Yuta, welcome to my salon."

The salon is nice. All black and white, with floor length mirrors and a calming smell of lavender. Still, Yangyang would have to drown himself in an ocean of lavender, to calm his racing heartbeat. Yuta gestures for Yangyang to take a seat, and he does so without saying anything.

"So, who should do who today?" Yuta asks, as he swings a black cape around Yangyang's shoulders.

"I'll take the chance with Shotaro today. You better take care of that abomination," Dejun replies, waving his hand towards Yangyang's hair.

Dejun must come here often, Yangyang thinks to himself, hearing the way Dejun and Yuta speak so casually with each other. Dejun probably knows a lot of people, has a lot of friends, eloquent and engaging so easily in exciting and deep conversations with anyone he comes across. Anyone, but Yangyang, of course.

"So, you're Dejun's friend?" Yuta stands behind Yangyang, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

"Roommate," Dejun corrects him right away, an eyebrow raised, Yangyang catches that from the corner of his eye.

The correction shouldn't hurt as much as it does, it even surprises Yangyang himself. They are roommates. Just roommates. So how come his heart just felt a small pinch?

"Oh," Yuta laughs, pursing his lips. "And they were roommates," he adds with a whistle.

"How witty, Yuta." Far from impressed, thick brows draw closer together, and then the scrunch of his nose. Dejun's obvious dislike for Yuta's joke hits Yangyang like a truck.

Sulking in his chair, Yangyang fiddles with the hem of his shirt underneath the black cape, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror. Yuta and Dejun talk and talk, Yangyang starts to wonder if he's ever heard Dejun talk that much. But it's nice, comforting somehow, listening to his voice, his laughter. To steal a peek of the way his eyes form into crescent moons when he smiles.

To feel closer to him, without ever being so.

"Don't ever use that horrible box dye again." The wind is colder when they step out from the hair salon. Dejun shudders, hands in the pockets of his trench-coat, shoulders raised. Had it been a romantic movie, Yangyang would have offered him his own jacket. But it isn't—so he doesn't. Also, he would freeze to death himself, and Yangyang has no interest in that. Not tonight, at least.

"I won't," he mutters back. Locks of actual blonde hair dance in front of his eyes as he walks. Soft and shiny after all the haircare treatment Yuta gave him. "Anyway... Thank you. For helping me..."

Dejun sends him a look, short and only from the side of his sharp eyes, a simple shrug. Ash brown hair has turned dark, parted in the middle, beautifully styled to perfectly frame Dejun's face. Yangyang swallows as he forces himself to look away.

"Well. You're free to go do whatever you usually do now," Dejun then says, head tilted slightly sideways, and their eyes meet. "I'm going to get some late dinner."

"Okay..." Yangyang feels it again. That strange feeling stirring inside of him, making his legs shake. Burning from the inside, while his skin is freezing cold. Dejun looks away.

Yangyang told himself not to think of his roommate in that certain way again. And so, he doesn't. He thinks of him in a completely new way. How it would feel to grab Dejun's hand, let their fingers intertwine as they walk down the street together. To hold him close, watch him count the stars, like Yangyang would count every single of Dejun's heartbeats.  

"But if you don't have any plans," Dejun interrupts Yangyang's thoughts, and then he briefly pauses. Warm breath turns white in the cold air. "You can come with me. If you're hungry. I just need to swing by the atelier first."

"Cool..." There it is again, the wall that stops Yangyang from saying what he really wants to. The ocean, in which he drowns with no one to save him. There is no shore, nowhere to catch his breath, and Dejun is the siren that drags him closer to the bottom.

Yangyang lets him without any resistance.

The wooden door creaks when Dejun pushes it open. He turns the lights on, fluorescent lights flicker and Yangyang is stunned as he realizes where he actually, really is. Dejun's atelier. Possibly not a big deal to some, but to Yangyang it is huge. This is the place Dejun spends most of his time, his life, and now Yangyang is stepping into it. Into Dejun's world of sewing machines and tall rolls of fabric in every corner. Of faceless mannequins and sketches spread across white tables.

Dejun is mumbling to himself, flipping through the sketches on the table closest to the door. Yangyang steps closer, quietly, gawking at his surroundings. His fingers itch to stroke against some ivory fabric draped around a mannequin, so he does—albeit only barely, carefully. Ball head pins peeking out, holding the fabric together, Yangyang boops the head of one of them. He just has to.

"Is this what you're working on?" Yangyang asks, instantly feeling stupid when the answer is obvious.

"Yes."

"It looks dope." Amazed, Yangyang walks slowly around the mannequin, but his eyes catch the unimpressed look on Dejun's face.

"Dope?"

"Just take the compliment," Yangyang can't help but chuckle, repeating the same words Dejun said earlier.

Silence follows. Yangyang walks around the atelier, looking closely at everything. If this should be the only time Dejun lets Yangyang into his world, he wants to savor every moment of it. Eyes glance around the room, pictures painting themselves in front of him—of Dejun sitting at one of the long tables, concentrated, sketching and cutting with sharp scissors. Sunlight through the windows, warm strokes drawn across his face, like the way his delicate hands would slide so gracefully against beautiful fabric.

"Okay, I'm done. Let's go," Dejun speaks while looking anywhere but at Yangyang. Hands working fast and precise, neatly placing a few sketches into a shoulder bag he grabs from the chair next to him.

Yangyang nods, following Dejun out the door. The lights switch off—just like a dream that ends way too abruptly.

Warm, suffocating. Sweat at the back of his neck. Yangyang pulls at the collar of his shirt, dying to pop the two upper buttons open. The restaurant is nice, lovely even. A cozy atmosphere, dimmed lighting and round tables. Intimate, but to Yangyang also intimidating. With a trembling hand he takes a sip of water, the glass bumping against his teeth.

Dejun, unbothered as he always is, sits across from him, reading something on his phone, mumbling to himself. Neither of them has really spoken since they placed their orders—Yangyang, still uncertain of what he actually ordered. All he remembers is how the pretty waitress was flirting with Dejun. The way she fluttered her long lashes, flipped her hair back, smiled for a second too long—stared for an eternity too long.

Hot breath is stuck in his throat, like Yangyang is in his shirt. Of course he knows why he is burning up, and of course the reason is Dejun. Dejun, who sits so casually, reading glasses on as he skims through the text on his phone. Something work related, Yangyang presumes from the few words he manages to catch. A black shirt, unbuttoned way too low for Yangyang's eyes not to follow. Surely, it wasn't that open at the salon, Yangyang would have noticed. Thin fabric against perfect skin, the black shirt shifts gracefully with every small movement Dejun makes. Dejun, who returned the waitress' smile, whose eyes narrowed down while the spark in them was like fire licking over dark charcoal.

"So, I... I was thinking..." Yangyang clears his throat, breaking the silence. "Maybe throwing a party?"

"A party?" Dejun looks up.

"Yeah, since I've moved in and stuff. You know, like a housewarming kinda thing..." Silence. Yangyang clutches the fabric of his pants under the table.

Dejun looks at him, stares in that particular way that makes Yangyang's skin burn, and Yangyang is about to regret his words.

"Sure." A sip of wine, bottom lip sucked in to catch a fleeting drop of Merlot. "We can have a party"

"For real?"

Stunned, Yangyang's eyes widen up. Dejun simply chuckles, the sound tickling in Yangyang's ears. The wine swirls in the glass, ruby waves washing over crystal shores. Dejun takes another sip—eyes still locked onto Yangyang's. One arm slung over the backrest, Dejun's hair throws perfectly placed shadows against the sharp features of his face.

Then, Yangyang has an epiphany. One that nearly knocks him out of his seat. His heart races and his hands turn clammy. We. Dejun said we. We can have a party. As in both of them, as in Dejun and Yangyang. Together.

"Dejun, I--"

"Yangyang?" It isn't Dejun's voice, and Yangyang's toes curl up at the sound of it. Not that voice, please, anything but that voice.

"Jae... Jaemin?" Shivers down his back, wishing the chair simply would swallow him whole. Yangyang looks up, reluctantly, hesitantly.

Right. Na Jaemin. Coming towards the table, his sly smile is bright even under dimmed light. Dressed in all white, like a devil in sheep's clothing. Everything happens so fast, like an avalanche, impossible to stop.

"Fancy seeing you here." A hand on Yangyang's shoulder, the touch is so familiar but foreign at the same time. Jaemin leans in, a polite bow across the table, he greets Dejun with his devilishly charming smile. "Hi, Na Jaemin. Yangyang's ex," he says, shamelessly.

"You're not- He's not--" Yangyang panics, his eyes darting between Jaemin and Dejun. It's a clash of two worlds Yangyang never wanted to meet. "We're not--"

"Nice to meet you," Jaemin continues, staring at Dejun—the complaints from Yangyang falling for deaf ears, as Jaemin speaks over him. The hand at Yangyang's shoulder turns into a firm grip, fingers digging into Yangyang's shoulder blade. It actually kind of hurts. "Hope you're taking as good care of my little bean, as I used to."

The clanking of cutlery, the low mumbling from people around, the blood pumping through his veins - it all blends together in Yangyang's ears. Dejun, yet to speak, slides the glasses off his nose—slowly, so very, very slowly. His silence is killing Yangyang inside. Unreadable look on his face, a book with blank pages, Dejun leans in closer, arms folded on top of the table.

"Likewise," he then says. "But if you don't mind, Jaemin, we were in the middle of a conversation."

Yangyang swallows silently. Na Jaemin, no filter, no shame, misread the situation as a date—and Dejun didn't deny it.

"Ah, of course, my apologies. Enjoy your evening," Jaemin smiles brightly, like he actually means it. The grip around Yangyang's shoulder loosens, fingers sliding down his back, teasingly.

It's hot, then cold, then hot again. Yangyang's heart is uncontrollable, pounding in his chest so fast it hurts. A wink and a cheeky smile. Jaemin leaves the table, and Dejun's eyes follow him. A frown, a scrunch of his nose. Dejun puts his glasses on again.

Every breath hurts, like claws down Yangyang's throat. An old wound, open and vulnerable. Yangyang's hands clench, tightly. It's all coming back to him; waves crashing and glass breaking. The bleeding of a foolish heart. Stupid Yangyang, stupid lemon drop shots and stupid staff party. Stupid Jaemin with his stupid smile. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"I- I'm sorry about that," Yangyang mumbles, his finger curled around the glass, pressing against the cold surface.

"Don't worry about it." Dejun is back to reading something on his phone, his voice distant, a mumble almost. "So. I didn't know you were--"

Yangyang swallows. Fear has its nasty hands ready around his neck. Will Dejun hate him now? Feel disgusted, just like some of his old friends did? But Yangyang is too distressed to fabricate a decent enough lie.

"That I was, what?" he quietly asks. "Gay?"

"Sexually active." Dejun looks up, no expression. Dead serious, as he stares into Yangyang's eyes.

"I-I- What?" Yangyang is stunned. Does he really give off such a twenty-two year old virgin vibe? He's had sex before, although only two times—okay, fine, one and half time, where one was with a girl and Yangyang was never really into it, but it still counts! Words clog up in his throat, stumbling and struggling as they come out. "Well, I-I am! Or, well, not right n- I mean, I- I have- I..."

"Yangyang." A gentle touch, warm and soft, fingers sliding along the back of Yangyang's hand, until they wrap around his wrist. "I was just kidding."

An airy laugh, Dejun's lips form into a smile that lingers for longer than Yangyang would have predicted. Eyes softer, diving into Yangyang's, as he does with Dejun's—and the world stands still. There is only the two of them. Only Dejun's soft touch against Yangyang's skin, the curious look in his eyes. Delicate fingers curled around his wrist, and brown eyes as dark and endless as the sky at night.

"Oh, the food is here." The fantasy shatters. Dejun withdraws his hand.

The bubbly feeling inside Yangyang stays, this time even longer than usual.

Four days later, Friday. Back home from work, Yangyang returns to an empty apartment but with a full heart. Four days of wild discussions inside his own head, of an epiphany so overwhelming Yangyang first felt scared to death. 

He doesn't just want to get intimate with Dejun. He wants to do everything with him. Ask him out on a date, hold his hand, kiss him underneath the stars. Liu Yangyang, 22, is apparently also a hopeless romantic. 

A bouquet of white lilies in his hands. Yangyang has never bought flowers before, but Dejun seems like the type of person who should get flowers. The scene at the restaurant has played in Yangyang's head ever since it happened, making him delusional. Dejun had looked at him in such a different way. One that made Yangyang's heart pound even faster, had the blood rush to his head.

"You can do this, you totally can..." It's a mumble, a repetition over and over and over in the entryway. But then, Yangyang's heart stops. The sound of the keys in the front door, and voices. Dejun, and he is not alone. The door opens, and Yangyang stares at Dejun, while still bent over to untie his shoes. Frozen.

"You bought flowers?" Dejun questions right away, confusion knitting his thick brows together.

"Yeah, I... It's..." A stutter struggling to move past Yangyang's lips. Because even with Dejun right in front of his eyes, all Yangyang sees is the girl standing behind him.

This isn't the romantic scenario Yangyang pictured in his head. There are a million thoughts going wild in his mind, but none that is of any use. Heart pounding and breaking at the same time. Yangyang swallows. It was a stupid idea anyway.

"They're for... For my mom..." Yangyang lies. Painfully. "It's her birthday."

"Well that's nice of you, I'm sure she'll love them," Dejun says. Dark eyes move away from Yangyang, and it hurts. An arm around the girl's waist, pulling her closer. "Yangyang. This is Yiren."

Dejun has had a lot of girls, obviously he has, but this is different. Dejun never introduces a girl, never takes them home before late in the night.

She greets Yangyang, adds a polite "nice to meet you", cute smile and all, but what stays with Yangyang even after he closes the door to his bedroom, white lilies thrown onto the floor, is the gentle squeeze she leaves at his arm. Like he's a child.

And Yangyang knows he isn't a child.

He's an idiot. A big, fucking idiot.

a/n: yes, I stole the "I didn't know you were sexually active" line from one of my old stories (libertine) 

hope you enjoyed, see you soon again <3