(exo) problematic (oneshot)
title: problematic
rating: pg-13
pairing: sukai/kaisoo
genre: angst, romance
Problematic
---
Jongin has a problem.
It's not any physical, mental, or emotional problem that psychology textbooks or mental health websites can provide explanations for. It's a problem that well-surpasses all bounds of innate human conception, because contrary to popular belief, there are limits to what friends, family, and acquaintances can truly understand.
They can and will understand the pain of death.
They can and do understand the burn of broken bones.
They think they can understand why he doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't do the things that used to make him so happy -- they don't realize it has nothing to do with the things themselves which he did but rather the person he did them with.
They cannot, and Jongin has himself convinced of this fact, understand the agony of tear streaked cheekbones and broken sobs which distill the silence of solitary nights; the bruised rimming of swollen lids shut tight against the afternoon breezes that waft in through the open window; the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to pump so fervently which swallows him whole because he knows that they can't understand; they will never understand -- not when they weren't in love the way he was.
But Jongin’s problem has a problem. He sees the biggest and smallest things as problems -- when the heater in his car is a couple degrees too high; when there’s only one carton of milk left in the fridge; when he lies in bed asleep, alone, and craves the silk of Kyungsoo’s voice, the familiar comfort of melody woven through absent harmony, swaying on the loose frays of his steady timbre -- because the smallest, most insignificant of things are what remind Jongin of him.
What he really needs is Kyungsoo, living and breathing, filling the empty pillow and cotton sheets at his side. He needs Kyungsoo; needs him to make a snarky comment from the passenger seat about do you want us to sweat out our organs and melt to death as he turns the car heater down to a comfortable fifty degrees; needs him to walk cheerfully through the front door, hauling behind him what looks like half the fruit market and three cartons of milk too many; needs him to sing Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run into the silence of their bedroom, velvet voice slipping into lazy murmurs as Jongin’s fingers trapeze the cool nape of his pale neck.
Jongin sees all the missing pieces as reminders of what slipped too easily through his tightly wound fingers.
Junmyeon, however, sees them as placeholders -- potentiality for new beginnings -- which is why he is the one who sticks around to watch Jongin endure quarantined withdrawal and the reason he’s content with being Jongin’s bridge from the past to the present; from denial to acceptance.
---
“We should go out. Get a little fresh air. Being cooped up like this is unhealthy. When’s the last time you left the house?” Junmyeon fights the film of fatigue that seems to glaze over his eyes, blinking through the extra hours put in at work and the late nights spent simultaneously coaxing Jongin out of his room and tidying up Jongin’s messes.
“Last week.” Jongin stares up at the ceiling, eyes distant and unfocused, voice fragile as a breath. Junmyeon lowers himself onto the bed and smoothes the wrinkles in the pearly white duvet.
“Yes, that’s when I dragged you out for Chanyeol’s birthday party. You haven’t been outside even once since then?” His voice is gentle; understanding. Junmyeon knows Jongin has his limits and he doesn’t have the heart to cross them.
“No.”
Junmyeon sighs. “You’re not taking care of yourself. I’m going to have to move in permanently if you don’t get your act together. It’s already been four months, Jongin. He’s gone. He’s not coming ba--”
The sound of Jongin’s fist colliding with Junmyeon’s jaw reverberates throughout the secluded bedroom, barren walls and carpeted floors soaking up the jarring impact and muting it to the weak whisper of skin against skin and knuckle upon bone.
Junmyeon recoils, curling in on himself as his head is thrown back. Moisture burns behind the lids of his closed eyes as he cradles the left side of his face. His other hand reaches back to prevent himself from falling off the bed. Jongin’s hand unclenches little by little as the minute hand of the clock on the wall makes a complete round. His eyes widen, gaze flicking back and forth between his upraised fist and Junmyeon’s swollen jaw.
“H-Hyung, I--” Jongin’s hand falls limply to his side, brushing upon the white comforter. Junmyeon, through the wetness that gathers at the rims of his eyes, can see Jongin tremble; see the single crack in his armor of steely words and icy glares.
Junmyeon isn’t expecting an apology. He’s learned not to expect much of anything from Jongin. He’s learned to smile through the pain -- emotional, physical, both kinds of pain -- which is why he hushes Jongin’s stutters with a whisper and presses his lips to the younger man’s temple. Pulling a trembling Jongin into his arms, Junmyeon rocks back and forth, willing the warmth of his body into the cold one wrapped in his embrace.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats quietly, continuing to cradle Jongin while he chants unwarranted apologies. “I didn’t mean to bring it up, I’m sorry. Punch me once, punch me twice. I deserve it, I’m sorry. Forgive me, Jongin, I didn’t mean to say that. I know how much it hurts and I know you want him back and I know how much you loved him, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Jongin, I’m sor--”
“Hyung.” His voice is muffled, face pressed gently into the stiff collar of Junmyeon’s button-down. “Don’t...don’t apologize anymore. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry. I just--” Junmyeon feels hot moisture spill and soak through his shirt, “I miss him.”
“I know, Jongin” Junmyeon closes his eyes, gripping Jongin closer and getting lost in the warmth of their entangled limbs. “I know.”
“Make it stop hurting.” His words border somewhere between a demand and a plea. In some deep place within the folds of his deep yet utterly vulnerable voice, Junmyeon gets lost and finds himself helping Jongin in the only way he is able, whilst slowly but surely pulling at the open wounds in his own defective heart.
The thing about his heart, though, is that it can’t be broken. Not when it was never even whole to start with.
From the first day of one and the other -- Jongin’s cheerful introduction and the pleasant warmth flooding into Junmyeon’s face at the sight of handsome features paired with a killer smile -- and then to the first day of one with the wrong other -- the words this is my boyfriend, Do Kyungsoo jarring him into a reality he never wanted -- to the last day of every other -- broken sobs and yells and screams ripping through the silence, the scent of hospital linens, hospital beds, hospital patients, and hospital narcotics almost intoxicating, smearing the words time of death, two twenty-seven a.m. into a haze of black and white, spotted with miserable drops of insignificant grey.
Junmyeon has Jongin’s face memorized, from the freckle above his eyebrow concealed by his onyx fringe down to the scar that nibbles at the base of ear. He knows him inside and out, all the more to aid him in appeasing the apple of his eye, soaking him in words of honey, sprinkling the air with comfort and unnecessary devotion. The wish to withdraw from want of thinking is what forces Junmyeon to do what he knows he’ll regret, but what he is sure will bring Jongin momentary peace of mind.
That’s why, when Jongin’s lips search feverishly for his, Junmyeon is all too willing to temporarily inhibit the empty space he knows he will never truly be able to fill. Even as they collapse into the expanse of pearly mattress and cotton waves, clothes strewn out in all directions, Junmyeon knows he’s a substitute. A placeholder. Because when their lips meet in a fiery array of moans and whimpers, fingernails trailing flexed muscles that dip into the plush curves of inner thighs, it’s Kyungsoo’s name that dances on the tip of Jongin’s tongue. Not Junmyeon’s.
All too used to fighting the tears, Junmyeon hold them back and convinces himself that he can take the blows. For Jongin’s sake. Because that’s what he’s willing to do for the one he loves. He allows himself to be dragged down with him, with no hope or care of whether he’ll make it back in one piece. Junmyeon tells himself that the early morning aches in between his legs are signs of Jongin’s affection. He convinces himself that the love bites barely tucked behind soft cotton collars mark each step closer to acceptance. He repeats to himself again and again, I love Kim Jongin. I would do anything for Kim Jongin. I love Kim Jongin. I would give everything for Kim Jongin. And yet, those words never leave the confines of his thoughts.
Because that’s all his confessions will ever be -- broken epithets stitched across a bleeding heart.
---
Junmyeon has resigned himself to the fact that he’s Jongin’s crutch. He’s the one to transcend the open wounds reflected in salty trails dried to ghosted paths along Jongin’s hollow cheeks. He’s the one to nip away the anger and dejection behind Jongin’s closed door, elegant foreplay dusted lightly with reminders that their intimacy is only a stopper, bottling up the ache that threatens to spew their world of black and white with terrifying shades of red.
All Jongin wants to do is forget, but memories of Kyungsoo are splayed out like a deck of cards, bleeding what he’s dying to see and only allowing to surface washed up memories of endearing smiles across the room, ephemeral hand-holding and consequential lovemaking, chaste butterfly kisses trailing across each other’s necks over empty wine glasses and bowls of roasted chestnuts.
“Hyung,” Jongin says one day over a half-eaten bowl of half-assed miso, “Do you have friends?”
“Of course I have friends,” Junmyeon laughs lightly. Jongin notices the way his voice catches, the cheerful light in his eyes stuck at a painfully forced standstill. “Do you have friends?”
Jongin ignores his question, pressing further.
“Do you, you know, hang out with those friends?”
“When I have time.”
“You never have time. You’re always with me.”
“I-” Junmyeon pauses. He supposes it’s true. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Any other person would have gotten tired of me by now. Why do you put up with this? With,” Jongin cocks his head down, allowing his bangs to better conceal his eyes, “me?”
Because I love you. “Because you’d be a mess if anyone were to leave you alone.”
“That’s not really what I was asking. I meant...why do you even bother?”
Because you’re worth the trouble. “Because you need someone to lean on.”
“I don’t think it’s that. I’m doing more than leaning on you,” Jongin looks down at his unfinished meal, hiding his face. Junmyeon can tell by the flexing in his neck that his jaw is taught, clenched tight. “You’re carrying me, Hyung. Bearing everything yourself.”
Junmyeon smiles, eyes training the silvery patterns spilling across the table from Jongin’s water glass. They move with each breath he takes, infinitesimal facets of white embedded in rainbows licking at the tablecloth.
“Why?” Jongin looks up, sincerity burning beneath the question marks engraved into his eyes.
“Because you’d never be able to make it alone.”
“I’m hurting you.”
“Of course you’re not,” Junmyeon’s voice hitches on the last syllable. He tries not to linger too long on the sudden realization that maybe he’s trying to convince himself of this more than Jongin. “It’s not so bad, seeing you everyday. It would save me a lot of trouble if you cleaned up after yourself, but I don’t mind babysitting.” His words are teasing, but a flicker of something resembling indignation still livens the black of Jongin’s gaze. “You need it more than anyone.” And I need you more than anyone.
“I hate this,” Jongin’s shoulders heave as he buries his head in his hands, elbows trailing the edges of the table. “I hate how much it hurts. I hate how I have to depend on other people. I hate it. I’m using you. And don’t you try to deny it,” he spits before Junmyeon can protest. “I’m using you. I hit you, I curse at you, I even ignore you. Yet here you are, smiling like you’re some God-sent angel, putting up with my bullshit. I’m angry, Hyung. I’m angry and sad and conflicted and fuck, I miss him so much.” The tears fall rapidly, droplets disturbing the surface of his miso, distilling the concentrated paste at the bottom of the bowl. “I miss him. And you know how much I hurt. You do all you can for me, showing up everyday to cook for my lazy ass and clean up all my fucking messes. And here I am, still crying like a pathetic asshole and missing him like crazy. Because I’m selfish. Hyung, I’m selfish and I hate it.”
Junmyeon supposes Jongin is selfish. He knows it, in fact, but chooses to overlook it. Selfishness, to Junmyeon, can always be forgiven. Because unlike a broken heart and unlike a broken bone, there is no hope for a cure.
---
“He likes you, you know,” Kyungsoo murmurs, nodding at Junmyeon, who is dozing quietly on the carpeted floor next to a stack of recipe books.
“Of course he likes me,” Jongin snorts, “He’s my friend.”
“I mean, he likes you more than as just a friend. Can’t you tell? Or are you really as stupid as you look?”
“Hey! I look perfectly intelligent.” Jongin snatches Kyungsoo’s reading glasses from the coffee table and rests them lightly upon his nose, pouting. “And what are you talking about? Junmyeon Hyung? Likes me? Are you delusional?”
“Suit yourself,” Kyungsoo shrugs. “Even with those glasses, you are so damn blind. You really don’t see anything, do you?”
“Even if he does,” Jongin narrows his eyes suspiciously and moves in closer so that their noses are touching, “shouldn’t you be jealous?”
“You are so full of shit,” Kyungsoo laughs.
“What? So you are jealous? It doesn’t seem like it. You’re not even--”
“There’s no need to be jealous. You’re mine and no one else can have you. That’s that.”
Jongin smiles to himself, suppressing the urge to wrap his arms around Kyungsoo for a whopping twelve seconds until he gives in to his puppy-like urges. He nuzzles the bare skin of Kyungsoo’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of cinnamon, after shave, and vanilla.
“Same here,” Jongin mutters before nipping lightly at the milky white flesh of Kyungsoo’s exposed jugular. “You’re mine.”
Kyungsoo merely whimpers as Jongin’s tongue make a beeline up the side of his neck to the very edge of his jawline.
“J-Jongin, not now,” Kyungsoo hisses weakly between clenched teeth. “Junmyeon Hyung is, aaaahhh, h-here.”
“He’s asleep,” he breathes out, reeling in the taste of Kyungsoo and the blanket of warmth that seems to settle upon them.
“Jongin, stop.” Kyungsoo pushes him away, softly but firmly. “Now is hardly the time.”
“Now is the perfect time.”
“And if he were to wake up? Imagine waking up to...I don't know, Chanyeol kissing me.”
“That’s,” Jongin closes his eyes. The possessiveness and jealousy that boil up within him force his eyes open. “That’s...problematic. And disgusting.”
Kyungsoo smirks, rolling his eyes. “Just...not now. Later.”
“I hate you.” Jongin scoots to the far end of the couch, folding his arms and pouting, eyes narrowed bitterly at Junmyeon's sleeping figure..
Kyungsoo simply laughs to himself, picking a book up off the coffee table and flipping open to a random page, all the while muttering amusedly, “...problematic...huh...”
---
Jongin has a problem.
It's not any physical, mental, or emotional problem that psychology textbooks or mental health websites can provide explanations for. It's a problem that well-surpasses all bounds of innate human conception, because contrary to popular belief, there are limits to what friends, family, and acquaintances can truly understand.
They can try and understand how it feels to fall in love.
They can try and understand how it feels to fall out of love.
What they will never understand, however, is how it feels to fall in love and out of love simultaneously.
Kyungsoo will always be there -- the ghost of a memory flitting through pages of half-empty, half-full scrapbooks, wide eyes and open smiles partners to glass covers and gold-coated frames, home videos of their solitary karaoke nights, Kyungsoo behind the mic and Jongin behind the camera.
Junmyeon will always be there -- looks of comfort stretched across fleeting smiles and kind eyes, warm hands massaging at heaving shoulders and ushering down bitten back sobs, the perfect end to a not so perfect day, whispered assurances muffled by the friction of limbs on limbs and bodies rocking between what is and what will be.
Jongin knows he loves Kyungsoo.
Jongin thinks he loves Junmyeon.
Kyungsoo is gone. Kyungsoo is a memory. From what he can tell, loving a memory only brings fresh tears to already swollen eyes and burns to ashes what remains of his heart. Loving a ghost leads to fists pounding into glass windows, cracks spidering into holes and shards cutting into bruised flesh.
Junmyeon is here. Junmyeon is real. From what Jongin can tell, loving someone can be painful. It can hurt, it can sting, and can bite at the tips of his fingers and never let go. It can taper into a mild sizzle or explode into a raging flame, licking at the bloodied frays of his tempered wounds.
His heart is so much more vulnerable; fragile, even. Because it is open; open to Junmyeon and willing to let one more person in before he loses himself to the grief he knows he would never escape without Junmyeon.
Love is a beautiful thing, really, if not potentially problematic.
---