Coffee, 2Seop Oneshot
Pairing(s): 2Seop
Word Count: 3,497
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Suggestive Content
Summary: A bittersweet morning after leaves AJ to decide whether or not he can stay and deal with the consequences of an unexpected encounter with Kiseop.
Bitter. That's what coffee tastes like. It doesn't matter where in the world you go, what brew they use or how they fix it, coffee is always just bitter. This cup, too. Too much sugar, not enough milk. Right now, it matches my mood, and it's not even my coffee. Not really. But it's still the best company I could ask for as I sit here in Kiseop's kitchen and listen to the rain hitting the window panes.
The electricity is off again. It was off last night, but the lights were on for a little while this morning. Waking up in someone else's home, someone else's bed... I'm not used to that, and I didn't really know what to do. Making coffee seemed normal enough. The lights went off right after my two-cup pot of caffeine finished brewing. Now, I'm having to wrestle with my own thoughts. I shouldn't be here. None of this should have happened in the first place. Not yesterday. Not last night. Not this. And yet, here I am.
I wish I could say that I don't know how any of this happened. That would be a lie, and a pretty stupid one. The facts are simple enough. It was storming yesterday, too. I must have chased Kiseop ten blocks through the pouring rain. He was trying to get away from me. And trying to get away from himself, too, I think. I've never seen him so shaken. He's always been kind, quiet Kiseop. Reliable, predictable. Someone I could count on. Seeing him upset and desperate and not knowing the reasons for it was frightening.
Thoughts do nothing. This coffee still tastes like shit. Still, my fingers tighten around the white, ceramic handle of the mug to bring it with me. This isn't a part of his home that I should know. My feet shouldn't be able to avoid making the floors creak, but they do. The door to his room is still hanging open. I didn't close it when I got up. Now, it provides the only light to look at what I walked away from this morning.
Kiseop is still asleep. He's draped across more of the bed than he probably should be. Unconscious, he carries none of that grace or ethereal beauty that the fan girls scream about. He just looks very human and maybe a little childish. The darkness of his hair is a tangled mess. There's a big drool stain on his pillow. His modesty is protected only by a single sheet, one which we both managed to kick most of the way off through our activities and uneasy sleep. Even with all of that, I still can't seem to take my eyes off the way that his arm is draped across my side of the bed, like he thinks I'm still there.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I've told myself that a dozen times. This wasn't what I had in mind when I followed him into the apartment yesterday, soaked to the bone. He was dripping wet, too. Even with the electricity out, I could still see him. He was trembling from head to toe when I asked what was wrong. He didn't want to tell me. Maybe I shouldn't have asked why he ran away. If I had just left when he asked me to, if I hadn’t been so stubborn, none of this would have happened. We would both still be happy in our ignorance.
Another sip of coffee and I'm still not moving back towards the kitchen. The cup's almost empty. I can taste the dregs. Pain is clearly the furthest thing from Kiseop's mind as he tosses and turns, lost in his dreams.
"Jaeseop..."
He's saying my name in his sleep. Tightening my hold on the mug, I ignore the impulse to walk over to him. We didn't really talk details or anything last night, but I already know that I can't give him what he wants. I've made a lot of mistakes, plenty of them recently. I don't want this one to be any worse than it has to be. It might be cruel to leave before he wakes up, but I'm starting to think that would be the best course of action. If I stayed, he might think I meant something by it. The last thing I need to do is give him hope.
Finally, the mug is empty. Draining the very last drop, I turn and make my way back to the kitchen. It only takes half a second to wash it, setting it on his small dish rack to dry. This apartment is a lot different from my house. It's cozy. A home, not just an apartment. Maybe it's the decor. Simple. Accented with unfortunate color choices like pink and leopard print and things like that along a background of the occasional hyper-masculine poster. I'd think his girlfriend had chosen the color scheme if I didn't know better. For anyone else, I'd think it was silly or ridiculous. For him, it works.
The walls are white, though, and the floors are plain. Glancing over at the front door, I can see my umbrella standing out against the wood in stark contrast. That was what started this entire mess. The umbrella, not the rain. Ridiculous. I wouldn't have brought it if I knew how much trouble it would lead to. Or maybe I would have, I'm not sure.
He didn't tell me until everything was said and done. I didn't even understand until then why he had been unable to take walking with me, why he had bolted. Lying there in the dark last night, rain water replaced with sweat and the chill replaced with too much heat, he said that he wanted to tell me a secret. The secret, he said, was that umbrellas were made for two people. Two people, bringing them closer despite the problem of the weather around them. He called them matchmakers. That was why he ran when the storm struck. He hadn't brought an umbrella of his own, and he could not take the thought of sharing mine. Even then, he knew that I can't be what he needs.
But I'm still here now and I need to leave. With one last glance towards my abandoned coffee cup in the dish rack, I turn and make my way back towards the bedroom. Fifteen steps and I find myself frozen in the doorway again. With nothing in my hand, I feel fidgety. My fingers scratch down my stomach, playing with the string belt on my borrowed pajama pants. The first part of getting out of here is retrieving my clothes. They're all over his floor, hidden in the shadows. It's not like we were being neat and orderly while getting them out of the way last night.
Going back in that room doesn't seem like a great idea. I can feel how inappropriate my presence is, but somehow I can't stop watching him from here. My heart skips a beat as I look over the dark form tangled in the sheets. He has rolled over, pulling my pillow under his chest. He rubs his face against the fabric, mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Taking a deep breath, I push aside my jumbled thoughts and step into the room as quietly as I can to begin my search. I manage to gather a pile of cloth, but I'm not quiet enough. On the bed, he's beginning to stir. I don't want to wake him up. The fabric falls from my hands as I freeze.
Only a few feet away, he shifts on the mattress. That sheet is dangerously close to falling away from the skin that it's covering. Thin fingers stretch across the bed, reaching for me. He isn't awake, not really. But he's still trying to find me. For some reason I don't really want to register, I reach back, letting my fingers brush against his. He tangles our hands together unconsciously, those nonsense sounds of his taking on a contented tone.
I have no choice but to sit down on the bed, doing my best to stay on the edge so that I can make a quick get-away when he settles down again. If I had any sense in my head, I'd set his hand down on the mattress, pull on my jeans and leave. But I don't, because as wrong as it feels to sit with him like this, dropping and leaving while he's reaching for me somehow seems worse.
Why, though? I don't understand any of it. Why I'm sitting here, why he reached for me in the first place. Hell, maybe he didn't even mean to. I mean, he's not awake. And even if he was, he knows I don't feel the same way. He loves me That's what he told me last night. Kiseop is a good friend. I care about him, very much. But not the same way. I can't return that sentiment. I don't know if I ever will be able to, or if I even could, not when the only person I have room in my heart for is another one of our friends.
He knows, but I'm not sure he cares. Last night, he just seemed happy to be able to tell me without having me push him away entirely. Every part of me belongs completely to someone that will never want me, and yet I could not seem to resist Kiseop last night.
Somehow, I seem to have worked my way further onto the bed. The sheet over the mattress is cool against my feet, a contrast to the warmth of his hand on mine. That hand pulls away as Kiseop shifts, his arm wrapping awkwardly around my waist as he wiggles closer.
All of those plans I had about leaving seem to be falling apart, but I can't do this. As though he can hear my thoughts, his arm tightens around my waist, giving me a gentle squeeze. I don't think he's asleep anymore, but I don't really think he's away, either.
"I need to go," I tell him, keeping my voice soft. Even if I need to get out of here and try to forget this mistake, I don't want to hurt him any more than I have to. Ay more than I probably already have.
Those suspicions I have of him being away are confirmed. I can feel his fingers scratching lightly across my back as that arm tightens around me a little more. Despite what I said, he is pressing closer, resting his forehead against my side as he holds onto me.
A deep breath, then he says, "Please don't go."
The words are heavy and out of place. How he can even say something like that is completely beyond me. Everything about this situation feels wrong. Everything except that warmth of him pressed up against me. Doesn't make it right. I shouldn't even have woken up here this morning.
"I shouldn't be here."
That's all I can tell him. I shouldn't have to. He doesn't seem to understand. Almost immediately, he asks, "Why?"
"You already know." He does. Even if he's asking, he knows. We both know. Hell, everybody knows. I don't have to say that name of the person that is the reason I should be somewhere else. I should have woken up in my own home, stared up at my own ceiling. Maybe that would hurt, but it would hurt a lot less than using a friend as a replacement. Even if that replacement wants it.
Silence in the air. Just like yesterday, even without words, I still know the feeling of the heaviness between us. Out of the rain, inside of his dark apartment, this is the same feeling that was in the air before he told me what was wrong. You know, I've never held him when he's crying, not before that.
The heaviness seems to condense with his reply. "I don't mind."
That statement doesn't make sense to me.
"What don't you mind?" I ask. The words come out harsher than I intend, but the question is honest. I am upset with myself for not being able to leave. He's making it that much harder to do so. Maybe a part of me wants the company he offers, but it's not fair to either of us. Maybe if I can understand what he's thinking, it'll be easier for me to go. Maybe he needs to understand what I'm thinking, too.
With that thought, I start to pull away. Carefully, I unwrap his arm from around my waist and scoot to the edge of the bed.
"That... it's not the same," he murmurs. It's not quite a whisper, but there's just something about the words that catch my ear. There's no emotion, or maybe he's hiding it. I'm not sure. He makes no move to touch me again. "It's okay."
It's not okay. Even though I know I shouldn't, I turn to look at him. He's watching me, his dark eyes quiet. His face is unreadable, but I can detect the sheen of tears in his eyes. Damn. He really does want me to stay. And I can't. Or won't. I'm not sure which anymore. "I've got to go."
Pulling my eyes off of him, I get to my feet. My muscles protest at the motion, missing the softness of the mattress and sore from our efforts last night. That sensation is added to all of my doubts, hidden out of sight so I can only consider them when I am safely out of this apartment and away from all of this confusion that he makes me feel.
I need to leave. I want to leave. And yet, I'm still listening to him. There is a small part of my mind that hates knowing that I am the reason for those quiet tears, just like I was the reason for his tears yesterday. But that's why I've got to go, isn't it? So I won't hurt him more. So I won't wind up hurting, either.
"You can't have it, you know."
His words are firm, stopping me as I grab my shirt off the floor. Pulling the garment to my chest, I turn slightly to look at him. His gaze doesn't meet mine. Instead, he stares at the floor, looking at the mess of our tangled clothing. Moistening my lips with my tongue, I ask, "What do you mean?"
"What you want," he replies immediately. "You can't have it. Neither can I. Maybe... maybe this is enough."
The words hit home. I understand what he's saying, and he's right. At least, he's right about part of it. Neither of us will ever really have what we want, what we've convinced ourselves that we need to be truly happy. And I think, with that, I finally understand why I haven't walked away yet.
I have tried everything to get what I want. And yet, right here, standing by my side this entire time, is someone that isn't pushing me away. He does not belittle my desires or make a spectacle of aspects of myself that I can't control. As always, Kiseop is simply a quiet, reliable presence in my life. This is someone who values me. And he doesn't want me to leave.
The sound of rustling fabric draws my attention back to the bed. He has turned over, facing away from me. The sheet has been pulled up so that it awkwardly wraps around his chest, once again rendering him modest. Maybe he's giving me privacy in which to dress, or maybe he just doesn't want to see me go.
This still feels wrong, only now it's for a different reason. This feels like a fight. A relationship fight. We aren't together. We aren't involved, but that's still how it feels. Last night was a one time thing, and that's how it needs to stay. But no matter how strong my convictions are on that point, I'd feel like an asshole for walking away now. If it were anyone other than Kiseop, I'd think he did it on purpose.
"Kiseop..."
He doesn't respond, leaving me to make my decision on my own. Do I continue gathering my clothes and leave, feeling like a jerk for doing so? Or do I stay and deal with this? It's not even a choice, really. Even if it's not the way that he wants, I care about him. More than I should, all things considered. Dropping my shirt back o the floor, I sit back down on the edge of the mattress.
With my choice made, I'm not sure what to say. I don't even know what he wants. Kiseop seems to have something in mind, though. As soon as I am settled, he turns over and scoots closer. He makes no move to wrap his arm around me again, but instead reaches for my wrist. With that small contact, he gives a small tug to ask for what he wants without words. With a sigh of resignation, I slide more fully onto the mattress.
"Thank you," he whispers, pressing closer as I move back onto the bed. He rests his hand on the side of my stomach, his face pressing against my hip and one of the pillows. There's no point in pushing him away now. Picking up his hand, I wrap it around my waist once more. There's no use in allowing some contact without letting him have the closeness that he apparently needs.
"You shouldn't thank me," I reply softly. It's hard to put force into something when someone is trying to snuggle with you. "This isn't right."
As I relax slightly and try to get comfortable, Kiseop moves to sit up. He's still leaning against me. He probably thinks that I'm still going to leave. I wonder if he's trying to get all of the physical contact that he can while I'm still here. With the way he sits back and just watches while we're around other people, this contrast is almost amusing. He finally comes to rest with his face pressed against my neck, fitted perfectly against me in a way that is difficult to ignore. He feels warm.
"Do you not like this?" I can feel him swallow as he tries to find his own words. He isn't a big talker, but when he says something, it's usually worth paying attention to. This morning, I've paid too much attention.
"You know I do." No sense in lying. "But I shouldn't be here."
"Where should you be?"
I don't have an answer for his question. Saying that I should be back at my house seems incredibly lame. Instead, I just say, "I don't know."
"Then just enjoy this for now. You can worry about that later."
His words are gentle, and I can barely feel his lips brushing against my skin as he says them. Content with his suggestion, he falls silent. The sound of our breaths is the only weight in the air now. I don't even remember when the tension between us faded. He puts me at ease. Maybe for once, I should let go of my worries.
"Alright," I allow.
Even though it can't last, I relax a little and let myself feel the warm weight of holding him against me. All of my personal convictions aside, I think that maybe some part of me needs this, too.
"Coffee."
The single word catches me off-guard. Pulling back a little, I look at him. "What?"
"You smell like coffee." He's smiling now. Good. That's better than crying. "I like it."
Pulling him back against me, I feel the last threads of my own resistance fading away. Maybe Kiseop knows me better than I do. After all, he got me to stay, at least for now.
"I made some this morning when I got up," I tell him, closing my eyes. "Uh, I hope that's okay."
He nods, pressing his face against my skin. His arm around my waist tightens. "Is there any left?"
I hadn't thought I'd be around long enough to share it. "Sorry. I drank it all. The electricity's out or I'd make some more."
For a long moment, there's no response. Here in the darkness, I'm okay with this. There's warmth here. Not the same, all-consuming heat that drove both of us yesterday, but something a little more personal. I haven't felt something like this in a long time. Just a little, I'm starting to feel glad that I'm still here.
Turning his head, Kiseop presses his lips to my skin. I feel the kiss and wrap my arm around his waist, letting my fingers trail across his soft skin. I like the contented noise me makes in response.
"Don't worry," he tells me, smiling against my skin. "You can make more tomorrow."
And, you know, maybe I will.
Word Count: 3,497
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Suggestive Content
Summary: A bittersweet morning after leaves AJ to decide whether or not he can stay and deal with the consequences of an unexpected encounter with Kiseop.
Bitter. That's what coffee tastes like. It doesn't matter where in the world you go, what brew they use or how they fix it, coffee is always just bitter. This cup, too. Too much sugar, not enough milk. Right now, it matches my mood, and it's not even my coffee. Not really. But it's still the best company I could ask for as I sit here in Kiseop's kitchen and listen to the rain hitting the window panes.
The electricity is off again. It was off last night, but the lights were on for a little while this morning. Waking up in someone else's home, someone else's bed... I'm not used to that, and I didn't really know what to do. Making coffee seemed normal enough. The lights went off right after my two-cup pot of caffeine finished brewing. Now, I'm having to wrestle with my own thoughts. I shouldn't be here. None of this should have happened in the first place. Not yesterday. Not last night. Not this. And yet, here I am.
I wish I could say that I don't know how any of this happened. That would be a lie, and a pretty stupid one. The facts are simple enough. It was storming yesterday, too. I must have chased Kiseop ten blocks through the pouring rain. He was trying to get away from me. And trying to get away from himself, too, I think. I've never seen him so shaken. He's always been kind, quiet Kiseop. Reliable, predictable. Someone I could count on. Seeing him upset and desperate and not knowing the reasons for it was frightening.
Thoughts do nothing. This coffee still tastes like shit. Still, my fingers tighten around the white, ceramic handle of the mug to bring it with me. This isn't a part of his home that I should know. My feet shouldn't be able to avoid making the floors creak, but they do. The door to his room is still hanging open. I didn't close it when I got up. Now, it provides the only light to look at what I walked away from this morning.
Kiseop is still asleep. He's draped across more of the bed than he probably should be. Unconscious, he carries none of that grace or ethereal beauty that the fan girls scream about. He just looks very human and maybe a little childish. The darkness of his hair is a tangled mess. There's a big drool stain on his pillow. His modesty is protected only by a single sheet, one which we both managed to kick most of the way off through our activities and uneasy sleep. Even with all of that, I still can't seem to take my eyes off the way that his arm is draped across my side of the bed, like he thinks I'm still there.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I've told myself that a dozen times. This wasn't what I had in mind when I followed him into the apartment yesterday, soaked to the bone. He was dripping wet, too. Even with the electricity out, I could still see him. He was trembling from head to toe when I asked what was wrong. He didn't want to tell me. Maybe I shouldn't have asked why he ran away. If I had just left when he asked me to, if I hadn’t been so stubborn, none of this would have happened. We would both still be happy in our ignorance.
Another sip of coffee and I'm still not moving back towards the kitchen. The cup's almost empty. I can taste the dregs. Pain is clearly the furthest thing from Kiseop's mind as he tosses and turns, lost in his dreams.
"Jaeseop..."
He's saying my name in his sleep. Tightening my hold on the mug, I ignore the impulse to walk over to him. We didn't really talk details or anything last night, but I already know that I can't give him what he wants. I've made a lot of mistakes, plenty of them recently. I don't want this one to be any worse than it has to be. It might be cruel to leave before he wakes up, but I'm starting to think that would be the best course of action. If I stayed, he might think I meant something by it. The last thing I need to do is give him hope.
Finally, the mug is empty. Draining the very last drop, I turn and make my way back to the kitchen. It only takes half a second to wash it, setting it on his small dish rack to dry. This apartment is a lot different from my house. It's cozy. A home, not just an apartment. Maybe it's the decor. Simple. Accented with unfortunate color choices like pink and leopard print and things like that along a background of the occasional hyper-masculine poster. I'd think his girlfriend had chosen the color scheme if I didn't know better. For anyone else, I'd think it was silly or ridiculous. For him, it works.
The walls are white, though, and the floors are plain. Glancing over at the front door, I can see my umbrella standing out against the wood in stark contrast. That was what started this entire mess. The umbrella, not the rain. Ridiculous. I wouldn't have brought it if I knew how much trouble it would lead to. Or maybe I would have, I'm not sure.
He didn't tell me until everything was said and done. I didn't even understand until then why he had been unable to take walking with me, why he had bolted. Lying there in the dark last night, rain water replaced with sweat and the chill replaced with too much heat, he said that he wanted to tell me a secret. The secret, he said, was that umbrellas were made for two people. Two people, bringing them closer despite the problem of the weather around them. He called them matchmakers. That was why he ran when the storm struck. He hadn't brought an umbrella of his own, and he could not take the thought of sharing mine. Even then, he knew that I can't be what he needs.
But I'm still here now and I need to leave. With one last glance towards my abandoned coffee cup in the dish rack, I turn and make my way back towards the bedroom. Fifteen steps and I find myself frozen in the doorway again. With nothing in my hand, I feel fidgety. My fingers scratch down my stomach, playing with the string belt on my borrowed pajama pants. The first part of getting out of here is retrieving my clothes. They're all over his floor, hidden in the shadows. It's not like we were being neat and orderly while getting them out of the way last night.
Going back in that room doesn't seem like a great idea. I can feel how inappropriate my presence is, but somehow I can't stop watching him from here. My heart skips a beat as I look over the dark form tangled in the sheets. He has rolled over, pulling my pillow under his chest. He rubs his face against the fabric, mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Taking a deep breath, I push aside my jumbled thoughts and step into the room as quietly as I can to begin my search. I manage to gather a pile of cloth, but I'm not quiet enough. On the bed, he's beginning to stir. I don't want to wake him up. The fabric falls from my hands as I freeze.
Only a few feet away, he shifts on the mattress. That sheet is dangerously close to falling away from the skin that it's covering. Thin fingers stretch across the bed, reaching for me. He isn't awake, not really. But he's still trying to find me. For some reason I don't really want to register, I reach back, letting my fingers brush against his. He tangles our hands together unconsciously, those nonsense sounds of his taking on a contented tone.
I have no choice but to sit down on the bed, doing my best to stay on the edge so that I can make a quick get-away when he settles down again. If I had any sense in my head, I'd set his hand down on the mattress, pull on my jeans and leave. But I don't, because as wrong as it feels to sit with him like this, dropping and leaving while he's reaching for me somehow seems worse.
Why, though? I don't understand any of it. Why I'm sitting here, why he reached for me in the first place. Hell, maybe he didn't even mean to. I mean, he's not awake. And even if he was, he knows I don't feel the same way. He loves me That's what he told me last night. Kiseop is a good friend. I care about him, very much. But not the same way. I can't return that sentiment. I don't know if I ever will be able to, or if I even could, not when the only person I have room in my heart for is another one of our friends.
He knows, but I'm not sure he cares. Last night, he just seemed happy to be able to tell me without having me push him away entirely. Every part of me belongs completely to someone that will never want me, and yet I could not seem to resist Kiseop last night.
Somehow, I seem to have worked my way further onto the bed. The sheet over the mattress is cool against my feet, a contrast to the warmth of his hand on mine. That hand pulls away as Kiseop shifts, his arm wrapping awkwardly around my waist as he wiggles closer.
All of those plans I had about leaving seem to be falling apart, but I can't do this. As though he can hear my thoughts, his arm tightens around my waist, giving me a gentle squeeze. I don't think he's asleep anymore, but I don't really think he's away, either.
"I need to go," I tell him, keeping my voice soft. Even if I need to get out of here and try to forget this mistake, I don't want to hurt him any more than I have to. Ay more than I probably already have.
Those suspicions I have of him being away are confirmed. I can feel his fingers scratching lightly across my back as that arm tightens around me a little more. Despite what I said, he is pressing closer, resting his forehead against my side as he holds onto me.
A deep breath, then he says, "Please don't go."
The words are heavy and out of place. How he can even say something like that is completely beyond me. Everything about this situation feels wrong. Everything except that warmth of him pressed up against me. Doesn't make it right. I shouldn't even have woken up here this morning.
"I shouldn't be here."
That's all I can tell him. I shouldn't have to. He doesn't seem to understand. Almost immediately, he asks, "Why?"
"You already know." He does. Even if he's asking, he knows. We both know. Hell, everybody knows. I don't have to say that name of the person that is the reason I should be somewhere else. I should have woken up in my own home, stared up at my own ceiling. Maybe that would hurt, but it would hurt a lot less than using a friend as a replacement. Even if that replacement wants it.
Silence in the air. Just like yesterday, even without words, I still know the feeling of the heaviness between us. Out of the rain, inside of his dark apartment, this is the same feeling that was in the air before he told me what was wrong. You know, I've never held him when he's crying, not before that.
The heaviness seems to condense with his reply. "I don't mind."
That statement doesn't make sense to me.
"What don't you mind?" I ask. The words come out harsher than I intend, but the question is honest. I am upset with myself for not being able to leave. He's making it that much harder to do so. Maybe a part of me wants the company he offers, but it's not fair to either of us. Maybe if I can understand what he's thinking, it'll be easier for me to go. Maybe he needs to understand what I'm thinking, too.
With that thought, I start to pull away. Carefully, I unwrap his arm from around my waist and scoot to the edge of the bed.
"That... it's not the same," he murmurs. It's not quite a whisper, but there's just something about the words that catch my ear. There's no emotion, or maybe he's hiding it. I'm not sure. He makes no move to touch me again. "It's okay."
It's not okay. Even though I know I shouldn't, I turn to look at him. He's watching me, his dark eyes quiet. His face is unreadable, but I can detect the sheen of tears in his eyes. Damn. He really does want me to stay. And I can't. Or won't. I'm not sure which anymore. "I've got to go."
Pulling my eyes off of him, I get to my feet. My muscles protest at the motion, missing the softness of the mattress and sore from our efforts last night. That sensation is added to all of my doubts, hidden out of sight so I can only consider them when I am safely out of this apartment and away from all of this confusion that he makes me feel.
I need to leave. I want to leave. And yet, I'm still listening to him. There is a small part of my mind that hates knowing that I am the reason for those quiet tears, just like I was the reason for his tears yesterday. But that's why I've got to go, isn't it? So I won't hurt him more. So I won't wind up hurting, either.
"You can't have it, you know."
His words are firm, stopping me as I grab my shirt off the floor. Pulling the garment to my chest, I turn slightly to look at him. His gaze doesn't meet mine. Instead, he stares at the floor, looking at the mess of our tangled clothing. Moistening my lips with my tongue, I ask, "What do you mean?"
"What you want," he replies immediately. "You can't have it. Neither can I. Maybe... maybe this is enough."
The words hit home. I understand what he's saying, and he's right. At least, he's right about part of it. Neither of us will ever really have what we want, what we've convinced ourselves that we need to be truly happy. And I think, with that, I finally understand why I haven't walked away yet.
I have tried everything to get what I want. And yet, right here, standing by my side this entire time, is someone that isn't pushing me away. He does not belittle my desires or make a spectacle of aspects of myself that I can't control. As always, Kiseop is simply a quiet, reliable presence in my life. This is someone who values me. And he doesn't want me to leave.
The sound of rustling fabric draws my attention back to the bed. He has turned over, facing away from me. The sheet has been pulled up so that it awkwardly wraps around his chest, once again rendering him modest. Maybe he's giving me privacy in which to dress, or maybe he just doesn't want to see me go.
This still feels wrong, only now it's for a different reason. This feels like a fight. A relationship fight. We aren't together. We aren't involved, but that's still how it feels. Last night was a one time thing, and that's how it needs to stay. But no matter how strong my convictions are on that point, I'd feel like an asshole for walking away now. If it were anyone other than Kiseop, I'd think he did it on purpose.
"Kiseop..."
He doesn't respond, leaving me to make my decision on my own. Do I continue gathering my clothes and leave, feeling like a jerk for doing so? Or do I stay and deal with this? It's not even a choice, really. Even if it's not the way that he wants, I care about him. More than I should, all things considered. Dropping my shirt back o the floor, I sit back down on the edge of the mattress.
With my choice made, I'm not sure what to say. I don't even know what he wants. Kiseop seems to have something in mind, though. As soon as I am settled, he turns over and scoots closer. He makes no move to wrap his arm around me again, but instead reaches for my wrist. With that small contact, he gives a small tug to ask for what he wants without words. With a sigh of resignation, I slide more fully onto the mattress.
"Thank you," he whispers, pressing closer as I move back onto the bed. He rests his hand on the side of my stomach, his face pressing against my hip and one of the pillows. There's no point in pushing him away now. Picking up his hand, I wrap it around my waist once more. There's no use in allowing some contact without letting him have the closeness that he apparently needs.
"You shouldn't thank me," I reply softly. It's hard to put force into something when someone is trying to snuggle with you. "This isn't right."
As I relax slightly and try to get comfortable, Kiseop moves to sit up. He's still leaning against me. He probably thinks that I'm still going to leave. I wonder if he's trying to get all of the physical contact that he can while I'm still here. With the way he sits back and just watches while we're around other people, this contrast is almost amusing. He finally comes to rest with his face pressed against my neck, fitted perfectly against me in a way that is difficult to ignore. He feels warm.
"Do you not like this?" I can feel him swallow as he tries to find his own words. He isn't a big talker, but when he says something, it's usually worth paying attention to. This morning, I've paid too much attention.
"You know I do." No sense in lying. "But I shouldn't be here."
"Where should you be?"
I don't have an answer for his question. Saying that I should be back at my house seems incredibly lame. Instead, I just say, "I don't know."
"Then just enjoy this for now. You can worry about that later."
His words are gentle, and I can barely feel his lips brushing against my skin as he says them. Content with his suggestion, he falls silent. The sound of our breaths is the only weight in the air now. I don't even remember when the tension between us faded. He puts me at ease. Maybe for once, I should let go of my worries.
"Alright," I allow.
Even though it can't last, I relax a little and let myself feel the warm weight of holding him against me. All of my personal convictions aside, I think that maybe some part of me needs this, too.
"Coffee."
The single word catches me off-guard. Pulling back a little, I look at him. "What?"
"You smell like coffee." He's smiling now. Good. That's better than crying. "I like it."
Pulling him back against me, I feel the last threads of my own resistance fading away. Maybe Kiseop knows me better than I do. After all, he got me to stay, at least for now.
"I made some this morning when I got up," I tell him, closing my eyes. "Uh, I hope that's okay."
He nods, pressing his face against my skin. His arm around my waist tightens. "Is there any left?"
I hadn't thought I'd be around long enough to share it. "Sorry. I drank it all. The electricity's out or I'd make some more."
For a long moment, there's no response. Here in the darkness, I'm okay with this. There's warmth here. Not the same, all-consuming heat that drove both of us yesterday, but something a little more personal. I haven't felt something like this in a long time. Just a little, I'm starting to feel glad that I'm still here.
Turning his head, Kiseop presses his lips to my skin. I feel the kiss and wrap my arm around his waist, letting my fingers trail across his soft skin. I like the contented noise me makes in response.
"Don't worry," he tells me, smiling against my skin. "You can make more tomorrow."
And, you know, maybe I will.