fic: come from behind victory
come from behind victory
PG. Jackson/Jinyoung. 5068 words. Originally written for haneure for got2015. AO3 mirror.
Jackson is winning, until he's not.
SERVICE ACE
Jackson Wang is winning. Jackson Wang is on fire, he’s winning so hard, he’s winning against everyone. After all, this is JYP Nation. This is JYP Nation in Hong Kong. Is Jackson ever going to have a more ideal situation, or more cameras pointed on him at once?
He thinks, stage left, and angles himself in that direction, though it’s not like there is any shortage of attention on him. Then suddenly his knees are buckling and he is staggering under the weight of Jinyoung as he crashes into Jackson, vibrating with hysterical laughter. He’d apparently been running away from Junho and Suzy, who bring out the worst in each other, and doubly lethal now that they have acquired water guns from somewhere.
“Take Jackson instead,” Jinyoung shouts, but luckily Min has wandered into Suzy’s line of vision. The two of them give Jinyoung’s butt a conciliatory spray now that they’ve cornered him, but it’s half-hearted, and go off in search of more difficult prey.
Jackson shakes off the arm around his neck and gives Jinyoung a little push for good measure. Jinyoung turns to him, his mouth stretching into a wide smile, so bright Jackson knows Jinyoung will be spitting up glitter for days after the concert, but the giddiness palpable on his face must be a reflection of Jackson's own. It’s infectious, and there’s no way Jackson can keep up his charade of annoyance.
Still, he has an image to uphold. “I can’t believe you’d just sell me out like that,” he says, tugging Jinyoung over and leaning in so close he can almost taste the sweat on Jinyoung’s face. There is a flurry of activity and flash at their feet, and Jackson angles his head just so, making sure his jawline will be well-defined in the pictures to come.
Jinyoung, ticklish, shivers as the tip of Jackson’s nose brushes his cheek, but obligingly he holds himself still for Jackson’s loud smack. Jackson thinks, a little smugly, point, Jackson Wang.
REVIEWING THE TAPE
Mark’s the only one who knows about the game, mostly because he’d given Jackson the idea to call it one in the first place. Of course, they all know about the game and play it to a certain extent, but Jackson’s probably the only one keeping track. He’s definitely the only one with a points system.
Jackson doesn’t mind the touchiness off-camera, and is even better about it when the cameras are on. It, not to mention the competitiveness, only makes sense-he’s been playing team sports since forever. He basically grew up in the locker room, goofing off with teammates, slapping asses, grabbing balls, whatever-it’s second nature to him at this point. Jackson enjoys a healthy physical relationship with his male friends. Fanservice just means performing it for the cameras, which puts a bit of a voyeuristic spin on it if he stops to think about it too much, but in the context of everything else he’s done and admitted on camera since becoming an idol, it’s nothing. Expected, even. They all know to tread the fine line between friendship and casual flirtation for the cameras, even if they don’t explicitly acknowledge it. Does, for example, Jackson really need to press his entire body against Mark’s during an MCountdown backstage recording when he knows the camera’s on them just to ask him if he knows where the nearest bathroom in the MNet studios is? And does Mark really need to brace himself with a hand on Jackson’s lower back to answer?
Well, yes, because Jackson is irresistible. But it’s no secret that the presence of cameras turns them all into more of exhibitionists than they usually would be, and Jackson is not above admitting he likes the attention. Keeping points was the logical progression, especially after a comment Mark makes at a Hongdae fanmeeting.
“It’s not a competition, you weirdo,” Mark had hissed at Jackson when he elbowed him out the way so Jackson could do the Pepero game with Jinyoung instead. The ensuing escalation of the screams had been totally worth it, as had Mark’s face been as he rubbed where Jackson’s elbow had dug into his side.
Jackson owns Jinyoung at the Pepero game-though, admittedly, not as much as he would’ve owned everyone else, Jinyoung’s always been the best at giving it as good as he got-and then Mark’s throwaway comment catches up to him.
He’s right. It’s not a competition, but it totally could be, and Jackson Wang wins anything he puts his mind to. If what he wants to put his mind to is upstaging his band members in a battle of who can be more shameless with the other person on camera, then he’ll win this, too.
WEIGHING THE ODDS
It’s no question that Jinyoung’s the only one good enough to give Jackson a run for his money. Bambam’s undisputed SNS king, of course, Jaebum gets more and more fun with every promotional cycle, and Mark is good if only because he’s thoughtless and handsome, so anything he does with anyone looks suggestive, but the brand of shameless, if harmless, flirting that Jackson excels at is second nature only to Jinyoung, who’s leveraged an adolescence of being told he’s handsome and two doting and demanding older sisters to build an arsenal of aegyo.
Jackson keeps mental track with everyone, but it’s really only a competition with Jinyoung. They’re a few weeks away from their fourth comeback, and Jackson is pretty sure he’s winning. It’s two comebacks to Jinyoung's one, by his count. This promotional period will either tie them or give Jackson a comfortable lead. Either way, he's ready for anything.
To be fair to Jinyoung, he's not trying very hard since, after all, it is a competition that exists largely in Jackson's head. Jackson doesn’t like to think about it like this for a number of reasons. First and foremost, Jackson is annoyed Jinyoung has managed to take a round without even knowing the parameters of the game. Maybe he should tell Jinyoung and even the playing field, but how do you bring something like this up? What's Jackson supposed to do, greet Jinyoung in the morning with a sup dude, breakfast’s on the stove, I used your towel this morning, sorry! By the way, I'm totally winning at fanservice?
“Yes,” says Mark. He is playing a really intense skateboarding game on his phone and hasn’t blinked in the last five minutes straight. Jackson is starting to suspect he’s lost the ability to roll his eyes, which he wouldn’t exactly miss. “It’s better than yelling, ‘GAME, JACKSON WANG’ in his face during a fanmeeting,” which was what Jackson had done just the day before. Whatever. It was well-deserved-Mark had put on a tiara someone had gifted him, so of course Jackson had bowed with a flourish and asked for a waltz. He’d dipped Mark at the end of it, then stuck his nose so close to Mark’s Mark had panicked at the proximity and fallen over backwards, landing square on his ass. It was totally game, him.
“Also,” Mark continues, his skinny shoulders rising unconsciously off the bed as he follows the action of his skateboarding avatar. “Have you ever thought it’s, you know, kind of moved past fanservice? Like, into a crush? Because I’m just saying that from an outsider’s perspective it looks an awful lot like gay chicken.”
Jackson considers this for all of thirty seconds, looking up from his own phone where he’s currently stuck in a long and involved cross-continental ugly selca battle with Henry over WeChat.
“Nah,” he says, turning back to his phone. He flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes back into his head, snapping a photo before they roll forward again. “No way. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Mark snorts, but goes back to his game, giving it up. Another reason Mark’s no good at the game beyond the unfairness of his natural pheromones: no follow through. Fanservice takes ambition.
Besides, Jackson thinks as he scrolls down his Instagram feed, waiting for Henry’s reply, gay chicken’s not exactly the right way to describe it. It’s just, sometimes, only having a split second to react to Jinyoung’s ugly face suddenly centimeters from his is the easiest part of his job, or at any rate easier than keeping straight which ex-girlfriend slash post-competition drinking game stories he’s allowed to share and which he isn’t (verdict: anything above the waist; absolutely no drinking game stories). Could anyone really blame him for trying to create opportunities to press his cheek to Jinyoung’s, or hold his hand, or slap his ass, or whatever it may be when it makes both him and the fans happy?
OUT OF BOUNDS
“Incoming,” Mark calls from the other side of the practice room. Every Olympic dream Jackson has ever had is distilled into the ensuing duck of his head. A second too late, lesser athletic potential, and Jackson would’ve been brained by a liter bottle of water. It’s a pretty close call as is.
It is almost one in the morning and they’ve been practicing the dance break for their special comeback stage for over three hours, a particularly difficult piece of choreography none of them could quite get the timing down for. After what felt like the eightieth run-through, Yugyeom had sat down in the growing puddle of his own sweat and, in a truly inspiring show of maknae brattiness, refused to get back up until they were given a fifteen-minute break. Sighing, though not totally reluctantly, Jaebum had given it to them.
“What the-,” Jackson says, startled, catching himself before he swears. Mark raises his hands in half-hearted apology. The water bottle is rolling harmlessly towards Jinyoung’s outstretched fingers a meter to Jackson’s left. The rest of Jinyoung is similarly spread out, including his newly-brown bangs, fanning out over his sweaty forehead where they’ve escaped from the multitude of clips holding them back. “Jinyoung, please. What if that had been my face?”
Jinyoung snorts. “Jackson, please,” he mimics in a breathless falsetto. A roll and half closes the gap between them, and he lifts his chin to rest on Jackson’s knee as he takes pulls from the water bottle. Jackson can feel the movement of Jinyoung’s throat as it works the water down. He studies his face, frowning at the puffiness beneath Jinyoung’s closed eyes and the lurking threat of acne on Jinyoung’s cheeks, then thinks about bringing a hand up to Jinyoung’s greasy hair to pet it.
Jinyoung’s eyes pop open and his gaze meets Jackson’s. Startled, Jackson is suddenly all too aware of the warmth of Jinyoung’s overheated body so close to his. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “It looks like you peed your pants,” and gestures to the wet spot on Jinyoung’s low-hanging wifebeater from where he’d wiped the sweat from his forehead earlier.
“What? Shut up, no it doesn’t.” Alarmed, Jinyoung stands up, looks down and then over in the mirror to check. But Jackson is right; it totally looks like he peed his pants. He laughs ruefully, crossing his eyes at himself, and the urge to stroke Jinyoung’s hair goes away.
Mark laughs too. He walks over to where Jackson was sitting, a towel in his hands as apology. “Let me guess,” he says, catching sight of and misinterpreting the look on Jackson’s face. “Point to Jinyoung?”
Jackson takes the hand Mark holds out to pull himself up. “Nah,” he says, rubbing at his hair with the towel. Mark winces as a few drops of sweat land on him. “Off-camera doesn’t count.”
Jackson’s a fair competitor. The points only come into play if it’s caught on camera. Anything that will be officially broadcasted or recorded gets a maximum of five points; anything that isn’t but where there will be cameras and other means of documentation, such as fanmeetings and radios and concerts, gets three. Anything that happens off-camera is exactly that-off-camera and untouchable. Jackson loves dancing and singing, loves even more the opportunity to do it in front of an audience, and he knows everyone thinks he doesn’t understand how boundaries work or respect them, but of course he does. In fact, he values the off-camera affection the most. You can’t put friendship, or comfort, or the softness of Jinyoung’s unguarded gaze on a points system.
PLAYING FAIR
“Dude. You’re totally losing,” Mark says over his shoulder, scaring him so thoroughly Jackson’s shoulder meets Mark’s chin when he jumps.
“Excuse me?” he asks, indignant, just as Jinyoung asks, head cocked, “Losing what?”
Mark looks at Jinyoung looking at Jackson, then he turns to also look at Jackson. Jackson looks at the iPad he liberated from one of the photographer assistants with a wheedle in his tone and a bat of his lashes, where the photobook concept pictures are marqueeing by as they’re taken. It’s Youngjae, Yugyeom, and Bambam’s turn, Yugyeom taking advantage of the summer boys concept to spike beach balls at Youngjae and Bambam with a little more force than probably necessary. But Jackson’s still looking at the ones from his and Jinyoung’s shoot. He’d never admit it, but Mark kind of has a point. Jinyoung is on his A-game today, turning his head to Jackson’s as he splashes in the knee-deep pool or lowering his lashes at exactly the right moment so the sun casts thin shadows against his cheekbones, looking in the photos like the ideal summer boyfriend to Jackson’s clueless local. It’s not Jackson’s best take, but everyone has off days.
“Losing what?” Jinyoung repeats, coming closer.
Mark, who hates confrontation of any nature, is already up and backing away from the sudden situation he’s created. “Well,” Mark says slowly, holding up his phone in self-defense. “You know, I think Jackson’s got this one. I have a Skype call with my dad.” He puts in his earphones with firm resolve, and Jackson sticks his tongue out at him. Jackson hates Mark, and also he’s a dirty liar. It’s 3:00AM in LA.
“Jackson Wang never loses,” Jackson mutters, a little petulantly. “Mark-hyung is an idiot.”
“I agree,” Jinyoung says without missing a beat, dipping his head in a nod. “But what is he talking about?”
Jackson clears his throat, then waves the iPad where a photo of Jinyoung coyly flicking water at him is pulled up. It’s not even that big of a deal. Whatever. He’s not embarrassed to own up to it. In fact, he’d meant to bring it up to Jinyoung all along. It’s only fair. “You know. Our, uh, fanservice. Which I’m winning,” he reasserts.
For five long seconds, Jinyoung’s face is passive. Apprehension spikes through Jackson, an unfamiliar sensation. Maybe he’s gone too far. Maybe Jinyoung had known all along and not-talking-about-it was one of the unspoken rules of their not-talked-about game, and Jackson is an idiot who totally just lost by talking about it.
Then Jinyoung takes a sudden step forward, pushes his nose right up against Jackson’s. The slide of warm skin against his cheek electrifies him, his pulse jumping in response. Jackson backpedals so quickly he trips over his own feet onto the conveniently-placed couch. Above him, Jinyoung breaks out into hyena-hysteric laughter, clutching his stomach. The closest person, a wardrobe assistant noona who’s one of Jackson’s new favorite people for listening to him with endless patience as he soliloquized on tropical versus floral swim trunks and which would look better for his thighs, looks at them, startled.
When Jackson looks up at Jinyoung, it’s straight up into his nose. There’s a booger there he should really pick. Gross. Jinyoung runs a hand through his loose, still-wet hair, and grins down at Jackson.
"Boo," he says with crinkle-eyed delight. "One point to me."
“Jinyoung,” Jackson says, tsk-ing, but there’s no heat behind it. He hoists himself up with Jinyoung’s proffered hand. “Please, there are rules. I’m a man of honor.”
Jaebum would roll his eyes and pull him in a headlock, tell him he’s being ridiculous while giving him a noogie. Mark would snort and say nothing, because he never has anything to say. Yugyeom would giggle agreeably, and Youngjae would bat him away. There are only two people Jackson can always count on for satisfactory reactions, and Bambam is currently getting synthetic sand shoved down his pants by Youngjae and Yugyeom.
It’s up to Jinyoung, then, who laughs, then nods. “Okay,” he says easily, taking it all into stride. “What are the rules?”
HALFTIME
“Jackson,” Jinyoung finally says, “this is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” But there’s a lopsided grin on his face, growing even wider, and Jackson knows he’s in.
Jackson scoffs, crossing his arms over his seatbelt. Between the extra takes, the group shots, and Bambam catching on halfway through Jackson’s long explanation and making him start all over again, it wasn’t until they were all strapped into the van that Jackson got the chance to fully explain. “Whatever. You’re just mad because I’m winning.”
“Ah, but, but,” Jinyoung says, settling back in his seat to tap at his chin. “Does it count if I didn’t know I was playing? Don’t you think it’s fair to start over?”
“I wish you wouldn’t at all,” Jaebum says from in between them, a hopeful note in his voice.
Jackson ignores him. “No way,” he says. “It’s my game. No one said you had to play.”
“But how about,” Jaebum says, hopefulness turning a shade towards desperation, “no one has to play at all.”
Jinyoung ignores him, too. “It’s not just your game if other people are involved,” he counters. “Anyway, how am I supposed to know you’ve been playing fair?”
Jaebum groans, putting his face in his hands like if he can’t see the two of them, he won’t be able to hear them. “Can’t we just go back to the part where you were calling this the stupidest thing you’d ever heard?”
Jackson is already talking over him. “Oh my God,” he says loudly and indignantly and in English. “I can’t believe you, Park Jinyoung. Are you accusing me of cheating at fanservice? I’ll have you know I’ve won awards for my sportsmanship.”
Jaebum has given up and is reaching over the seat in front of him to take rough hold of Mark’s shoulders, slightly shaking him. “Hyung,” he says, definitely desperately now. “Please help me.”
Mark sighs, then twists his skinny body up and over so he’s hanging over the seat. He looks Jackson in the eye, then Jinyoung. He holds out a fist for Jinyoung to bump. “Jinyoungie, my money’s on you. Don’t let me down.”
Jinyoung laughs at that, closing a hand over Mark’s fist. “You got it, hyung.”
Jackson is outraged. “Oh my God,” he says again. “I can’t believe this! Mark, I hate you.” He karate chops both Jinyoung and Jackson’s wrists, his right elbow coming dangerously close to Jaebum’s nose. “It’s on, Jinyoung.”
Jaebum pushes the cluster of arms in front of him away, making sure to smack both Jackson and Jinyoung in the foreheads in the process. “Yes,” he says dispassionately, pulling his hood up so it covers his eyes in a patent don’t-bother-me-I’m-busy-spiralling-into-self-loathing move. “Mark, I hate you.”
IDEAL MATCHUP?
By the time their goodbye stages swing around, Jackson is ready to light a candle for all the years he’s spent playing the fanservice game without Jinyoung’s conscious effort. It’s been his most favorite promotional cycle yet, both for the historical level of points both he and Jinyoung have scored, and for the genuine enjoyment they’ve all taken in performing the song, an upbeat R&B summer bop a little reminiscent of ‘A,’ minus all the cheerless aegyo-ing.
“Jackson,” Jackson hears from behind him. “Catch.”
The water bottle coming at him when he turns around is strangely familiar. He catches it, shooting Jinyoung a grateful look and all too aware of the cameras around the dressing room trained on them. They’re just done with their goodbye stage, waiting in the dressing room to have their makeup and mics removed after the coordi-noonas are done fussing with Mark and Youngjae, and Jackson can feel the buzzing adrenaline settle, leaving behind the bone-deep satisfaction of a well-executed performance. “Thanks, Jinyoung,” he says, chugging the entire bottle in one go.
“Aw,” Jinyoung says, coming up behind him. He puts a hand against Jackson’s neck, a warm, soothing weight that does a little to settle the buzz of Jackson’s nerves. When Jackson looks at him, he’s widening his eyes and pulling his face in an exaggerated pout. “That was mine. I was still thirsty, you know.”
Jackson whacks him over the head with the empty plastic bottle, and one of the cameras creeps closer. Jackson imagines this playing out on the next season of Real GOT7, and grins. He’ll get so many points if he can win this one. “My bad,” he sings out. “I could help you out, if you’re still thirsty. If you know what I mean.” He opens his mouth wide, waggling his eyebrows at Jinyoung.
A laugh starts on Jinyoung’s face, but he manages to keep himself from losing it completely. “Thanks for the offer,” he says, and tightens his grip around Jackson’s shoulders. It makes Jackson stumble into him, and his shoulder presses against the warmth of Jinyoung’s side as his hand comes up to grasp at the stiff fabric of Jinyoung’s stage uniform. Jackson’s a sturdy guy, a former athlete, used to trusting in the strength of his core. It always sends a little thrill through him when Jaebum or Jinyoung can tug him around like it’s easy, show off the few centimeters they have on him.
Jackson stares back at Jinyoung, his face so close to him it starts to lose its specificity, instead just blurring into a mess of features. It’s easier to look Jinyoung full in the face when Jackson lets his mind disarrange it. Makes it easier to stopper the blush that threatens to crawl up his neck, for whatever reason. He stares hard at Jinyoung’s approaching not-face.
Jackson gives in first, breaking eye contact and laughing. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll get you another water.”
Jinyoung heh hehs victoriously, hand coming up to smooth back Jackson's hair where it's escaped the gel holding it back. Camera one recedes, joining cameras two and three in capturing Mark and Youngjae’s impromptu English lesson. “Point, Park Jinyoung,” he says, moving his face back into safer territories.
The change of perspective leaves Jackson looking square into Jinyoung's face, features now rendered in sudden clarity. He is surprised by the urge to lean in and kiss that wells up inside of him, as natural an instinct as the one that lets him react with lightning quickness to the opportunity of Jinyoung's unfettered hand on camera. Just as he's contemplating it, his eyes meet Mark’s over Jinyoung's shoulder.
Mark mouths, Gay. Chicken.
“What?” Youngjae, a diligent student of the English language, asks.
“Right,” Mark says, finally tearing his gaze away from Jackson’s. “Youngjae, repeat after me: Jackson is a dumbass.”
TIMEOUT
Okay. Mark is maybe right and Jackson is maybe a dumbass. This is frankly kind of earth-shattering. He hates when Mark is right, and Jackson hates feeling like a dumbass.
“Am I really a dumbass?” Jackson asks around a mouthful of pillow.
“Yes,” Mark says. He is playing a game of trivia against his brother on his phone despite having lost the last three rounds because, usually, anyway, Mark is the resident dumbass. Jackson is a charming fool, but not a dumbass.
“Nooo,” Jackson moans into his pillow, voice trailing off weakly.
“Yep,” Mark says, but a little kinder this time.
“Why me?” Jackson asks the wet spot on his pillow. “Why Jinyoung?”
Mark puts down his phone at that, crawling into Jackson’s bed and flinging an arm across his back. Jackson turns his head to look at him. To his credit, Mark doesn’t gloat.
“I don’t know,” Mark says softly. “You tell me. Why Jinyoung?”
Jackson opens his mouth, about to crack a weak joke. But he shuts it when he sees the serious look on Mark’s face.
What can Jackson say? It’s Jinyoung because-because. Because seeing how close he can get to Jinyoung or how close Jinyoung can get to him before one of them snaps his head back with a lopsided smile, hands raised as if to say, whoa, man. Let’s save this for somewhere we can finish it, is sometimes the only thing getting Jackson through the almost 24-hour surveillance of his life. He’s better with the cameras than most, but Jackson Wang slows down, too, and then there’s something about Jinyoung’s touch that feels like an extra bit of juice in the tank, a welcome kick in the pants. Like, even if Jackson feels like he’s actually going to die because he hasn’t slept in two days, the feeling of Jinyoung smoothing a palm over the back of Jackson’s neck is never going to stop being the best thing about his morning. Would the feeling of Jinyoung rubbing his grubby nose into Jackson’s neck be any different if the camera didn’t exist? Sometime around the third week of promotions, Jackson began to suspect it wouldn’t. They’d gone on POPS IN SEOUL and Jinyoung grabbed Jackson to make a heart for the camera. Jackson had complied, had jumped at the chance, literally, almost knocking Bambam over, and Jinyoung had turned to him, entire face scrunched up in delight. The affection had swelled in Jackson so suddenly, it took all he could not to run a hand along Jinyoung’s jaw, or something equally awful and sentimental.
Jackson lets out a high-pitched whine, burrowing into Mark’s shoulder. He really is a dumbass.
THROWING THE GAME
“You win,” Jackson says, when he comes across Jinyoung in the kitchen. It’s eleven A.M., much later than he’d usually wake up but it’s a rare day off for him after a hectic month of variety show tapings and MCing gigs, and he’d decided when Mark’s alarm went off at seven that he deserved to spend it sleeping in. He’ll put in time at the studio later.
Jinyoung looks up where he’s reviewing a script for a radio appearance he has that afternoon. “Hmm?”
Jackson clutches his cereal to his chest. “Don’t make me say it, Jinyoung,” he grouses, trying and mostly succeeding at what would be his usual indignant pitch. “I know you know what I mean. This round. You win.”
Jinyoung moves his papers so Jackson can set his bowl down. He props his chin up on a hand, grinning smugly at Jackson. A few moments of pleasant, uninterrupted cereal-to-mouth spoon action is all Jackson is awarded before Jinyoung’s crowing, “Ha! I knew it! Ha! Aha! I’m so awesome at fanservice. I’m the best. Fanservice King Park Jinyoung. Watch your ass, Wang Jackson. I’ll get you next time too.”
Jaebum and Youngjae are at school. Yugyeom and Mark have been at dance practice since nine, rehearsing for an MBC end-of-summer special stage. Seunghoon-hyung is with Bambam while he films a segment on Thai cuisine for a cooking show. It’s just Jinyoung and Jackson and the distinctive, annoying tap of the uneven leg of the dining room table against the floor every time either of them shifts. There are no cameras around.
Jackson grins, even as he balls up a dirty napkin to throw at Jinyoung. “Fanservice King Park Jinyoung,” he agrees, letting his voice lilt pompously. Then he drops the weird affectation- “And you can keep the title. That was the last round.”
The table teeters back down on Jackson’s side as Jinyoung lifts his arms from the table to look at him. A little bit of milk splashes out onto Jackson’s pants. “Hey,” he complains.
“What?” Jinyoung says at the same time. Now, he’s frowning. “What do you mean, the last round?”
“I mean,” Jackson says, and shovels another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “You win. Fanservice, gay chicken, whatever you want to call it, you win it all.” He hesitates, but if he’s going to do this, he might as well go all the way. “Jinyoung, I like you.”
He holds Jinyoung’s gaze for as long as he feels brave enough to, which is about three seconds. Then he drops his forehead to the pile of fan letters on the table. “Ugh,” he tells Jang Yooyoung’s address in Gyeonggi-do. He’s being dramatic, but it does sound a bit as if his voice echoes in the vacuum of Jinyoung’s silence. “I really am a dumbass.”
“Hey. Being a dumbass isn’t so bad.” Evidently Jinyoung has found his voice again. He lays a hand on the back of Jackson’s neck, rubbing at the short hair there, and Jackson can feel whatever weirdness his confession had wrought slowly disappear. He sighs, letting the weighted comfort of Jinyoung’s hand work its magic. And then, quick before he can think too hard about it, he lets the feeling spark down his spine, setting off a bundle of nerves in his stomach. So that’s still the same.
Jackson leaves his cheek against the stickers Jang Yooyoung used to decorate the front of the envelope, and relishes the feeling of Jinyoung fondly petting him, as if he were his overgrown dog. “Yeah, it could definitely be worse,” Jackson finally says, raising his head and letting Jinyoung’s hand fall to the table between them. “At least dumbasses bounce back easy.”
Jinyoung is frowning at his hand on the table between them, then he looks up at Jackson with a glint in his eyes. The grin spreading across his face is familiar-it’s his I’m game if you are grin, his this is stupid but worth the fun grin. His fuck it, let’s go for it grin.
Jackson feels his mouth fall open, his pulse speed up.
Jinyoung scoots his chair closer to Jackson. “Jackson,” he says, and suddenly his face is right in front of Jackson’s, close enough for Jackson’s brain to disarrange but Jackson wants to remember this. He focuses on the white of Jinyoung’s teeth, the wicked curve of his smile, all the rest of the dear, perfectly Jinyoung features that make up his face. “Hey, Jackson. If I kiss you and there’s no one around to see it, who gets the point?"
PG. Jackson/Jinyoung. 5068 words. Originally written for haneure for got2015. AO3 mirror.
Jackson is winning, until he's not.
SERVICE ACE
Jackson Wang is winning. Jackson Wang is on fire, he’s winning so hard, he’s winning against everyone. After all, this is JYP Nation. This is JYP Nation in Hong Kong. Is Jackson ever going to have a more ideal situation, or more cameras pointed on him at once?
He thinks, stage left, and angles himself in that direction, though it’s not like there is any shortage of attention on him. Then suddenly his knees are buckling and he is staggering under the weight of Jinyoung as he crashes into Jackson, vibrating with hysterical laughter. He’d apparently been running away from Junho and Suzy, who bring out the worst in each other, and doubly lethal now that they have acquired water guns from somewhere.
“Take Jackson instead,” Jinyoung shouts, but luckily Min has wandered into Suzy’s line of vision. The two of them give Jinyoung’s butt a conciliatory spray now that they’ve cornered him, but it’s half-hearted, and go off in search of more difficult prey.
Jackson shakes off the arm around his neck and gives Jinyoung a little push for good measure. Jinyoung turns to him, his mouth stretching into a wide smile, so bright Jackson knows Jinyoung will be spitting up glitter for days after the concert, but the giddiness palpable on his face must be a reflection of Jackson's own. It’s infectious, and there’s no way Jackson can keep up his charade of annoyance.
Still, he has an image to uphold. “I can’t believe you’d just sell me out like that,” he says, tugging Jinyoung over and leaning in so close he can almost taste the sweat on Jinyoung’s face. There is a flurry of activity and flash at their feet, and Jackson angles his head just so, making sure his jawline will be well-defined in the pictures to come.
Jinyoung, ticklish, shivers as the tip of Jackson’s nose brushes his cheek, but obligingly he holds himself still for Jackson’s loud smack. Jackson thinks, a little smugly, point, Jackson Wang.
REVIEWING THE TAPE
Mark’s the only one who knows about the game, mostly because he’d given Jackson the idea to call it one in the first place. Of course, they all know about the game and play it to a certain extent, but Jackson’s probably the only one keeping track. He’s definitely the only one with a points system.
Jackson doesn’t mind the touchiness off-camera, and is even better about it when the cameras are on. It, not to mention the competitiveness, only makes sense-he’s been playing team sports since forever. He basically grew up in the locker room, goofing off with teammates, slapping asses, grabbing balls, whatever-it’s second nature to him at this point. Jackson enjoys a healthy physical relationship with his male friends. Fanservice just means performing it for the cameras, which puts a bit of a voyeuristic spin on it if he stops to think about it too much, but in the context of everything else he’s done and admitted on camera since becoming an idol, it’s nothing. Expected, even. They all know to tread the fine line between friendship and casual flirtation for the cameras, even if they don’t explicitly acknowledge it. Does, for example, Jackson really need to press his entire body against Mark’s during an MCountdown backstage recording when he knows the camera’s on them just to ask him if he knows where the nearest bathroom in the MNet studios is? And does Mark really need to brace himself with a hand on Jackson’s lower back to answer?
Well, yes, because Jackson is irresistible. But it’s no secret that the presence of cameras turns them all into more of exhibitionists than they usually would be, and Jackson is not above admitting he likes the attention. Keeping points was the logical progression, especially after a comment Mark makes at a Hongdae fanmeeting.
“It’s not a competition, you weirdo,” Mark had hissed at Jackson when he elbowed him out the way so Jackson could do the Pepero game with Jinyoung instead. The ensuing escalation of the screams had been totally worth it, as had Mark’s face been as he rubbed where Jackson’s elbow had dug into his side.
Jackson owns Jinyoung at the Pepero game-though, admittedly, not as much as he would’ve owned everyone else, Jinyoung’s always been the best at giving it as good as he got-and then Mark’s throwaway comment catches up to him.
He’s right. It’s not a competition, but it totally could be, and Jackson Wang wins anything he puts his mind to. If what he wants to put his mind to is upstaging his band members in a battle of who can be more shameless with the other person on camera, then he’ll win this, too.
WEIGHING THE ODDS
It’s no question that Jinyoung’s the only one good enough to give Jackson a run for his money. Bambam’s undisputed SNS king, of course, Jaebum gets more and more fun with every promotional cycle, and Mark is good if only because he’s thoughtless and handsome, so anything he does with anyone looks suggestive, but the brand of shameless, if harmless, flirting that Jackson excels at is second nature only to Jinyoung, who’s leveraged an adolescence of being told he’s handsome and two doting and demanding older sisters to build an arsenal of aegyo.
Jackson keeps mental track with everyone, but it’s really only a competition with Jinyoung. They’re a few weeks away from their fourth comeback, and Jackson is pretty sure he’s winning. It’s two comebacks to Jinyoung's one, by his count. This promotional period will either tie them or give Jackson a comfortable lead. Either way, he's ready for anything.
To be fair to Jinyoung, he's not trying very hard since, after all, it is a competition that exists largely in Jackson's head. Jackson doesn’t like to think about it like this for a number of reasons. First and foremost, Jackson is annoyed Jinyoung has managed to take a round without even knowing the parameters of the game. Maybe he should tell Jinyoung and even the playing field, but how do you bring something like this up? What's Jackson supposed to do, greet Jinyoung in the morning with a sup dude, breakfast’s on the stove, I used your towel this morning, sorry! By the way, I'm totally winning at fanservice?
“Yes,” says Mark. He is playing a really intense skateboarding game on his phone and hasn’t blinked in the last five minutes straight. Jackson is starting to suspect he’s lost the ability to roll his eyes, which he wouldn’t exactly miss. “It’s better than yelling, ‘GAME, JACKSON WANG’ in his face during a fanmeeting,” which was what Jackson had done just the day before. Whatever. It was well-deserved-Mark had put on a tiara someone had gifted him, so of course Jackson had bowed with a flourish and asked for a waltz. He’d dipped Mark at the end of it, then stuck his nose so close to Mark’s Mark had panicked at the proximity and fallen over backwards, landing square on his ass. It was totally game, him.
“Also,” Mark continues, his skinny shoulders rising unconsciously off the bed as he follows the action of his skateboarding avatar. “Have you ever thought it’s, you know, kind of moved past fanservice? Like, into a crush? Because I’m just saying that from an outsider’s perspective it looks an awful lot like gay chicken.”
Jackson considers this for all of thirty seconds, looking up from his own phone where he’s currently stuck in a long and involved cross-continental ugly selca battle with Henry over WeChat.
“Nah,” he says, turning back to his phone. He flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes back into his head, snapping a photo before they roll forward again. “No way. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Mark snorts, but goes back to his game, giving it up. Another reason Mark’s no good at the game beyond the unfairness of his natural pheromones: no follow through. Fanservice takes ambition.
Besides, Jackson thinks as he scrolls down his Instagram feed, waiting for Henry’s reply, gay chicken’s not exactly the right way to describe it. It’s just, sometimes, only having a split second to react to Jinyoung’s ugly face suddenly centimeters from his is the easiest part of his job, or at any rate easier than keeping straight which ex-girlfriend slash post-competition drinking game stories he’s allowed to share and which he isn’t (verdict: anything above the waist; absolutely no drinking game stories). Could anyone really blame him for trying to create opportunities to press his cheek to Jinyoung’s, or hold his hand, or slap his ass, or whatever it may be when it makes both him and the fans happy?
OUT OF BOUNDS
“Incoming,” Mark calls from the other side of the practice room. Every Olympic dream Jackson has ever had is distilled into the ensuing duck of his head. A second too late, lesser athletic potential, and Jackson would’ve been brained by a liter bottle of water. It’s a pretty close call as is.
It is almost one in the morning and they’ve been practicing the dance break for their special comeback stage for over three hours, a particularly difficult piece of choreography none of them could quite get the timing down for. After what felt like the eightieth run-through, Yugyeom had sat down in the growing puddle of his own sweat and, in a truly inspiring show of maknae brattiness, refused to get back up until they were given a fifteen-minute break. Sighing, though not totally reluctantly, Jaebum had given it to them.
“What the-,” Jackson says, startled, catching himself before he swears. Mark raises his hands in half-hearted apology. The water bottle is rolling harmlessly towards Jinyoung’s outstretched fingers a meter to Jackson’s left. The rest of Jinyoung is similarly spread out, including his newly-brown bangs, fanning out over his sweaty forehead where they’ve escaped from the multitude of clips holding them back. “Jinyoung, please. What if that had been my face?”
Jinyoung snorts. “Jackson, please,” he mimics in a breathless falsetto. A roll and half closes the gap between them, and he lifts his chin to rest on Jackson’s knee as he takes pulls from the water bottle. Jackson can feel the movement of Jinyoung’s throat as it works the water down. He studies his face, frowning at the puffiness beneath Jinyoung’s closed eyes and the lurking threat of acne on Jinyoung’s cheeks, then thinks about bringing a hand up to Jinyoung’s greasy hair to pet it.
Jinyoung’s eyes pop open and his gaze meets Jackson’s. Startled, Jackson is suddenly all too aware of the warmth of Jinyoung’s overheated body so close to his. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “It looks like you peed your pants,” and gestures to the wet spot on Jinyoung’s low-hanging wifebeater from where he’d wiped the sweat from his forehead earlier.
“What? Shut up, no it doesn’t.” Alarmed, Jinyoung stands up, looks down and then over in the mirror to check. But Jackson is right; it totally looks like he peed his pants. He laughs ruefully, crossing his eyes at himself, and the urge to stroke Jinyoung’s hair goes away.
Mark laughs too. He walks over to where Jackson was sitting, a towel in his hands as apology. “Let me guess,” he says, catching sight of and misinterpreting the look on Jackson’s face. “Point to Jinyoung?”
Jackson takes the hand Mark holds out to pull himself up. “Nah,” he says, rubbing at his hair with the towel. Mark winces as a few drops of sweat land on him. “Off-camera doesn’t count.”
Jackson’s a fair competitor. The points only come into play if it’s caught on camera. Anything that will be officially broadcasted or recorded gets a maximum of five points; anything that isn’t but where there will be cameras and other means of documentation, such as fanmeetings and radios and concerts, gets three. Anything that happens off-camera is exactly that-off-camera and untouchable. Jackson loves dancing and singing, loves even more the opportunity to do it in front of an audience, and he knows everyone thinks he doesn’t understand how boundaries work or respect them, but of course he does. In fact, he values the off-camera affection the most. You can’t put friendship, or comfort, or the softness of Jinyoung’s unguarded gaze on a points system.
PLAYING FAIR
“Dude. You’re totally losing,” Mark says over his shoulder, scaring him so thoroughly Jackson’s shoulder meets Mark’s chin when he jumps.
“Excuse me?” he asks, indignant, just as Jinyoung asks, head cocked, “Losing what?”
Mark looks at Jinyoung looking at Jackson, then he turns to also look at Jackson. Jackson looks at the iPad he liberated from one of the photographer assistants with a wheedle in his tone and a bat of his lashes, where the photobook concept pictures are marqueeing by as they’re taken. It’s Youngjae, Yugyeom, and Bambam’s turn, Yugyeom taking advantage of the summer boys concept to spike beach balls at Youngjae and Bambam with a little more force than probably necessary. But Jackson’s still looking at the ones from his and Jinyoung’s shoot. He’d never admit it, but Mark kind of has a point. Jinyoung is on his A-game today, turning his head to Jackson’s as he splashes in the knee-deep pool or lowering his lashes at exactly the right moment so the sun casts thin shadows against his cheekbones, looking in the photos like the ideal summer boyfriend to Jackson’s clueless local. It’s not Jackson’s best take, but everyone has off days.
“Losing what?” Jinyoung repeats, coming closer.
Mark, who hates confrontation of any nature, is already up and backing away from the sudden situation he’s created. “Well,” Mark says slowly, holding up his phone in self-defense. “You know, I think Jackson’s got this one. I have a Skype call with my dad.” He puts in his earphones with firm resolve, and Jackson sticks his tongue out at him. Jackson hates Mark, and also he’s a dirty liar. It’s 3:00AM in LA.
“Jackson Wang never loses,” Jackson mutters, a little petulantly. “Mark-hyung is an idiot.”
“I agree,” Jinyoung says without missing a beat, dipping his head in a nod. “But what is he talking about?”
Jackson clears his throat, then waves the iPad where a photo of Jinyoung coyly flicking water at him is pulled up. It’s not even that big of a deal. Whatever. He’s not embarrassed to own up to it. In fact, he’d meant to bring it up to Jinyoung all along. It’s only fair. “You know. Our, uh, fanservice. Which I’m winning,” he reasserts.
For five long seconds, Jinyoung’s face is passive. Apprehension spikes through Jackson, an unfamiliar sensation. Maybe he’s gone too far. Maybe Jinyoung had known all along and not-talking-about-it was one of the unspoken rules of their not-talked-about game, and Jackson is an idiot who totally just lost by talking about it.
Then Jinyoung takes a sudden step forward, pushes his nose right up against Jackson’s. The slide of warm skin against his cheek electrifies him, his pulse jumping in response. Jackson backpedals so quickly he trips over his own feet onto the conveniently-placed couch. Above him, Jinyoung breaks out into hyena-hysteric laughter, clutching his stomach. The closest person, a wardrobe assistant noona who’s one of Jackson’s new favorite people for listening to him with endless patience as he soliloquized on tropical versus floral swim trunks and which would look better for his thighs, looks at them, startled.
When Jackson looks up at Jinyoung, it’s straight up into his nose. There’s a booger there he should really pick. Gross. Jinyoung runs a hand through his loose, still-wet hair, and grins down at Jackson.
"Boo," he says with crinkle-eyed delight. "One point to me."
“Jinyoung,” Jackson says, tsk-ing, but there’s no heat behind it. He hoists himself up with Jinyoung’s proffered hand. “Please, there are rules. I’m a man of honor.”
Jaebum would roll his eyes and pull him in a headlock, tell him he’s being ridiculous while giving him a noogie. Mark would snort and say nothing, because he never has anything to say. Yugyeom would giggle agreeably, and Youngjae would bat him away. There are only two people Jackson can always count on for satisfactory reactions, and Bambam is currently getting synthetic sand shoved down his pants by Youngjae and Yugyeom.
It’s up to Jinyoung, then, who laughs, then nods. “Okay,” he says easily, taking it all into stride. “What are the rules?”
HALFTIME
“Jackson,” Jinyoung finally says, “this is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” But there’s a lopsided grin on his face, growing even wider, and Jackson knows he’s in.
Jackson scoffs, crossing his arms over his seatbelt. Between the extra takes, the group shots, and Bambam catching on halfway through Jackson’s long explanation and making him start all over again, it wasn’t until they were all strapped into the van that Jackson got the chance to fully explain. “Whatever. You’re just mad because I’m winning.”
“Ah, but, but,” Jinyoung says, settling back in his seat to tap at his chin. “Does it count if I didn’t know I was playing? Don’t you think it’s fair to start over?”
“I wish you wouldn’t at all,” Jaebum says from in between them, a hopeful note in his voice.
Jackson ignores him. “No way,” he says. “It’s my game. No one said you had to play.”
“But how about,” Jaebum says, hopefulness turning a shade towards desperation, “no one has to play at all.”
Jinyoung ignores him, too. “It’s not just your game if other people are involved,” he counters. “Anyway, how am I supposed to know you’ve been playing fair?”
Jaebum groans, putting his face in his hands like if he can’t see the two of them, he won’t be able to hear them. “Can’t we just go back to the part where you were calling this the stupidest thing you’d ever heard?”
Jackson is already talking over him. “Oh my God,” he says loudly and indignantly and in English. “I can’t believe you, Park Jinyoung. Are you accusing me of cheating at fanservice? I’ll have you know I’ve won awards for my sportsmanship.”
Jaebum has given up and is reaching over the seat in front of him to take rough hold of Mark’s shoulders, slightly shaking him. “Hyung,” he says, definitely desperately now. “Please help me.”
Mark sighs, then twists his skinny body up and over so he’s hanging over the seat. He looks Jackson in the eye, then Jinyoung. He holds out a fist for Jinyoung to bump. “Jinyoungie, my money’s on you. Don’t let me down.”
Jinyoung laughs at that, closing a hand over Mark’s fist. “You got it, hyung.”
Jackson is outraged. “Oh my God,” he says again. “I can’t believe this! Mark, I hate you.” He karate chops both Jinyoung and Jackson’s wrists, his right elbow coming dangerously close to Jaebum’s nose. “It’s on, Jinyoung.”
Jaebum pushes the cluster of arms in front of him away, making sure to smack both Jackson and Jinyoung in the foreheads in the process. “Yes,” he says dispassionately, pulling his hood up so it covers his eyes in a patent don’t-bother-me-I’m-busy-spiralling-into-self-loathing move. “Mark, I hate you.”
IDEAL MATCHUP?
By the time their goodbye stages swing around, Jackson is ready to light a candle for all the years he’s spent playing the fanservice game without Jinyoung’s conscious effort. It’s been his most favorite promotional cycle yet, both for the historical level of points both he and Jinyoung have scored, and for the genuine enjoyment they’ve all taken in performing the song, an upbeat R&B summer bop a little reminiscent of ‘A,’ minus all the cheerless aegyo-ing.
“Jackson,” Jackson hears from behind him. “Catch.”
The water bottle coming at him when he turns around is strangely familiar. He catches it, shooting Jinyoung a grateful look and all too aware of the cameras around the dressing room trained on them. They’re just done with their goodbye stage, waiting in the dressing room to have their makeup and mics removed after the coordi-noonas are done fussing with Mark and Youngjae, and Jackson can feel the buzzing adrenaline settle, leaving behind the bone-deep satisfaction of a well-executed performance. “Thanks, Jinyoung,” he says, chugging the entire bottle in one go.
“Aw,” Jinyoung says, coming up behind him. He puts a hand against Jackson’s neck, a warm, soothing weight that does a little to settle the buzz of Jackson’s nerves. When Jackson looks at him, he’s widening his eyes and pulling his face in an exaggerated pout. “That was mine. I was still thirsty, you know.”
Jackson whacks him over the head with the empty plastic bottle, and one of the cameras creeps closer. Jackson imagines this playing out on the next season of Real GOT7, and grins. He’ll get so many points if he can win this one. “My bad,” he sings out. “I could help you out, if you’re still thirsty. If you know what I mean.” He opens his mouth wide, waggling his eyebrows at Jinyoung.
A laugh starts on Jinyoung’s face, but he manages to keep himself from losing it completely. “Thanks for the offer,” he says, and tightens his grip around Jackson’s shoulders. It makes Jackson stumble into him, and his shoulder presses against the warmth of Jinyoung’s side as his hand comes up to grasp at the stiff fabric of Jinyoung’s stage uniform. Jackson’s a sturdy guy, a former athlete, used to trusting in the strength of his core. It always sends a little thrill through him when Jaebum or Jinyoung can tug him around like it’s easy, show off the few centimeters they have on him.
Jackson stares back at Jinyoung, his face so close to him it starts to lose its specificity, instead just blurring into a mess of features. It’s easier to look Jinyoung full in the face when Jackson lets his mind disarrange it. Makes it easier to stopper the blush that threatens to crawl up his neck, for whatever reason. He stares hard at Jinyoung’s approaching not-face.
Jackson gives in first, breaking eye contact and laughing. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll get you another water.”
Jinyoung heh hehs victoriously, hand coming up to smooth back Jackson's hair where it's escaped the gel holding it back. Camera one recedes, joining cameras two and three in capturing Mark and Youngjae’s impromptu English lesson. “Point, Park Jinyoung,” he says, moving his face back into safer territories.
The change of perspective leaves Jackson looking square into Jinyoung's face, features now rendered in sudden clarity. He is surprised by the urge to lean in and kiss that wells up inside of him, as natural an instinct as the one that lets him react with lightning quickness to the opportunity of Jinyoung's unfettered hand on camera. Just as he's contemplating it, his eyes meet Mark’s over Jinyoung's shoulder.
Mark mouths, Gay. Chicken.
“What?” Youngjae, a diligent student of the English language, asks.
“Right,” Mark says, finally tearing his gaze away from Jackson’s. “Youngjae, repeat after me: Jackson is a dumbass.”
TIMEOUT
Okay. Mark is maybe right and Jackson is maybe a dumbass. This is frankly kind of earth-shattering. He hates when Mark is right, and Jackson hates feeling like a dumbass.
“Am I really a dumbass?” Jackson asks around a mouthful of pillow.
“Yes,” Mark says. He is playing a game of trivia against his brother on his phone despite having lost the last three rounds because, usually, anyway, Mark is the resident dumbass. Jackson is a charming fool, but not a dumbass.
“Nooo,” Jackson moans into his pillow, voice trailing off weakly.
“Yep,” Mark says, but a little kinder this time.
“Why me?” Jackson asks the wet spot on his pillow. “Why Jinyoung?”
Mark puts down his phone at that, crawling into Jackson’s bed and flinging an arm across his back. Jackson turns his head to look at him. To his credit, Mark doesn’t gloat.
“I don’t know,” Mark says softly. “You tell me. Why Jinyoung?”
Jackson opens his mouth, about to crack a weak joke. But he shuts it when he sees the serious look on Mark’s face.
What can Jackson say? It’s Jinyoung because-because. Because seeing how close he can get to Jinyoung or how close Jinyoung can get to him before one of them snaps his head back with a lopsided smile, hands raised as if to say, whoa, man. Let’s save this for somewhere we can finish it, is sometimes the only thing getting Jackson through the almost 24-hour surveillance of his life. He’s better with the cameras than most, but Jackson Wang slows down, too, and then there’s something about Jinyoung’s touch that feels like an extra bit of juice in the tank, a welcome kick in the pants. Like, even if Jackson feels like he’s actually going to die because he hasn’t slept in two days, the feeling of Jinyoung smoothing a palm over the back of Jackson’s neck is never going to stop being the best thing about his morning. Would the feeling of Jinyoung rubbing his grubby nose into Jackson’s neck be any different if the camera didn’t exist? Sometime around the third week of promotions, Jackson began to suspect it wouldn’t. They’d gone on POPS IN SEOUL and Jinyoung grabbed Jackson to make a heart for the camera. Jackson had complied, had jumped at the chance, literally, almost knocking Bambam over, and Jinyoung had turned to him, entire face scrunched up in delight. The affection had swelled in Jackson so suddenly, it took all he could not to run a hand along Jinyoung’s jaw, or something equally awful and sentimental.
Jackson lets out a high-pitched whine, burrowing into Mark’s shoulder. He really is a dumbass.
THROWING THE GAME
“You win,” Jackson says, when he comes across Jinyoung in the kitchen. It’s eleven A.M., much later than he’d usually wake up but it’s a rare day off for him after a hectic month of variety show tapings and MCing gigs, and he’d decided when Mark’s alarm went off at seven that he deserved to spend it sleeping in. He’ll put in time at the studio later.
Jinyoung looks up where he’s reviewing a script for a radio appearance he has that afternoon. “Hmm?”
Jackson clutches his cereal to his chest. “Don’t make me say it, Jinyoung,” he grouses, trying and mostly succeeding at what would be his usual indignant pitch. “I know you know what I mean. This round. You win.”
Jinyoung moves his papers so Jackson can set his bowl down. He props his chin up on a hand, grinning smugly at Jackson. A few moments of pleasant, uninterrupted cereal-to-mouth spoon action is all Jackson is awarded before Jinyoung’s crowing, “Ha! I knew it! Ha! Aha! I’m so awesome at fanservice. I’m the best. Fanservice King Park Jinyoung. Watch your ass, Wang Jackson. I’ll get you next time too.”
Jaebum and Youngjae are at school. Yugyeom and Mark have been at dance practice since nine, rehearsing for an MBC end-of-summer special stage. Seunghoon-hyung is with Bambam while he films a segment on Thai cuisine for a cooking show. It’s just Jinyoung and Jackson and the distinctive, annoying tap of the uneven leg of the dining room table against the floor every time either of them shifts. There are no cameras around.
Jackson grins, even as he balls up a dirty napkin to throw at Jinyoung. “Fanservice King Park Jinyoung,” he agrees, letting his voice lilt pompously. Then he drops the weird affectation- “And you can keep the title. That was the last round.”
The table teeters back down on Jackson’s side as Jinyoung lifts his arms from the table to look at him. A little bit of milk splashes out onto Jackson’s pants. “Hey,” he complains.
“What?” Jinyoung says at the same time. Now, he’s frowning. “What do you mean, the last round?”
“I mean,” Jackson says, and shovels another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “You win. Fanservice, gay chicken, whatever you want to call it, you win it all.” He hesitates, but if he’s going to do this, he might as well go all the way. “Jinyoung, I like you.”
He holds Jinyoung’s gaze for as long as he feels brave enough to, which is about three seconds. Then he drops his forehead to the pile of fan letters on the table. “Ugh,” he tells Jang Yooyoung’s address in Gyeonggi-do. He’s being dramatic, but it does sound a bit as if his voice echoes in the vacuum of Jinyoung’s silence. “I really am a dumbass.”
“Hey. Being a dumbass isn’t so bad.” Evidently Jinyoung has found his voice again. He lays a hand on the back of Jackson’s neck, rubbing at the short hair there, and Jackson can feel whatever weirdness his confession had wrought slowly disappear. He sighs, letting the weighted comfort of Jinyoung’s hand work its magic. And then, quick before he can think too hard about it, he lets the feeling spark down his spine, setting off a bundle of nerves in his stomach. So that’s still the same.
Jackson leaves his cheek against the stickers Jang Yooyoung used to decorate the front of the envelope, and relishes the feeling of Jinyoung fondly petting him, as if he were his overgrown dog. “Yeah, it could definitely be worse,” Jackson finally says, raising his head and letting Jinyoung’s hand fall to the table between them. “At least dumbasses bounce back easy.”
Jinyoung is frowning at his hand on the table between them, then he looks up at Jackson with a glint in his eyes. The grin spreading across his face is familiar-it’s his I’m game if you are grin, his this is stupid but worth the fun grin. His fuck it, let’s go for it grin.
Jackson feels his mouth fall open, his pulse speed up.
Jinyoung scoots his chair closer to Jackson. “Jackson,” he says, and suddenly his face is right in front of Jackson’s, close enough for Jackson’s brain to disarrange but Jackson wants to remember this. He focuses on the white of Jinyoung’s teeth, the wicked curve of his smile, all the rest of the dear, perfectly Jinyoung features that make up his face. “Hey, Jackson. If I kiss you and there’s no one around to see it, who gets the point?"