Work Text:
“What is this?..” Jihoon scans the strange scene in front of him. First, a table buried under five ice cream. Second, Hyeonjun, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and avoiding his gaze.
“Ice cream,” comes the muted reply, eyes still stubbornly fixed somewhere to the side.
“I see… But why so much?” Jihoon reaches out, fingers brushing over the cold ice cream packs, the chill seeping into his palms.
Hyeonjun exhales deeply, scratches the back of his head, and finally says:
“I just thought… it might help us not get mad after matches. You know, when we’re playing against each other.”
“What?” Jihoon frowns, not quite following.
“Well, you know… So there won’t be any hard feelings because of things that happen during the game.” He goes quiet for a moment, then adds, a little softer: “So… I bought ice cream. Just in case. To make up for anything in advance.”
“Bribing with ice cream?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Something like that,” Hyeonjun shrugs, still visibly embarrassed.
Ah… It’s in moments like these Jihoon feels just how deeply he loves Choi Hyeonjun. The very same boy he fell for back when he was nineteen — and hasn’t been able to stop (nor has he ever wanted to) since. The one he thinks about before falling asleep, whose breath, it seems, gives him life each morning.
He chuckles softly, though it sounds more like a breath than a laugh — short and a little unsure. He walks around the table without taking his eyes off Hyeonjun, stopping just in front of him. With one motion, Jihoon pulls him in by the waist — gently, like a cat curling up — and rests his chin on Hyeonjun’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of skin… and something painfully familiar. A smile ghosts across his face — that same perfume he always smells when he’s half-asleep and pressing close to Hyeonjun.
Once, Jihoon could’ve called it his perfume. But not anymore. He can’t say that now. Not when their things have long since blended — like clothes tangled in a shared closet, like mugs no one bothers to label “yours” and “mine.” Because they’ve been sharing everything for a long time. That scent belongs to both of them now. Like their too-small-for-two dorm beds. Like the keys to their rooms. Like the sleepy morning kisses, where you can’t tell who leaned in first. Everything is shared now.
“You used my perfume again, didn’t you?” he asks quietly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Not yours, ours,” Hyeonjun corrects him so quickly it makes Jihoon want to burst out laughing.
He feels Hyeonjun’s arms slowly rising — and in the next second, they’re wrapped around Jihoon’s neck — firm, familiar. Jihoon closes his eyes and lets himself just exist in the moment.
“I love you,” he mumbles, barely audible. He doesn’t look, but he knows — he’s absolutely certain — that Hyeonjun’s ears are bright red right now. No matter how many years pass, no matter how much they grow up — some things about Hyeonjun never change. He still hides his face from simple words.
“Let’s go eat ice cream,” Jihoon says softly, turning his head just slightly to brush his cheek against Hyeonjun’s.
He slowly pulls away — unhurried. His gaze lingers on Hyeonjun’s face — the face he could draw from memory with his eyes closed, because he knows every line, every freckle, every little twitch of the brows when Hyeonjun is embarrassed or happy. His fingers glide gently down, find Hyeonjun’s hand, and lace through it. Jihoon squeezes tighter, and without saying a word, starts walking — the same familiar path, toward his room. Hyeonjun doesn’t resist. With his free hand, he grabs two packs of ice cream.
“What about the other three?” Hyeonjun asks under his breath, leaning in a little.
“Tomorrow. Or the next time you throw me under the bus on the Rift,” Jihoon snorts, tugging him along.
Their room greets them with dim light and a hint of chaos: pillows on the floor, a blanket half-hanging off the bed, Hyeonjun’s gray hoodie draped over the back of a chair. Everything just the way it always is.
Jihoon places the ice cream on the nightstand, then pulls Hyeonjun in before he can even sit properly, pressing close again. Hyeonjun buries his forehead in Jihoon’s neck, and Jihoon runs his fingers down his back.
“I could do this every day,” he whispers.
“Jihoon-ah, the ice cream’s gonna melt…” Hyeonjun murmurs, voice slightly muffled, almost lazy, still pressed into Jihoon’s neck. There’s a soft tremble in his tone — that feeling of wanting to stay in the moment forever, even as reality taps on the shoulder in the form of slowly melting dessert.
“Kiin’s scared of your Gwen,” Jihoon says quickly, changing the subject as his palm traces slow circles on Hyeonjun’s back. “Begged for a ban both games. I’m proud of you.”
Hyeonjun lets out a quiet laugh — more a vibration in his chest than an actual sound. He pulls back just a little, resting his forehead against Jihoon’s. Their breaths mingle, eyes meeting in the soft dusk of the room.
“Really proud of me?” Hyeonjun smiles, eyes slightly narrowed, voice playful.
“Very,” Jihoon answers without hesitation. “You’ve become a damn monster on Gwen.”
Reluctantly, he lets go of the hug, takes a step back and grabs the ice cream from the nightstand. He hands one pack to Hyeonjun, then settles next to him, tucking his legs beneath him, shoulder lazily brushing against shoulder. It’s so easy — like they do this every day. Maybe they do.
He watches as Hyeonjun fiddles with the packaging, scrunches his nose, tries to peel back the edge, then finally finds the right motion and pops it open with a soft click. Jihoon nearly laughs. It’s such a typical, such a him moment — Hyeonjun, slightly annoyed, with that tiny crease between his brows and his focused expression.
“Relax, it’s not war,” Jihoon smirks.
“With how often you ban my picks? Feels like it,” Hyeonjun shoots back.
He instinctively bites into the edge of the ice cream — and immediately flinches, mouth parting. The ice cream, already half-melted, leaves a sticky sweet trail on his lips, then drips to his chin. He quickly wipes at it with his hand, but a faint smear remains.
“You’re a mess,” Jihoon says with a grin, turning toward him. “Come here.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Just leans in — and before Hyeonjun can say anything or even process what’s happening, Jihoon slowly bends down and licks the melted spot from his lips.
“Strawberry,” he whispers, not breaking eye contact.
Hyeonjun’s eyes go wide, and he freezes on instinct. Jihoon chuckles quietly, clearly pleased with himself.
“You seriously need to be banned,” Hyeonjun grumbles, his ears turning traitorously red again. “You’re more dangerous than my Gwen.”
“But it's good,” Jihoon grins, resting his head on Hyeonjun’s shoulder. “Your lips, by the way, taste better than the strawberry.”
“Shut up,” Hyeonjun snaps, but his voice shakes with barely-contained laughter.
“Sure,” Jihoon replies — then kisses his cheek. Quick, this time. A second later, he gets a soft nudge in the ribs.
It feels like they sit in silence for a bit. Only the occasional soft noises — Hyeonjun turning the popsicle stick in his hands, Jihoon snapping his fingers now and then. Hyeonjun sneaks a glance at Jihoon’s ice cream — slightly melting, glistening in the light of the desk lamp.
“Can I try it?” he asks quietly. He knows Jihoon won’t say no.
Jihoon says nothing, just turns his wrist and holds out the stick to him, not even looking his way. Hyeonjun pauses. Like he’s thinking. For a few seconds, his gaze freezes on Jihoon — at his narrowed eyes, that calm half-smile, at how he never asks questions.
And then, suddenly, without warning, he leans in. Lips brush against Jihoon’s — short, almost weightless. Barely there, but enough to make Jihoon hold his breath. The next second, Hyeonjun is already pulling back, looking away.
“Yours tastes better,” he mutters, as if observing something else.
Jihoon blinks, motionless. Then slowly shifts his gaze to him.
“Really?” he asks with a catlike smile, tilting his head a bit. His voice is almost playful, almost purring.
“Yeah,” Hyeonjun nods briefly, still not looking at him. “It’s always like that. Even if we’re eating the same thing. Your tea, your noodles, which I make myself… now your ice cream. Always better than mine.”
“So weird...”
The bed creaks behind them — Jihoon moves closer. The next moment, Hyeonjun feels fingers gently under his chin. He lets his head turn without resistance, and their eyes meet.
“I don’t even know why,” Jihoon says softly.
Before Hyeonjun can ask anything, Jihoon leans in again — this time not fleeting. His lips press firmly, insistently. Hyeonjun freezes at the sudden intensity, but quickly responds, opening up, letting him in. Their breathing stutters, lips stick and part. Jihoon kisses him greedily, but without rushing. He moves like he wants to remember this.
Hyeonjun lifts a hand, reaches up, and his palm finds Jihoon’s cheek. His fingers settle along his jaw, feeling the movement under the skin. At that moment, something cold touches his wrist — a drop of melted ice cream sliding from the stick still in his other hand. He flinches a little at the sharp contrast between warmth and cold.
Jihoon smiles into the kiss, lightly bites Hyeonjun’s bottom lip before pulling away.
“You're beautiful, hyung,” he breathes, tracing the edge of his lips with his thumb.
Hyeonjun can’t help but laugh.