Work Text:
It was dark in the studio. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the cool nighttime air. The only light came from the warm orange flow of a hooded desk lamp, positioned right above Hongjoong’s sketchbook.
His attention was on the page, pencil scratching against the paper, interrupting the quiet that filled the room. Low lo-fi music was playing through a speaker—Seonghwa’s request that Hongjoong happily catered to. He couldn’t see Seonghwa from where he was sitting, his back to the small raised platform where Seonghwa was standing, dressed in a pair of flowy slacks and an unfinished blouse. Loose threads still hung from the neckline and the hem, the sleeves unfinished with pins holding them in place. The mirror behind Seonghwa reflected the set of safety pins clipping part of the bodice together at his back.
They had been in Hongjoong’s studio for most of the evening. After going to get some dinner, Hongjoong asked if Seonghwa wanted to join him. He had some designs he was still tweaking and marking up for Seonghwa and it would be helpful to have the model in front of him. This made a dusting of pink climb on Seonghwa’s cheeks, fidgeting with his chopsticks as he nodded his head and agreed to come along.
At some point, their idle chitchat had slowed, replaced by a comfortable and familiar silence. One Hongjoong was so well-versed in from years of being at Seonghwa’s side as he worked.
Evening turned to night, time blending into nothing as they created together. Fleeting touches as Hongjoong draped the blouse over Seonghwa’s head, his nails just barely brushing against Seonghwa’s skin. He averted his eyes respectfully as Seonghwa stepped out of his pants and into the pair Hongjoong was making for him. A part of him wanted to look. It was nothing he hadn’t already seen before when rooming together or from being around one another so frequently in dressing rooms, but it felt wrong. He only glanced down and then walked forward to make sure the pins he had in place wouldn’t jab Seonghwa in the lower spine.
Once satisfied with the adjustments to his design in his sketchbook, Hongjoong tucked the pencil behind his ear, pushed his chair back, and got to his feet to face Seonghwa. The soft light framed his features beautifully—honey-toned skin still glowing from his skincare routine, hair soft and loosely styled, the sharp curve of his nose and the line of his jaw. Shadows danced over the far side of his face. Hongjoong felt Seonghwa’s eyes on him as he stared, giving into his desires for just a few moments to admire the man in front of him.
“Hongjoong, you’re staring.”
“I know,” Hongjoong said, voice gentle, hardly looking away from Seonghwa to pick up his tape measure. Caught in his orbit, hopelessly tethered to Seonghwa then as he had been for years. Where Seonghwa would step, he would follow. Where Hongjoong drifted, Seonghwa would fall behind him. The two of them entwined.
Seonghwa fell quiet, arms hanging loose at his sides as if waiting for Hongjoong’s direction. Hongjoong approached the small platform, their height difference a little more dramatic with the extra couple of inches Seonghwa had on him, but Hongjoong didn’t mind. Their height gap never bothered him, especially with Seonghwa’s inclination to wear heeled boots and how nicely they flattered his long legs.
He watched Seonghwa’s chest rise and fall, a rhythmic pattern of breath as he stepped in front of him on the platform, their bodies not far from one another. Silent as Hongjoong unfurled his tape measure and placed one end on Seonghwa’s arm and ran it along the length of it until it hit his wrist. Hongjoong adjusted Seonghwa’s arm as he needed, holding it out to the side to get a better measurement of his wingspan. He felt Seonghwa’s pulse beneath his thumb, a steady thud, beating in time with his heart.
Hongjoong took a mental note of the number and moved Seonghwa’s arm back down before he released Seonghwa’s wrist. Small little electric sparks petered out from his touch, like tiny firecrackers dancing on the tips of his fingers and the surface of his skin. He wondered if Seonghwa could feel them too.
Swallowing, Hongjoong moved in front of Seonghwa, tape measure still in hand. He fiddled with it in his grasp before he glanced down at Seonghwa’s waist and brought the tape measure up to wrap around it. He felt more than heard Seonghwa’s small gasp, the quick hitch of his chest. Their faces were inches apart, though Hongjoong’s eyes were trained on the measuring tape and cinching Seonghwa’s waist tight enough to get an accurate number.
Fingers brushed the loose material around the torso of the blouse, forcing it to conform to the sides of Seonghwa’s abdomen. It was almost like Hongjoong’s own arms were encircling his waist in that moment, his touch flowing through the tape measure.
The air grew thick with something. It wasn’t heavy, though it wasn’t light. Not frantic, nor chaotic. There was weight to it. Loyalty. Devotion. The kind of calm that would wash over someone like the tide; sturdy and metronomic and reliable.
Hongjoong spared a glance up at Seonghwa, meeting his gaze in the shadows of the room. For a moment, Hongjoong forgot about his measuring tape, his fingertips poised on Seonghwa’s hip where the end of the tape was covered by the number indicating the size of his narrow waist. Seonghwa’s dark eyes were round with curiosity and with something else Hongjoong couldn’t confidently name. He wouldn’t dare to.
Hongjoong could practically feel the heat rising from Seonghwa’s skin, all too aware that his torso was bare beneath the thin scraps of fabric making up the bodice of the blouse. Seonghwa stood still in front of him. Hands locked in place, frozen as they stared at one another.
Hongjoong’s tongue felt like it was stuck, trapped somehow in his dry mouth. All words of you’re beautiful and I’ll make anything you want and all I want to do is show the world just how beautiful you are were lodged in his throat. It was painful to be caught in this limbo. Wanting and unmoving.
Seconds dragged on for an eternity until Seonghwa shattered the silence, his question low to not disturb the air. “Do you need to measure anything else?”
Hongjoong crashed down onto earth, blinking, disoriented from his fall as his eyes flit back down to his hands. He saw the number, tucking it into his memory along with the centimeters he logged for the length of Seonghwa’s arm. His tongue unstuck itself.
“Yeah,” his voice sounded rough, equally as careful with his words, “I have to double-check the inseam, if that’s okay.”
Seonghwa nodded and swallowed, his posture growing a little straighter and his stance widening to help Hongjoong get a more accurate reading. Hongjoong steeled himself, dropping the tape measure from around Seonghwa’s waist.
Very slowly, he sank to his knees in front of Seonghwa, unable to help himself from staring up at him, reverence pooling in the browns of his irises, oozing from his gaze, covering his body from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. Kneeling as if at an altar, devoutly reaching forward to place the measuring tape at the apex of the inseam. Close to the junction of Seonghwa’s thighs, though he couldn’t spend longer than a second entertaining the idea or he would never be able to stand up again.
That something that permeated the air lingered, turning it thick. It was hard to breathe, Hongjoong realized, knees digging into the hard platform beneath him, focusing with all his might at the number that was even with the hem of Seonghwa’s pants. Wordlessly, Hongjoong dropped the tape measure, though he stayed on his knees. As if he was about to mutter a prayer at Seonghwa’s feet, though he was far from a religious man. He didn’t know a single hymn, but he would sing one if it was what Seonghwa wanted. He would stitch something together to the best of his ability if it meant that he could continue this—creating for Seonghwa, clothing him in an outfit designed for him. Dressing him in something that held a fraction of the elegance he carried.
When Hongjoong rose, he could hear the exhale that slipped from Seonghwa’s parted lips, and watched his fingers unclench (when had they balled into fists?). He caught Seonghwa’s eye, seeing a surge of emotion that matched his own reflected back at him. But he turned around and walked back to his desk, attention shifting to his sketchbook. The pencil made a low noise as he jotted down the numbers. Lo-fi music still carried through the speaker, punctuating their lack of conversation with an easy-listening beat.
Tension moved through the room like a gentle wind, rustling the curtains as it curled around them.
It was quiet and it was calm as Hongjoong turned back to Seonghwa to tell him he was going to help him get undressed. Too afraid of disturbing the carefully placed pins and pricking Seonghwa as he pulled the blouse over his head.
Hongjoong slid his hands beneath the hem, mindful of not touching Seonghwa’s skin, directing Seonghwa to raise his arms gingerly until the shirt was off of his body. Hongjoong’s eyes moved without his control, sliding over Seonghwa’s bare torso, the small taper of his waist, the soft cut of muscle. Clearing his throat, Hongjoong walked back to his desk, placing the shirt on it as he said, “Do you need my help stepping out of the pants?”
Seonghwa didn’t say anything for a moment, causing Hongjoong’s blood to run cold. He looked back to Seonghwa. Seonghwa’s hands were resting on the waistband of the pants. “I think I’m okay.”
Hongjoong nodded and turned back around, listening to the rustling of fabric as Seonghwa got undressed. His focus became his desk: analyzing the scattered mess of pencils, erasers, sketches and stray fabric swatches instead of thoughts of the graceful curve of Seonghwa’s spine as he stretched to pull his sweater on.
With the pants draped over his forearms, Seonghwa appeared in Hongjoong’s periphery, passing them over to Hongjoong. A small smile was on his face.
“I love them,” Seonghwa said and Hongjoong took the pants from him.
“You do?” Hongjoong’s eyebrows lifted.
Seonghwa’s smile grew soft around the edges. “You always make me such beautiful things.”
Hongjoong’s heart felt like it was going to burst. “I make them for someone very beautiful, so, I try my best.”
Seonghwa blinked at him before his eyes fell. “Thank you.”
A pregnant pause stretched between them, both unsure of how to approach the other after Hongjoong let a little confession slip.
“I’m going to head back to the dorms,” Seonghwa said, grabbing his bag and his jacket from where they were draped over a chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”
Hongjoong nodded, all too aware of the invisible thing that dangled between them. Like the distance between them was too great, but Hongjoong feared what he would do if Seonghwa approached him for a hug.
He didn’t have long to debate it when Seonghwa stepped right up to him and brought him into an embrace. Hongjoong’s arms drifted up to Seonghwa’s back, body deflating against his will into Seonghwa, his nose burying itself against Seonghwa’s shoulder. His heart thrummed, a loud and demanding thing in his chest. Equally soothed and anxious by the gesture.
Hongjoong wanted to kiss him. Desperately. He almost asked. The question hung off of the tip of his tongue, taunting him. He swallowed it down, too afraid to take the plunge. The tangle of want writhing deep in the cage of his chest.
Seonghwa was the first one to pull away, his fingers lingered on Hongjoong’s shoulders and upper back for a little longer before he disengaged completely. “Goodnight. Try not to stay up too late, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” Hongjoong offered him a gentle smile. “Goodnight. Text me when you get home.”
“Of course.” Seonghwa put on his jacket and gave Hongjoong a polite wave before he left.
The sound of the door closing rocked through Hongjoong, tugging him back to reality. Lurching him forward to continue working as best as he could, despite his racing mind. Flooded with thoughts of Seonghwa dressed in outfit after outfit of his own design. Wearing them on runways, on stage, to the airport. Captured in photographs in Hongjoong’s own creations.
For now, this was all he had—his little studio cluttered with racks of clothes, rolls of fabric, a messy desk, and a folded partition. It was not lost on him that Seonghwa chose to not use it when changing, but he couldn’t spend much time thinking about it. Not when his phone lit up with a text from Seonghwa telling him that he got back okay and he was getting ready for bed. He thanked Hongjoong again and Hongjoong smiled. Maybe this was all he had for now, but he was content with it. For Hongjoong, this was enough.