extraordinary things ; chenji

nuggets of truth

 jisung

Chenle is always beautiful. But Jisung thinks he's most beautiful like this.

Like this, his arms around Jisung, surely and gently holding him in place. Here, where Jisung can feel his heartbeat under his mouth, under his hands, like a metronome, timing the song of them. And then later, when he's groggy with blood loss, nibbling on a cookie while Jisung cleans the wounds on his neck. When he leans on Jisung, wordlessly asking to be held, never awkward or hesitant.

He wishes he knew how Chenle felt. Wishes he could ask. (Every time he tries, his back starts to sweat and his tonsils clamp around the words.) What is it like to be bitten? Is the giving, the bleeding, as extraordinary as the consuming? Does Chenle think that he's beautiful as well, in these moments that are always blotted from Chenle's memory by morning?

Is there some part of him deep down that remembers the first time they fed, and what happened after?

That was months ago. And he hasn't brought it up. (Jisung hasn't either. Almost did, once. Then... didn't.)

They don't kiss anymore. It was one time. It's not a thing they do.

chenle

It's a thing they do.

Jisung takes years in the lunch line, visibly struggling to choose his sides, and then struggling even harder to commit. Chenle takes something Jisung will like and then pushes it into his hands when he starts to pout.

"You hated the nuggets last time," Chenle says once they're seated. "I swear, you're constantly self-destructing."

"I know. I got all in my head about it. Oh! I love seaweed soup."

Chenle sighs loudly. Smiles more quietly.

They're planning their next movie night when Donghyuck and his boyfriend invite themselves to sit at their table. Chenle doesn't mind — he likes Donghyuck, despite his bravado and silo-sized Hydro Flask and constant public displays of affection. Jisung though, he tends to hole up inside his own head in crowds larger than two.

"These nuggets actually suck," says Mark. He's kind of lanky with glasses too big for his face, and Donghyuck is seated staunchly on his lap. "Trade with me."

"Trade? You think I'd trade my perfect lunch for that? My love is conditional, babe, I'm sorry you didn't realize that."

Jisung and Chenle look down at their trays and up at each other and away, all within half a second.

"You're wearing a scarf," Mark says then. He nods at the pashmina that Chenle stole from his mother's 'old scarves' closet.

"Uh, yeah."

"Why? It's not cold."

"I'm trying to carve out a niche here. Create popular demand." He's trying to hide the cliche monster-movie bite marks on his neck. Accidentally falling neck-first onto a two-tined fork isn't an exceptionally believable backstory.

"And the shades?" says Mark.

"Again, my brand."

"You look like you're in witness protection," says Donghyuck. "Like, deep undercover and tired of being subtle about it."

"Jisung thinks I look cool." He throws his arm around Jisung. He flinches. He was totally spaced out. "Right?"

"Y-yeah, right."

"You have no idea what I'm talking about."

"No, no clue."

"I know someone else who thinks it's cool." Donghyuck leans furtively over the table, tips his head toward a table of girls a few rows away. "Seo Hana. Her friend told me she's into you."

Chenle can't help it. His jaw drops. Hana is even more popular than Chenle. She's basically elite. He didn't think she even knew who he was.

He looks over at her table. She's twirling her ponytail, talking to the girl next to her.

"Guess the witness-protection look works for some people." Donghyuck shrugs. "Go to prom with her and you'll win king and queen without even trying."

Right. Prom.

Hana's friend is whispering in her ear. Suddenly she looks up and meets Chenle's eyes. He bows his head a little and she bows back. He quickly busies himself with his lunch.

He's not oblivious to the attention he gets from people at school. (What? He can be honest about being handsome and likeable, can't he?) He doesn't mind it — enjoys it, admittedly — until someone actually asks him out. Then he has to find a polite way to decline. And he always declines. On principle.

Because Jisung.

Always that reason. Because Jisung. It's not even a full sentence.

Chenle looks at him now. He's spacing out again, dipping kimchi in his soup. He wasn't listening. Or he was, and he just has no reason to care. Of course he doesn't.

Chenle shouldn't either.