out of the bag: the confession
Aug. 19th, 2023 02:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ajayinthedark
“She’s allergic to chicken, and her reactions are gastrointestinal,” explains Chenle the moment he steps into the apartment. [I did, like, five horus of research on cats just for maybe two or three throwaway lines throughout this fic.] His bangs are matted to his forehead, as if he ran to get here, and he has a duffel over one shoulder and an empty litter box in his hands. “Being around the other cats is stressing her out, so I wanted to take her somewhere quieter to recover.” Without question, he trades his ridiculous sneakers for the pastel My Sweet Piano slippers [Jaemin bought these as a gag gift for Renjun and he couldn't bring himself to throw them away.] Renjun set out, and takes care not to jostle Lychee, who sleeps in the cat bag on his back.
Renjun closes the door behind him. “What would you have done if I said no?”
[He would've panicked, a lot. This is my version of that fantasy trope, where the villain love interest gets super beat up and arrives at the doorstep of the main character, all broken and declaring that "I didn't know where else to go".] “Figured it out in the car?” Chenle waves a hand. “You said yes, that’s what matters.” The way he says the line sticks to Renjun, a bizarre moment of unfiltered honesty tacked against his heart. “Can we keep her in a smaller room? I don’t want to lose her.”
“Yeah—yeah, we can keep her in my room.” He leads Chenle down the hall and forces down the bile creeping into his mouth. Now is not the time to think about the connotations of bringing Chenle back to his bedroom, what with his daughter’s health on the line. “Is there anything I should move around?”
“Put the plants on your windowsill in the bathroom in case they’re not cat-safe.”
“Sure—wait, how did you know about those?”
“You mentioned it?” Chenle tilts his head in question. “You have three of them. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, I think. You’ve sent me pictures before.” [A few people noticed that these were named after the Brontë sisters, and I mentioned it in a tweet not too long ago. I genuinely believe that Renjun IRL would name his plants after famous feminist writers that pioneered their movement.]
Oh.
“Oh.” [A bit of an unconventional "oh" moment, but it made me giggle while writing.]
“Do you mind opening the door?”
“Right, right.” Renjun coughs and does as asked, immediately going in to move his succulents to the bathroom near the kitchen. He stares at his reflection, barefaced, a little sunken in, imperfect, then runs two towels in water—one to rub his face vigorously with, the other to bring back to his bedroom. He doesn’t have the energy for another crisis.
It’s the first time Chenle has ever been in Renjun’s bedroom, ever been in Renjun’s apartment, and the image is surreal, even if all Chenle is doing is sitting on the floor pouring litter into the box. Renjun never expected to ever see it, and now that it’s right in front of him, it’s bizarre how Chenle looks entirely at home, opposite to how Renjun feels in Chenle’s room, like an alien intruder on an undiscovered planet. The dangerous possibility of getting used to seeing Chenle in his space, spinning around in his discount office chair or lounging in the beanbag watching strip LEDs change colour, keeps floating around in Renjun’s head, and it brings him closer to hurling by the second.
[I read a BTS fic once that used bedrooms as a metaphor for characters' emotional core, and I started applying that idea to essentially every fic I've written that has a bedroom as a scene. Just like your heart, bedrooms bear witness to your emotional breakdowns, the tears you hide in your pillow, the hidden laughter when you're reading a text from your crush and can't help rolling around the bed, etc. The state of someone's bedroom tends to reflect their mental and emotional state in a given time, and someone's bedroom is someone's safe place, their home that they'll always have. This is physically and emotionally the closest Chenle has ever been to Renjun's heart, and the idea that he's already making himself comfortable is absolutely terrifying for Renjun.]
“You can stay the night,” Renjun says eventually, waving the towel and folding it up. “I won’t force you to shower, but you can wash your face with this.” He places it on his bedside table, next to a ceramic Snorkmaiden figurine, which he moves behind his alarm clock to put her out of sight. He drifts around the room and hides other things too, Chenle too engrossed in coaxing Lychee to eat food to notice.
[If I had more time, I would've added an extra scene where Chenle shows he cares a lot about Renjun's interests and hobbies, too. Chenle is someone that will like everything he likes without any shame, as you see with his constant talks of GSW, Transit Love, and Friends, whereas Renjun is a lot more reserved and shy. It's one of the best things about RenLe and their contrast. I would've loved to put in a scene where they go to an arcade or somewhere with claw machines, Renjun stares at a Moomin claw machine wanting to get a plushie but too embarrassed to both 1.) admit he likes Moomin 2.) fail repeatedly trying to get said Moomin, and Chenle rolling his sleeves up and getting it for Renjun anyway just because Renjun likes it.]
“Lend me something to sleep in?” Chenle calls from the floor, “I forgot to bring my own.”
“None of it is gonna fit,” Renjun grumbles, though he rummages through his closet anyway, searching for something oversized enough for Chenle’s ridiculous proportions. He settles on one of his favourite hoodies, navy blue with a bright yellow 7 in the middle, and the most worn out pair of sweatpants he has, tossing it on the bed. [Reference to Renjun's red 7 hoodie, but I changed the colours because I thought it would be funny.] “Look, they’re your special colours.” Renjun knows Chenle doesn’t give a shit about keeping face and will change regardless of whether or not Renjun is looking, so he stays turned away, for his own sanity.
After a minute, Chenle speaks up. “You’re so short.”
“I’m three inches shorter than you, not three feet,” Renjun huffs, turning around to chuck a pillow at him. Chenle ducks and the pillow lands on his desk, knocking over his D.O standee. [Kyungsoo is my bias HAHAHA. I also wanted to have some kind of parallel between Chenle's room and Renjun's room, so I went with standees. They're both a little loserful, which makes them soulmates.]
The hoodie is too tight around Chenle’s shoulders and the pant legs stop above his ankles. The sheer stupidity of the fit almost overrides how domestic it is, seeing Chenle in something Renjun wore to sleep or out to get food millions of times around. Would all of Renjun’s hoodies fit on Chenle the same? If Renjun were to wear one of Chenle’s sweats, would they pool at his feet and trip him? Are the only articles of clothing they can be able to share all of Chenle’s ugly jackets? [Reference way back to the earlier scene. I like to think that when Renjun gave Chenle his jacket back, Chenle sniffed it because he could tell Renjun's floral perfume was still hanging on the fabric, then immediately groaned and cringed at himself.]
Chenle turns off the overhead lights and turns on the strip lights, pulling Renjun out of his snowballing thoughts. He claims the left side of the bed and pats the space next to him for Renjun to join, which he does.
“Stay still,” he mutters, and Renjun’s lungs practically crawl up into his mouth, choking him, as Chenle reaches over and slides his fingers up Renjun’s neck. Everywhere he touches burns with his lingering warmth, hotter than all the times Chenle has bitten the very same spots. In a few seconds, Chenle pulls back with all three of Renjun’s necklaces in hand, and he places them on Renjun’s desk as gently as he can. [I try to sneak at least a few IRL interactions into my fics, and this HelFu era moment always drives me crazy. Taking jewellery off someone is so intimate, and in Chinese/east Asian culture, the neck is seen as the most vulnerable part of the body because it's the easiest place to slit and kill someone. A little morbid of a point, but it's another one of those cultural nods I shove in all my RenLe fics.] “You always forget.”
How is Renjun supposed to respond to that? How is Renjun supposed to respond to anything Chenle says, when he can practically see himself reflected off Chenle’s eyes, the picture of hopeless, endless feelings? [The literal idea is that Renjun can see himself reflected in Chenle's eyes because the water in your eyes reflects light and images, blah blah, but the double "meaning" is that Renjun can see himself reflected in Chenle's eyes because Chenle feels the same thing, and it shows in his eyes, if that makes sense.]
He can’t think of what to say, so he pulls the blanket up higher, rolls over, and whispers, “Go to sleep.”
Less than an hour later, Chenle speaks up. “Renjun. Renjun, are you awake?”
“What’s the point of asking me if I’m awake as a yes or no question?” Renjun growls, “Doesn’t the question itself defeat the purpose of ‘no’ as an option?”
“Nevermind.”
His defeat squeezes Renjun’s heart. “No, no, tell me.” He rolls back around to face Chenle head on. Chenle’s hair is mussed, his bangs are in his face, and his pillow smushes his cheek. It’s hard to make out any more in the dim purple lighting. “What is it?”
A second later, he adds, “If you tell me you’re hard, I’m kicking you out.”
Since Renjun realised the depth of his feelings was less of a lake and more of an ocean, he’d done everything he could to dodge Chenle’s hook-up propositions. Although a little sulky at first, Chenle didn’t do much other than make the occasional obscene joke and continue to send him dumb reels on Instagram. The one time they met up, Renjun couldn’t get himself in the mood and after a bit of resistance, Chenle backed off and they ended up playing video games—or, rather, Renjun watched Chenle play Valorant over his shoulder until midnight. [I also wish I could've written this scene in full. I like writing scenes about consent? I guess? Because I think it tends to go unexplored in a lot of fics.]
Renjun didn’t want to be faced with the intimacy and his bullshit crush at the same time in case he said something horrible and incriminating in the moment. He would never be able to look at Chenle again if he confessed halfway through a prostate orgasm.
(Also, a quieter insecurity sits swimming at the back of Renjun’s head, one that threatens to break at the slightest implication that maybe, maybe, Chenle wants him for one thing only.) [Frowny face. I made small references here and there to Renjun's insecurities, birthed from all his old hookups, and this is sort of the culmination of all that.]
Chenle frowns. It looks silly on his face. Renjun wants to reach out and stretch it back into a smile. “I’m not having sex while our daughter is in the room.”
“So you are hard, if that’s the only thing stopping you.”
“You’re twisting my words,” he whines. Renjun jolts when he feels Chenle wiggling his toes against his bare calf, nearly falling off the bed. “You aren’t even into it these days, and I’d never force you or anything, idiot. I had an actual question to ask.”
“Which is?”
“Did you ever finish your poetry competition book? The deadline is next week.”
Of course Chenle knows the deadline. Of course Chenle remembers all the things Renjun wished he wouldn’t. [This is, like, the most romantic thing ever to me. This is MY love language. Remembering someone's deadlines, work dates, homework, projects, et cetera is actually the secret to reaching Jay ajayinthedark's heart. A cute girl I was barely acquainted with once texted me on the day of one of my shows with "good luck! i came to watch because you mentioned it last class!" and I fell in bisexual love with her for like two months.] He closes his eyes. “I wrote all of them and now it’s all last minute editing. Why?”
“I want to read it.”
Oh God. Renjun wishes his bed would swallow him whole. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Gege listens to my compositions all the time.” [The homoerotic intimacy of calling someone your gege... If you can't tell, MXTX novels have done a number on me and my writing forever.]
“It’s different.” Renjun opens his eyes, flinches at the intensity of Chenle’s stare, and squeezes them back shut. “It’s really personal.”
“My compositions are really personal,” he argues, “Does it matter if it’s personal? I like your—person.”
“Eloquent.” Renjun breathes out a laugh. The mere idea of Chenle glimpsing twenty poems dictating a descent into awkward, unshakeable love over him is worse than eating rose thorns [Flowers and fruits are the main metaphor for love in this fic! I'll explain why later.] or wearing sneakers around the house or remembering that time he walked in on Donghyuck and Sungchan trying BDSM for the first time. “It’s really, really personal, Chenle.”
The blankets rustle without Chenle responding, and Renjun opens his eyes again to see Chenle clicking open his phone, setting it in the space in between them. The slight shift brings their legs to touch, and Chenle’s arm brushes against Renjun’s chest as he reaches over to change the volume.
What comes out of the speaker crackles at first, not unlike the videos Chenle has sent of him improvising or playing unfinished pieces, unpolished and still waiting to be transferred to software, followed by an opening A-major chord. [I picked A-major because my most recent composition is in A-major pentatonic and it's lowkey inspired by RenLe lmao.]
There’s no way to describe the piece other than unashamedly beautiful. The beginning trepidation, hesitation borne from childlike timidity somehow captured in the score, fades into winding delight once the melody picks up. Every note rings clear, every arpeggio filling the empty spaces, all of the building harmonies full of indescribable life. It’s light and carefree, the accompaniment acting as the wind buoying every fleet-footed step, and it reminds Renjun of one of the few exposures to instrumental music he can recall: the scores to all the Ghibli films he and Chenle settle on whenever they argue for too long over the remote. [I was actually thinking about a combination between something from Hisaishi, Debussy, and Cho Wonsang from the k-band LUCY. To me, that would be Chenle's style if he was a classical composer.]
Renjun has to resist the urge to press play again once the final note fades. [Okay, also, real talk, as a composer, there is nothing more terrifying than showing people that aren't my teachers or tutors my work, especially if it's unfinished.]
“That was incredible,” he breathes.
“That’s the piano solo for the last movement of my most recent composition,” Chenle says. His mouth moves to form sounds, as if he’s tasting his next words first, testing for poison before taking a bite. [Apple reference, fruit reference.] “It’s a serenata. Serenade, in English. A musical piece used to greet someone you love.”
“Who are you greeting? Stephen Curry?” Renjun jokes.
Chenle doesn’t laugh. “You.” [Wowza.]
Renjun stops breathing. “What?”
“You,” he repeats. “This serenata is for you. It’s the most personal piece I’ve ever written.” His gaze doesn’t leave Renjun’s. His Mandarin is feather soft. “I really like gege, and I want to read his poetry, if he’d let me.” [I really like using third person when I use gege. IDK why. I just really do.]
“Chenle, I…” Renjun swallows and he notices Chenle’s eyes dart down to follow the movement, then dart back up.
For all his years studying creative writing, Renjun has never been more at a loss for words, at a time more weighted than this. He could recite every poem he’s ever written, recall line for line all the sonnets he’s memorised, read in order the pages in his pocket book copy of Li Bai’s verses, and none of it would be enough to convey the universe across Renjun’s skin where their legs overlap, the way they’ve laid in bed side by side countless nights prior. He’s out of words, has been out of words for hours, weeks, months by now, Chenle stealing them phrase by phrase with every kiss they’ve ever shared. [Not to stroke my own dick, but GOD I love this paragraph. A lot of this fic, I take idioms and sort of flip them around and stretch them taut as a kind-of-joke, kind-of-commentary on poetry cliches, and here, I fiddled around with the "took the words out of his mouth" idea and wringed it for all its life.]
There’s poetry in the glimmer of hope across Chenle’s face, perhaps the most moving poetry of them all, meant to be read and not spoken lest it shatter the moment. [Inversion of the Shakespeare bit from earlier.]
So, without his words, Renjun leans forward, brushes Chenle’s hair out of his face, and presses their lips together.
Renjun wonders then, eyes closed, tasting enough words to form an English dictionary of Chinese proverbs on Chenle’s chapped lips, if the magic growing on his pages of words is the same as the full bloom sprung from their connected hearts. [The reason why I chose fruit and flower metaphors as my main metaphor for love is because, across the whole world and especially in China, flowers and fruits are used in ancient poetry and proverbs as symbols of love. Emotions are just plants in a way, waiting to take root and be nurtured by human hands until they're strong enough to stand on their own, and with enough patience, they'll bare something beautiful for you. I also find gifts of flowers and fruit baskets incredibly romantic. Even the hanahaki trope, literally flowers as a metaphor for love is the most classic thing in the world, and it never gets old to me.]
