“I think this is the most comfortable I’ve been in months. Maybe years.”
Key’s low voice breaks through the quiet background noise of the television, flickering in the half-light of his living room as it is, unnoticed or ignored. This night has lasted forever, and has passed so quickly Ki-jung feels like his breath was taken away with it. The closer it gets to the morning, the more he wonders when it is that Kiran is finally going to have enough and go home to their warm bed. Surely that would be better than being here with him like this, down and having wanted to sink into the ground since he woke up.
It’s difficult to address the feelings that are roiling around inside of him, making him feel like he might vomit them up at any moment in so many tangled words, so he has spent most of their time together avoiding talking about it. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, or at least Key doesn’t think that it ever will to anybody else, so what’s the point in saying it out loud? Keeping it in is what he’s done his entire life, and it’s more than likely what he’s going to continue to do. Habits are hard to break --- particularly the bad ones, and Ki-jung has started smoking. Again. Go figure.
Letting out a soft breath, he rolls over onto his back, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from where Kiran sits. He still sees them, though, on the ceiling, like the image of them sitting in his arm chair on the other side of the coffee table is permanently in his head like a polaroid. They are all kinds of beautiful, even after their third gin and tonic, and Key wishes for nothing more than to get that coffee table out from in between them. To eliminate all of the space between them, in fact. There’s an ache somewhere in him, deep enough that it’s hard to discern exactly where, but he feels it resonate through his entire body. Maybe he just needs to hold them. Maybe he just needs them to hold him. Is that weird? He doesn’t know.
An empty glass is clasped in his hands, his whiskey long since drained from it, and he taps his index finger against it, making a soft clink sound. “You know, I think that maybe it’s impossible to fully understand your own feelings, which is why I’m not going to question it when I ask you this.” Drawing in a deep breath, he seems to steel himself somewhat, and he sits up to lean forward and place his glass down. Hands rake through Key’s already slightly disheveled hair, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Should I ask you to stay the night? Would that be... just... a really fucked up, terrible idea?” The vulnerability in his voice begs for honesty. He is sincere in the way that he looks at them, feeling small. A bit exposed, maybe.
The low-lights feel, quite suddenly, exactly like spotlights.