Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You're not as subtle as you thought you are when you're jealous." Kyungsoo said, smirking.

Baekhyun glare, "I wasn’t trying to be subtle, Kyungsoo! He touched your arm. That’s my arm.”

Kyungsoo raised an eyebrow, amused by Baekhyun's outburst. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, giving Baekhyun a teasing look. "Really? You’re seriously that bothered by something so trivial?"

Baekhyun's lips pressed into a thin line as he crossed his own arms, chest out, standing a little taller than usual. "It's not small to me." He said.

"I don’t like seeing anyone else getting too close to you, especially when they start touching what's mine. Even if it's just a simple, trivial touch that you think poses no harm." His voice softened, the frustration lingering but now tinged with something else.

Vulnerability.

Kyungsoo watched him for a long moment, the familiar warmth in his chest expanding. He stood and walked over to Baekhyun, close enough till their toes brush, the space between them filled with unspoken things.

"You know," Kyungsoo murmured, "if you wanted me to notice you, all you had to do is just ask me." He reached out, gently brushing Baekhyun's cheek with the back of his hand, a soft gesture that speak volumes.

Baekhyun’s gaze softened, and despite the lingering jealousy, he couldn’t help but melt under Kyungsoo’s attention, under his touches. "You’re impossible," he muttered, though his tone was no longer angry.

Kyungsoo chuckled, stepping even closer until they're face-to-face, breath mingling together. "You’re just as bad," he whispered, voice low, "but I like it."

Chapter Text

The soup on the stove is beginning to cool, untouched.

Kyungsoo leans against the counter, arms crossed. His shirt sleeves are still rolled from washing dishes, and there's a faint line between his brows he doesn’t realize he's making. It’s the same crease that used to appear when Baekhyun showed up late in front of his door too late at night, soaked in rain, full of excuses and too much laughter. Back then, Kyungsoo would wordlessly hand him a towel and act like he's annoyed.

Baekhyun, barefoot and stubborn, sits on the edge of the kitchen table. He’s wearing a hoodie too big for him. Not Kyungsoo’s, not anyone’s, just one of those comfort clothes that became a second skin over time. Clothes you wear when you’re trying not to be afraid.

“You’ve got your whole future ahead of you,” Kyungsoo says, not cruel, just quiet. “You’ve still got years to mess up and figure your life out. I’m not sure if I should be part of the trial run,” Kyungsoo says. His voice is low, but not unkind. Baekhyun knows that tone. It’s the voice Kyungsoo uses when he’s trying not to hurt someone while doing what he thinks is right.

Baekhyun shrugs. “I don't care. I still want you, and I want you in it.” He almost hates how steady his voice sounds. Like this is easy. Like this isn't serious for him. Like he didn’t spend the whole walk here rehearsing different versions of this moment, which, half of it ends up with a slammed door or worse, a kind smile that usually means goodbye between them.

There’s no dramatic pause. No echo. Just air and the ticking of the old clock above the fridge.

“You’re twenty,” Kyungsoo says.

“And you’re thirty three,” Baekhyun replies.

“Exactly.” Kyungsoo says, like he’s trying to make his point land harder. Like he’s trying to make the number carry the weight of a warning.

“That’s thirteen years difference. Not a different planet.”

Kyungsoo sighs and rubs his eyes, like he's trying to erase this whole conversation before it carves in too deep. Baekhyun watches the gesture, familiar and fond and frustrating. He wants to touch Kyungsoo’s hand. He doesn’t.

“You don’t know what thirteen years difference looks like until you live them,” he says. “Just, go back home please.”

Baekhyun slides off the table and stands in front of him. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t beg. “I know what right now looks like. I know what I want.” His heart is beating like it might betray him, might launch itself into Kyungsoo’s chest and demand to be held. He wishes wanting someone was enough. Wishes knowing the truth in his bones could write itself into Kyungsoo’s own skin.

"And next year? Five years from now? Ten years from now on?" Kyungsoo asks.

"Then I'll still want you. Probably more. Maybe annoyingly so."

A faint twitch at the corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth. Not quite a smile. Something softer, harder.

“It’s not just age,” Kyungsoo says, glancing away. “You’ll want things I’m already done wanting. You’ll chase things I’ve stopped chasing. That’s how it usually goes.”

Baekhyun tilts his head. “You’re treating my life like it’s a script you’ve already read,” he says. “Let me surprise you. Let me put your name in the messy, clean, bad, and good parts. Just let me write it, with you in the middle of the page.” Baekhyun means it. All of it. His voice doesn’t shake, but inside, he’s trembling. Every word is a gamble.

Silence again. No dramatic music. Just the hum of the fridge and the stilled cold soup and the closeness of someone choosing you with every breath.

Kyungsoo looks at him like he's weighing something unquantifiable. Like Baekhyun is a question he hasn’t yet figured out how to answer. Maybe he doesn’t want to answer it wrong. Maybe, that's what Baekhyun hopes for. Then, finally, quietly, he says, “You’re a storm, Baek.”

Baekhyun breathes out a laugh, soft and sure. “Good. You look like you could use some rain.” He smiles that smiles where he knows Kyungsoo has a soft spot for.

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t pull away either. And for now, Baekhyun takes that as something close to hope.

Tomorrow, he’ll try again. Tomorrow, he’ll find a new way to show him that what he feels has never once wavered. Not since middle school, not since the first time Kyungsoo made him feel seen.

Chapter Text

"Sir, I’m just here to pick up your son for dinner," Kyungsoo began, a picture of polite innocence, "And dessert. But he usually has that at my place." He punctuated the last word with a smug, almost imperceptible wink.

The father, Mr. Byun, who had been adjusting his tie, froze. His eyes, initially scanning Kyungsoo for any sign of ill intent, slowly widened. A beat of silence stretched, thick enough to cut with a butter knife, before a cough finally broke it.

"My son," Mr. Byun repeated slowly, his voice a strained whisper, "He's... rather fond of his grandmother's apple pie." The unspoken "and only his grandmother's apple pie" hung heavy in the air. He then squinted, a suspicion dawning on his face. "Are you implying my son, Baekhyun, has... a sweet tooth... that you're personally satisfying?" His eyebrows drew together, a mixture of confusion and dawning horror.

Just then, Baekhyun himself ambled into the entryway, phone in hand, mid-scroll. "Dad, have you seen my good sneakers? Oh, hey Kyungsoo!" He looked up, a bright, oblivious smile on his face, completely missing the loaded tension in the room. "Soo, ready to go?"

Kyungsoo's smug grin didn't falter. "Oh, I'm sure he is, Sir. And I’m sure he'll find my… filling alternative quite appealing as well." He paused, letting the implication simmer, then added, "You see, my desserts are quite... homemade. And I have a feeling Baekhyun will be asking for seconds, maybe even thirds, before the night is over." He finally tilted his head, a picture of charming mischief.

"Unless, of course, you'd prefer he stick to store-bought. Some people just prefer the… simpler things in life."

Baekhyun, finally looking up from his phone, caught the last few words. His eyes darted between Kyungsoo's knowing smirk and his father's increasingly purple face.

A slow, agonizing flush began to creep up Baekhyun's neck. "Kyungsoo!" he hissed, his voice a mortified squeak.

He made a desperate gesture with his hands, trying to telepathically shut Kyungsoo up. "He just means I really like his cheesecake, Dad! And his brownies!" Baekhyun’s attempt to clarify only made things worse, the word "filling" echoing in his ears as his mind replayed Kyungsoo's earlier comment.

He could feel his father’s eyes on him, burning holes of parental concern and confusion. "It's just... food! We're talking about food!" He insisted, his face now a magnificent shade of crimson, looking like he wanted to spontaneously combust and disappear.

Chapter Text

The kitchen looked like a crime scene. Not the bloody kind, but the kind where flour had exploded like a confetti cannon and half the utensils were balancing in places utensils should never be. The oven door hung slightly ajar as if even it was too traumatized to close again.

Chanyeol stood proudly in the center of it all, arms akimbo, beaming like he just won MasterChef.

“I baked cookies!” he said loudly, voice so full of unearned confidence that it made Baekhyun choke on his own spit.

Kyungsoo slowly turned from the sink, where he was washing what looked like a screwdriver. His face is blank. Too blank. The kind of blank that spelled doom is coming.

“…Why,” Kyungsoo said slowly, “do they smell like regret and sadness?”

Baekhyun coughed into his hoodie sleeve, trying to hold in his laughter. “He used salt instead of sugar.”

Jongdae, who had bravely volunteered to try the first cookie “for science,” he’d said, is currently sprawled across the kitchen island like he’d been shot. “I think my tongue died,” he whispered. “I think I saw my ancestors. One of them was a baker. He’s furious.”

Chanyeol looked between them, wounded. “I followed the recipe exactly! EXCEPT I thought ‘tbsp’ meant ‘the big spoon.’ Isn't that, right?”

Kyungsoo blinked. Slowly. Deliberately. “Are you asking me if ‘the big spoon’ is a measurement for tbsp?”

“I mean,” Chanyeol shrugged, “you never know! It's all so confusing!”

“Okay... Which big spoon you use for measurement then?” Kyungsoo asked. Slight hoping Chanyeol is not that dumb. Kyungsoo is praying at this point.

Then Chanyeol, all teeth, smiling while holding the big spoon he proudly used as measurement which the big spoon in his sense is a ladle. “God didn't hear my prayers, I guess.” Kyungsoo mumbles under his breath, exasperated.

Baekhyun had picked up a cookie with chopsticks and was examining it like a cursed object. “This one has… a crack. It’s... hissing.”

“It’s cooling!” Chanyeol defended. “That’s what cookies do when they’re hot!”

“No, Yeol. That’s what demons do when they’re summoned,” Baekhyun replied solemnly.

Jongdae rolled off the island with a groan, landing on the floor dramatically. “Tell my mother I loved her.”

Kyungsoo sighed and grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink. He always kept it there. For exactly this kind of moment. “If that thing starts levitating, I’m leaving.”

Chanyeol, unbothered and still weirdly optimistic, had moved to plate the rest of his creations. One of them crumbled into sand upon being lifted. Another one shattered like glass.

“This one has the texture of a heartbreak,” Baekhyun said.

“This one has layers,” Chanyeol countered, holding up a cookie that had somehow split into three very distinct color zones.

“Yeah,” Jongdae said, climbing to his feet, “layers of poor decision-making, Yeol.”

“Layers of a lawsuit,” Kyungsoo added.

The kitchen fell into silence for a moment as they all stared at the cookies.

Then Baekhyun reached for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Chanyeol asked suspiciously.

“Tweeting about it,” Baekhyun said without looking up. “#Cookiesdisaster #ChanyeolStrikesAgain.”

Kyungsoo’s brow twitched. “Delete that before fans think we’re being poisoned for real.”

“But we're poisoned,” Jongdae whispered. “I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was disappointing. I regret not taking insurance for my tongue. Who knows flour can fried you and all your senses.”

Baekhyun snorted. “At least the cookie didn’t fried your fashion sense. That was you.”

Chanyeol slumped against the fridge dramatically. “I just wanted to do something nice for you guys.”

Kyungsoo looked at him, deadpan. “Do something nice next time that doesn’t require a hazard suit.”

“You’re all so mean,” Chanyeol mumbled, pouting.

Baekhyun walked up to him and patted his chest with exaggerated pity. “It’s okay, Yeol. Some people are born to bake. Others are born to destroy kitchens and potentially commit second-degree tongue assault.”

Chanyeol groaned. “You’re all banned from my next surprise.”

“Good,” Kyungsoo said, already grabbing a mop. “I like living.”

[Later that evening...]

They all sat in the living room with takeout boxes in their laps, courtesy of Kyungsoo, who had sighed heavily before saying, “If you ever make cookies again, I’m getting you a leash and supervision.”

Jongdae was still eyeing Baekhyun's tweet, which had now gone semi-viral.

“You know the fan accounts are making conspiracy theories, right?” he said between bites of chicken. “Someone thinks the cookies were a metaphor for EXO’s early music era.”

“Honestly,” Baekhyun said, mouth full, “accurate.”

Chanyeol sulked in silence until Jongdae leaned over and handed him a nugget.

“I forgive you,” Jongdae said magnanimously. “But only because I can’t stay mad at someone who nearly murdered me with flour.”

Chanyeol grinned. “You guys are the worst friends. I love you.”

Kyungsoo, still chewing, mutters, “Stockholm syndrome.”

Chapter Text

The soft glow of the fairy lights strings strung across Baekhyun’s living room cast a long, playful shadows as the four friends huddled together. Every weekend, the four of them always crammed in Baekhyun’s living room, buried under blankets and snacks, the air thick with laughter.

“Truth or dare?” Baekhyun’s grin is positively mischievous, a glint in his eye as he fixed his gaze on Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo, ever the picture of calm, simply raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Truth.”

Baekhyun leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “If you could only save one of us in a zombie apocalypse, who would it be?”

Chanyeol gasping and Jongdae clutching his chest for dramatic effects.

Kyungsoo didn’t even blink when he say, “Myself.”

“YAH!” they all shouted in unison.

“I mean,” Kyungsoo continues, face deadpan, his voice cool and too logical, “you three would probably make enough noise to attract the entire horde and get us all caught. So if there's someone needs to survive telling the story, it'll be me. So that's why, I will save myself.”

The three of them groan in unison, “Well, he’s not wrong,” Jongdae whispered to Baekhyun.

“Still rude!” Chanyeol whines, burying his face into a pillow.

Baekhyun crosses his arms. “Fine. Truth or dare, Jongdae?”

Jongdae smirks. “Dare.”

Baekhyun’s eyes twinkled. “I dare you… to let Kyungsoo cut your hair.”

Kyungsoo immediately sat up. “Not limited to any hairstyles right?”

“Huh? W-wait—!”

Too late. Tonight, Kyungsoo is going to make Jongdae's head sparkles✧.