Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sun filtered in softly through the sheer curtains, golden and warm, casting long sleepy lines across the bedspread. The dorm was still. The kind of silence that only came after a storm of sound and motion. Two back-to-back concerts had drained everything from them: adrenaline, strength, voice, sleep. But in this little pocket of morning light, everything had slowed down.

Hwiyoung blinked awake, squinting against the brightness. For once, he had woken up before Taeyang — something that almost never happened.

He rolled onto his side with a quiet groan, careful not to disturb the figure beside him. But the moment he turned, he smiled, lips curling softly at the sight.

Taeyang was splayed out across the bed like someone who had finally given in to gravity. One arm was bent under the pillow, the other thrown up above his head, hand lazily rested against the headboard. A leg out of the cover, hooking the duvet at the knee. His face was flushed faintly, lips parted with each slow breath, dark lashes unmoving against high cheekbones. His blonde hair was a bit of a mess, soft after a late night shower after the stage, but tamed by sleep.

He looked beautiful. Exhausted, but beautiful.

Hwiyoung reached out slowly, like he was afraid to break the quiet spell that hung over them. His hand found Taeyang’s bicep first — bare and smooth under the rumpled T-shirt sleeve — and rubbed gently, thumb dragging slow circles into the warm muscle.

“Taeyang-ah…” he whispered, voice still husky with sleep.

Taeyang didn’t respond.

“Taeyangie…”

A soft sound came out of his throat, the barest shift of his arm, and then stillness again.

Hwiyoung chuckled quietly to himself. Taeyang, who always beat everyone to the kitchen in the mornings, who religiously rode his bike every morning even on his days off, who used to shake Hwiyoung awake with energy that seemed impossible that early was now limp and entirely at the mercy of sleep.

He leaned in a little closer, draping his arm across Taeyang’s chest, forehead nearly brushing his shoulder. His voice was lower now, closer to a murmur against skin.

“You’re not gonna open your eyes even a little?”

Taeyang’s brows twitched faintly, a tiny scrunch between them as he let out another groan. It was a soft, pitiful sound — like his body knew he should wake up but had absolutely no intention of following through.

Hwiyoung smiled again, impossibly fond.

He let his fingers wander, slow and aimless, tracing over the inside of Taeyang’s elbow, down the curve of his forearm. Then up again, stroking the underside of his arm, hand hugging the muscles going up and down, around and over — absentmindedly. Pushing the sleeve of the T-shirt further away. His touch wasn’t meant to wake Taeyang up anymore. Not really. He just liked touching him. Holding him like this in the hush of morning, where time felt thick and forgiving.

“You worked too hard, hyung…” Hwiyoung said softly, mouth brushing near Taeyang’s collarbone.

“I told you not to skip meals.” came out quieter. As if mumbling to himself.

Taeyang’s lips quirked — barely — the faintest ghost of a smile. But his eyes still didn’t open. He just shifted a little beneath the covers, turning his head to nuzzle deeper into the pillow.

Another beat of silence passed.

Then: a soft, mumbled reply. Barely audible.

“Five more minutes…”

Hwiyoung let out a soft breath of laughter, brushing his lips against Taeyang’s jaw as he titled his head up.

“You’ve never said this before,” he whispered, amusement sparkling his voice as he pulled himself up, an arm bent under his chest to hold him up.

Taeyang made a sound in protest, something between a sigh and a whine, and he turned slightly toward Hwiyoung and tucked his face into his arm. Face hidden in the crook between the pillow and Hwiyoung’s body.

It was warm there. A little too warm, honestly. But Taeyang didn’t care.

Hwiyoung slid his hand slowly under the hem of Taeyang’s shirt, not to tease — just to feel. His fingertips traced along the soft skin of Taeyang’s waist, drawing idle shapes there. It made Taeyang shift again, murmuring something incoherent into Hwiyoung’s collarbone.

“What was that?” Hwiyoung teased gently.

Taeyang groaned again, voice a little clearer now. “Have I ever told you that you’re warm? And annoying.”

“But you’re not pushing me away,” Hwiyoung murmured, brushing his lips against Taeyang’s hair now, feather-light.

“Too tired to move,” Taeyang said, which made Hwiyoung smile against his skin.

“Don’t want coffee?” he whispered. As if speaking any louder would shatter the world, the beauty next to him.

Their legs were tangled under the blanket, bodies pressed together in that easy way that came from long familiarity. No urgency, no performance. Just skin against skin. Breath against breath.

Taeyang didn’t reply again. His body grew heavier, his breathing slower. And this time, Hwiyoung didn’t try to coax him awake.

He just lay there, holding him.

His fingers rubbed slow, soft strokes over the inside of Taeyang’s arm — the one still flung above his head — thumb pressing down every so often into a tense muscle or sore spot from dancing too hard. It was soothing, the way his hands moved. Familiar and careful.

A kind of love that didn’t need to be said out loud.

And so they stayed like that — in the golden slant of morning, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence. The city outside began to stir again. But inside, it was still quiet. Still slow.

Still theirs.