Chapter 1: i.
Chapter Text
So the thing that's absolute shit is: agencies may have at least some modicum of decency and allow their trainees to take days off as long as they fulfil their weekly quota of four days of practice, sure. That’s fine. However, this decency does not find itself in people (Jooheon) that suffer under their watchful thumbs because they want their poor slumbering friends (Gunhee) to haul their ass over a two-hour train ride to said agency to – what was it? Help with production.
Gunhee wakes up to the sound of Kakaotalk notifications, chiming one after the other, and barely manages to crack one eye open for long enough to assure Jooheon that yes, he's going to come, and no, he didn't just wake up. The shower is running, and the sound of it lulls him further. His phone tells him that it's only 8.22AM; maybe that makes his lie a little bit less believable, but whatever. Jooheon won't call him out on it, anyway.
It's not like he can ditch him, either. Nowadays, it's hard enough getting enough time with Jooheon to hang out: after debuting, he's been busy enough for three people, either practicing nonstop or busied up with schedules Gunhee keeps promising to watch but never gets around to. Ever since Gunhee moved back to Gayang from the trainee dorms in Gangnam, it gets harder to meet up before their respective practices start up, too. They still have general dance practice together, but their circles aren't the same like they used to be; working together has been a pipe dream for months. They'd promised to work together again like they used to right after Monsta X debuted in May, and it's nearing the end of July now. Plus, sending each other recordings and audio files over Kakaotalk isn't the same as being face to face.
In a way, the long periods of radio silence are good.
Gunhee doesn't like pity.
There’s a message from his mother, too, telling him to remember to have breakfast and to not stay up too late as he works. The timestamp reads 9:47PM. She makes sure to message him every night when she’s out of the city; this time, she’s visiting his sister, who lives far away enough that it’s better to stay a night or two than come back to this home the same day. He sends her an emoticon back and contemplates getting out of bed for long enough that his eyes close again. He wakes up ten minutes later to the sound of a door closing, and reluctantly gets out of bed.
Everything lies right where he left it: the pens strewn across his desk, the power button of the laptop they lie in front of blinking lazily; the balled up papers bearing rejected lyrics carelessly thrown on the floor; his jacket lying in a heap on the floor from where he'd hastily tried to throw it onto his desk chair and missed, amidst all the dirty clothes he still can't be bothered to pick up and toss in the laundry bin. All of his childhood accomplishments gleam in the murky light on his shelves. There is an order to the chaos, past-Gunhee would say with an imperious sniff, but present-Gunhee is muddled from sleep, so he just toes past the mess.
Hyungwon is tying his shoelaces when Gunhee stumbles out of his room, wearing the same clothes he did last night and looking like he's barely awake. His hair is just slightly damp, and his bare face looks sunken. Maybe it's just the lighting.
The house isn't so big; it just barely fits Gunhee’s family. It's not really much better than the trainee dorms. Hyungwon looks like he's too tall for it, though, too slim and strung out, and it almost looks comical. He looks up when Gunhee comes into the tiny living room, but he doesn't stop what he's doing, only standing up after he's done and shifting his weight like he doesn't want to stay. Which is, in hindsight, hypocritical as fuck; Gunhee didn't ask him to stay. He never does.
"You're awake," Hyungwon says.
"Yeah." Gunhee rubs the sleep in his eye away. Feels like an eyelash is stuck in it, or something. It takes a bit of effort to unglue his mouth and work words past the film of sleep and spit coating the inside. "Are you going home?"
Hyungwon is silent for a moment. Gunhee can see the different answers collide in Hyungwon's mouth. He leans his shoulder against the wall. "To the company, actually," Hyungwon finally says. "The dorms are too far."
Gunhee yawns hard enough to make his eardrums pop. "Yeah, Jooheon talked to me. He wants me to come."
"I see," Hyungwon says, but he doesn't follow up on it. Gunhee bristles at his olive branch being thoroughly ignored, because it's not like he can just drop in and go with Hyungwon without... asking, or telling him, but whatever. The only thing he can manage to pull to the forefront of his mind in his not-quite-awake state is breakfast.
"You wanna eat?" he asks, before he can regret it.
"No, I don't want to be late. I'll get something there."
"You're already late," Gunhee mutters, dropping his gaze to stare at his socked feet. The floor is cold, and it seeps through the flimsy protection. He wishes he were wearing shoes, or – even better – back in bed. "Might as well, unless you're planning on dropping dead in practice."
"I appreciate your concern," Hyungwon says, in a tone that implies he does not, in fact, appreciate it. "But I kind of have to take care of myself."
"It's not concern," Gunhee says. "Just human decency. That's, you know, a thing most people have. Wait here, I'm gonna come with you."
He misses Hyungwon's sarcastic mumble as he disappears into the bathroom to shower and change his clothes; it barely takes him five minutes, in and out, but he's still surprised to see Hyungwon still in the apartment when he comes out, leaning against the wall and tapping away on the phone he probably begged off his manager to give him back for a night. "Took you long enough," he says when he notices Gunhee, turning towards the door, but doesn’t offer anything else.
It's a nice enough day for a walk, with wispy clouds stretching languidly across the sky like shredded tissues. Hyungwon decides to have breakfast after all, if the way he keeps eyeing the restaurants along the way is any indication. They don't talk much while they walk; Gunhee tells Hyungwon to slow down and Hyungwon does, and the fact he has to match his pace with him in the first place is annoying. He almost regrets walking with him just because of the silence. The sun beats down on their backs, with that half-hearted sort of humidity slinking in between the buildings and onto the streets, and it's almost hot enough that he wonders how Hyungwon can stand wearing a long sleeved shirt. His faint shadow looks impossibly long next to Gunhee's. It's not early enough for the streets to be completely empty, and a pair of schoolgirls chatter excitedly to each other as they pass them by, holding ice creams that look seconds away from dripping onto their fingers; just as they round the corner, he hears one of them exclaim "Kyungmi-ah!" loud enough to pierce the morning calm. The silence resumes after as they leave them behind, but Gunhee almost wishes the imprint of the sound stayed for a little longer in his ears.
He doesn't even notice he's sweating until they drop in at the little 7-11 on the way to Balsan station. The air conditioning seeps into his hair and chills his spine, which he's thankful for. Hyungwon meanders straight to the snacks, eyeing them with something akin to calculation. Gunhee follows, feeling a little lost himself, even though he's been to this particular 7-11 thousands of times, and has it memorized in the vague way a lineless painting might lack sharp edges and definitions. It's strange to be shopping for impromptu breakfast with Chae Hyungwon. It's almost funny, when you think about it.
He ends up ditching butter-grilled squid for instant ramyun, and pours hot water into the cup from the spout at the counter. The cashier barely even glances up until Gunhee pays, and even then he just mutters a rushed thank you and continues watching something on his phone as soon as he sits down again. Hyungwon joins Gunhee at the counter just as he moves away, and sets his rice crackers down.
There's a muted sort of grace in every single one of Hyungwon's movements. It doesn't really make itself apparent when they're alone, but here, it's glaringly obvious. Gunhee had always thought Hyungwon was graceful compared to him, and that's not very difficult to do. Even now, though— even the movement of Hyungwon's arm as he reaches to fish his wallet out of his back pocket— the gentle shift of the bones of his hand and wrist under the taut skin that cages them is elegant. The glaring lighting of the convenience store throws deep shadows over the slope of his cheekbones, the little well just under the swell of his lower lip. He looks awkward.
It reminds Gunhee of why he bothers him so much. It makes him forget why he bothers him so much.
They walk to the station, Gunhee attacking his cup noodles with vigor. Hyungwon scoffs at him around his rice crackers, telling him to "stop eating so loudly, you're driving me crazy," and Gunhee grins at him and chews even more obnoxiously. Slurps up the broth, too. Take that.
They don't really talk in the train. Twenty minutes spent with Hyungwon curving his body away from Gunhee and dozing off, and Gunhee scribbling half-hearted lyrics onto his notebook. When he tires of pretending to write, he doodles in the yellowing pages and watches the matchstick bones of Hyungwon's hands shift when they twitch in his sleep. At their stop, he has to shake himself out of that heavy-boned fatigue that comes with a bad night's sleep to wake Hyungwon up.
Gwanak-gu is crowded, so a wave of heat and white noise washes over them as they step out of the train. It’s barely a two minute walk to Seongsu for the changeover; the cool of the train is soothing, but the noise stays with them, like the lazy summer heat, insistently as they arrive at Seocho Station ten minutes later and set out for the long walk between the station and the company building. Gunhee is thankful for it: dodging the crowd and counting his footsteps as he goes is all mind-numbing, and the distraction keeps him from focusing on the silence between him and Hyungwon.
The closest it ever comes to breaking is Hyungwon murmuring a quiet, raspy warning not to barge into traffic at the intersection. His voice is always thick after he wakes up, the lack of use keeping it from warming up. He’s the type that lingers on sleep, like the promise of falling back into it is just around the corner as long as he holds onto it for long enough. Despite months passing, Gunhee still remembers the tone Kwangji used to rouse Hyungwon with: pleading, sometimes exasperated.
Starship Entertainment doesn’t have its own building. Instead, it’s in the same building as LOEN, along with a few other companies: it makes for a lot of socializing, sure, but that can be a good thing or a bad thing. He’s pretty sure that they both aren't so big on interaction at the moment – their shadows have darkened and the heat is more noticeable, but they’re both lethargic as they walk into the building and take the elevator to Starship’s floor.
Hyungwon exits the elevator as soon as the doors open, leaving Gunhee loitering behind, and waves to the receptionist as well as the redhead leaning against the counter. Jooheon brightens when he sees him, pushing himself away from the counter and making his way towards him.
"Yah, Hyungwon-hyung," he calls, and Hyungwon winces a little bit: from the volume in the early morning or the embarrassment, Gunhee can't tell. "Where have you been? Seongchan-hyung's been snapping all day—"
He stops when he sees Gunhee, but Gunhee doesn't quite pay attention to his greeting. He nods along and mumbles a quiet assent, though. Of all people to catch them, he's thankful it's Jooheon: he's a bit thick when it comes to reading between the lines, which isn't exactly an observation Gunhee would have made a few months ago himself.
"Gun-ah! It’s about time. I really thought you were going to ditch again," Jooheon complains, pulling him into a complicated sort of brofist thing. "Really, I did."
"I was busy." Gunhee shrugs a little bit, reaching up to ruffle Jooheon's hair half by muscle memory and half because he knows that if he didn't, Jooheon would notice. "Sorry."
“Playing video games and clubbing?” Jooheon asks, faux-curious. Gunhee stomps down the faint indignation in favour of scrunching his nose at him. “Sounds like you were really busy.”
“Hey, you never know. I could be binge-watching all your TV appearances. Or, like, helping my mom.”
“Those don’t even take that long! You really need to work on your excuses, lazy ass,” Jooheon scoffs. "Ah, Hyungwonnie—"
The name falls so easily off Jooheon's lips when he turns to Hyungwon. There is a familiarity in the way he touches Hyungwon's shoulder that makes it seem like Gunhee isn't supposed to look. Even looking at how Hyungwon smiles at Jooheon, tired and small but still achingly, visibly there screams 'don't look, don't touch, you're intruding'. He remembers when Jooheon used to be a little shyer with Hyungwon, only a few months ago. "Didn't you message Seongchan-hyung to let him know you'll be late? How was Gwangmyeong?"
"Gwangmyeong?" Gunhee asks. "What's in Gwangmyeong?"
Hyungwon cuts his gaze to him, and his brow quirks under his wispy bangs. Realization creeps down Gunhee's spine. He snaps his mouth shut and plasters an appropriately curious look on his face, so it seems like he's just making small talk. Of course Hyungwon lied to keep suspicion away; he should lie. He's only being smart. Like Gayang, Gwangmyeong-si is an hour or so away from Starship.
"—met up with some friends from Plug In. I had fun, yeah,” Hyungwon adds, looking at Jooheon, and maybe for his benefit, he smiles a little, too. “No, I messaged him already. As soon as I woke up, actually – where is he?”
“With Kihyun-hyung.” Jooheon purses his lips. “Practice room four, I think. I ditched. Gunhee and I were going to—”
“Spare me,” Hyungwon sighs, already stepping past them to make his way down the hall. “You need to go and do whatever. I need to go and get my ass kicked.”
Jooheon laughs, waving at Hyungwon’s retreating back before wrapping his arm around Gunhee’s shoulders and tugging him to the vending machine. “The least you could do for ditching me all those times is buy me a snack. You haven’t eaten, right?”
“Fuck off, you can buy it yourself. We all get allowances,” Gunhee says amiably, feeling weight roll off his shoulders with each step towards it. “Aren’t you on a diet or something?”
“What the managers don’t know won’t kill them. Don’t you want to eat something, too?”
“We already ate on the way here.”
“Who’s we?” Jooheon’s brow furrows, and Gunhee has to fight not to flinch. Fuck. “You and Hyungwon? I didn’t know you were that close.”
“We’re not,” Gunhee says quickly. “We met on the way. I saw him near the crosswalk, actually. We, uh, finished at the same time, pretty much. That’s all.”
Jooheon stares at him for a minute, and he almost looks like he’s going to ask him about it further, but Gunhee coughs and pulls out his wallet, rifling through the contents. “Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood today. Pay me back later, yeah?”
The distraction works, but Jooheon’s words refuse to leave him, even though Jooheon dropped the subject and probably forgot it while Gunhee paid.
It’s not that Jooheon’s wrong. Gunhee and Hyungwon have never been close: not in the sense Jooheon means. They hadn’t been close like that back when they had both been trainees, either: not like Gunhee might consider himself close to Jooheon himself, or even Hoseok. Even Minkyun, before he left Starship. It’s just that the idea of people paying attention to Gunhee and Hyungwon instead of Gunhee and Hyungwon had never really occurred to him. They never really learned or understood each other, after all. They still don’t.
He doesn’t really need to learn him now, either. He knows enough. He knows how Hyungwon’s face reddens when he’s angry, how his eyes narrow and voice flattens and his lip curls just enough to be noticeable. He knows how he tenses up a little bit in the shoulders and elbows when he lies through his teeth to cover up the fact that he went home with Gunhee and let him push him down and fuck him until he’s bruised, aching, gasping, like he's done so many times before.
He wonders how Jooheon might react, if he knew.
♠♠♠
The first time must have been a month or so before the survival show. He remembers a conversation in the kitchen of a smaller, more cramped dorm that he was too sleepy to really register, and then the heat of Hyungwon’s gaze following him around. Then one day Gunhee was kissing Hyungwon and rutting his hips against his hand, feeling more and more like the world had shifted under his feet.
Then things got complicated, because Hyungwon didn’t stop looking at him and Gunhee wasn’t stoic enough to keep from looking back, all the way to the second time, and the third, and the fourth, until it stopped being quite so alien under all the fucking need.
Even after No.Mercy ended, they kind of… never really stopped.
They don’t fuck often; their schedules don’t match, or they’re busy, or they can’t get each other alone. Something always comes up.
They’re not attached or exclusive or anything. They’re not clichéd like that. It’s just a matter of convenience. He wouldn’t call them friends with benefits, either. Maybe a few months ago, sure, but now? They’re not really close enough to be friends anymore. He’s not sure what frequent (semi-frequent?) fucking between friends is supposed to be like, but it’s probably not like them.
It doesn’t take much. Just a passing look, sometimes, or a glance that lingers too long, and the itch at the back of Gunhee’s wrists directs his hands to his phone until he’s typing out a message. He will see Hyungwon every now and then in the halls, and when they make eye contact Hyungwon’s expression flutters around the edges, like he wants to say something. Sometimes, Hyungwon raises his eyebrow, daring, waiting, and when Gunhee fishes his phone out when he’s alone, a notification from him will be sitting on his lock screen. Starship Chae Hyungwon, and underneath that, 1 new message.
Answer, yes or no, and if it’s yes, if they both have time, if they won’t get caught, if they can manage to get each other alone for long enough to work out the stress and tension and everything else that comes with struggling in this industry, they fuck. There’s no other way to describe it. Fucking each other wrecked, marks all over skin. Fucking with their bodies washed with differently coloured light – red, purple, pink, blue – in hotels, tiny confined universes tucked into alleyways with sly entrances and faceless receptionists that take extra money because they’re two men. Fucking Hyungwon into walls, fucking Hyungwon against doors, over desks, against mirrors, on the sofa, on the floor, in Gunhee’s home when no one can catch them, tangled up on Gunhee’s childhood bed.
♠♠♠
He’s still thinking about those words later, when he’s pretending to focus on the track Jooheon’s been having trouble with, spacing out and staring at how his skin lights up blue from the monitor. When Jooheon had sent him the skeleton track over Kakaotalk, he’d teased him over it: It sounds like a sad love song. Since when do you do this sort of thing? He’d gotten an embarrassed sticker and protests he could practically hear Jooheon whining: it’s not like that, it’s for the group, it’s from an idol’s point of view. Marketable and all that. Gunhee teased him more for showing such an exaggerated sensitive side, but it’s not difficult to reconcile that with Jooheon.
The track is a melancholy sort of thing, all ambient and echoing, but the finishing is rough and jagged around the edges in a way that doesn’t really fit the rest of the song. There’s an undertone of something off throughout the track that he can’t put his finger on; it’s most prominent at the climax. Gunhee already knows the board won’t approve it for an album. It doesn’t mean it’s not nice to listen to. It’s just not the sound that fits.
He tries to change it around, too, throwing out suggestions he doesn’t really think through. The song ends up distorting further under his hands, sounding even more dissonant than it did before. He has to force the thought of Hyungwon out of his head too many times before he’s ready to genuinely pay attention to the song, but Jooheon doesn’t seem to notice how out of it he is; he just throws a pen at him and leans back in his chair, staring at the keyboard in front of him.
“The reverb,” Jooheon says, contemplatively. “I mean, I just put it together, but… does it sound weird to you? Too dramatic or something?”
The track rises and falls, but the reverb isn’t the problem. The emptiness after the reverb is hollow and straining, but it fits the song. There’s something else bothering Gunhee: there’s a weird beat there somewhere, making it sound less like nostalgia and more like a steady decline. He can’t decide if it’s not personal enough or too personal. He says so.
“I don’t think that’s it.” Jooheon drums his fingers to the beat. “Otherwise it sounds empty.”
“There’s a difference between empty and stripped bare, right?” Gunhee leans in closer and plays the track again, drumming his fingers along to it as well, and, yes, there it is – the strange grating he feels rather than hears. “Keeping it simple makes it, like… personal, like a secret. I think cutting out the extra shit would be better.”
“The little things give it depth,” Jooheon insists. “There has to be a balance, like... there’s no order to the way you learn about something.”
“If there’s too much to focus on you end up getting a headache,” he shoots back. It’s not the right way to say what he wants to say, Gunhee realizes, when Jooheon’s frown deepens instead of easing out into something just playfully indignant. He bumps Jooheon’s shoulder with his own, hoping he doesn’t take it to heart. “Good thing you only need to tweak it a bit. It’s good otherwise. I think the climb up—”
“Crescendo.”
“Crescendo,” Gunhee mocks, saying it in the same accent Jooheon said it with, “right, that— it’s a bit too much to take in at once? It’s too sudden and way too loud for the rest, like… it tries to sound – what’s the word? Majestic? But just ends up sounding a little crowded. It’s overwhelming, so…”
It doesn’t resonate. It’s trying to be something it’s not. He stops himself before he says those things, trailing off.
“Simple doesn’t have to be bad,” he finishes, feeling a little silly, suddenly, as if it’s not Jooheon he’s saying this to, as if he doesn’t have the permission to say this honestly to his friend. “And you don’t want it to be simple, then, uh, the pace is important. If it’s not… paced properly then even something with emotion to it is going to sound like it moved too fast. Or that it had, like, too much shit going on? I don’t know. I’m not good at figuring out these types of songs.”
Jooheon hums. There’s a one-sidedly companionable sort of silence between them for a few seconds, with Jooheon lost in thought. “No, I think you’re getting better at this.”
A few months ago, Gunhee might have felt happy at the acknowledgement; now, despite the lingering ease and comfort of being around Jooheon, a bitter taste spreads over his tongue. Stop it, he thinks, smoothing his palms over his knees. I didn’t ask for your approval. I don’t need your approval. It’s not your place to tell me what I’m good at.
Then, seconds after, he feels bad for thinking it. Takes it back. He’s been doing this more and more lately – thinking bitter things before hastily taking them back, confused as to where they even came from. It’s not that he thinks he doesn’t deserve it or anything, or that it isn’t true. It’s just that something about Jooheon saying this to him, talented and overachieving with his red hair and faintest dredges of fame, rubs him the wrong way, no matter how close they are. He understands where this unease comes from. He doesn’t understand why it won’t leave.
But he’s not angry like this. It’s not him.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Jooheon adds, idly, and Gunhee scoffs and mumbles a reflexive answer about how that’s rich, coming from Jooheon’s cocky mouth. Back to normal.
Just like that.
♠♠♠
July melts into August with the same bursts of colour in between the cloudy, rainy weather that come every year. This is the time for the heat to sit heavy with humidity and numerous festivals to weave in a constant layer of sound under it. As the days stretch on, melting into each other like summer cycles often do, Gunhee finds that he can’t wash the routine off his skin.
There are nights that he goes out with his friends and family to break the routine, enabled by the constant thrum of the festivals this time of the year, but slips back into normalcy with very little effort. Sleep, work, eat, sleep. It settles on him like a layer, muscle memory, and he goes through the motions with ease, until he’s not quite so exhausted and just… tired. It’s trainee life. It’s nothing but a routine.
“The point of training is getting better, though,” he tells Minho, frustrated, while they have dinner together. “I don’t think…”
Minho frowns at him, contemplative, over a spoonful of steamed egg. “Evaluations aren’t a measure of your real talent,” he says. “Just because you’re not seeing results from other people doesn’t mean you’re not improving at all.”
And yeah, so, the thing that's absolute shit is: agencies have the decency of allowing their trainees to take days off as long as they fulfil their weekly quota of four days of practice, sure, but it’s hard to find the motivation or even the determination to get up and do everything when you feel like you’re moving too slow for the rest of the world. For Gunhee, who thrives on acknowledgement and files his milestones away with it backing them up, it’s hard to believe that there’s improvement happening when even he can’t see it. He knows he’s good, but it’s just that he’s lost on what are considered his weak points; they are points he’s learned to shift to his benefit until they have his colour splashed over them.
Nowadays, even writing is getting a little harder. For an idol rapper that fills a position rather than assumes the title of being a rapper, with all the connotations that come with it, this wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s not that. He doesn’t fit in that role. He can’t take lyrics written for him and spit them out; they roll heavily in his mouth like he’s tasting something foreign and not quite liking it, and the end result comes out stilted and awkward. He tells Minho as much.
The look on Minho’s face immediately shifts into empathetic. He would know of this feeling, Gunhee thinks, and that makes it a little easier. “Maybe you’re just going through a block right now. Stress and all that. If there’s too much on your plate you start focusing on that shit.”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t churn things out like a machine,” Minho says. He’s right, in a way. Content and mannerism: this is what makes a good rapper. If it’s not personal, if it’s not ripped straight from the heart or from the head, then it’s just… empty words.
Gunhee shakes his head. “I can’t wait for inspiration to come? I don’t know when that’ll happen.”
“But forcing yourself to work will burn you out,” Minho argues, as if he hadn’t gone through what he did to get into Stardom at first, and then into YG. It’s easy to forget you could ever fit in the too-small shoes you wore any amount of time before the present, if you try hard enough. His thought process might be showing on his face, or maybe Minho just has good intuition for him, because he presses his lips together and continues: “You should try to find something that helps relieve the stress.”
That’s what people say all the time. That when you’re all burned out, find something you enjoy doing, and you can balance them both. Gunhee has enjoyed rapping and music for years, and it isn’t going to stop anytime soon; it is the fact, he thinks, that he has to push himself into a little box, with monthly evaluations being its dimensions, that bothers him so much. After No.Mercy, the urge to do it has intensified. But that’s trainee life. He knows that. Minho isn’t wrong: something to get his mind off things, not related to work, is important.
Sex, he finds, helps very much in relieving the stress.
Tangled legs, tangled hands, mouths wet and dragging against each other’s skin. Tension used as the paint to the canvas of skin, bled out and splattered on the expanse. It leaves him heavy-boned and satisfied, mind wiped clean and fresh until the trickle of thoughts as it comes back on track spreads in. He’s unwound, and it takes some time before he’s all tangled up and has to do it again.
Sex with Hyungwon helps very much in relieving the stress.
It is frantic with the same air and urgency of two people that know each other’s bodies as well as the fact that their time is limited. They’re rough, harsh, challenging. Gunhee feels the sting and burn and ache of it for days after, and it flares every time he catches Hyungwon’s eye. When it fades away and the itch comes back, those glances are what make him stop in his tracks and want. It’s good. It’s fucking good. Hyungwon knows how to talk to make him want to shut him up, so Gunhee fucks him with his tongue and his fingers and his cock until he can't speak anymore.
Here is how he fucks Hyungwon next:
Only a few days later, there is a small window of opportunity between his vocal evaluation and Hyungwon’s dance practice. It has been long enough since the last time that he hesitates that little amount when they’re alone, feeling out the little gap between asking, is this okay? Can I do this? and the ability to come up to Hyungwon no matter what he’s doing and get right up in his personal space, watch his pupils dilate to focus on Gunhee. The gap is smaller today, and he fists his hands in Hyungwon’s hoodie and drags their mouths together, cramped up on the floor behind the desk in the abandoned practice room no one uses anymore. The door is locked and the music to one of Gunhee’s older tracks is pumping from Gunhee’s phone to muffle them.
Hyungwon looks good when he has his lips wrapped around Gunhee's dick. He looks best like that – mouth stuffed full, lips pink and puffy, eyes big and bright and wanting when they glance up at him, as if to make sure he's watching. He tongues at the flare of Gunhee's cockhead, once, and then keeps on flicking – rubbing it, almost, pressing up and rocking his head back and forth on it so his lips make slick sounds on the skin. Gunhee feels like he's on fire. His thighs are tense and he's getting sensitive and Hyungwon's so infuriatingly good at doing this to him; he sucks so good, cupping his balls and pulling off to stroke him when he gets tired of locking his jaw open. In the harsh lights, he can easily see the bulging, obscene line of his cock against Hyungwon’s cheek.
He wants to do so much – claw at his pretty face and make him choke on him. Wants to make him slap at Gunhee's hips and cough around him when he pulls him down further by the hair. Wants to leave marks on his skin, brands of Gunhee's teeth and hands everywhere, so people will see and know Hyungwon's not as picky and hard to get as he pretends to be: he's a slut begging to be down in the dirt, and Gunhee's the one dragging him through the gravel until he has skinned hands and knees.
So he fucks his mouth. He fucks him, one hand on the back of Hyungwon’s head, until Hyungwon is practically choking on him, digging his nails into his skin and slapping at Gunhee’s thighs to get him to ease up. The tension bleeds out through the sting, until Gunhee’s not thinking about the evaluation and focused entirely on the feeling of Hyungwon’s mouth on him, his hands pressed to him.
He sucks Hyungwon off in return, too, lying on his stomach in between Hyungwon’s spread legs and pushing him back to lean against the wall: cheeks hollowed around his cock, tongue pressed to the slit. All the while, Hyungwon watches him and whispers his name in his raspy, wrecked voice, choking it out with this hitch, like it's catching on the back of his tongue, Gunhee, Gunhee, Gunhee.
♠♠♠
They don’t see each other much all throughout the month, since Hyungwon is so busy preparing for the new comeback, and their managers are stricter about phone confiscation. Their schedules don’t quite slot up; Gunhee spends more time with his friends not quite in the industry’s scene in those days, and most of his time in the company is spent with others. He catches sight of Hyungwon through glass windows on doors, or napping all crushed up against Shownu in the practice rooms. It’s easy to forget the fact that he is familiar with Hyungwon, in those moments; all those days of living together and struggling together, along with the rest, and all the times that they’ve carelessly fumbled around like they’re a few years younger and still learning how to touch another body melt away. They show completely different sides of themselves only when they’re alone.
Every now and then, they pass each other in the hallways, or make eye contact too many times for it to be a coincidence when they’re in the same room. Gunhee almost thinks that Hyungwon is going to be the one to reach out, considering all that he’s busy with, but he doesn’t. He lasts a few weeks of waiting for him, challenging him with lazy grins and deliberate looks and subtle remarks under his breath in the rare moments when they’re in close enough proximity, which only lessen in frequency once his own evaluations are up near the end of the month.
Minho was right. He can’t churn things out like a machine, and all that he manages to write seems cheap, too similar to what anyone else could come up with and not quite personal enough. He still hasn’t gotten feedback on the tracks he submitted a week or so ago, and the silence works him up worse; it would be better if he had gotten the feedback earlier, so he knew what to improve instead of trying to do it for everything all at once. He knows his strengths, sure, and he’s learned how to work his weaknesses to his advantage, but that was before and this is a company evaluation, which makes a difference.
One day, the morning melts into the afternoon with no work done whatsoever, until the blue glow of the computer screen is burned into the back of his eyes. He grabs a quick lunch with Jiseok, Wonho, and Minkyun, but then his hour-long break ticks overtime when he walks with Wonho to the practice rooms and finds Jooheon and Changkyun already there. They’re sitting on the bench pushed up against the wall and watching something on their iPad. Changkyun taps on the screen to pause it when he notices them in the doorway, waving. Wonho, upon seeing that no one is there except them, excuses himself to go and work on a few songs ‘until the rest come back; you know where to find me’, but Gunhee chooses to stay. Changkyun pulls his legs in close so Gunhee has room to sit next to him on the bench.
He’s not very shy around him anymore, like he used to be. Changkyun and Gunhee had been a little awkward with each other, justifiably, for a few weeks after No.Mercy, though to be fair, everyone eliminated had been a little bit awkward with Changkyun. Still, it only took a few interactions, catalyzed by Jooheon firmly seating himself as the glue between them without even realizing he was doing it, before they became comfortable. Changkyun is either too quiet or too loud, but he gets along with most people easily, and it’s just. Really hard not to like him. Gunhee wanted to dislike him, sure. He can’t.
More than that, Changkyun knows what he’s doing when it comes to music. Gunhee isn’t surprised he was set to debut before his old company fucked him over.
“Hey, what are you doing,” Gunhee mumbles as he settles down next to them. Jooheon tilts the screen towards him; they’re watching their own dance practice for their new title track. The choreography is all jumping and wide and tiring; there’s footwork that makes Gunhee want to never get up again. The volume is turned down low, but Gunhee can make out the bassline and the honking synth.
“Is this the song Giriboy made?”
“Yeah, this is the one. Rush. Oh, did you mess up a bit there?” Jooheon says, distracted, to Changkyun, rewinding so they can watch those few seconds again. “With your leg?”
Changkyun shrugs. “Slipped.”
“The choreography is tiring,” Gunhee notes, but he’s not thinking of the stage; it’s only four minutes of performing up there, but the practices always take hours. Changkyun says pretty much the same thing Gunhee’s thinking, but he trails off, distracted, to watch until the end.
“We’re actually supposed to be practicing right now, but everyone’s busy,” he continues once the screen goes black.
Jooheon backs out of the gallery and locks the iPad with a great sigh that turns, at the tail end, into a sheepish laugh. “Hongsik-hyung is going to kill us.”
“It’s not our fault,” Changkyun says immediately. “We’ll just say it’s not our fault. We were here on time, everyone else disappeared.”
Everyone else, huh. Gunhee can’t quite stop himself from perking up at that; he’s never been good at curbing his curiosity. “Don’t you guys come here together?” he asks. “You have a car and everything, you lucky assholes.”
Car envy is something that pretty much all trainees taking public transportation regularly share and find no problem in vocalizing, so Jooheon steamrolls right over it. “I think Kihyun-hyung is on the Plan A Entertainment floor. Minhyuk-hyung was with us for a while, but I don’t know where he is now. I’m pretty sure Shownu-hyung and Hyungwon went for something to eat.”
“We should just start without them,” Changkyun adds. “They’ll probably take a long time.”
There are the beginnings of a question itching at the back of Gunhee’s head, but it dissolves before he can pull it into formation. The conversation flits, as it usually does, from topic to topic, in a steady stream. They probably lose track of time in the way people with just enough things to talk about stored over the right amount of time – not too long, so there’s not too much and thus nothing at all to focus on, and not too little either – often do.
They are interrupted by, ironically enough, Shownu and Hyungwon as Gunhee recounts the events at a music festival he’d gone to a few days prior with a friend. There is a chorus of greetings, as is custom, as well as a quick exchange of the whereabouts of the other members when Hyungwon asks.
“I’ll go get Hoseok,” Shownu offers, gravitating with Hyungwon to the other corner so they can set their things down. Hyungwon is hanging off Shownu as he’s been doing more and more lately, talking to him inaudibly. Gunhee can see his lips moving, but can’t hear him at all. Their heads are so close together, all secretive. He has to fight the frown off the corners of his lips.
Jooheon and Changkyun grab his attention again by rushing him through the last few bits of his story. Shownu leaves to fetch Wonho and Hyungwon settles in on Jooheon’s other side, taking the iPad from him. Gunhee is good at storytelling, at getting right into it, and he tries hard not to stumble over his words. The eldest two come back just as he wraps up, and Jooheon and Changkyun reluctantly get up to start dance practice.
Gunhee stretches his legs out in front of him, and Hyungwon sets the iPad down between them. He doesn’t get up to join them in warming up, and when he speaks, his voice is low, so Gunhee has to lean in and strain his ears to hear him.
“Don’t you have dance soon too?” Hyungwon says. “Jiseok was looking for you.”
Jiseok left to pick his sister up from school after lunch. A beat passes, but Gunhee doesn’t call him out on it; it’s as pointed a dismissal as Hyungwon could make it. It’s so casual: the way he says it, the way he turns his head to watch the rest. The least he could do is look him in the eye. Gunhee glances, lightning quick, at Shownu, and feels the question sound its colour out in his head, not quite defined yet.
“I’m going,” he says instead of letting it form, this time, waving it off in favour of getting up. He does have work to do, and his things are still in the workroom he was using earlier. He does not look back to see if Hyungwon watches him go.
♠♠♠
Hyungwon goes blonde in late August for his comeback.
Gunhee can’t keep his eyes off him when he first sees him. His hair is a beacon, much lighter than the brown he had it dyed to before. It’s the lightest he’s seen on Hyungwon, he thinks. It just… grabs his attention.
“You look fucking good like this,” Gunhee tells him later, when they’re alone and Hyungwon is riding him, spilled across his lap. When he touches his hair, he finds it rough to the touch, but not as rough as it could be; he remembers Jooheon’s was worse than this. It has been a few days since Hyungwon bleached his, so he must have gotten conditioning treatments. He tugs on his hair, and Hyungwon’s head tips back with the motion. Gunhee continues with his lips pressed to the soft skin of Hyungwon’s throat, just above the hollow of it: “You look like a proper fucking idol.”
They are in a borrowed room somewhere in the back alleys of Seoul: another pocket universe washed, this time, with blue light, with dimensions that are just enough to wrap four walls around a king bed. The light covers the marks that Gunhee can feel throbbing on his body well enough that he knows he’ll be surprised waking up to them tomorrow. It shines, vivid, on Hyungwon’s hair, lighting it up with the same glowing blue.
“You’ve been looking at me a lot lately.”
“Because of this.” Gunhee follows the vibration of Hyungwon’s throat, the way it climbs up the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple when he speaks, nosing along it and then scraping his teeth over it. Just a little. “You look like a proper fucking idol.”
There might be something in his voice that makes Hyungwon arch back and away from him, pushing him flat on his back. “You’re jealous,” he accuses, his rhythm stuttering.
Gunhee picks up on the shake of Hyungwon’s voice, curling his hand around his cock to draw more of it out of him. Hyungwon’s breathing picks up as he fucks his hand around him, clean and quick, with his palm sliding across the head of his cock. “Jealous of what? You?”
“Of whoever you call a proper idol when they’re not like you—as if you don’t want to be one yourself—”
It comes out practiced, like Hyungwon has been thinking over it. And that’s it, then: Gunhee’s heart feels like it skips a beat and then turns itself inside out. He doesn’t like the way Hyungwon is looking at him, like he’s got him all figured out, eyes lidded and nose upturned.
“You don’t understand me,” Gunhee hisses, sliding his hand all the way up to curl around Hyungwon’s bared throat tight in response to the words that make his blood pound in his ears, his lip curl. The pressure makes him slow down on top of Gunhee, grinding his hips onto his cock in aborted, jerky movements. It takes him a few seconds before he can drag Gunhee’s wrist away from his neck, nails embedded in his skin, with a furious sound, and then—as if he thinks he can actually keep him down—he pins Gunhee’s wrists above his head on the mattress.
It takes a better fight than he had expected, but he manages to wrestle Hyungwon’s hands away from his to free them up. Hyungwon slurs a moan when Gunhee grips his hips hard and slams them down on his cock; it stutters out and then rises in pitch when Gunhee fucks upwards to meet him halfway on each bounce.
This started frantic: Gunhee pulling Hyungwon into his lap and mouthing at his beating pulse and the skin he knows his marks will be kept a secret on; Hyungwon impatiently tugging Gunhee’s clothes off, dragging him as close as he can possibly get until Gunhee feels like he’s drowning.
It’s because of the build up, which burns more due to their proximity in the days prior but having no chance, until now, to act upon the tease. They go casual conversations lilting into something sharper lurking under the glaze. They go days and days giving each other fuel but not fire, but the times Gunhee wondered if the twist to Hyungwon’s mouth was only hateful and not hated are long gone. When they come together at night—they do it less often nowadays—there is a greater urgency to fuck everything out so they’re left softer and malleable in the wake of it, so they can breathe without too much clogging their lungs. In these rooms, just in these rooms, they are the metaphor that’s alluded to in all those songs to fuck to, the one for a harsh fuck and dirty words and skin sticking against skin until the imprint of the touch can’t even be washed off.
It isn’t a lie. Hyungwon doesn’t understand him in all the ways that matter. Gunhee feels this in the way he looks at him, like a sharp-thorned smile and a second of eye contact is all Gunhee can scrounge from him before his dismissal. It shows in what he says to him to rile him up, and the option of Hyungwon actually not understanding even though he can see it all is a little safer than him seeing right through Gunhee, through whatever he shows on his thick skin, and picking out the bits he wants.
What stings isn’t the fact that Hyungwon knows him too well, now, and comes just fucking short of knowing him the right way; it’s not how he knows the colour of Gunhee’s thoughts but not the shapes, the lines, the specifics. It’s this: no matter what he bites out in an effort to make Gunhee fuck him better, rubbing salt in the wounds and all, Gunhee’s still going to come back to him. Maybe it’s how Hyungwon strips more than just his clothes off of him, or maybe it’s just because the sex is good. The sex is so good. A long time ago, Gunhee would have scoffed at the idea of regularly fucking Chae Hyungwon speechless, but now he has permission and the ammunition for it, and now the itch he feels is only fucking satisfied when Hyungwon’s the edge scratching against it.
He has the permission for it.
It’s not nice. He thinks of stopping. He thinks of never stopping.
“You’re not that hard to figure out,” Hyungwon replies. His thighs are trembling and he has to support himself with his hands on Gunhee’s chest, but he looks cutting: his eyes are narrowed and his lip is curled. “You’re easy — typical underground rapper thinking he deserves more because his friends praise him down there, but, fuck, you’re not even the best—”
It’s so easy to fight him onto his back. Gunhee gets slaps to his face and fingers in his mouth and a bruise to his shin where Hyungwon kicks out against him, but it’s fucking easy to pin Hyungwon’s wrists and pull his legs open and sink into him again at a harsher pace. You’re wrong, he could say, it’s not like that, he could say, but Hyungwon is licking into his mouth and silencing him with strokes of his tongue. Gunhee lets him for a while, but then Hyungwon turns his head, gasping with his eyes shut tight, whispering something about there, fuck me there.
“And you are?” Gunhee angles his hips, slides into him with a slower drag, watching his expressions change. He can feel him trying to break free, too, straining against Gunhee’s hands on his wrists. “You think you’re better than me because people call you pretty? You don’t have anything else, you know that? You’re not that fucking special.”
Hyungwon blinks his eyes open, stays quiet for a beat. Stares at him, a little accusing. “Is that what this is about?” he asks finally, but his tone is a little knowing, like he doesn’t even need him to answer. Gunhee’s hips stutter at the directness. He is thrown off for only a beat, but this is all it comes down to: Hyungwon cutting through even when Gunhee’s trying to turn the tables. The words tangle on his tongue. He says no, he says it’s not, but Hyungwon isn’t listening, and this is the anger that Gunhee feels tide over him, the fire to the fuel they’ve both been throwing for so long.
“You’re so bitter, Gunhee—”
“I’m not bitter.”
“You’re fucking bitter,” Hyungwon insists. There’s still the breathy edge to his voice, but Gunhee knows this expression, restrained and frustrated; Hyungwon feels good, Hyungwon wants him to give him more. Gunhee can see him trying to compose himself out of pride. The shine of Hyungwon’s eyes takes on an almost calculating glint when he narrows them. “Does it bother you that I—” He cuts himself off, abrupt. “Yoonho deals with it a lot better than you,” he says instead, biting it out.
The mention of Yoonho is so unexpected that Gunhee actually pauses for just a second. “What the fuck do you mean,” he mutters, slow and dragging. He hadn’t known that Hyungwon actually kept in contact with the younger boy, considering that they’d never really been particularly close (but then again, the same could be said for Hyungwon and Gunhee). He’s not sure if Hyungwon even meant to say it out loud; instead of following up, he is rocking his hips into Gunhee’s when the pace isn’t satisfying enough for him. When Gunhee shoves him back down and pins him in place, he remains silent and stubborn for a few more seconds, as if he is searching for an answer, a proper attack.
“He’s trained for years longer than you have,” Hyungwon says finally, the curve of his mouth going mean. “He’s coping fine.”
Here, it starts to make sense. Logic pulls cold into Gunhee’s haze, coming in trickles. They’d been the last two eliminated, sure, but there had been that prank, and the fact that they were both rappers vying for a position in the same idol group. He can’t pick out the specifics of his thoughts.
What it comes down to is this: both of them get looks. Both of them get unwanted pity. Still, any idiot could see that the reason behind the pity for Yoonho isn’t because he was robbed of his chance despite having talent. It’s because people feel obligated to feel that way for him. It’s a sort of weakness Gunhee doesn’t want people to feel for him; what’s the point if you achieve something because someone’s sorry for you? How is that any different from cheating?
And— what's worse is that Hyungwon should know this. He can't compare them both just like that when there are so many differences between them: their origins, their passion, their level of dedication, their talent. He probably does know, and he's doing it anyway. It's not right for him to use Yoonho as a stepping stone in his game in the first place.
“That’s different,” he replies. “Kid has practice with failure, doesn’t he?” And then, when the connection actually forms in his head: “If I’m coping, then what are you doing here? Why are you here?”
He doesn’t get an immediate answer to that, so he hikes himself up, pushing Hyungwon’s thighs open wider and holding onto his ankles to keep him that way, spread open and exposed. So much fucking skin, so much of Gunhee ruining Hyungwon, and he still is so arrogant. He shakes the previous feeling off of his back and leans in to nip at the tender inside of Hyungwon’s knee, revelling in the jerk he gets for it. His words weren’t really meant to get a reaction, so when Hyungwon tries to move, pathetic, against him and fuck himself on Gunhee’s cock, it all tumbles out of him. “You’re just here because you’re gagging for it hard? From me, right? Bet that’s what you jerk it to when you're too busy. When you're not stringing your boytoys along.”
“What?” Hyungwon asks sharply, but it breaks into a moan when Gunhee starts fucking him in earnest again. He has wider range of movement like this, and it helps him move deep and hard, so his hips slap against Hyungwon’s ass. The sting, along with the sight of how Hyungwon abandons stroking himself with these stuttery, frantic tugs to fist his hands in the sheets, builds the fire back up.
“Yeah, of course you do,” Gunhee continues, blood pulsing in his neck, in his temples. He’s speaking without thinking, almost. “That’s what gets you hard.” He lets go of one of Hyungwon’s ankles to grind his palm over the head of Hyungwon’s cock, sliding it down and squeezing. A bitten off gasp. “That’s what gets you leaking, doesn’t it, when you have to wait?”
Hyungwon is glaring at him, teeth grit and brows furrowed, but no, no, Gunhee can hear that breathy undertone to his voice, the readiness in which he gives his sounds up now that Gunhee’s started talking filthy to him. He fucks the look off Hyungwon’s face. Comes with Hyungwon’s index and middle fingers pressing down on the flat of his tongue, fresh bitemarks on his shoulders and stinging lines scored down his back in sets of four.
In the first bone-tired afterglow, he turns Hyungwon onto his stomach and fucks him one more time, much slower, holding his hands behind his back. Hyungwon’s fingers bump into his with each languid thrust, curling and uncurling uselessly, and he’s loud, sensitive from it. They have the time to do it like this when they’re here, which is a luxury Gunhee doesn’t think he’s ever going to be used to.
They're flashes of sex compressed into angled camera frames, the dirty secret crammed into a movie that's not supposed to be about them; here's where they leave off and here's where they continue off-screen. He goes home with his body aching all over, replaying Hyungwon in his head with that pride in his chest, raw and vicious, for how he managed to make him forget his words for long enough to count.
♠♠♠
For some reason, it sticks. He isn't expecting it to, but Gunhee can’t stop thinking about the comparison Hyungwon made long after they part, once he’s taken a shower and his head is clearer and he can think again. The indignation from before is gone, but the undertone remains, much cooler and calmer. He doesn't quite know why it sticks: it's not the first time Hyungwon has riled him up with his words and a pointed remark that hits too close, but here they are.
The thing is. The thing is, he likes Yoonho. He’s a good kid, and he’d always wanted to help out, and he’d been nice in a way people aren’t usually when they stick around for so long in the industry. He’d been humble, and very, very young. It’s hard to not end up having a little bit of a soft spot for him.
The nickname ‘fossil’ still follows him around, last Gunhee checked — not that it was very recently, considering how their groups don’t mix as much anymore — but there’s a sort of heaviness to his shoulders that Gunhee can recognize. Hell, he doesn’t even know why Yoonho still sticks around in this company. He’s been wondering that long before No.Mercy began, too. It’s not because he expects Yoonho to be tired of it. It’s just that it’s painfully obvious that he falls just short of Starship’s respectable standards.
The reality is that Yoonho is completely mediocre.
Pure, astounding determination got him through all the evaluations and all the missions, but the underlying fact of him not quite being good enough to stand out from a crowd can’t be disputed at all. He’s a good dancer, sure, and he was a good vocalist before his vocal chords got fucked up by nodes and he had to start over from scratch in a field he didn’t even really like. Just because he’s got talent doesn’t mean he’s learned to home himself walking in those shoes well enough to turn it into a skill.
He likes him well enough. It’s just that liking him as a person doesn’t negate the fact that he’s not… as skilled as Gunhee is.
Now, when he walks through the halls of the company building, Gunhee imagines that people pity him. He still remembers the look on Yoonho’s face as they’d been ushered towards their respective interviews by apologetic staffs. Two days after Gunhee had packed up and moved back into his family home, he’d watched the episode in full and saw a similar one on himself, too. He hadn’t really paid attention to the younger boy at all in the aftermath — not even while they’d packed together, side by side — since they’d both been too lost in their own thoughts, but when he’d watched all the interviews near the end of the episode, he’d been… taken aback? He guesses.
Yoonho, in his interview, had looked accepting of it. Like he’d considered this outcome seriously and had already mentally prepared for it. Gunhee doesn’t know if it’s because he’s just failed at this so many times already or if it’s because he’s one of those mature kids that learn how to cope with all possible outcomes because of the fact that they just… shine. They don’t shine brightly or anything. They just shine, like an overlooked star in a constellation; a working gear. That’s all. He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on which fit the kid; it was pathetic either way that someone’s defeat was justified by their mediocrity.
There’s the difference: that Gunhee felt so sure, and Yoonho only hoped. That Yoonho losing is justified by him not being ready to win and knowing it, whereas Gunhee still catches himself thinking about what ifs that could have been reality if only a few factors had worked in his favour.
It’s a bit ironic when, only a few days later, on a Thursday, he runs into him on a snack break. Yoonho is loitering by the elevator when Gunhee and Jooheon notice him, even taller than before (possibly in the middle of a growth spurt?) and hunched over a bunch of papers he’s holding in his hands. He folds them when he catches sight of them, and they end up going to one of the cafés they used to frequent as trainees. For all his nervousness, Yoonho is easy to get along with and talk to, and it's easy to remember why everyone likes him so much.
Yoonho admits, hiding behind his cup of coffee like a child, what the papers are for: resignation. “I've been talking to Minkyun a lot," he mumbles, "and we both agree that it seems best for me, so... I don't know. I don't want to spend a few more years here, you know?”
“So you're leaving the company?" Gunhee asks incredulously, brows furrowed. “Are you sure?”
To say it's unexpected would be an understatement; Yoonho has been a constant at the company for so long, working the best he can. It rubs Gunhee the wrong way, a little, that he's choosing to give up now; the reasoning Yoonho gives them sounds like he's barely cobbled it together, like he's scared, too. “I want a different opportunity,” he explains, sounding sure of this, at least. Gunhee feels conflicted over it, quieting down, but Jooheon presses the topic for a little bit, still disbelieving and a little upset.
“Leave the baby alone,” Gunhee says, kicking Jooheon under the table. “You'll make him cry.”
He has time to think about it on the walk back to the company; the swell of conflict doesn't quite leave him. It's strange, how just Yoonho leaving the company is making him feel so weird; on one hand, he's a little upset to see him go, sure, especially since he's been working so hard here, and it just... it's a strange change. Yoonho has grown up too quickly, he decides, but on the other hand, he keeps coming back to the comparison Hyungwon drew between the both of them. Gunhee has a victory here.
It would help if Jooheon shut up about it. “Can you believe it?” he whines at every opportunity, making sure to whisper because Yoonho asked them not to tell anyone else quite yet.
Gunhee humours him until the fifth time, at which point he kicks him on the leg again. "Shut up about it already!"
“What?” Jooheon says, wounded, rubbing at the place Gunhee kicked. “I just can't believe it, okay? Would you have believed it if you hadn't seen the papers? Gun?”
“No,” Gunhee admits after a pause. “Not really.”
♠♠♠
On the weekend, Gunhee’s mother leaves to visit his sister. “You could come with me,” she repeats, as he’s helping her put on her shoes. “You’ll only need to pack for two days.”
“Next time,” he promises, tapping her ankle so she can lift her other foot, and slides her shoe on. “You’ve already made me food and everything, it’ll go to waste.”
“Excuses,” she sighs, resigned and fond. “You make them up so smoothly nowadays.”
“I love your cooking,” Gunhee says, with as earnest a grin as he can manage, and straightens to hug her. She smiles when Gunhee reminds her to go safely and stay warm, kissing his cheek goodbye before leaving.
It’s too quiet once she leaves, which is probably a side effect of everything that’s happened over the past few weeks. He plays music, tries to practice in his tiny room, but his voice echoes a little bit in the empty space, and the fact that he doesn’t have to close his door so he doesn’t disturb anyone sits strangely in the air. This feeling has not bothered him for a very long time, but today, he feels too restless to try and ignore it. Anything he tries to practice falls into a mumble and then into nothing, like threads unravelling.
His sister texts him only a short while after, sending him a screenshot of her text conversation with their mother and captioning it with a complaint about how he’s becoming a stranger. He tells her he has work, practice, can’t compromise the creative streak. She sends him offended stickers until he apologizes and promises the same thing he’d promised his mother – next time, definitely, which opens the gateway to their usual banter. It’s comfortable, but he can’t find the energy to reply to her after a while.
It’s one of those feelings when you’re in the mood for only a certain type of interaction. He realizes this when he burns out the same way messaging two other friends. In the end, he ends up texting Hyungwon to come over. The reply comes nearly half an hour later, with Hyungwon complaining about how the taxi ride is going to be expensive, and Gunhee says, that never stopped you before, and then, mom’s visiting my sister. There is no reply following, even though Hyungwon sees it just as he sends it.
Surprisingly, he comes over later, all the same. The sight of him in the doorway is a promise in itself, commanding his attention in the way he breezes past him on the way in, already working his shoes off. Unsurprisingly, when Gunhee raises his brows and ribs him for it, all he does is demand for him to pay back the thirty thousand won fare he had to pay to get here. He looks untouchable: looking down on Gunhee and all, face carefully blank, but his voice is annoyed and just slightly embarrassed; these are the tones Gunhee knows how to work his way around.
“You didn’t have to come,” he presses, pulling him in close by the hips, thumb hooked in Hyungwon’s belt loop. “You were the one complaining about it. How long has it been? Two hours?”
Hyungwon doesn’t answer him, but something – something changes in his expression, flitting across the darks of his eyes. “I had vocal practice,” he replies, even though it answers nothing, and curves his hand around the back of Gunhee’s neck, the very tips of his fingers dipping under two necklines to press against skin. The touch is maddening, just shy of what he wants. Right now, he’d rather have it sharp and good and getting away from them much too quick than any dancing around what they both want.
“Not that you need to go,” Gunhee says. The implication is a little too obvious, but it does the job; Hyungwon curls his fingers so the ragged edges of his nails are digging into Gunhee’s skin.
“I can go and get back to it.”
“Sure. You won’t, though.” Gunhee leans in to bite at his lips, but Hyungwon slips his thumb around to the base of Gunhee’s throat. The pressure stills him, but he stays there, all up in Hyungwon’s personal space. Watches Hyungwon watch him, his lips, when they move. “You’re already here. Don’t think you’re hiding anything. You act like no one’s good enough to get in your pants, but here you are.”
“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” Hyungwon says, and his voice is lower, this time. He’s pissed off. There’s the vitriol Gunhee’s been looking for. “Sex with you isn’t that impressive.”
The challenge thrills him, all the way down to his gut. He’s never been good at hiding what he’s feeling, and despite his best efforts to stomp it down, it must show on his face, since Hyungwon looks smug, lips pressed in one of his triangular smiles, and Gunhee hooks his hand around his elbow and drags him into his bedroom.
Hyungwon doesn’t leave after they’re done, not even when the sheets cool down, and oh, it’s going to be one of those nights. He has glued himself to his phone by the time Gunhee brings them wet tissues to clean up with after throwing away the condoms, and he only puts it down to wipe himself clean, not letting Gunhee touch him.
The bed is still warm when Gunhee slides in, legs stretched out and leaning against the headboard. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, since it’s not really made for two people; still, when Hyungwon rearranges himself so he’s leaning his back against the wall and his bare legs are bent, casually suggestive, over Gunhee’s thighs, it’s not so bad. His feet are balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. Hyungwon pulls the blanket over the both of them, and it pools in his lap and on Gunhee’s waist.
Neither of them sleep. Gunhee lights himself a cigarette and blows smoke at Hyungwon, grinning lazily when he coughs and hisses at him to take it to the window, dick. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he falls into the habit of rubbing his thumb across the soft skin just under the jut of Hyungwon’s knee, and then sits up to slide his hand further inwards and press his fingers against the marks he remembers leaving behind, dark and painful. Hyungwon hisses, closing his legs tight, but all it does is push the touch into his skin more.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, digging his nails into the soft part of Gunhee’s wrist and trying to drag his hand away, but Gunhee stays for a while, rubbing hard against the bruises, before he finally relents.
“You’re literally on my bed. Touching me.”
Hyungwon’s lip curls. “It’s gonna take so long to find a taxi at this time that I might as well walk to Gangnam. Go sleep in your mother’s room, I’m not sleeping there.”
Gunhee pauses. “You’re staying over?”
Hyungwon stops squinting at his phone to throw him a poisonous look, like he thinks Gunhee’s the biggest idiot that ever lived. He doesn’t reply, though. The silence that stretches onwards isn’t really uncomfortable, but that might be owing to the steady whir of the fan in the corner, just barely blowing air towards them, since the chill of autumn is starting to creep in. The blanket keeps them warm, and the cool air on the back of his neck feels good. Smoke fills his lungs, in and out, in a steady rhythm.
So, yeah, there are some days like this: Hyungwon stays over. It isn’t a common occurrence. It isn’t because they’ve ripped into each other too harshly or anything – they’ve been even rougher with each other in the past than they were tonight, and Hyungwon left quickly after those times, too. These are strange days that don’t seem to fit in with the rest of the week, and whenever he looks back on them, it feels like someone cut and pasted these pockets into where the real memories – the normalcy – should be.
When it comes to the time after, they don’t really talk. It’s not a rule as much as it is a habit. Hyungwon doesn’t like post-coital anything unless it’s on his own terms. Gunhee doesn’t really know what to say, and isn’t really all that focused on trying to think something up. They either don’t have the chance, or the energy, or the time. This time, though, after the lingering high of the sex wears off, he pushes himself up against the drowsiness and opens his mouth.
“What would you have been, if not an idol?”
It feels a little stilted, coming out of his mouth, like they should have covered this a long time ago. It’s too innocuous a question after how they’d been with each other only minutes before, but he’s too fucked out to really care much. Hyungwon tilts his head, obviously taken aback, and locks his phone. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Just asking.” Gunhee shifts a little bit, taking another drag, keeping his gaze on the dying streak of bright fire at the end instead of on Hyungwon. “Wait, no. You’d be a model, right?”
A scoff. “You’d think so.”
That makes Gunhee look up, catalogue Hyungwon all over again. “What? You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”
Hyungwon makes a face, thinking, and puts his phone down on the bed, face down. “If I’m still in the industry, I guess,” he decides dismissively. Then, after a few seconds: “What about you?”
The question is unexpected. It takes Gunhee a few seconds to catch up. This sort of small talk is… strange, again, like they should already have covered this. The order of things they’re going through is messed up. Hyungwon’s expression is now expectant, but even so, Gunhee can’t stop himself from jerking his head, as if to ask, really? And then, at the confused look and nod he receives: “I don’t know.”
It comes out stuttery and halted, but it’s true; he’s never really thought about it. Gunhee—he’s always had this goal in mind. Even a long time after Minho had introduced him to it, the feeling of it only tailored itself to Gunhee instead of wearing off. This is a talent he wants to excel in, has wanted to excel in for years. He had liked art a lot as a kid, he remembers – his mom had supported that a lot, too – but in the end, that’s too shaky a ground to start on, especially when you have a family to support and worry about. The want had come at a young age, too, so...
“I never really thought about it,” he finishes.
Hyungwon opens his mouth, lips forming a syllable that breaks before it’s even out in the air; he thinks better of it, clearly. “You made me think about it,” he complains instead.
“You’ve already done modelling, though.”
“Not modelling,” Hyungwon corrects. Gunhee waits, but he doesn’t really follow up, looking down and drawing patterns on the sheets with his fingertips. He doesn’t give him a straight answer when he presses, either, so Gunhee drops it, stubbing his cig out and pulling another – the last one in the pack – out. Still, at the very fringes of the amount of time it takes for an unanswered question to lose its relevance, he mumbles something, whisper-quiet, that Gunhee almost doesn’t catch.
“I wanted to study law when I was younger,” he repeats when Gunhee makes a questioning sound.
“Really?” The visual of Hyungwon dressed in a suit, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and lips formed around clear, cutting words is startlingly fitting. Just the visual, though. In real life, his voice is calm and quiet, and he’s prone to mumbling. He moves around as he talks, hunched shoulders and all. There’s that certain air around him, simultaneously awkward and graceful, that commands the quiet sort of attention – he’d be better suited as an interrogator, if anything. “Wouldn’t you end up falling asleep in court or something?”
Heat swells in his chest and at the tips of his ears when Hyungwon smiles, tiny and embarrassed, covering his mouth with his hand.
“I was worried about doing that,” he admits, cheeks still pushed up. Gunhee can’t stop himself from mirroring his expression, brief and dizzy, tasting smoke on his lips and wondering if Hyungwon would mind if he kissed him again. “It was way before I became a trainee, though.”
“Were you scouted?” Gunhee asks thoughtlessly. Hyungwon is handsome, even barefaced or sleep-addled or breaking out. He can easily see him being scouted on the street, being handed a sleek card by an agent and told that he could make it big just with that face.
“Why the sudden questions?” Hyungwon asks instead of answering him properly. There are still crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but there is intent in the way he looks at him, as if he’s already got his thumb on Gunhee’s answer. This look is familiar: there is a certain attentiveness in his eyes, and the shape of his smile smooths out at the corners as if water has smudged it from them. It makes him look faraway, unknown.
Gunhee’s skin prickles every single time Hyungwon levels it at him.
His warmth has not faded from Gunhee’s body yet, and the way his head is tilted back exposes his bare, vulnerable neck, marks and all, but all it does is make the contrast more obvious. Someone so loose-limbed should not look like this, Gunhee thinks. All those soft lines to his body, the blurred smears of evidence on his skin – he shouldn't look so piercing.
He lights and takes a drag from his cigarette instead of puzzling on which of the potential answers in his head would be correct, blowing the smoke vaguely in Hyungwon's direction just to see his expression change, first into disgust and then into faint annoyance, as he waves the smoke away. This Hyungwon is familiar, too, but a different kind, one that doesn’t make Gunhee feel quite so confused.
"You still don't cough."
“I told you to take it to the window,” Hyungwon says, disdainful. He's seen this expression, heard this tone enough times to know which buttons to push, because this Hyungwon – more clear and less cutting – would fall right into it. “You smoke too much. Do you have any manners at all?”
There's the opportunity. Gunhee ignores the first part, leaning in to grin at Hyungwon, lazy and lightheaded, carefully holding the lit cigarette away from the both of them. The smoke is a veil, a haze, sinking into his hair and his skin. Hyungwon is going to smell like him when he goes home. The thought makes his stomach swoop. “I don’t do it so much, nowadays.”
“Liar." Hyungwon’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, as if he’s trying to keep him from coming any closer. Or pretending to. Gunhee imagines that, just maybe, he’s not doing both – maybe he’s interested, affected by their proximity. The mood shifts into something more charged, colours into the sting on Gunhee’s back, his chest, his arms, makes him sit up to watch Hyungwon's eyes narrow at whatever he can see in his expression.
“Didn’t know you were paying attention,” he challenges, holding Hyungwon’s gaze for only as long as it takes for him to give in and glance, deliberate, at his still-swollen lips.
“You reek. It’s hard not to notice.” Pinpricks at his shoulder from bitten nails. The sting, creeping all the way down his spine, chases the last dredges of the strange mood from earlier away until he’s focused entirely on the red of Hyungwon’s mouth, the slope of his nose. "You're going to have to stop sooner or later."
"Like you did?" Gunhee asks pointedly, unable to quell the curve of his lips when Hyungwon's eyes flash. He doesn't say anything, not even when Gunhee reaches out to curl his fingers into the hair at the back of his head, rough from bleaching near the ends – just watches him for a few beats, lips parted with all the excuses that his habits of stealing Gunhee's cigarettes every now and then render useless.
When he brings the cigarette to his lips again, open smugness written all over his features, Hyungwon curls his fingers around his wrist to stop him. The light from the desk lamp isn’t quite dim enough to lift the shine from the darks of Hyungwon's eyes.
“Again?” Gunhee teases, sliding his hand up the curve of Hyungwon's thigh in mild interest, but it's half-hearted at best; he's expecting something else from him, and is satisfied when Hyungwon steals his cigarette, bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag. Gunhee watches the warm glow on the tip of his nose flicker, takes note of the way he holds the stick between his fingers. He’s not really practiced with it; he had never been that into it. Gunhee remembers that Hyungwon gave into the urge when he drank – when you smoke once, the feeling of trying it again, one more time, is hard to shake off – but even then, he didn’t do it so often.
But Hyungwon is good enough at it. He blinks a few times before leaning in – head tipped back and angled and his eyes lidded so heavy they’re almost closed, so Gunhee can see the sloping shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the way the corners of his lips try to cling shut when he parts them. The smoke that he blows out is secondhand, but it curls into the back of Gunhee's throat when he breathes it in on reflex.
Then the realization of what Hyungwon wants him to do sets in, giving him the same feeling as missing a stair in the dark does. Suddenly, the bloodrush in his ears is so loud that it drowns everything else out; he exhales, slow and deliberate, more air than smoke. He can feel the heat from Hyungwon's body, the throbbing sting from the marks he's left on him, the tingle at the back of his nose from the smoke. Everything, the heat-pressure of Hyungwon next to him and the way his breath drags, as if over velvet rubbed the wrong way, on the way in – everything, all the way down to his fingertips, cool from the air. All the way down to his toes, feet tangled in the blankets.
"Come here," Hyungwon murmurs again. Gunhee opens his eyes to Hyungwon turning his head for another slow drag. This time, when he leans in again, he's expecting it. He tips his head back and lets Hyungwon breathe it out, one more time, against his mouth; he's much closer this time, and Gunhee keeps the smoke in his mouth to sigh it right back into Hyungwon's, lips wet and warm and slippery when they brush feather-light against Gunhee's. He keeps count of his long, slow blinks that stretch on and on until the dark blurs into the moving shapes of Hyungwon through the smoke, but it's impossible after a while: Hyungwon catches him a few times, all lidded eyes and tilted brows and flushed cheeks, scattering his thoughts.
When Gunhee reaches for the cigarette to do the same for him, he pushes him back. He lets him take the cigarette, but keeps his fingers curled around his wrist, holding it away from their bodies so he can rearrange his legs without knocking into him. They move apart for it, and the cold air that comes rushing into Gunhee's lungs when they're not entwined so deeply in each other's spaces is refreshing; it's like he didn't notice just how lightheaded and dizzy he was until now. The same rush, he thinks, is coming to Hyungwon, who gasps in deep as he works himself onto Gunhee's thighs with his easy, flowing grace punctured with, so strangely and so characteristically, those awkward jerks of his hand, his wrist, for balance.
"Remember when we did this the first time," Gunhee says, but it comes out without the lilt that would make it into a question.
The first time they'd ever done this was at the party they'd thrown just after trainees evaluations for No.Mercy ended, the night after the lineup for the show was announced, as a last ditch effort to get every kind of itch out of their systems. It had been a November Saturday, but Gunhee can't remember the date. Hyungwon had watched him shotgun with Hoseok with a bright, drunken curiosity, and had then asked him to show him how to do it. Gunhee taught him: how to hold it in his mouth without coughing on it, how to breathe it into his lungs if he wanted. How to give it back after receiving.
He doesn't get a straight answer, but that's alright; he wasn't looking for one, really. Belatedly, Hyungwon hums an affirmation and curves into him again, touching their lower lips together, fitting into him – breathing, it all comes down to breathing. Hyungwon's free hand cups his face, angling it to his liking, and Gunhee holds onto his narrow hips with one hand and brushes the knuckles of the other across the base of Hyungwon's throat, feeling his skin sink into the shift of his bones with every pass. He's dizzy from it, giddy from the sensation, and everything is so clear, but only when it narrows down to them. Not the faint sounds of the city, or the whir of the fan. Just this, the sting from before and the weight on his thighs and Hyungwon’s wet mouth against his, tasting shared second— third? —hand smoke, this steady exchange that makes Gunhee want to slow his erratic heartbeat down to match.
So, no, he's not looking for an answer.
They finish the cigarette off between them. They’re both tangled up in each other at the end of it, suggestive, but they’ve already pulled enough out of each other. He almost wishes they’d done this sooner; he’d have seated Hyungwon on his cock for this, instead of fucking him with his face pressed into the pillow like he did earlier. Now is a scratchy sort of calm, the background noise of the rest of the world punching in, layer by layer, so faintly and so effortlessly that Gunhee doesn’t notice until he’s making his way out of bed to throw the stub away, toeing past their discarded clothes and the game console wires strewn over the floor. Behind him, the rustle of the sheets is punctuated by Hyungwon’s sigh. He realizes, abruptly, how deeply he’s breathing in, how the room is hot and hazy with the smoke, and opens both the window and his bedroom door to let the air flow.
There is the skeleton of a line in his head; it could be coaxed into a lyric, he thinks, if he really tried. Something about this slow-burning feeling, and then the feeling of satisfied, tired heaviness after – he thinks of ash crumbling from its structure when it is disturbed.
It gets cold easily because of the open window. Hyungwon is already curled up within the warmth of the blanket, his back to Gunhee, when he climbs back into bed. His hair smells of smoke and shampoo, and Gunhee presses close to him, the fire of his skin that is drawn to the surface by the lamplight. Hyungwon pushes his hand away from its place at his tummy at first, and then, when the cold sets in, he silently scoots back so they’re flush against each other anyway to steal his warmth.
Despite the oddly still vibe, he doesn’t feel sleepy. It’s probably the cigarette; it’s hard to fall asleep when the nicotine is in his system. Enough time passes with Gunhee staring at the dim glow of city lights slanting across the walls that he thinks Hyungwon has fallen asleep, but then Hyungwon rolls over onto his stomach and lifts himself up on his elbows, fishing his phone out from underneath the pillow. Gunhee smooths his palm over the dip of his spine, rubbing circles into the skin with his thumb.
It’s not a bad sort of awake.
“I talked to Yoonho the other day,” he starts. He doesn’t really think before saying it at all; he’s too relaxed to, in the aftermath of a good fuck and a good smoke. “Remember him?”
“Noh Yoonho?” Hyungwon murmurs, scratchy voice and all, and his hands still for a few seconds. He doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yeah. What about him?”
He’s the reason I asked you all those questions before, he wants to say, but that answer doesn’t seem to fit right. The last time they’d talked about Noh Yoonho was only two weeks ago. He remembers, vaguely, how Hyungwon had compared both of them. That’s why it had stuck, hadn’t it? Those resignation forms in Yoonho’s hands, only a few days ago, when Jooheon and Gunhee both had coffee with him. They’d talked about so many things, but that one stands out: Yoonho admitting that the papers he’s holding are resignation forms with that young, slightly puppy-like smile.
“Nothing,” he mumbles at first, automatic, and then: “He’s leaving the company.”
“Really?” Surprisingly, Hyungwon straightens out at that, resting his cheek against his own shoulder to look at him. When he puts the phone down, he catches a glimpse of what looks like an article on Naver, but he’s more distracted by the curve of Hyungwon’s shoulder and how he’s letting him draw loose circles on the deepest well of the dip of his spine. There is no answer following, so Gunhee hums in affirmation to fill the silence.
Eventually, Hyungwon asks, after reaching under the blanket to still his hand. “Are you worried about him?”
“What?” Gunhee wrinkles his nose. Worried wouldn’t really be the word to describe what he feels about Yoonho leaving. “No, why?”
“I don’t know.” Hyungwon shrugs, a jerky one-beat movement, contained from the weight he’s putting on his elbows; his shoulders are so slender. “You’re the one who brought him up.”
There is a strange, careful undertone to his voice, just a few beats dissonant to the rest of the world, as if it’s cut-pasted from someplace else. The tone to the memories of Hyungwon’s lazy, effortlessly sharp defenses sounds similar to this. It is not that distinctive a tone, but Gunhee knows it in a vague sort of way – can pick it out easily, after this long. And anyway, it’s not like Hyungwon is wrong: Gunhee did bring him up, and now that he traces all the way back, he can remember his words. He’s coping.
“You do it sometimes, too.”
The corner of Hyungwon’s lips turns up. “Only when he needs to be brought up.”
You’re fucking arrogant, is the first thing Gunhee thinks to that, and then, to stop himself from saying that he doesn’t need to be, he says: “You really like him, don’t you?”
“Are you jealous?” comes the immediate response, openly smug, as if Gunhee has answered a question by asking another. It would have fooled him on any other day, but this time, Gunhee is still lying flush against Hyungwon, so he can feel the slight stiffen before Hyungwon covers it up with a – or maybe just actually needs to – stretch, long and feline, with a look on his face that implies that he’d rather be asleep than have this conversation. Gunhee can’t decide if this exasperation is better than the calculated levelness from before; it’s too far away from annoyance. Feels more like he’s reaching out blind for the vulnerable spots and sinking his hands into false leads. It’s better than nothing.
“No, it’s just really obvious,” he answers. This would be easier, maybe, if he hadn’t been asking questions he hadn’t quite been able to put into words before. Back then, they had been difficult; now, they come easy to the tip of his tongue. “You’re always, like, defending him.” Why is that?
Hyungwon picks up on the note of bitterness, because of course he fucking does. “Defending,” he repeats flatly. There is the look again – piercing eyes and soft everything else, outlines blurred by discolouration but his eyes cutting bright in the dark. Gunhee feels the provocations knock against the back of his teeth, tastes them on the corners of his mouth when he licks his lips.
“He’s signing for a new company,” he says abruptly, words stilted. “I guess Starship’s too hard on him or something.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Doesn’t it go without saying?”
Hyungwon holds his gaze, and his eyes are narrowing. “He’ll be fine,” he says finally, too pointed. He pulls away from Gunhee, pressing himself against the wall. “He’s well rounded.”
“As a rapper…” Gunhee starts, knee-jerk disagreement, but Hyungwon doesn’t even let him talk.
“Not everyone’s like you. He’ll be fine with good instructors; he’d be a good idol. You know.”
Gunhee sits up at that, tucking his legs under his body and tugging the blanket around his waist to busy his hands. “There were good instructors at Starship,” he points out, dry and flat.
Hyungwon watches him for a good amount of time, brows furrowed, and finally follows him into sitting up, not bothering to cover himself and not bothered by the cold.
“You’re jealous,” he observes, calm and collected like he’s talking about something more innocuous. Hard numbers instead of this. The hot rush of indignation and then the cool dripping down his spine – these are familiar, and Gunhee hates them, hates feeling like this, because, fuck, of course Hyungwon is right.
“No,” he insists anyway, huffing out an incredulous laugh and shaking his head. Hyungwon’s expression is completely unreadable. “No, I’m just saying.”
“What are you saying?”
“—Are you bothered?” Gunhee cuts in, heart skipping beats in a row when Hyungwon frowns. Hyungwon doesn’t wear his emotions on his face, or on his sleeve; he might be inclined towards letting it bleed into his hands, his shoulders, but those are carefully still right now – hands tangled in the blanket and shoulders sloped with lethargy.
“I’m asking what you’re saying.”
“He’s a good kid and all,” Gunhee says, and means it. Yoonho is a good kid, a good person. He’s too mature for his age because he’s suffered all that much, and that’s the thing, in the end: he came all this way, “—but it’s kind of like taking the easy way out, isn’t it?”
“Don’t compare yourself to him,” Hyungwon says. The bluntness jars him enough that he blinks, taken aback; he hadn’t been expecting him to be so upfront, so straightforward. The idea of Hyungwon knowing how to read him in seconds is one he’s not sure he’s all that comfortable with. He… is caught out, of course, because sure, Yoonho’s mature, moving onto better prospects or whatever, but that’s – that’s cheating, isn’t it? He hadn’t even noticed he’d been implying it so obviously – he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he had been.
Regardless of what it is, it’s not fair. Regardless of whether or not Hyungwon can read him so easily, Gunhee still hadn’t been the one to bring him up first.
“It’s okay if you do it, then?” he asks, after a tense silence that stretches just a breath too long, so his voice comes out scratchy and too-loud. Hyungwon tilts his head, calculating and questioning, so he controls his voice the best he can when he continues. “If you compare the both of us?”
“I—”
“—Then it’s okay?”
And this—this is what Gunhee had originally intended to rub into Hyungwon’s face a few days ago, the itch that had settled in the back of his throat when he’d walked out of the café with Yoonho. The vitriol from then comes sluggishly, in thick trickles that take too long to settle in their place, so Gunhee has too much time to think about the resignation forms and what it means for Yoonho, one who struggled and strove in the same company for years, to leave for something easier while Gunhee stayed still, stays still. This wasn’t how he expected this to go.
He watches Hyungwon’s expressions and has to force himself to relax, be casual, when he finds nothing he can grab onto and try to translate, past the glint in his eye he doesn’t know the meanings of. Decision is the name of the look Hyungwon wears when he lowers himself onto his elbows, when he opens his mouth.
“I’m not comparing your skills,” he says. “He’s not a rapper, he’s an idol. He’s still dealing with the loss.”
“How is this dealing?”
Hyungwon starts at the way it rips out of Gunhee, and then, once he has composed himself, smiles sweetly. He’s a good enough actor that in this light, it doesn’t sit awkwardly on his face. “It’s better than being stagnant.”
That, he thinks at first, hot and liquid-furious, and then he doesn’t know how to follow it up at all. It’s a contest, this time, over who can stare the other down the longest, and Hyungwon’s slow blinks do nothing to break it. Gunhee can’t pull his words in order in his mouth – something that he would have been ashamed of if it had been anyone else, but Hyungwon always does this to him: just says these things, so effortless, like he doesn’t even need to think about it, like he thinks he’s got Gunhee all figured out even though he never listens.
“I don’t have anyone to carry me,” Gunhee says, a few seconds too late, after Hyungwon breaks the eye contact and lowers himself flat onto his back. The bed is so small. They’re going to touch even if they sleep facing away from each other. “Like you.”
His only response is Hyungwon pushing his hair away from his forehead, keeping the heel of his palm pressed against his head. His eyes are narrowed. Quick as a flash, his lips shape around the first syllable of a name, but then he changes his mind. “You need to be carried?”
“No,” Gunhee says immediately, wincing hard. He can’t put sense to his thoughts, tangled as they are. Tangled sheets, tangled legs, tangled thoughts. That’s not what he meant. Hyungwon is still watching him for an opening, so he shakes his head with a scoff. “You know I didn’t mean… just.” Just. He lowers himself down. “Let’s just sleep.”
Instead of trying to have the last word or actually taking the cue as what it is and dropping it, Hyungwon tilts his chin up as if to study Gunhee, lips pressing together, pink and shiny (and, despite everything leading up to it, there's a small part of Gunhee that's drawn to the motion). He's obviously contemplating on what to say, and the prolonged silence makes Gunhee feel small and studied. In the end, his shoulders ease, careful, careful, like he's playing dead in front of a predator. "Why are you jealous?”
It throws him off. “What?”
“Why are you jealous,” Hyungwon repeats, a little quieter, “of him moving?”
The olive branch (if it can even be called one) is unexpected. At first, he thinks of writing it off. But then he catches sight of how Hyungwon isn’t looking him in the eye; all he can make out is the sweep of his lashes as he looks down and fixes his gaze on his own hands, curled around his phone.
A part of Gunhee hates how well Hyungwon can read him even though he can’t do the same to him, but another part – the less rational part – wants Hyungwon to raise his head. Look Gunhee in the eye. Show him the little he can so he can decide if this is real or just another way to throw him off balance. His throat feels thick and dry, like something’s caught in it and he can’t swallow around it. If the lights had been brighter – if Hyungwon had angled his face towards him a little more, then he could see.
“I…” It almost feels like they’re trainees again. It feels like before everything changed, except this time they’re not on equal ground at all. Back then, at least they could look at each other and still have the same fears hanging over their heads. At least it wasn’t so unbalanced then. Now Gunhee has too much baggage and Hyungwon doesn’t seem to have any.
“Gun-ah,” Hyungwon murmurs when the silence ticks for a few seconds too long. When he looks back at Gunhee, his face is carefully blank. Like he never said anything to begin with.
“I’m not jealous,” Gunhee says. “You can be wrong, too, sometimes.”
He turns onto his side, back facing Hyungwon. The bed is too small; the jut of Hyungwon’s spine presses against his when he turns over too, and Gunhee scoots closer to the edge. There is no rustle of sheets that implies Hyungwon picking his phone back up. The alertness must have worn off.
Gunhee doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.
Chapter 2: ii.
Notes:
haaaaa so i disappeared for a while lmao ... originally i was gonna post chapters 2 this arcwise (with one chapter containing one arc) but this one got rly long nd i decided to cut it in half instead!! as such its like UNOFFICIALLY a chapter 1.5 kind of deal? the total number of chapters, as such, has been bumped up to 4 [twice voice] heart heart
CWs: explicit sexual content (anal, cumplay, dirty talk, mild size difference kink).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mornings in September hang in the strange limbo between summer and autumn: too chilly or too hot, one way or another. Waking up is a slower process on the days he doesn’t have to be anywhere, involving a lot of stretching and rolling around in bed on the promise of getting up once alert enough, delayed by slow, long blinks that melt seconds into minutes. Today, Gunhee is woken by a loud, constant ringing, cutting through the morning stillness.
It takes him a minute to figure out that the sound is that of an alarm. He’s confused for only a second – he doesn’t usually set alarms on the weekends – but once he listens to it, he realizes that it’s not his own. Besides, when he finally manages to crack his eyes open after rubbing the sleep from them, face scrunched up, he finds his phone face down and silent under his pillow. When he clumsily turns it on, he finds that it is only 5.16AM. The room is bathed in the cold early morning light of Seoul autumn, slanting through the window onto the wall opposite in a blurred grey smear. The fan in the corner whirs lazily, blowing chilled air in the direction of the bed.
The alarm rings on from the other side of the bed. Gunhee raises himself up on his elbow, jolting awake quicker by the cold on his naked skin. He turns his head to search for the source: it’s Hyungwon’s phone, half shoved under his pillow, one side of it peeking out so the active screen is visible. Without thinking, he reaches forward and shuts it off. As soon as he does, though, he feels a hot flash of regret. He peeks at Hyungwon to see if he’s roused even a little bit, but he finds him to still be asleep, curled on his side, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around the edge of the blanket to keep it around his shoulders. He looks peaceful, even with his swollen face and messy hair, completely undisturbed by the noise.
A floaty silence suspends itself in the room, only broken by the quiet, rhythmic sounds of Hyungwon’s breathing. Gunhee could easily lay back down in the warm space he’s made for himself, protected from the cool air from the fan and the morning chill let in by the window he didn’t bother closing last night. He could try to go back to sleep – it wouldn’t be hard, considering his sleep was interrupted anyway, and his body wants to finish it.
The knowledge of how much Hyungwon likes to sleep keeps him from doing so. On one hand, Hyungwon doesn’t like to be disturbed, but on the other, Gunhee knows that he’d have set such an early alarm for a reason; he might have a schedule or something, Gunhee doesn’t know. He really shouldn’t have shut the alarm off – he doesn’t know if Hyungwon has set another.
“Hyungwon,” he whispers thickly, hunching over him to shake him gently by the shoulder. No response. He licks the aftertaste of nicotine and spit from his teeth and tries again. “Hyung, wake up.”
He doesn’t expect Hyungwon to wake up easily; it takes more than just a few scratchy calls of his name before Hyungwon stirs, burrowing into the blanket first. He wakes up slowly, too, with such reluctance that Gunhee almost feels bad for waking him up. He turns his head slightly towards Gunhee, but his eyes remain glued shut from sleep, as if wakefulness is going to slip from his fingers at any second. All soft around the edges in this light, Gunhee thinks, and then stops himself before the thought can go any further.
“Your alarm was ringing,” he explains when Hyungwon cracks his eyes open, brushing the mild guilt off. He doesn’t know how he expected Hyungwon to react: a little annoyed, maybe? Instead of anything Gunhee had prepared for, though, Hyungwon just takes a moment to blink himself awake, then turns to his phone. Relieved that he didn’t ask any questions, Gunhee lowers himself back down and makes himself as comfortable as he can without sprawling out like he usually does, tucking the blanket around his shoulders.
After long enough that Gunhee falls halfway to sleep, Hyungwon shuffles back just slightly, so his back is pressed to Gunhee’s chest. It traps Gunhee’s arm between them, and he automatically moves it, curling his hand over the natural handhold of Hyungwon’s narrow hip.
“Should I move?” he asks, more out of habit than anything else, raising his head to look at him; it’s unlikely that he’ll get a verbal answer. “Do you have to go anywhere?”
Hyungwon wordlessly shakes his head and shoves his phone blindly back under the pillow. When he stretches out, his feet tangle against Gunhee’s. They’re warm from the heat trapped in the bed; his skin runs so cool otherwise, feeling like a smear of alertness against Gunhee’s skin. Hyungwon sleeps in any position comfortably but seems to actually like this – curling up against something, blankets pulled all the way to his shoulders even when it’s warm out, insisting on cranking the AC up because he likes cool air on his face. Gunhee doesn’t know when he came to realize this, or even if he did it recently instead of learning it, along with so many others’ habits, last year. The few times he’d brought attention to it, though, Hyungwon had ended up moving away; he’s learned to stay silent since then.
It’s so relaxing, just laying together, that Gunhee stops thinking about anything but the strange feeling in between being hyperaware of the world fitting around his body and being numb to it, like the lines are all blending into each other. The time afterwards is warm, liquid and slow, marked by the gentle pressure on his chest every time he breathes in, meeting the faint rhythm of his heartbeat. The room is coloured with cleaner, brighter light when Gunhee opens his eyes again, tinted slightly warmer. His hand has slipped so his arm is tight around Hyungwon’s waist, and Hyungwon has fitted his fingers around the shape of Gunhee’s wrist in his sleep. It’s comfortable.
It’s much later when Hyungwon tries to extricate himself from him. The movement rouses him just a little, but the cold that rushes when Hyungwon kicks the blanket off to get out of the tangle keeps Gunhee from falling back asleep easily like he did the first time.
“Where are you going,” Gunhee mumbles – or tries to; his voice comes out raspy and slurred – and blindly reaches out, missing the heat. He wraps his arm around Hyungwon’s waist in an effort to keep him close. Maybe Hyungwon had been comfortable enough in this space they’d made to not want to get up, because he lets Gunhee pull him to his chest for some time. “Five more minutes.”
Hyungwon sounds even sleepier than he does. “It’s eight thirty.” He clears his throat. “I have to get up.”
“Five more minutes,” Gunhee mumbles, “that’s all.”
“I have to get up,” Hyungwon repeats, stretching out so he’s stiff as a board against his front and then slowly relaxing. Instead of sinking back into the warmth again, he pushes Gunhee’s arm off of himself and sits up, climbing over him to get out of bed. “Go back to sleep.”
There are a few more hours of free time before he has to go anywhere; it’d be nice to lay in bed for a while. Gunhee burrows his face in the pillow when the space is freed up, splaying himself out now that he doesn’t have to share it. He tries to go back to sleep, closing his eyes and listening to Hyungwon move around in the room; a switch snaps on, something is set down on the desk, two drawers roll open and closed, the bathroom door opens. The hinges creak as it swings shut.
It’s honestly strange listening to the shower running while he’s still in bed, like Gunhee is the guest here instead; the sound lulls him to a rest, but he’s too alert to really sink into it. It’s always strange, now that he thinks about it, whenever Hyungwon does something that betrays how he knows the layout of this place. Even though it doesn’t really matter, Gunhee can’t really get used to it.
It soon becomes clear that he won't be able to fall back asleep – he's been roused properly this time. He drags himself out of bed when the warmth and comfort tips towards being too much, making his way into the bathroom to brush his teeth. It's a cramped space, warm and humid from the steam, but the mid-morning weather is cool enough for it to be welcome on Gunhee's chilled skin. The glass partition sectioning off the shower is fogged up roughly to the waist, clear streaks cutting through when water runs off Hyungwon's elbows and onto it. He doesn't turn to look at the door opening, instead working Gunhee's shampoo into his hair with loose fingers, like he's half asleep still. Pragmatism ends up being ingrained into you after long enough of sharing quick showers on a tight schedule, but he's not on a schedule right now, is he?
Gunhee slips in after brushing his teeth. To save water, he guesses, and to not rack up the water bill. They've showered together before: first when they lived in the same dorm, and only one or two times recently. The water is too hot for his liking, stinging the still-healing scratches on his skin, and he reaches past Hyungwon to turn the dial just a little bit colder. Hyungwon smells like Gunhee's soap, Gunhee's shampoo. It lies light and clean on his skin instead of the smell of smoke and sex from last night, but it gives him the same ill-fitting kind of lurch in his belly.
Now that the shower has woken the both of them up, though, he can't help but remember the conversation – conversation? – they had before falling asleep. The memory comes a little out of nowhere, a sudden transition from here to there. The more he thinks about it, the more awkward he feels. He doesn't know what to say, or even whether or not he should address it. There's no real way of knowing if it should even be addressed, if he's just overthinking. Hyungwon is so collected that it’s impossible to check. Gunhee finishes showering before Hyungwon does, going straight for the sink to shave; Hyungwon doesn't bother with it, though, leaving the door open on the way out, and he has to bite back the instinctive whine for him to close it.
It’s not like it was even a big deal. It’s just that he keeps coming back to it for some reason. He can’t help but wonder if Hyungwon gave it any importance at all, or if he brushed it off and forgot.
That’s what he should do, in any case. His annoyance was justified, though. This is what he tells himself, just in case, when he comes out to Hyungwon leaning over his desk, one hand supporting himself on the surface and the other holding his phone up to his face, thumb tapping across the screen. It’s plugged into the outlet under the desk. He’s wearing a large, baggy grey hoodie over his jeans instead of the shirt he’d been wearing yesterday, which is still carelessly strewn over the arm of Gunhee’s desk chair.
“Is that mine?” Gunhee blurts out, looking closer on his way to fish his own change of clothes out of his drawer and turning away to tug them on. He doesn’t need to wait for Hyungwon to hum his noncommittal answer; the hoodie is definitely his, and his heart beats a little harder at the knowledge. It’s not the first time he’s seen Hyungwon in his clothes, but the sight is a bit… he doesn’t know. It catches him off guard a little bit, all the same, but in a good way. Gunhee can’t stop looking. It’s like this every time – he always lingers on the shape of Hyungwon in his clothes whenever he takes them, which hangs between rarely and often. He can't even fill them out like Gunhee can, and it’s strange, but he figures that anyone would like it. It’s not just him.
As an afterthought, though, the realization comes in halting flashes: Hyungwon knows how to navigate Gunhee’s apartment well enough, and has, maybe, stayed over enough times that he doesn’t need to ask where Gunhee’s things – charger, clothes… what else? – are. Gunhee doesn’t even need to ask why when he does it. How many times has he even stayed over? Just a few, right? Gunhee can’t remember the exact number. He could estimate by the packs of disposable toothbrushes Hyungwon started leaving in Gunhee’s bathroom – the ones with the powdered toothpaste already applied, sold in sets of four or eight – some time ago.
He shakes the feeling off before his thoughts can lead into the wrong direction. No – some other direction, because there’s no wrong or right in these cases. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. “Did you take anything else?”
“No,” Hyungwon answers absently. “Do you have lip balm?”
There’s a scab on his lip from the previous night. Gunhee finds the balm for him before, unable to help himself, he slips his hands onto the natural handholds of Hyungwon’s hips from behind. He won’t be able to keep his mind off of Hyungwon like this, smelling of his shampoo. Gunhee’s clothes cover the marks he knows are there, a secret wrapped up in another all day. They don’t usually do this – there’s an unspoken rule, he thinks, about the mornings after – but Hyungwon is hot and tall and slim against his front, like Gunhee could crowd him in if he tried, and the thought of it is tempting enough that he considers it for a few long, self-indulgent seconds. If he presses down with his index and middle fingers, he can find the jut of the bones he’d sucked at the skin stretching taut over last night through the fabric. If he pulls Hyungwon’s skinny hips back, places his mouth on the clean skin of his nape—
Hyungwon tenses up, and Gunhee thinks of moving back, unsure.
As it turns out, he doesn’t have to do anything. Hyungwon puts his phone down before stepping out of his hold – it shouldn’t be surprising at all – then makes his way out of the room, mumbling something about the mess all over the floor. Gunhee can’t keep himself from raising his brows after him, squaring his shoulders, but follows him out into the kitchen.
“I thought you had to leave?” he asks, leaning his hip against the counter. For some reason, there is a strange sort of familiarity to Hyungwon filling his glass with water from the tap and then mirroring Gunhee’s position, facing him. He can’t decide whether Hyungwon is the dissonant piece in this scene, or if it’s the apartment itself when Hyungwon is inside it. Now that they’re face to face, he can’t help but wonder if Hyungwon’s going to address last night; Gunhee wants to find something to say so he doesn’t. He wets his lips, suddenly feeling awkward. “Do you— you don’t want...”
“It’s fine,” Hyungwon says. “My phone’s almost out of battery. I’ll go once it charges a little.” He downs his water, and the movement of his throat when he swallows shows off the edge of a hickey on the base of his neck, spreading out over his skin like water spilled on cloth before disappearing underneath the collar of the hoodie. He catches Gunhee looking, and his hand makes an aborted motion towards his neck, like he wants to cover up. “Don’t do it next time.”
"Do what?" Gunhee presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, trying not to smile. He's not able to pass up the chance to tease. “Already waiting for next time?”
"Don't project," Hyungwon replies, eyes narrowed just a little, but there’s no bite to it at all – he might even be teasing back.
It's impossible to figure out what the right thing to say is, no matter how many cues Gunhee tells himself he knows. Gunhee makes coffee to busy his hands – Hyungwon shakes his head no when he looks over, refilling his glass. There is a short silence, not quite uncomfortable, broken only when he remembers something from last night.
“Hey,” he starts, trying his hardest to be casual. “Do you need money?” Then, when Hyungwon looks confused: “You mentioned last night, about the taxi…”
Upon the answering slow nod, Gunhee goes back to his room to look for his wallet. Hyungwon follows him in. “You’re not coming in today?” he asks, checking his phone’s battery and unplugging it from the charger while Gunhee searches. Surprisingly, this doesn’t sound pointed, either. Curious, instead.
“Later, probably,” Gunhee answers, distracted, then corrects himself. “Maybe. I don’t know. My friend rented out a studio— I’ll probably be there.”
It’s a good opportunity to just relax and focus on music that’s not related to work or training, with people that aren’t related to work or training. A change of pace, he guesses, or just a breather.
He finds his wallet and digs thirty thousand won out of it, then pauses, unsure. “Is this enough?”
“It’s fine,” Hyungwon murmurs, pocketing his phone and taking the money from him. “Don’t worry.”
I’m not worried, he thinks automatically. Hyungwon sweeps past, but Gunhee lingers at the doorway to his room, shoulder leaned against the frame and toes curled against the cool floor. From here, he can still see the front door, still get his view of the way his clothes look on Hyungwon’s body as he moves. He only locks the door from the inside after the dimensions of the apartment have righted themselves in Hyungwon’s absence, seconds after the door clicks shut.
♠♠♠
The next few days see greater activity; everyone’s busy, one way or another, but Gunhee misses most of what happens in Starship’s circle, half on purpose. He’s dragged out days later by Wonho, who cheerfully tells him that they’re going to go shopping for Yoonho’s farewell gifts and meet up with everyone else at the eastern entrance to the closest mall. When asked who ‘everyone’ is, Wonho gives him that soft-faced nose scrunch and a dismissive shrug. It’s not exactly how he’d planned on spending his evening, but he figures it’s a good idea to get this out of the way now; Yoonho deserves this. He’s not sure what everyone’s reaction was when he told them, considering Gunhee’s own absence at the time, but it must have been a loud one.
Everyone turns out to be Changkyun, Minhyuk, and Cheng Xiao, who politely informs Gunhee that the rest already went on ahead because they knew what to buy. She also proves to be more helpful than Wonho regarding the group; he learns that Jooheon already left because he wanted to squeeze dinner with “some members from BTOB— I don’t know who”, but the rest are still here.
They file into one of those sprawling, multiple-floor general stores, dodging the crowd and slipping into different aisles after promising to meet within the hour at the entrance. Almost unconsciously, they pair off; Minhyuk sticks himself to Gunhee’s side and steers him towards sportswear, saying something about new dancing shoes. As they pass through the sections, Gunhee catches sight of familiar blonde on a formidable height; when he looks again, the slope of the shoulders snaps into recognition. Hyungwon, not having caught sight of them, leans heavily against Hyunwoo’s side, one hand curled around his waist and lips quirked up in a smile. They’re looking at sunglasses, he thinks – it’s only a glimpse before Minhyuk drags him further away, but the sight sticks to the back of his teeth, pulls an urge to turn back and look closer.
Minhyuk spends fifteen minutes trying to figure out what shoes are just perfect for Yoonho, after which Gunhee wanders alone to the stationary section, feeling a little lost. He finds Hyungwon there. Surprisingly, he is alone this time, looking at one of the many notebooks on the shelves, taking different books out and flipping through them to check the paper. He gives Gunhee a soft sound and a nod in lieu of a proper greeting, looking over his shoulder as if to check if anyone else is tailing him. Gunhee honestly means to return it, and then walk past, but he slips straight into Hyungwon’s gravity and pauses there.
“You’re getting him a notebook?” he asks, stomping down the urge to ask about where Shownu is instead. He takes one of the books off the shelves and doing the same to busy his hands. They’re of good quality, actually – he might have to check back here when his current one is all filled up.
“Not for him,” Hyungwon corrects, putting the one in his hands back and picking up another. Spiralbound, thick paper, but unlined. “I think Seokwon might get him that. I was thinking of buying one for myself.”
He can’t help but straighten a little bit at that, elbows tensing, but he keeps his voice purposefully light when he asks: “You want me to buy it for you?”
He’d tried to sound as casual as he could, but Hyungwon still startles a little bit, looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Not quite blank, but not recognizable either. “Why would you buy it for me?” Hyungwon asks eventually, and – his eyes are lidded, now, and his brows are furrowed, as if he’s confused. Incredulous? One of the two. His tone makes Gunhee’s cheeks burn.
“I don’t know,” he mutters with an embarrassed shrug. “If you want. It’s not...”
He trails off, but Hyungwon doesn’t seem to want to make him continue anyway. The exact moment when Hyungwon chooses to let it go is easy to pinpoint. Gunhee hastily changes the topic, asking about Seokwon. “He hasn’t gotten Yoonho something yet? I thought he would be the first, considering…”
“He hasn’t even decided yet,” Hyungwon murmurs, easily moving on, both figuratively and literally. They move slowly to the next aisle, idly checking the items on display as they go. “He’s pretty upset about him leaving, I guess.”
“Still?” It kind of makes sense, though, when you think about it. Gunhee can vaguely recall how upset Seokwon had looked when Yoonho left the dorms, paralleling his expression a few days ago after practice when Yoonho had explained that he’d decided to leave Starship. “I’m surprised Yoonho didn’t tell him.”
If Hyungwon notices anything in his tone, he doesn’t show it. “I don’t know why they’re acting like it’s the end of the world,” he replies instead, only looking up from the shelves towards Gunhee when he makes a questioning sound. “What?”
He’s quiet for a moment, careful. “Nothing, just not what I expected to hear.”
“What did you expect to hear?”
There’s a bite to the words. Gunhee bites down on the side of his tongue, lightens his tone. “Nothing. I don’t know. It’s not the same, though, right? Like, seeing someone every day is different.”
“You don’t need to see someone every day for it to matter,” Hyungwon says, his tone going quiet and dragged, like velvet being rubbed the wrong way. “What, you’re going to miss him?” The question is vaguely amused in the manner of those quick, knife slice rhetoricals, just before the continuations that negate a response. “What are you getting him?”
Gunhee swallows down the strangely magnified indignation that comes two beats late, averts his eyes. Hyungwon does this so easily – open up threads and then close them once he’s made his point, all in one breath, so easy. “I’ll find something,” he says, stepping back. “I have time.”
♠♠♠
On Wednesday, a small crowd tumbles into one of the Korean restaurants in Seorae for dinner, squeezing into the place like an unorganized line of schoolchildren to escape the mild September chill. The dinner is semi-planned; officially, it’s just a get together, but everyone knows that it’s a kind of farewell for Yoonho; as such, pretty much everyone he’s friends with from Starship is here, minus the few that had schedules (Sistar) or couldn’t come (Sewoon, down with the seasonal flu, but he’d sent Gwanghyun as a representative and giftbearer). “Perks of being the company fossil,” Yoonho jokes as they push tables together. It’s a tight fit, but they manage: Seorae’s known for the foreign cuisine, and it seems that more people than usual have flocked to the restaurants offering it tonight.
It’s actually really nice. It is. They don’t have much opportunities to get together like this: good food, good people, all that. Yoonho looks happy as anything, shyly accepting being the center of attention and deflecting Dayoung’s whines about how she’s going to be so bored now that he’s not going to let her bully him anymore, and why are you leaving, anyway, oppa, you’ve been here for so long?
Yoonho gives her the same answer he gave Jooheon and Gunhee – different opportunities – laughing when she says it doesn’t count as a proper explanation.
“You’re too young to get it, Dayoungie,” Minhyuk wheedles fondly from beside her.
Hm. There’s that.
Somewhere along the line, the babies grew up. Yoonho is holding himself firm – politely smiling every time someone talks about how he’s just been here for so long, but straight-backed all through it. It’s a little jarring; he’s so fucking young, and he has this surety to the direction he’s taking. Gunhee still feels weird about him leaving, considering how long he’s fucking bled beside them. It takes guts to start all over again, especially this far in.
Gunhee is supposed to be the hyung, isn’t he? Have this direction and all that.
But honestly – honestly. It feels almost like cheating. Different opportunity, easier debut.
Across the table, he catches Hyungwon’s eye, so sudden that it makes it hard to tell who caught who. Maybe they both looked at the same time. It doesn’t happen again throughout the dinner.
Gunhee excuses himself for a smoke break as the night winds down. Surprisingly, not much time has passed since they went in; the night is still caught in that one window between bustle and that certain brand of not-quite-silence the city boasts in the quieter areas. After the rush and talk of the group inside the restaurant, the outside feels almost calm. The white noise is less clattering – or maybe it’s just familiar, considering how he’s spent so long in it, in the smell of it, through his life – than the noise inside. The cold makes everything seem strangely clearer: both the noise of the moving city and the silence it lays over. He smokes through a cigarette in the narrow pass of an alley on the line across, and is lighting up another when he notices, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure exiting the restaurant in the wake of a passing car. He doesn’t turn to get a better look.
Hyungwon doesn’t say anything when he finally nears save for a mumbled greeting – maybe – slipping in the gap between two parked motorcycles to reach him. Gunhee glances at him, watches his mouth twist, the fluorescent, multicoloured light of the street signs cutting a glow over Hyungwon’s nose and the swell of his top lip. Both of them come to stand next to opposite walls at the mouth of the alley. The darkness leading into the alley before it opens into the street on the other side seems to pull at Hyungwon’s slight shoulders, like he could sink into the rough geometric block of shadow between the walls inch by inch. It would be more familiar, then – Gunhee knows Hyungwon’s basest person best in the lowlight. Compared to the imprint of him in the warm lighting of the restaurant, surrounded by a group he smiles with easily, Hyungwon looks more severe now – the lines of his face are smudged in some places and thrown into too-sharp relief in others. If he let his expression betray anything, Gunhee isn’t sure if he could name it properly.
He isn’t sure if he wants to, either. It’s not like he really wants to see or talk to anyone right now – he stepped out for a reason. It’s not like he can claim this alley, though, so it’s just… whatever. Why are you here, he wants to ask – why come here if you stepped out too, why follow me? But then he stops his thoughts in their tracks; there is no proof that Hyungwon followed him, and even if he asked, he’s sure he wouldn’t get an answer.
And, see, there’s this game. There’s this dance. In silences like these, which feel heavy and too short for the unspoken things crammed in them that Gunhee can’t put his finger on, they wait it out. They push the silences between them until they’re bordering the fringes of uncomfortable, until one of them phrases ‘what are you thinking about?’ in words entirely different just to fill them. It’s either a pleasantry, deflecting, or a papercut push. Hyungwon offers no strings for him to grasp, but Gunhee can see his jaw working as if he is looking for something to say.
“You want a smoke?” Gunhee asks before Hyungwon can decide. It’s a lighthearted question; upon Hyungwon’s sidelong glance, he raises the cigarette he’s holding as an offer, lips quirked up in a sardonic smile. It would be a real smoke break, then. Watches Hyungwon’s cues – a twitch of his mouth, the shift of his weight.
“I don’t smoke.”
This answer is expected, clean cut like idols are supposed to give; it’s honestly still a little surprising how they all have to cover this up, considering how everyone smokes in Korea anyway. There is a self-aware, wry undertone to Hyungwon’s voice, though, which relaxes Gunhee enough for him to huff an incredulous laugh, more air than anything, turning his head to look back over the semi-quiet street. If this is how this will play out, Gunhee will adjust. He doesn’t have much of a choice in it, after all. “You really lie that easy.”
The telltale movement of a shrug out of the corner of his eye. “It’s acting,” Hyungwon deflects, but his tone is light. The fact that he’s playing along is a bit relieving; the mood ticks lighter because of it.
“If that’s what you wanna call it.”
Hyungwon doesn’t laugh, but he keeps the same light tone. “I’m an okay actor.”
Okay is a bit of an understatement, Gunhee thinks privately, but that might only be because he’s not good at it himself. Or maybe this is another one of those idol answers, cloaked in likability, humble because it’s expected. Either way, his blood stirs, lazily curious. It’s a good distraction from how keyed up Gunhee has been all night without even knowing the reason why. “So you do want one,” he says. Then adds, in a bid to tease like he normally would: “I can share.”
It’s not even subtle. Gunhee had been watching for Hyungwon’s reaction out of the corner of his eye, and thus he catches curve of his cheek lifting, his lips pressing together like they do when Hyungwon is trying to compose his face, just before he throws Gunhee a warning look. These fleeting reactions before the acting make messing with him fun.
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Are you cleaning up your act?”
Hyungwon hums. “Officially, sure. If that’s what you wanna call it.”
Oh, so they're flirting, even though they're both obviously distracted. He hadn't expected it, really, and again, it's an okay distraction. Despite the fleeting rush of hot interest, he’s not quite sure what to say to that – maybe because it's Hyungwon, and he's always a bit tonguetied with him. Judging from that satisfied look on Hyungwon’s face, though, Gunhee must have given him a reaction to work with.
“So what did you come out here for?”
There’s more than curiosity and idle flirtation in Gunhee’s tone, much to his chagrin. It’s out of place for the small talk they’ve been filling the silence with; Hyungwon seems to catch the undertone, no matter how subtle it might have been, judging from the shift in what can be seen of his expression. It is just as hard to read, but somewhere along the line, in between months of looking and then looking in a different sense, Gunhee learned to tell when Hyungwon is gauging him. But this— this isn’t the same as before. This isn’t about desires and relief and taunts. This doesn’t have anything to do with that. The way Hyungwon catches his words in his mouth as if rethinking them over and over makes Gunhee think he’s on the edge of something sharper.
The reply comes slow, curling around the smoke trails in the air: “To tell you…—” but cut off at the end, misstep, like the words weren't supposed to come out so quickly. Gunhee can’t help but turn his body towards Hyungwon – who is stepping closer, expression smoothed. Upon catching Gunhee’s eye, his own go heavy-lidded and considering in the lowlight. Just like that, they’re on that edge again. All unspoken things.
“You've been off tonight,” Hyungwon says finally, brows furrowing when Gunhee makes to deflect on reflex, taken aback. “It shows all over your face.”
Caught out. Of course it’s fucking Hyungwon that could read him— it isn't even surprising: just annoying. Still, his ego speaks for him. “I’m fine.”
Hyungwon scoffs. “You're not a good actor.”
“Like you are?” Gunhee responds quickly, tone pointed for the sake of being pointed. His ears are hot and itchy, and the smile on his lips only barely holds up against all the things he wants to say knocking against the back of his teeth. He doesn't want to have this conversation: now, with Hyungwon, whatever.
“Like I am,” comes the immediate agreement; it makes Gunhee feel stupid, then, about treating something Hyungwon would take pride in as clumsy leverage against him. Mistakes like this happen every other step in this dance, and it’s disquieting. Hyungwon’s eyes narrow and he steps even closer. They’re only an arm's length apart now, feet pointed towards each other even though Gunhee has turned his body towards the street. “I have to be.”
“Because you’re an idol?”
“Obviously,” Hyungwon murmurs, soft, but there’s that steel edge to his tone that makes Gunhee grit his teeth. The hit isn’t even a hit to Hyungwon. Not really. The unspoken finish is still loud and clear despite the half-sounds of the street: you want to be one too. There is a ladder of meanings here, and each rung feels like a misstep. Better not climb now, when it feels like he’s already given too much of himself into Hyungwon’s hands without saying anything at all.
The silence following is strained, squeezing into the blank spaces between the sounds of the city and not quite able to fill them up. It feels incomplete, as if something more should have been said, as if this trailing off wasn't in the script. Gunhee lifts his cigarette to his mouth more as an excuse to do something.
After a minute, Hyungwon continues quietly: “It shows that you’re upset.”
“What?” Gunhee asks, startled. It’s not what he was expecting at all.
To his credit, Hyungwon takes this in stride. His expression is completely unreadable. “You can’t hide it,” he says, like he’s stating a fact. It’s always facts with him, like he can look at Gunhee and put his finger on his line of thought, easy. It raises the hair on the back of Gunhee’s neck, unpleasant.
“I’m not upset,” he replies, automatically defensive, and doesn’t remind himself to keep his tone steady. “I’m fine. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“I already said you’re not a good actor. You should be grateful it wasn’t someone else that noticed—”
“I shouldn’t be anything,” Gunhee cuts in. His skin feels too tight for his body, and his words come out like bullets before he can taste them in his mouth. He drops the cigarette, crushes it under his boot, laughs low and disbelieving. “Why would I be upset?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Hyungwon says slowly. Gunhee doesn't like the way he's staring at him: like he knows – he thinks – he’s got him backed into a corner.
For all he wants to say – you're imagining things, I’m fine, why are you being so pushy, lay off – he doesn’t know how to say it, so he settles for answering with a too-short “I’m not” and leaving it at that. Souring as the thought is, conversations with Hyungwon (are these conversations? It’s such a cushioned word) make him feel like he’s lagging a few steps behind, slowly coming to the conclusions that Hyungwon already seems to have figured out.
It isn't the first time Gunhee has been at the receiving end of that expression, that dragging tone. Tonight, it pisses Gunhee off even more than normal. He has to force himself to relax; he doesn’t get it himself, really, why he’s being so fucking defensive about this. Doesn’t know where these ugly feelings are coming from. The expectant look on Hyungwon’s face is what ticks him off further.
He should stabilize this, whatever this is. The street is still semi-quiet, but if anyone wanted to look up past their own tiny bubbles and look at them, pay attention, then they’d—
But no— no. They wouldn’t notice the tension, slow-bleeding as it is. It’s not that obvious, he thinks, to anyone other than them both. It’s why he’s playing it literally by ear.
“You sure you don’t want a smoke?” Gunhee says, purposefully putting the lightness back in his voice as he pulls out another cig and lights it up. It sounds strained even to his ears. Fucking hell. “Or did you come out here just to play psychologist?”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t know what to feel: satisfied about the hard edge to Hyungwon’s voice, or disappointed that his attempt to diffuse the tension didn’t work. “I’m just saying,” he says, heartbeat stuttering. “With the way you act like you already know what everyone’s feeling. Or is that just with me?”
“Don’t—” Hyungwon cuts himself off, but doesn’t bother with further pretenses; he abandons watching the street in its looping, repetitive motion to turn fully towards Gunhee, shoulders arched towards the wall he’s leaning against. Something clicks into place across the lines of his mouth at the expression Gunhee can’t hold back on his own face, snapping tight and cruel. “What’s your problem? You’re transparent.”
“I already told you it’s nothing – it’s not your business.”
“If it’s nothing then stop wallowing,” comes the instant response. “I don’t want details. I don’t care if you can’t resolve your issues with all this in private, but right now you’re in public. Get yourself together.”
God, but the way he fucking says it, like Gunhee’s a child he has to scold, put in the spotlight, to keep in line. It’s fucking infuriating.
“What do you mean issues? Why do you always think—” Not for the first time, through the flare of anger, Gunhee thinks of shoving him up against the wall, thigh slotted between both of his, shutting him up with his mouth – it’s the only way he knows of silencing him at all. He grits his teeth, shakes the thought away. Steps closer, instead, then halts with the burning knowledge that they’re in open air. “I don’t have a fucking issue with Yoonho. He’s fine. You don’t know everything, okay? I don’t need this from you.”
“This?” Hyungwon repeats, dull and sharp at once. There is a brief pause before he continues, purposefully condescending: “who do you need this from?”
For all his easy criticism, Hyungwon still speaks calmly, quietly, hard composure making Gunhee feel clumsy in comparison, feeling everything too intensely in the dark and reaching out for handholds in the wall. “I don’t,” he starts, then changes his mind. “What do you think my issues are?”
“Keep your voice down.”
The beginnings of a curse die on the tip of his tongue. Fucking hell. Of course it’s exactly like Hyungwon to rile him up in a place they can’t fucking make a scene. Gunhee’s nails dig into his palms, and he grounds himself, steps back and away (when had they moved so close to each other?). Takes a deep breath. “Look—”
Hyungwon interrupts halfway through Gunhee forming the words, then steamrolls over them all the same. “You’re jealous about it,” he breathes, with that strange tone he has when he impossibly sounds, at once, incredulous and unsurprised. Then, at Gunhee’s answering confusion: “It’s been months, Gun.”
“Since what?” At first he thinks Hyungwon is talking about the conversation they left off the night Hyungwon came over to his apartment, but that can't be right; it hasn't even been a month since then. Barely two weeks, even. Then he thinks further back – there’s only one thing Hyungwon can be referencing. “Are you serious— no, it’s not about that.”
“What’s it about, then?”
It’s not about debuting. It’s not what you think it is, Gunhee wants to snap, point blank. It’s been months since February, since – everything – started to shape into this, whatever this is, all the same except for the subtle differences that make the weight of it seem to be so much more. “What’s the point of telling you?”
A fleeting little burst of satisfaction rises at how taken aback Hyungwon looks. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this sort of answer. “What?”
“I’m asking what’s the point.” His heart thuds, skips a beat. “It’s not like you ever listen to me.”
The last bit had been meant to be pointed, a call out for Hyungwon’s conclusions, but it comes out sullen instead. Just sullen, whiny, not right. Maybe it just sounds like that to his own ears; Hyungwon’s expression shutters, flits through several changes before it settles. He steps close enough that Gunhee could reach out and rest his forearm on his shoulder. He says, calm and dismissive: “I don’t need to.”
The implication burns any lingering satisfaction away. “Fuck you.”
Hyungwon’s brows tick upwards, and his lips thin out a little. There’s a look in his eyes Gunhee can’t translate, but his expression is just as placid as his voice no matter how much Gunhee searches it for something to strike back with. It’s the plastic kind of blank – fake, careful. It pisses him off. Hyungwon only needs a few words to make Gunhee consider the distance between them and the wall, whether he could push and they could stumble without falling.
(The worst thing—)
When Gunhee looks back right at Hyungwon, he finds him with his lips curling in something that’s not quite a smile. It’s slow, careful; in the dark, it looks like it’s coaxing Gunhee’s blood to rush faster to compensate. This, quiet and fleeting, is still the loudest response Hyungwon could give; it is also the only response he gives, not saying anything more. He only steps back and walks past, right back into the restaurant.
The breaths he takes without Hyungwon’s presence in his space feel colder, fresher. Gunhee almost wants him back to stifle them again.
♠♠♠
In all honesty, they probably could have stopped a long time ago. Hyungwon is practical, Gunhee is busy. It wouldn’t have been that hard to stop paying attention, to let go once the lineup was decided and their schedules started to stray so far that they had to rely on stolen windows of time and sacrificed hours of sleep. It wouldn’t have been— clean. There’s too much history between them to stop talking entirely, even if it’s just as simple as them being on the same program, on the same waiting list; still, they could have just let things end as they are.
The first time they fucked post No.Mercy was the night after the debut lineup was announced. Three months of silence and then they’re fucking again in a seedy hotel room, tucked away in Hannam-dong. They don’t stop.
The worst thing about fucking Hyungwon is how he wants it enough to need it. It’s not even just the sex; he could fuck with someone else if it was just stress relief, just venting. They do that, too, but there’s an unspoken agreement, or an understanding – as loosely as the term can be used – between them. Gunhee can be frustrated about anything and not have to find an excuse to cover it up with Hyungwon, resting easy with the fact that he can dig under Hyungwon’s skin and Hyungwon will dig and fight and bite right back. The fact that Hyungwon can see right through him infuriates him, too, makes him uncomfortable with how fucking cutting he is when he pushes Gunhee’s buttons, but he can’t give up on having the little leeway he does without getting coddled or pitied for it. The line they walk is thin, a push and pull.
Maybe Hyungwon knows this – maybe that’s why he comes to him, too, because he knows what it’s like to not be given what you deserve. It’s a question mark Gunhee doesn’t want to explore; Hyungwon has this strange way of turning the tables so the spotlight is on him, anyway. He doesn’t want to put anything more than necessary in Hyungwon’s hands for him to pick apart and study – it’s just sex. It’s just sex.
That could be it: Hyungwon likes the sex. He doesn’t approach Gunhee all that often nowadays; the life of an idol is busy to begin with, but there is no shadow of being held back or cast aside hanging over him now that he’s not a trainee anymore. It’s usually Gunhee approaching him, on the uncommon occasions they do. That’s something. That raises a question. Gunhee can’t help but wonder if Hyungwon knows his effect on him, how Gunhee hates but loves being forced to return to him to fuck his aggression out. Can’t help but wonder if Hyungwon plays his cards to rile him up on purpose so the sex is better, angrier, as physical as they can make it.
When Gunhee goes back inside, Hyungwon is pressed to Hyunwoo’s side, too close, smiling a strange open smile that softens his face except for his eyes. Those flicker to Gunhee only when he takes his seat again, and the smile turns close lipped, sanded down the edges.
It’s that smile that makes Gunhee sit up straight, blood going hot even though he doesn't mean it to. He had wanted to be less obvious than he knows he’s being – wonders if Hyungwon is doing this on purpose, feeding him with these small gestures that he might be reading too much into. Their eyes catch, and Hyungwon reaches for his phone, deliberate, thumb dragging over the screen like he’s contemplating unlocking it. It’s a message in itself. He doesn't have the right to look at Gunhee like that, not in front of everyone, not at all. Not when he’s pressed against fucking Shownu like he knows how Gunhee doesn't like the look of it.
He forces his attention away from him and tries to act like normal, fighting down the urge to look twice at Hyungwon every time he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. He’d never admit it out loud, but the active focus on others keeps him involved enough that even he feels that he’s played his part for the night. He doesn't know how to feel about that, considering what snapped him out of his mood in the first place: the imprint of Hyungwon’s knowing smile is still fresh in his mind.
Soju has numbed his mouth and the tips of his fingers by the time the night winds down. The kids can't drink, so they don't delay, but the time still hangs in that awkward place between late and late. People start leaving slowly, either one by one or in pairs; Taeha looks uncomfortable about having to go home alone until Shownu-hyung offers to go with her. In the movement that follows, all around them, warm and loud and without room for paying attention to things that aren't just as loud, Hyungwon remains still in Gunhee’s peripheral vision. Waiting.
Routine.
“I get it,” Gunhee says, and Hyungwon’s shoulders tense up, as if he's preparing to reach out and add another victory to his belt.
♠♠♠
They’ve been to this hotel before, lit up bright with the entrance tucked away in a tiny corner. It’s near the station. There are always so many hotels near stations – easier to slip in while the crowd covers you – with a constant thrum of white noise filtered into the rooms that makes it feel like you could step in one moment and come out, flushed and guilty and sex-mussed, to find that no time has passed in the world at all.
The receptionist doesn’t look at their faces; the steps of this routine come easier and easier every time. There is dim beige lighting in the rooms. After entering, they switch a lamp on, take the lube and condoms from the otherwise bare dresser, stumble onto the mattress on the floor – cheaper traditional-style rooms don’t have proper beds – and pull their clothes off of each other in between rough kisses that sting, metallic-tasting, long after they break apart. They keep their shirts on, bunched up at their waists, dishevelled. Gunhee’s already worked up enough from the conversation earlier that he wants to keep Hyungwon from saying anything else – even look at him in that infuriating knowing way.
“You taste like smoke,” Hyungwon sneers when they finally part, panting hard, pushing him away – he tastes blood in his mouth – to kick his pants off of himself. It doesn’t matter how many times Gunhee has seen him naked – all that skin: long, long fucking legs and his pretty cock and his hips, and then, as he puts weight on his hands, his shoulders – he’s always gorgeous, water and bone lit golden. Gunhee digs his thumbs into the hollows above Hyungwon’s hipbones and pulls him down the mattress towards himself, already leaning in for another kiss. His skin is usually so cool but he’s so hot right now, burning up under Gunhee’s touch.
“You like it,” Gunhee breathes. Licks into Hyungwon’s mouth so they can share the taste. Feels the scrape of his teeth, his nails on his bared back. Feels the sting of him pulling his hair when he detaches and nips his way down his torso, sucking marks as he sees fit. By the time he’s finished, Hyungwon’s abdomen is fluttering. “I’ve wanted to fuck you all night.”
“Just tonight?”
“No,” Gunhee admits, mouthing down to Hyungwon’s cock and licking up the underside. Presses the flat of his tongue to the sensitive flare of his cockhead, listens to him gasp at the wet slide before taking his mouth off of him and grinning up.
“You don’t prove it,” Hyungwon says, pushing himself up on his elbows. His thighs twitch, spreading just slightly wider, and Gunhee settles into the space between them, hooking them over his shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all talk.”
“No.”
“In all the ways that matter,” Hyungwon says, lip curling. “You just talk.”
Gunhee can’t help it – his grip tightens. He doesn’t like being anything but the best. Hyungwon looks smug at the reaction he gets from him, too, and continues: “I’ve fucked with better than you—”
“That’s not what you say when you’re begging for me to touch you,” Gunhee interrupts. Hyungwon tenses, makes this harsh, broken off sound when he bites at the soft, unprotected skin of his inner thigh – there are no new marks there. He hopes that Hyungwon won’t wear shorts tomorrow just as much as he hopes he will.
“You’re not that naive.”
“You want it harder?” Gunhee asks, chain reaction, blood reaction, sitting up and grabbing Hyungwon’s stupidly handsome face. Hyungwon bites at his fingers when he pushes them into his mouth, but doesn’t mind them resting on his lips, curved up just a little, as if he knows how much Gunhee dislikes him saying things like this. It’s not like they’re exclusive or anything, but Gunhee doesn’t want to be second best. He doesn’t want Hyungwon settling for getting it from him, he wants him wanting it from him – doesn’t matter what it is. Anything. It’s stupid, but he feels this flare of heat, wanting to prove himself, at the implications.
“I want it better,” Hyungwon shoots back, like Gunhee doesn’t get him flushed and weak kneed after he’s done with him. He’s so fucking stubborn. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’ll keep them,” Gunhee replies immediately, sliding his fingers into Hyungwon’s mouth again – he just wants to shut him up, fingerfuck his mouth, keep him quiet – only to pull back at the fresh sting of teeth scraping against his skin. Lips shiny with saliva, Hyungwon searches for the lube and shoves it at Gunhee, uncaring of his low curses at the lingering pain of the bite. When Gunhee moves to lube up, he takes the opportunity to rise up and reach for him, for his cock, stroking him to full hardness. His hands are warmed from Gunhee’s skin. Once they find a rhythm, Gunhee remembers all that they’d drank – it’s not really enough to get him drunk, but the fuzziness just under the heat of sex is pleasant.
It’s familiar, after that – he’s careful when he fucks his index finger into him, but once the glide is slick, he doesn’t bother with being gentle. He can tell Hyungwon doesn’t expect it, but there isn’t a demand for him to slow down, either; instead, Hyungwon threads the fingers of his free hand through his hair and tightens them, teeth bared, whispering things that he knows will work Gunhee up worse: do it harder, do it like you mean it, you’re holding back, it’s like you’re fucking new to this. It’s to get a rise out of him, it’s to get him angry, he knows; it takes no effort for Hyungwon to do it at all. God, Gunhee doesn’t even know – doesn’t remember – Hyungwon goads him and pokes at him and gets him to work harder, gets him annoyed in that sex-heated way until all he’s thinking of is fucking him so he shuts up. He kisses him silent, licking into his mouth and sucking on those stupidly full lips and biting until they’re just as chapped and wet as his own.
It’s less of him stretching Hyungwon open after he stuffs two fingers inside him and more fingerfucking him until he moans loud and broken. Gunhee abandons all pretenses of going slow, driving his fingers into Hyungwon without caring about the cramp developing in his wrist; in response, Hyungwon’s breath starts to hitch more and more. His pace as he jerks Gunhee off begins to falter, rhythm slipping. It doesn’t matter if the stimulation is messy – even despite the mounting frustration at the build of pleasure slowing, Gunhee’s drunk on the steady crumble of Hyungwon’s facade. A rush of satisfaction wars with his impatience when Hyungwon abandons stroking Gunhee’s dick in favour of clutching at his arms, trying to rock his hips into the movement. It’s almost stupidly needy of him; it’s almost like he knows it, too, with how he turns his head to the side, not meeting Gunhee’s eye – so of course Gunhee’s ego is stroked all the way full.
“That shuts you up, huh?” he asks, nosing down Hyungwon’s jaw, his Adam’s apple. It takes him all the self control he has left to pull away instead of sucking a mark into the skin; he imagines it, bright and striking, so Hyungwon will carry a little bit of Gunhee’s effect on his skin wherever he does. His smugness probably shows all over his face – it does show – because Hyungwon takes one look at him and tries to stop himself from moving, which works only until Gunhee draws his fingers out and starts all over again from just one. Of course it gets a reaction.
“What are you doing? I thought— show me, fuck me already,” Hyungwon hisses, tugging on Gunhee’s shoulders to draw him closer, then brushing his palms down his chest to his waist, then further, just above his hips. The arousal is clear in his expression: eyes dark and glossy, lips bitten-red, cheeks flushed, brows knit. He’s sweating a little bit – when he moves, Gunhee can see the faint sheen of it over his skin – but even that looks fucking gorgeous and untouchable when it’s on him. “Put it in.”
“Bet I can make you come just like this. You think you can do that? The way you moan when I’m inside you, bet you can do it for me. It’ll just take me touching you here—” He curls his fingers into Hyungwon’s prostate, watching his expression waver, then slacken. When he slides his fingers across it, bones held taut so the swells of his knuckles rub hard against the spot, Hyungwon makes this strangled little noise and arches up, like a marionette pulled upwards by a string attached right where his ribs end. At the repeated motion, his mouth drops open in a soundless groan, full lips parting in an invitation. Gunhee doesn’t need to look at him, not really – he can feel Hyungwon gripping him crushing tight, rippling around his fingers every time he curls them.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, in that deep, raspy tone he fucking knows Hyungwon likes, pitched all the way down so it’s felt rather than heard. Hyungwon clenches down hard whenever he talks to him in this voice – he can school his expression and bite his voice back all he wants, but Gunhee has his fingers fucked inside him, can feel the minute, intimate reactions of his body. “Like that. But you don’t want just my fingers. You’re greedy for my cock filling you up, you like that the best. You’re needy for it, right? You want me inside you? Can’t take it anymore, you need to be stuffed full, don’t you? Tell me.”
He can hear the quickening breaths, the stuttering of Hyungwon’s voice in his throat when he groans – it’s been long enough that Gunhee knows how to back him into a corner. Saying no means Gunhee will tease him more, saying yes means he’s admitting to wanting Gunhee’s dick inside him. Either way, Hyungwon ends up reaching down to grip Gunhee’s wrist in a bid for wrestling back the upper hand, nails digging into his skin. His voice is just a little rougher around the edges as he speaks – just a little. “Pull out.”
Gunhee does.
“Fuck me.” But then, before Gunhee can play this game with him, Hyungwon continues: “Or are you too much of a coward to do it the way you say you will?” A sharp flash of teeth in the dark. “You’re too fucking vanilla to really let go. You really think you can give it like that? You really think I need you to get off? You know I could get anyone else. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Fucking joke.”
Oh. Oh, that gets to him. Gunhee grits his teeth, suddenly aching too much to want to continue playing games – this escalates so fucking quickly, and now he feels hot enough to burn. “You came to me though. You come to me.”
“You’re available.”
“And you— I should have known you got off on it,” he breathes, lava bubbling from his chest to his belly. The want to ruin Hyungwon is ever-present, but this time – he means it this time, feeling it with a searing, liquid intensity that shoots through his blood. “Looking down on everyone you can step over like you’re on a fucking throne.”
Once he’s got a hold on Hyungwon’s wrists, it’s fucking easy to manhandle him, throw him around into the position he wants. There’s barely even any resistance – just pathetic little yelps, like he’s surprised at the treatment. Gunhee rolls him over onto his stomach and pulls him down so his head isn’t so close to the edge of the mattress; the movement forces Hyungwon’s thighs open, makes him stick his ass out. His shirt hangs off of him, molding to the lines of his torso. Gunhee can’t help but push it up before settling down and dragging Hyungwon’s hips towards him (they’re so fucking small in his hands, fuck).
“Gunhee—”
“That’s how you like it,” he interrupts, hands shaking as he rips the condom packet open. He rolls the condom on – where the fuck is the lube? There – and lubes up as he speaks. “You wanna be pulled off your throne and dragged down into the mud with the rest of us. You want this—” Holds Hyungwon still before he can thrash out. Teases his tight little hole with his cockhead, nudging, sliding. Imagines how he’s going to spread open from the pressure of Gunhee’s cock, forcing his body to rearrange to make room for him. “You want this to be a nice little fuckhole, don’t you? You wanna be fucked dripping. That's your whole fucking game. It’s why you say these things.”
There’s no response. Gunhee swallows, words caught in his throat, but then Hyungwon makes this short, aborted little sound – the first syllable of what Gunhee is fucking sure was his name – and suddenly, he’s too impatient to play this game, he fucking knows Hyungwon wants it. He feeds his cock straight into Hyungwon’s waiting hole, feeling him twitch open at the pressure before clenching as Gunhee slides it straight in. He’s squeezing around Gunhee so hard, thighs tensing up at the intrusion, and after a pause in which it feels like they’re both holding their breaths, Hyungwon moans loud and broken and stuttery, squirming under Gunhee’s broader body. They hadn’t spent too long on stretching – but he likes it, doesn’t he, he likes feeling it stretch him further open, Gunhee knows – so it’s a certain kind of addictive. Gunhee gets off on how Hyungwon takes it with difficulty but takes it anyway.
“You’re fucking tight, you know that?”
Hyungwon is panting, voice strained. “Didn’t you say you were gonna give it to me better? Move.”
“Bet you get off on this. Playing around until someone’s pissed enough to bend you over and shut you up.”
“Do you ever fucking shut your mouth? Move,” Hyungwon insists, but when Gunhee rocks his hips hard just once, he jolts like he’s been electrocuted. “Wait—”
It’s the way he reaches back with one trembling hand that makes Gunhee stop entirely, heart in his throat. “Should I pull out?”
“No, no, just—”
But there’s no continuation. Gunhee leans all the way forward to press kisses to the back of Hyungwon’s neck, tasting salt on his tongue and letting it sting the bitten-tender parts of his lips; Hyungwon reaches for the hand Gunhee is bracing himself on, running his fingers over the back of it. It cuts through the haze a little bit; he feels this little curl of guilt in his chest – carefully, he puts his weight on his elbows, so he’s holding himself on top of Hyungwon, pressed onto him but never crushing him.
But then Hyungwon breathes in deep. Pushes back. Gunhee lets him, moves with him, keeps on kissing his shoulder until he’s shrugged off.
“Now,” comes the collected, arrogant command. It’s like he’d never asked to stop in the first place.
“You’re sure?” There’s no halt this time, only slow glides that drive Gunhee crazy with the need to fuck harder and faster. He’s still not sure, though, just in case Hyungwon needs to adjust more (he can’t help the flare of pride in his chest at the thought of Hyungwon straining to take how big he is).
Except Hyungwon wants it harder. Says so. “I said move – fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like I want it.” Then: “Make it worth my while.”
It does the job. The harsher rhythm is easy to fall back into. Gunhee edges the pace up until they’re fucking properly, and by the time Hyungwon’s finally fucked out enough to moan helplessly instead of snap at him to give it to him – faster, harder, better, nastier, filthier – his heart is thudding in his ears and he feels tightly wound enough to burst. Hyungwon’s loud, shocked noise when Gunhee grips his slim hips bruise-tight and pulls him back on his cock, once for each fuck forward, burns through the incessant white noise of the bloodrush in his ears. The slap of skin on skin is hard and stinging, but in the good way, in the filthy hot way; he adjusts his grip so he can keep Hyungwon’s cheeks spread apart with his thumbs.
“Like this,” he pants in between thrusts, not listening for proper answers; he knows Hyungwon, if his pride has crumbled enough to answer, sounds too fucked out to lie through his teeth to say no. “Is this what you wanted? Worth your while? Tell me I mean it— I fucking mean it, you know it—”
It’s almost mesmerizing to watch himself disappear into Hyungwon, burying himself inside him and feeling how he stretches around his dick – the pressure when he rocks his hips forward, the way Hyungwon looks so small when he takes Gunhee’s thickness into him. Slim thighs, narrow hips, jutting shoulderblades, this fucking small waist that Gunhee could wrap just one arm around and have Hyungwon folded into his body, just like that. Gunhee likes it – likes the size difference between them; likes how Hyungwon is so easy to pin down and put where Gunhee wants him even though he behaves like he’s untouchable. He’s all talk.
It only takes a few hard, snapping thrusts for Hyungwon to jerk helplessly, his thighs trying to twitch shut but stopped by Gunhee’s body in between them. It’s a chain reaction – first comes this, then the stuttering whimpers – there, first a trickle and then a flood – and then Hyungwon’s spine bunching up and arching out every time Gunhee draws back. It’s like he can’t figure out whether he wants to stick his ass out and take it or if he wants to get away from the stimulation. The thought burns – from his head to the tips of his fingers to all the way down his back – he can’t get enough of it.
Then Hyungwon’s arms give out, and he falls forward, fingers clenched in the sheets; he reaches back like he wants to touch, or slow Gunhee down. The twist of his body when Gunhee grabs his hand and pins it to the small of his back to keep him from doing so means he can’t muffle himself in the sheets. It also means Gunhee can see the expression on his profile: his face is contorted in pleasure, cheeks flushed with his eyes scrunched shut, parted lips catching on the sheets whenever he makes a sound. His knees are starting to slip. Fucked out. He wonders how he looks to Hyungwon – if Hyungwon would look at his expression to read the pleasure on his face and feel exactly this: some undefined mix of heat, pride, want.
Gunhee knows he’s going to get off to this memory for weeks. The burn in Gunhee’s thighs, the sting of skin slapping hard against skin, the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, the air he breathes wet and feverish on the way in, Hyungwon tight and hot and shivering around him – it feels like a relief he’s been waiting for.
“Close,” Hyungwon gasps. Gunhee starts at how wrecked he sounds when he’s trying to actually speak, all choked up. “I’m gonna come, please, please—”
If anything, that only stuns him more. Hyungwon fucking pleading for him— it’s – it turns him on so fucking much. He wants to hear it again. He always wants to hear it again when Hyungwon sounds like this, says things like this – it’s so hard earned, it’s so sexy, it’s… he’s being so fucking— Gunhee can’t think of the right word. Just that he likes it a lot.
“Oh,” comes the breathy moan when he stops to grind in all the way on his next thrust, letting go of Hyungwon’s wrist and realizing just how tightly he’s been holding him in place when his own knuckles ache at the relaxation. Just before Hyungwon turns his head and steadies himself, Gunhee catches him opening his eyes in shock, brows tilting upwards.
“You gonna come around my dick?” he asks, and Hyungwon makes this frustrated sound, pushing back against him. Gunhee steadies him with both his hands, holding him still. “All over yourself, babe?”
An idea flashes briefly through his head – Hyungwon ruined in every way, cum dripping from his ass down his thighs – and Gunhee follows it where it leads him, suddenly tight-throated and unable to breathe. It’s so hot – barebacking – so fucking hot. He’s surprised by the intensity of how much he wants to see Hyungwon messed up like that for him (he’d be so furious, though, but maybe it could be in the good way…? But no, Hyungwon wouldn’t, not just like that, he’s sure of it). He’s already seen his lips dripping with cum – it smeared over his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose – but this is just as sexy, but so different.
At the stuttering pace, Hyungwon whines and strains against his grip, pushing himself up on his hands and knees and trying to fuck back. Gunhee pushes him back down, ignoring Hyungwon’s angry growl and keeping a hand splayed over his shoulder blades so he stays that way. It’s easy to think of it, now that he’s started – all the videos he’s seen and all the dirty fantasies he’s had bending so they can fit around Hyungwon’s body. It comes in white-hot flashes across the back of his lids, hazily blurring together but still vivid enough to make an impression: Hyungwon’s thighs bracketing his head, Gunhee’s hands spreading him apart so he can lick him clean, the pad of his thumb pressed to his stretched rim, feeling the minute flutters as cum leaks out…
“I wanna come all over you.”
“What?”
He hadn’t realized he’d said it loud enough for Hyungwon to hear, but no matter. He wants to see – if he can’t fuck his cum into him, then he wants to see it on him, just one time. Plus, it’d piss him off later – he wants to see his reaction when he does it. Gunhee will have the upper hand, for once. There’s so many reasons and there are none at all at the same time, all fuelled by this sharp, clear want; it’s too difficult to think, the warmth in his belly coiled too tight for him to focus on anything else.
“I wanna come all over your ass,” he repeats, grinding in all the way in and then allowing himself to slip out. As soon as the pressure lets up, he fumbles to get the condom off and pump himself with his hand. He’s worked up enough that it doesn’t take too long for him to build up to his peak at all.
“Fuck,” Gunhee groans, the word scratching against his dry throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
And then his body locks up, all at once. His orgasm burns through him impossibly hot. He comes in spurts, all over Hyungwon’s ass, dimly aware of the shocked sound Hyungwon lets out before he tries to twitch away from the heat, but no, no, Gunhee will hold him still— like that, yes, one hand tight on his narrow hip and the other working his cum out of his cock. It slides over his fingers, slicking up his palm and then dripping down the curve of his wrist onto Hyungwon’s skin. The sight of it smeared over Hyungwon is so fucking sexy – thick, glistening white drooling from the tip of his cock and pooling in the dip of Hyungwon’s ass, down the natural valley from his tailbone, all over his pink, clenching hole. Some of it even got further up to the small of his back, dangerously close to the hem of his shirt still tangled under his armpits. It travels in slow rivulets; Gunhee has to collect it with the pads of his fingers, wiping it all the way down to his ass again. He grips Hyungwon harder, fingers almost slipping on sweaty skin, hiking him up so he’s got a better view.
The position gives him better access to tease the head of his cock against Hyungwon’s rim, drawing back when it twitches just barely open. The movement is abrupt and too quick; Hyungwon hitches forward with a gasp, breaking a little bridge of sticky cum stretching from his skin to Gunhee’s, but Gunhee steadies himself and tries again when the tremors in his spine settle. This time, he slides the underside of his cock against the valley there, smearing the liquid already on its way to becoming tacky. He can’t think; his body is working on instinct for the time it takes to get off his high. The glide is wet and slippery and so fucking messy, even when he squeezes his cock between a handful each of Hyungwon’s ass cheeks and then, when it slips, against the back of his thigh.
It hits at that moment: he’s messed Chae Hyungwon up: fucked him flushed and panting and pliant and boneless, fucked his ass until he came all over him. Gunhee isn’t sure who’s more dishevelled between the both of them. His heart jumps at the silence post-heat-of-the-moment; he is frozen in place until Hyungwon arches his back and exhales shakily.
“Oh,” he manages (yes, yes, manages – he sounds so fucked out that it makes Gunhee smile through his ragged breathing). Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything more – doesn’t goad him or berate him or anything like that. Just reaches down and between his legs, movements slow and uncoordinated in that sex-frustrated way; to Gunhee’s surprise, he doesn’t stop to jerk himself off. Instead, he goes further, fingertips swirling in the wetness of the spill, middle finger slipping into the dip of his stretched rim just slightly. “Gunhee...”
“Hyung,” Gunhee whispers.
“Fuck,” Hyungwon sighs, rocking his hips back and taking a deep, audible breath. He slides down lower so his thighs are bracketing Gunhee’s, then pushes himself up on shaky elbows to grind down. He’s still fucking wet, sticky, hot. Gunhee can’t breathe, suddenly. “Hold me up.”
Suddenly, Gunhee is thankful that they can’t see each other’s faces. He carefully holds Hyungwon to his chest – he’s so light that it’s easy, even though Gunhee is still catching his breath – and lets him fuck down on his thighs; they have to shift around a little so only one of Gunhee’s thighs are slotted in between Hyungwon’s, but they fall into a rhythm soon, moving together like a tide. He can feel his own wetness on his skin, and it should feel disgusting but it’s not, it’s not, it’s slick and messy and Gunhee’s so fucking into it. His oversensitive cock grinds hard against Hyungwon’s lower back, pushing electric-hot pulses down the back of his neck with each rock forward. It’s almost too much to bear, but it’s just so good.
He wraps one arm securely around Hyungwon’s waist, pressing his back up to his front close, and jerks him off with his other hand so Hyungwon can reach back and steady himself with both hands instead of just one. Soon enough, though, Hyungwon pushes his hand away and replaces it with his own, fucking into the ring his fingers make with single-minded desperation. Gunhee can’t help but keep touching; he murmurs encouragements, smooths his hands up Hyungwon’s torso, hiking his shirt up to roll his nipples between his fingers (he’s rewarded with Hyungwon seizing up, then jerking into his touch, lower lip caught between his teeth, and he automatically files this reaction away for later). His head feels like it’s filled with too much and nothing at all, both at the same time. He breathes in, hyperaware of how the air clings to his throat, his lungs; of Hyungwon’s weight on him; of how their skin sticks and slides together as they grip desperately at each other for balance and friction.
His heart doesn’t stop its erratic, confused jumping until Hyungwon tenses, mouth falling open for a moan – his moans are sharp and bitten off and breathy until they’re not: they come out softer sometimes, shaped by his lips instead of his teeth – and comes searing hot all over his hand (had Gunhee felt that hot on Hyungwon’s skin?), sagging and breathing hard against his chest when he’s ridden the burst of it out. For some reason – maybe the bone-tiredness after sex, maybe the relief and satisfaction and unwind of it as they both come down – Gunhee keeps him held tight to his chest, one arm wound around his waist and the other pressed to his chest. He can feel the thud of Hyungwon’s heart against his palm, quickened and stuttering just as much as his own, stirring something warm and cautious inside his chest – it’s one thing to fuck Hyungwon but it’s another entirely to feel the effect of it on him. He doesn’t know how to explain it.
Hyungwon climbs off of him as soon as their breathing evens out, careful not to let his shirt drop. The loss of weight and warmth from Gunhee’s lap is instant, snapping him to attention. He waits for a chew-out that doesn’t come; Hyungwon glances over his shoulder at his own skin, stained and marked, with an expression of disbelief, like the knowledge of what happened is only just setting in. It isn’t the reaction Gunhee had been expecting, but it makes him seem even more thoroughly debauched; untouchable Chae Hyungwon marked up with Gunhee’s cum.
Gunhee’s. Fucking hell. “Hyung—”
“Get the tissues,” Hyungwon breathes, still sounding surprised. Not upset, just surprised. He steadies himself on his knees, looking a little unsure of what to do with the mess. Gunhee groans and gets off the mattress, reaching for the tissue box.
He cleans himself up first, returning to the mattress with the box in his hands. Hyungwon dabs his hands and his cock clean and then stretches out on his stomach, feline and boneless, looking back over his shoulder at Gunhee. Lazy observation. Like this, blond hair mussed and light curving over his skin, he looks like a painting, a movie still: soft around the edges, only his eyes in full clarity. “Clean me up.”
“I know,” Gunhee mumbles, reaching out to do as he’s told; Hyungwon almost never cleans up, even when it’s him messing Gunhee up – face, hand, anything. The times he does are few and far apart.
It’s just that Gunhee has never done it like this before. Even as he cleans up, he can’t help but imagine Hyungwon, just the same but better. Sprawled on Gunhee’s bed, his face pressed to the pillows and his ass raised high in the air – Gunhee would hold him exactly like this, one hand keeping him steady by the hip but two fingers of the other plunged into his hole. It would be to plug him up, but that would just be a flimsy excuse to feel Hyungwon struggle to keep Gunhee’s cum inside himself – he’d scissor his fingers, let cum ooze out around them, dripping down Hyungwon’s thighs and onto his sheets – maybe Hyungwon would moan, maybe he’d bite the pillow and shut up because he’s embarrassed about it, maybe…
Stop, stop, stop.
When he looks up, ears burning, Hyungwon meets his gaze. The curve of his shoulder hides everything below the nose, but his eyes are sharp, narrowed. Gunhee immediately fights to wipe any expression off of his face as he turns back to dabbing his skin clean – he’s too easy to read, he knows.
It takes a few moments before Hyungwon speaks. “You’ve never done that before.”
Gunhee’s stomach swoops. “What, did you like it?” he asks too quickly.
“You’re the one who wanted to and now you’re asking me?” Hyungwon bites back, but he turns his head away, sounds suddenly just as breathless as he did earlier.
“You weren’t complaining.” Gunhee straightens, suddenly self conscious, and tosses the crumpled up wad of tissues in the direction of the wastebin. Hyungwon rolls onto his back, so Gunhee reaches out for his knee, but is pushed back with a light shove to the chest.
“We don’t have time for that,” Hyungwon reprimands, changing the topic completely. For a second, Gunhee considers pressing it – thinks I saw you reach down, and you, you rode me, you fucked yourself on me with it, or was that just— and then stops himself. He might be reading too deep into it. He doesn’t know. Either way, he’s going to revisit this memory and turn it into imagination when he’s alone. He can’t stop lingering.
Hyungwon probably knows that.
The time seems to tick slow as melting butter, but Gunhee knows Hyungwon is right; their bought hour doesn’t have room for more of this. Strangely, it doesn’t seem to speed up even after they’ve walked out (one by one, as a precaution), so Gunhee has all the time in the world to think of the night on the way home, noise and dark and sex, blood beating under his skin like it’s caught on the question of what to feel.
♠♠♠
So things continue.
This is a quiet, understated brand of unexpected; Gunhee only realizes he had been expecting something more of a difference when he’s faced with the absence of it. There are corners and seats and empty spaces that Yoonho has reserved for himself, scattered all throughout the company; no one tries to test the boundaries and squeeze them closed again, but no one shuffles around them with any guilt or awkwardness either. It makes it seem like all this had been a long time coming – something everyone’s made peace with after the initial shock. It wasn’t like this when Kwangji announced he was leaving for Japan “for a while, I’ll be back soon” even though they all knew he planned to enlist whenever he came back, or when Minkyun decided to audition somewhere else. Gunhee doesn’t know if it’s because they’ve all drifted apart just enough, or if it’s just him.
There is still a slightly sour taste to his mouth whenever he’s reminded of the easy out Yoonho chose.
(It was an out. You could call it anything else but the truth is that it was an out.)
No one asks or seems to notice his views on the matter, though – not even Hyungwon, who doesn’t meet his eye when he looks, but Gunhee catches him glancing back at him once or twice with a strange expression on his face. It throws him off a little; he had been expecting Hyungwon to bring it up instead of tiptoeing around it, letting it lie between them. It’s stupid to linger over it, he knows. Still, the looks are – they say that it (what even is it? Everything that night?) hasn’t been forgotten. Maybe. The result is that every time they come close, even if it’s just for a few fleeting moments, Gunhee has to stomp down a knot of anticipation before he can act as he normally does: teasing, careless, easy, a template from months ago that’s second nature to slip into in the light of day.
But life keeps moving; he’s swept up in work within the week, holing himself up in studio to practice (and conveniently skip out on a dance class or two), and politely declining Wonho’s help until he gets the hint that Gunhee would rather stress about stuff either on his own or with people that have roots in hip hop (and sure, Wonho and Shownu were both in Nuboyz and everything, but they’ve always been more cut out for being idols).
The first time he’d wanted to rap – really rap, not just fuck around in karaoke rooms with his friends for practice or post joke videos online – was a few weeks after he’d turned seventeen. Sure, even before that, he’d had that endgame of making his family proud – what kid doesn’t, especially an only son like him? – but it hadn’t been in that concrete certainty that this was what he wanted to do, and what he had the option of doing besides. The trigger had predictably been his first time watching his cousin at an underground show – the same cousin that fucked around in karaoke rooms with him half the time. The rest of the reasons Gunhee decided to actually go for it trickled after, one by one, piling up until jokes became actual serious audios and ‘hey, I’m not bad at this’ became ‘I want to go to that company’s audition on Saturday’.
He’s been writing for himself for years. There’s a certain sort of respect a self-made artist incites that can’t be manufactured. It’s what had pulled him towards what would later become the lineup for Nuboyz back when he first joined the company; the importance of being self-made even if it was in different fields. It’s why he’s honestly a little surprised at how Jooheon takes Starship’s rejection of the song he’d been working on.
“Soundcloud,” Gunhee presses when the topic comes up during one of their coffee runs. It’s not that he’s surprised that it wasn’t approved – it’s that Jooheon isn’t taking it and working on it more, after all that effort he’d already put in. “Hell, you could use it for a mixtape if you tweak it a bit.”
“It wasn’t specifically for me.” Jooheon twists his lips to the side, as if he’s trying to look less disappointed than he is. Gunhee wants to believe it’s because they’re in public. “But we can’t use it for a group or a solo song anyway, so I don’t know.”
Gunhee knows better than to ask him why not; he’d known even before Jooheon said it. It doesn’t really fit the group concept. But solo? It could easily be worked into one.
He says so, too, and Jooheon gives him that specific half-amused, half-grateful look, like he’s glad for the distraction, no matter how impossible what Gunhee suggests is. “I don’t think that’s an image I should broadcast right now, either.”
“You’re a rapper first. Then an idol.”
Jooheon steps forward then, to take the tray holding their drinks from the cashier. “That was before,” he says, a little quieter. “I’m an idol rapper now.”
♠♠♠
During one of the quieter moments of the day, tucked into the space between afternoon and evening, Gunhee is startled into opening his eyes when a familiar body slides onto the practice room bench he’s sprawled on, cramming in close. “You weren’t asleep,” Hyungwon defends when he looks over.
“I wasn’t going to—” Gunhee begins automatically, but cuts it short when everything actually registers. The door is still inching shut from where Hyungwon didn’t close it properly, slowing down to a stop as it nears the frame. When he glances at the wall mirrors right across them, his gaze is drawn immediately to how uncharacteristically loud Hyungwon's reflection looks: the loose limbed curve of his body poured out on the bench is unsuited to the bright, flashy orange and pink of his hoodie, only muted slightly by their distance from the duo of lights closest to the door, which are the only lights turned on. Even so, Gunhee doesn't doubt that nothing will look out of place on a stage, where Hyungwon would hold himself more alert, hundred percent as an idol.
(They’ve fucked in this room once, late at night, over that desk in the corner. Door locked, lights turned off, only Gunhee’s phone flashlight aimed up at the ceiling. It had been some time after two in the morning, he thinks, but then the memory fades, slips into nothing.)
When Gunhee looks back, his attention jumps to details the mirror doesn’t catch: the gloss over Hyungwon's lips, the smeared eyeliner, the dark roots contrasting with styled blonde hair. This all makes Gunhee feel a little self conscious, fresh out of the studio with bags under his eyes and his hair messy from multiple frustrated ruffles.
“What,” Hyungwon prompts, straightening so he’s not so much in Gunhee’s space.
“Nothing.” Gunhee pulls himself higher onto the bench, letting his knee knock against Hyungwon’s. He honestly hadn’t expected to see Hyungwon like this: dolled up for the stage, feet poised towards the door even if he’s angled towards Gunhee, like he’s waiting to be called away any minute. After the past week, it feels abrupt. Anticipation rises under his skin; his first thought is that Hyungwon might address something – like he always seems to end up doing – now that they’re alone. Then he discards the notion; it's too abrupt, and ill-fitting considering how he looks, besides. Despite this, he can't quite shake off the idea completely; his spine straightens out, refuses to relax. “What’s with the makeup?”
“There’s this schedule in half an hour.” Hyungwon’s tone is light, dismissive. He turns his head towards the mirror, opening his mouth as if he’s going to suck his bottom lip into his mouth, but then seems to remember the gloss and presses his lips back together. He seems to consider his words for a beat, and then, when he speaks, he sounds a little hurried, with the air of someone trying to pack their words into the stretch of time marking what they say as planned, as if he’d changed his mind about saying them and then changed it back. “I looked for you in the studio. You weren’t there.”
Aren’t you supposed to be busy? he thinks, unable to keep his gaze from falling to Hyungwon’s attire, but bites the words back before they can escape his mouth. Their weight seems to linger on his tongue, waiting for him to call them back; the last time Hyungwon had sought him out alone, in a window too removed from their usual agreement to be comfortable, is likely the reason the situation is repeating now. The possible responses he might elicit if he gives into the urge to say it – indignant, dismissive, pressing, footsteps and a door clicking properly shut – all flicker half-formed through his mind, but.
But. He doesn’t want to say it.
When he looks up, Hyungwon’s features shifted into another one of those infinite unreadable looks, the ones he has no names for but recognizes as different. Hastily, he moves on. “I needed a break.”
A break. Short and sweet. He only sees that the line of Hyungwon's mouth had been tense when it smooths down; the change spreads from the corners of his lips to his cheeks, too. His face is so expressive, all these tiny shifts, and yet his expressions are impossible to pin down. He’s still quiet, expectant, as if he’s waiting for an explanation.
"Why were you looking for me?" Gunhee asks instead of giving one.
It's the wrong thing to say. Maybe the right thing, he doesn't know. Hyungwon's brows furrow, and his lips part, not quite in outright surprise but like he had expected Gunhee to be less direct. These small windows of surprise pose both as a sort of reassurance and as a strike of a sour chord; it’s unfair how Hyungwon seems to expect him to catch all these cues to a song he’s not familiar with. Gunhee, suddenly hyperaware of the door hanging just barely open, can't help but wonder if Hyungwon can read him well enough to map out a script when they're face to face; does he look at the small tells of Gunhee's body, like Gunhee looks for Hyungwon’s? Does he know them well enough not to look by now?
Gunhee’s not a good actor.
The thought isn’t one he wants to dwell on, but the pause that stretches out between them doesn't give him anything else to think about.
In the end, Hyungwon exhales. "Your phone," he says, decisive. Past the stumbling feeling of being taken aback by an answer he hadn't expected to hear, a small voice in Gunhee's head quietly asks whether that's really what Hyungwon had meant to say in the beginning.
"—What?"
"Give me your phone.” His tone is a hint flatter, more impatient.
"Seriously?" The demand is so out of the blue that Gunhee can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. Still, he finds himself fishing the device out of his pocket, unlocking it and handing it over despite his apprehensiveness. “Why do you want it?”
Hyungwon keeps his hand on the phone but doesn’t take it from him. “You want it back?” he asks, voice measured.
“No, I’m just.” Gunhee shakes his head, figures it’s better to let Hyungwon do whatever he wants. “I’m just asking.”
All he gets in response is a shrug and a non-committal sound. Seemingly appeased, Hyungwon finally pulls the phone from his hand. Gunhee is vaguely surprised to see him navigating to the Soundcloud app and opening it up. Hyungwon backs out of the paused Nucksal song in order to type something into the search bar; his thumbs are a little bit awkward as he does so, as if he's not used to this sort of keyboard. Gunhee makes the connection as the page loads; Jooheon, when asked about his odd hours of being online, had complained about an increased strictness regarding their phones during their promotions, when they barely have enough time to sleep, let alone check their phones when they’re handed back to them at the end of the day. Hyungwon is probably more used to iPad.
"You want my phone to listen to music?" We’re not going to talk about it? Whatever you wanted to talk about? Surprisingly, he feels this swell of… disappointment? Something like it. It is becoming increasingly clear that Hyungwon is choosing to ignore the tension, the anticipation, the blurry elephant in the room. Gunhee doesn’t know how to feel about it, but ultimately decides to follow Hyungwon’s lead. A year ago, he might have hooked his chin on Hyungwon's shoulder regardless of any expectations of being shrugged off. Now, he only looks at the screen from afar, watching Hyungwon scroll slowly through the results of his search. The search bar says 'Acourve'.
"I can't have mine back for at least a few months." Despite the purposeful incredulity to Gunhee’s tone, Hyungwon doesn’t even look up. He taps on a song named Honey, written out in English. The opening strain itself marks it as light, sweet. It makes Gunhee think of the smell of a warm cafe, morning sun slanted over wood panelling, just as you step through the door. It isn’t something he would reconcile with Hyungwon, these days.
He can’t remember if Hyungwon listened to this sort of music before. This is too light to reconcile with Gunhee’s image of him; looking back, he can remember the types of songs that bleed into the late night, the soundtrack to images of city lights through taxi windows, to neon glows at the mouths of dark alleyways, to kisses tasting like soju and chapstick in the haze of secondhand cigarette smoke.
There are others – slow burning, background music, satisfaction as the sheets cool down in his room – but those are Gunhee’s picks, not Hyungwon’s. In practice rooms, trainees listen to things together to beat out the exhaustion, the kind they don’t have to think of a stage for. He remembers the cold flat of a mirror against his back and the searing heat of Hyungwon pressed to his side, shoulder to shoulder, flipping through songs he doesn’t quite remember in full anymore. It had been two years ago, he thinks – it’s such an insignificant memory he doesn’t remember anything else about it, except that it had been raining. It had been a memory he’d clung to in the past: laughter from the other corners of the room, the rhythms of so many songs bending to accommodate the sound of rain on glass, cool air on his sweaty face and heat pressed to his side. It doesn't matter, though, now that he’s forgotten the details of it.
“How does that relate?” Gunhee asks, shaking the thought away. It’s petty of him to call out Hyungwon’s overly familiar gesture (they’re not close anymore, so him seeking Gunhee specifically out just for this on a schedule is just— this isn’t a red herring, it’s a change of heart over saying anything). He earns a sharp look, chastising, which dissipates his knee-jerk urge to provoke – if it’s not a big thing, if Hyungwon’s deciding on leaving it, then Gunhee should leave it too. Fuck, he thinks, biting down on his tongue; if anything, he should be the one diverting this in the first place.
Hyungwon only looks away when the set of Gunhee’s shoulder softens. “I’m tired. I haven’t slept.” His voice is just as light as before. Then, as he leans his head back against the wall: “It helps me relax.”
“Huh.” Gunhee closes his eyes, discards everything but what’s in the present, listens. Lets himself relax, too. Honestly, he gets it. The song is refreshing after so long of listening to entirely different music, even if it had been for work, all day. “I like it, it’s nice,” he says after a few seconds of debate. Hyungwon makes a soft sound. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But when Gunhee looks over, Hyungwon seems to be more relaxed, too – it’s in the way he holds himself. He’s still holding Gunhee’s phone face down against his thigh, like he’s laid claim over it until he’s satisfied, but his eyes are closed; as Gunhee watches, Hyungwon slides a little lower on the bench and tips his head back against the wall. The fabric of his shirt catches against Gunhee’s, shoulder to shoulder, and he has to fight down the urge to pull away. The alternative, however, is pushing closer – he doesn't know what he wants, what he should do.
“Are you going to sleep?” he attempts finally, as the song comes to a close. He mirrors Hyungwon’s pose – legs stretched out in front of him, head thunked back against the wall.
“Shouldn’t I?” Hyungwon doesn’t open his eyes, but something like a smile curves his lips. Maybe Gunhee’s just imagining it, softened up by the approachability in the song that autoplays next. Maybe it’s just the light playing tricks on him, with how it lines the swells of Hyungwon’s lips so intimately. Every minute twitch shows. “Just ten minutes.”
Gunhee takes a breath, ignores the skip in his heartbeat. “Should I wake you?”
But the response is only a vague hum after a short delay, as if Hyungwon needed time to gather the energy for the action. Inertia, Gunhee thinks, lethargy – it’s affecting him too. It pulls at his limbs and makes them uncooperative and heavy, even though he’s sure he hasn't done as much physically strenuous work as Hyungwon throughout the day. The part of him that still lingers in the opening of that Seorae alley colours out a quiet protest when he allows his weight to sag a little against Hyungwon’s, drowned out by the unnamed feeling in his chest, ugly and accepting all at once.
He ignores it. Just closes his eyes and takes idle note of the gradient of dark on the back of his lids, melting into the brown-red tint at the leftmost edge of his vision, where light filters through the delicate skin. Hyungwon’s heat leaves an imprint all along his side: his shoulder, his arm, his thigh. There is the faint sound of someone laughing in the hallway, and then, rapidly fading, the click of two sets of heels on the floor. There is a certain weight to this stillness; it’s an awareness he has felt many times before, amplified by the knowledge that the boundaries to this room are incomplete. He’s going to go back to his work after this, guiltless and not having to worry about looking debauched, and Hyungwon is going to go on his schedule. Until then, he figures he can just… not think. If he doesn’t look at Hyungwon, he doesn’t have to think.
If he had been inclined to dwell, it would have struck him as odd: that being here with Chae Hyungwon, despite all the circumstances that led them there and all that’s simmering in his head, quiet and shadowed and waiting to be called to the surface once this strange awareness of now fades, Gunhee feels more relaxed than he has in a long time.
Notes:
shownu is the biggest hunk ever
comments nd thoughts r appreciated ♡ thank u for reading!!
Shownussi (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 15 May 2017 02:01PM UTC
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strifelines on Chapter 1 Mon 15 May 2017 02:11PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 15 May 2017 02:12PM UTC
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