Chapter Text
At some points in his life, Johnny wonders how he got there.
Usually, he credits it to bad decisions, usually made when drunk. Like back then during freshman year, he had taken five shots in a row with only half a burrito in his stomach, decided to agree to Ten’s taunts to get a tattoo on his lower back which had hurt like crap even with all the alcohol in his system. He had woken up on the floor of Doyoung’s bedroom, head pounding from a crazy hangover, and proceeded to not remember that particular bad decision until he had accidentally slammed his side against Doyoung’s sink.
Doyoung had watched it all gleefully from his kitchen counter, steaming mug in hand, smug smile stuck on his face as Johnny had rushed out of his bathroom screaming his head off in panic. He had proceeded to let Johnny yell his lungs out in his tiny kitchen, finishing off half of his morning tea in slow measured gulps before turning on his stove and asking Johnny whether he wanted pancakes for breakfast and coffee to go along with it.
Johnny had said yes. He always says yes. He could never say no to Doyoung.
In hindsight, that is probably the reason for this particular bad decision. Kim fucking Doyoung.
Johnny stares mutely at the ceiling painted a muted eggshell colour, finding a random tiny scrape that had somehow ended up in the right corner furthest from him. The sunlight is streaming across the floor of the large bedroom, (too big, in his opinion, but Johnny keeps that thought to himself), and he really should get the fuck up because it’s probably noon or something, judging from how the sun is so high up in the sky. He feels around blindly on the bedside dresser for his phone, eyes still fixed on that stupid crack on the ceiling, his mind oddly far from where it’s supposed to be in his brain.
No, it’s not odd that his mind isn’t with him. He knows exactly why he’s feeling so floaty, dazed out of his mind despite the lack of a headache that comes with having consumed too much alcohol the night before. This particular decision wasn’t made drunk. In fact, there had been absolutely no drinks involved at all. This scenario that he’s somehow stuck in, right now, is entirely his own fault. No one else’s.
A shadow falls across his face, blocking the sunlight that had started creeping up the bed when he had gotten lost in his head. Johnny tilts his head, looks up into Doyoung’s face, and the remaining words and thoughts bouncing around in his brain just slides out like water going through a sieve.
Doyoung smiles down at him,damp fringe plastered to his forehead, traces of pink flush from a hot shower streaked across his cheekbones. He’s wearing Johnny’s dress shirt, Johnny realises belatedly, buttons in the wrong holes, one sleeve sliding off a pale shoulder to reveal a dark purple bruise peeking out from under the fabric. Johnny knows that if he places his mouth over that bruise, it would fit perfectly both in shape and size, just like how the lid of a tupperware clicks in place when snapped over the container that it is made for, sealing the leftovers away for storage in the fridge for another day.
There is a mug in Doyoung’s hands, steaming, of course, probably green tea, the string of the teabag looped loosely around the top of the handle. It’s a habit that Johnny had noticed on his third visit to Doyoung and Ten’s dorm room back then in freshman year, watching the other boy across the room from where he was sitting cross-legged on his best friend’s bed. Doyoung had owned a mug with “Carpe Diem” printed across the white surface in garish gold cursive, apparently a joke gift from his brother back then (Seize the fucking day, bitches! Ten had crowed dramatically). Johnny vividly remembers the translucent steam rising from the rim of the tacky mug, the string of the green tea bag looped loosely around the handle, the tag with Japanese characters printed on it dangling loosely in the wind current of the rattling fan in the tiny twin dorm room.
He also remembers how Doyoung looked back then, hair bleached a bright blonde, fringe cropped too short, cheeks fuller with baby fat that he hadn’t lost yet. The younger boy’s eyebrows were furrowed together in concentration, earphones plugged in and blasting some indie punk-rock band that spit out lyrics angrily in Korean while he scribbled out answers to the questions in the thick answer bank in front of him with an efficiency that frankly, scared Johnny a little bit at that time.
This Doyoung in front of him has a sharper jaw, cheeks slightly hollowed out from bad eating habits and workaholic tendencies accumulated across four years of undergraduate studies and studying for the actuary qualification exams. This Doyoung has black hair, soft and silky in between his fingers, the planes of his collarbones sharp against skin, a pale canvas with purple, pink and red splattered across. But this Doyoung still loops the string of his teabag across the handle of the mug that he uses to drink his tea, to prevent it from falling into liquid. No one likes the taste of paper in their tea, hyung, he had told Johnny with an eye roll, pointedly ignoring Ten’s snicker in the background before pulling his noise-cancelling headphones on and turning back to the question bank that never seemed to reduce in thickness over the years.
Doyoung cocks his head to the side, one corner of his lips pulled up in a soft smirk, familiar and stirring a warmth in Johnny’s stomach that had flitted in and out over the four years of friendship that they had cultivated. He takes a gulp of his tea, reaches out and trails one finger up the expanse of Johnny’s naked chest before stopping squarely on one particular purple mark.
One right over Johnny’s heart.
In that moment, it takes all of Johnny’s will to keep his heartbeat under control, to regulate it to the even tempo that it usually follows when he’s not feeling the tangle of emotions in his gut whenever he looks at Doyoung. He can’t let his heart betray him, not when he has Doyoung all to himself for now. Not when the clock is ticking while the weekend draws closer, and Johnny just wants to pretend that there is no deadline on this arrangement that they have both agreed to. An arrangement that Johnny couldn’t say no to, because he just can’t say no to Doyoung.
Doyoung looks at him for a bit, a thick film of emotions that Johnny just can’t decipher glossing over his eyes. However, it is gone as quickly as it came, and Johnny barely registers the telltale glint in Doyoung’s eye before the younger lifts his hand and snaps his palm across Johnny’s chest.
“Ouch, what the fuck, Doyoung?” he scrambles to sit up, hand going to his chest reflexively as Doyoung throws his head back and laughs. The sound is music to Johnny’s ears, and oh Johnny is absolutely absolutely entranced by the way the bright sunlight frames the delicate curve of Doyoung’s throat. He is transported back to last night, Doyoung’s head thrown back in pleasure, the pale moonlight filtering across his pale throat that had been far too empty for Johnny’s liking. Johnny had immediately given into his base urges, head too dizzy from lust and a burning desire for something that he knows he can’t have, sinking his teeth into Doyoung’s neck as the younger man exhaled his name with a moan and asked him for more.
Doyoung smirks at him, eyes curved into glittering crescents, gummy smile stretching his face wide, Johnny feels his heart trip. Traitor.
“Come on now, breakfast is ready,” Doyoung backs away from him slowly, tongue poking out of his swollen lips, the glint in his eyes turning into something hungry. He watches Johnny’s eyes, aware of how Johnny is looking at him, fully conscious of the way Johnny’s gaze trails over his bare legs and takes in the hand-shaped bruises imprinted on his outer thighs.
It’s your work, a small voice in his head reminds him, smug and content, and Johnny tries to quash it. You left those on him, all those marks, on his throat, on his shoulder, on his chest, on his legs. You. You did that.
No one else.
“Johnny?” Doyoung’s voice is crushed pearls on velvet, sliding into his head and wrapping a firm hold around his floaty, dizzy mind removed from reality. He looks back at the younger man, just in time to see Doyoung undo the top button of his shirt (your shirt, the voice reminds him, satisfied and content, like a cat that had gotten the cream) and tug it further off his shoulder. His companion smiles, devious and satisfied, like that goddamned voice in Johnny’s head, clearly pleased that Johnny’s attention is no longer elsewhere and is instead focused on him.
“Come to breakfast,” Doyoung breathes, his lips swollen and his eyes hooded, the living embodiment of sin and laviciousness. “There’s dessert too.”
With that, he’s gone, humming some ballad that Johnny doesn’t know as he moves to the kitchen. Johnny inhales, once, twice, before pulling on his boxers and finding a pair of jeans, ignoring the discomfort between his legs as he yanks the zipper up with shaky hands.
He finds Doyoung seated at the kitchen counter, fork in his mouth and tapping away on his phone, a platter of pancakes and bacon in front of him with a bottle of honey sitting innocently beside it. The bottle’s new, Johnny realises, probably the one they had gotten on their grocery trip on their drive here. He stops beside Doyoung, squints at the phone screen before gently wrapping his fingers around the device and pulling it away from the younger man.
“You’re not supposed to be working, Doie. We’re on vacation.”
“Mhmm,” Doyoung leans into him, lazy and warm, and Johnny is torn between the many thoughts bouncing off the walls of his head. So many of them, so many itches begging to be scratched. At the forefront of everything, a blatant, ardent want to slide his hand under his shirt hanging off the younger man, to rediscover the marks of their passion last night and retrace the order of how he had made them bloom across Doyoung’s pale skin with his teeth, with the underlying deep-seated desire to hold onto Doyoung and kiss him and just never let him go.
There are warm hands sliding up his chest and wrapping around his neck, pulling him down into the heat of Doyoung’s mouth and Johnny’s mind just goes blank.
“Vacation, huh,” Doyoung pulls back and Johnny just follows obediently, because it is Doyoung and he is weak. He has always been weak for Doyoung, he knows it, and he believes that Doyoung knows as well. That’s probably why he’s here, in the lakehouse that Doyoung’s family owns on the edge of the small woods in Georgia. Doyoung’s family is ridiculously rich, a combination of old money from a well-established family business and the ridiculous amounts that his mother and older brother are paid for their roles in box-office hits on the silver screen. This lakehouse is one of many that they own around the world, yet Johnny knows that Doyoung has some lingering attachment to this particular one. He sees it in the way Doyoung’s fingers ghost across the coffee table in the living room, sees the fondness in his friend’s eyes as the younger stands in the bedroom and takes some time to just absorb everything he sees.
Johnny had felt like an outsider invading this safe space permeated with Doyoung’s memories, standing awkwardly in the doorway of the bedroom with his backpack slung across his shoulder and his other hand on the handle of Doyoung’s small suitcase. He felt like a voyeur, looking into one of the most intimate parts of Doyoung’s life, like he didn’t deserve to be there because even though they were friends, best friends even, this just didn’t feel like something that you would share with just a friend.
Doyoung had then turned around, yanked Johnny closer by the lapels of his jacket before ordering Johnny to fuck him into the mattress. And Johnny had proceeded to do that, because he just cannot say no to Doyoung.
“Remind me?”
Doyoung is reaching for his zipper, phone completely forgotten as he leans up to take the lobe of Johnny’s ear in between his teeth, calf sliding in between Johnny’s thighs. One strategic bump of his knee has a moan spilling out of Johnny’s mouth, and Johnny feels Doyoung’s smile against the sensitive skin of his pulse momentarily before the younger man bites down hard.
Johnny cant say no to Doyoung. Not during all the times that Doyoung had asked him to stay for dinner, not when Doyoung had asked him if he wanted coffee in the mornings even when he already had an iced Americano on his way over. Doyoung knows, he thinks, that Johnny just can’t say no to him, which is probably why he had ended up saying yes to Doyoung when his best friend’s ex-roommate had pulled him aside after the opening of his graduation show and asked him for a favour.
He should have known something was up. Doyoung asks him for many things, but he has never asked Johnny for a favour.
You still ended up saying yes, the voice in his head tells him, sinking its tendrils into his brain and anchoring itself there. But it’s great, isn’t it? He’s yours, all yours to fuck and ruin and love, for one whole week. Yesterday was just the beginning, today is another day. He’s yours, still yours, because you said yes to him.
Johnny tells the stupid voice to shut the fuck up as he reaches for the bottle of honey on the table.