A Dormant Desire Can Also Catch Fire

by Anonymous

Summary:

Set during the shooting of TTTS season 2. A long-dormant desire re-awakens, and both Mew and Gulf attempt to embrace it as best they can, despite their own insecurities and a plethora of potential consequences.

***

This is a long overdue sequel to We’ll Figure It Out and the second part of the Serendipitous Discoveries two-shot. While We’ll Figure It Out could be read as a standalone, the sequel picks up exactly where the first part left off, hence prior knowledge of the events described in We’re Figure It Out will come in handy!

The drive back to Gulf’s condo is exceptionally uneventful and, in all truth, rather underwhelming. Apart from a couple of meaningless remarks casually tossed between them, Mew and Gulf both remain silent, eyes tenaciously fixed on the road. Normally, it wouldn’t bother Gulf one bit—it’s not uncommon for them to be tired after an entire day of filming, and conversation rarely flows between them when all they truly want is to hit the sack. But tonight’s drive was supposed to play out differently, if only for what happened no more than a few hours ago, and Gulf can’t help but feel a sting of disappointment deep within his chest.

In all honesty, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting. It’s not like a brief makeout session in a resting room can suddenly elevate their relationship to a whole new level. And would he even appreciate it if it could? Or if it did? What he definitely doesn’t appreciate is how today’s events have managed to transform him into an overthinking copy of Mew. It’s not in his nature to fill his brain with questions, especially ones that he has no way of knowing answers to, and yet there he is, immersed in his thoughts and frustrated beyond measure at the lack of progress in his conclusions.

It’s peculiar—he muses—the way Mew’s clutching onto the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles have long turned white. Or maybe it’s not peculiar at all, given that he’s probably overexcited or panic-stricken, or, most likely, a mixture of both. Perhaps that’s the reason why he has barely said anything of substance so far, besides that the shooting had positively drained him today. Gulf briefly wonders if their nap break activities have added to Mew’s current state of fatigue—not that he hopes otherwise. They have definitely added to his own fatigue in any case, the mental kind.

“We’re here.”

Mew’s voice effectively pulls Gulf out of his musings. There’s a hoarseness to it, one that makes Gulf wince.

“Oh,” he says eloquently, because there’s no way it’s already been thirty minutes, is there? Thirty minutes of nearly undisturbed silence and of Gulf wrapped up in his own thoughts. Well, that’s a first. He shifts his gaze away from the darkness beyond the windshield and looks to his right. His eyes regain focus just in time for him to catch a glimpse of absolute torment written all over Mew’s face before it makes room for fake contentment. Somewhat wary, Gulf hesitates for a moment. “Do you… want to come up for a bit?”

Mew all but flinches at the question. “I do,” he declares, holding Gulf’s gaze for no more than a split second before looking away hurriedly. Albeit an affirmation, it brings Gulf no reassurance; he can very well sense what will come right after it. “But I won’t.”

Gulf has a strong urge to scoff at the way the situation is unfolding, and he refrains only to not manifest his disappointment too much. It’s back to their little mind game, he reckons, and the last thing he needs is for Mew to feel like he has an upper hand in it. He calls himself competitive for a reason. With what he hopes that looks like a relaxed nod, he reaches out for his single strap backpack. “Okay.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

The nerve, honestly.

“Why would I?” Gulf’s already pushing the car door open. “It’s obvious. You’re just back to being your overthinking self.”

“That’s just how I am,” Mew groans helplessly, and Gulf wonders who exactly he’s mad at—himself for being this way or Gulf for pointing it out.

“Not when you’re kissing me, apparently.”

“Nong—”

“Please, spare me the lecture,” Gulf cuts him off. “A couple hours ago you were allegedly tired of the guessing game, and now look at you.”

Mew clenches his jaw, the same way he did during the confrontation earlier today, and Gulf would laugh at the irony, he really would, if he wasn’t so riled up. Who’s the one being driven into a corner now?

“I’m supposed to be a protective phi, alright?”

“No,” Gulf objects with an indignant huff, even if he doesn’t really think this way. Mew’s already protective in a number of ways, always has been, but Gulf’s definitely too resentful, and—frankly—too humiliated, to admit how grateful he is for that right now. “No, you aren’t. I can take perfect care of myself, thank you very much. How about you go ahead and just be you?”

Wow, cliché, but true nonetheless. Why can’t Mew go with the flow for once? There’s no specified responsibility intrinsically attached to whatever role he thinks he should be playing here just because he’s a few years his senior, is there?

“Besides,” Gulf continues, feeling oddly audacious all of a sudden, “I hope you know it was a dick move to coerce me into giving in just to back out mere hours later. Where was the protective phi then? Not in the nap room, I’ll tell you that.”

He steps out of the car, fairly outraged and perfectly ready to slam the door shut. Before he gets around to it, though, he ducks his head enough to peek back inside the car, locking gazes with Mew while he delivers his final words of the night, “When I said we’d figure it out, this is not what I had in mind, you know.”

Relishing the utterly broken expression that takes over Mew’s features, he pushes against the door with far more vigor than absolutely necessary, and it slams shut indeed. He’s feeling victorious. He didn’t just clear this round of the game—he aced it.

But did he, really? Watching Mew drive away into the gloominess of the poorly lit neighborhood, he wonders how on earth it’s even physically possible to feel so victorious and so completely defeated both at the same time.

***

As expected, the lukewarm water is remarkably soothing against Gulf’s peculiarly burning skin. He lets himself sigh contentedly as countless driblets continue to roll down his torso only to join forces along the way and transform into trails of translucent liquid that run freely along his thighs and (admittedly) hairy calves before dropping to the tile in the most unceremonious of ways. He watches the water slide down his body in cascades, imagining it’s all the worries and concerns of the day going down the drain instead. Just how fucking brilliant would that be?

The thing is, Gulf has never been one to remain hung up on something for too long, so the mere fact that he even has concerns toward the end of the day is quite unusual, to say the least. When he claims he doesn’t do much in-depth thinking on a daily basis, he’s not underselling himself at all—he’s just being naively honest. Perhaps it’s not the greatest tactic to use in this industry, but surely one that won him quite a following. Ergo, he must be doing something right.

Not unlike any other day, he attempts to scrub away his exhaustion and everything that may have come with it, be it soreness, anguish, or uncertainty, just so his head’s devoid of any unnecessary ideas when it hits the pillow later. His policy is straightforward enough: no dwelling, no examination, and—for the love of God—no overanalyzing. So, when the time of his shower exceeds the usual ten minutes, he knows something is off.

Fine, him winning the last round of their ridiculous game was nowhere near as satisfying as he thought it would be. And what’s up with him suddenly being so eager to engage in unhealthily competitive one-upmanship with potentially tragic consequences, anyway? He was under an (apparently incorrect) impression that they both wanted to put an end to their game of charades, not to fuel it, for God’s sake. Perhaps he didn’t give Mew’s risk avoidance tendencies enough credit, after all. And perhaps he underestimated his own emotional involvement in this circus of a relationship—so what?

With a heavy sigh, he tilts his head back, letting the stream of water collide with his facial muscles, tense from a lingering frown. How come everything felt so uncomplicated and feasible, if only for a fleeting moment, when they were joined at the lips and grabbing onto each other’s skin some hours ago? Granted, he wasn’t overly optimistic about how their interaction was progressing immediately before they smashed their mouths together, and, to be frank, neither was he afterwards. But still, for those few minutes, they were in this together—ready or not—and it was reassuring enough.

For Mew too, if the way he was pressing himself up against Gulf was anything to go by. The sudden surge of courage that made him throw all caution to the wind couldn’t possibly go unnoticed, especially as it wasn’t exactly his thing to let his instincts take over like that without prior analysis of potential danger. And yet, there he was, grabbing at every part of Gulf he could reach, desperate, reckless, and—Gulf will give him that—ravishing in his urgency. It’s truly a pity Mew can’t go more than a couple of minutes without reaching into his questionable conscience or uselessly overanalytical PhD brain only to retrieve a handful of reasons why they shouldn’t be engaging in any form of physical contact beyond what’s absolutely necessary for work. Gulf doesn’t even attempt to stifle a scoff that originates deep in his throat. If Mew was less of a hopeless deserter, Gulf wouldn’t have to waste his time soaking in the shower to an abundance of fairly frustrating thoughts.

Right, he’s frustrated, that’s all there is to it. Enraged, even. The way he got fired up like he did, only to be turned down in the end… It was, well, mostly just offensive and uncalled-for, but also oddly thrilling. It was new, unfamiliar, that spark in Mew’s eye, the energy of a starved predator he exuded, the crescent-shaped marks he left behind, imprinted into the skin above Gulf’s hipbones. The insistence of his lips. The uninhibited sound of his groans. The pull between them. All of that made Gulf momentarily—and quite foolishly—believe that the vagueness might give way to something with actual form.

He’s still annoyed at Mew, still bitter about him having the audacity to turn his back on him like that, and yet, for a reason that seems to go completely over his head, his hand begins a slow descent along the imaginary line marking the center of his chest. For a split second, he allows himself to entertain the idea of it being somehow related to the memory of Mew’s palms on his ass. Squeezing. He decides to dismiss the absurd thought the moment it forms in his head. For now, until it’s back to haunt him—which he very well knows it will, and soon.

Against his better judgement, he lets his hand run over the delicate curve of his belly and continue its journey downwards until his fingertips brush ever-so-lightly over the base of his admittedly growing erection. Without much deliberation, but with astounding urgency, he curls his fingers around himself, hissing at the sudden pressure against the pulsating muscle. He’s only half-surprised to find himself hardening by the second, the lukewarm water doing nothing to alleviate the heat that starts to pool in his belly.

With a curse on his lips, he gives himself the first, languid stroke. It feels pleasurable, yes, but his hand comes to a halt, nonetheless. Suddenly hesitant, he squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a deep breath in a failed attempt to clear his head. God fucking damn it. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Lord knows he has touched himself to a mental picture of Tharn and Type engaging in various erotic activities on more occasions than he’d be willing to admit. Sometimes as a result of his suspiciously explicit wet dreams. Other times just because he needed an outlet for all the tension accumulated in his muscles. There was no harm in it whatsoever, he would reason, so long as he could convince himself he was out of character. Which, truth be told, he never fully was.

This time around, however, he’s pretty sure that no matter how much he wants to believe otherwise, it’s not the memory of Tharn that controls the movement of his hand. Mew might have been a dick to him today, a cowardly, overthinking dick, but damn if the way he’d handled Gulf in the resting room beforehand wasn’t a major turn-on.

A groan echoes off the bathroom walls. Another light tug ensues, wet skin against wet skin, a flick of the wrist, a quivering breath. Even though he’s mad at Mew, the yearning that’s been suppressed for much too long proves stronger than any grudge he might hold against him. What would have happened had Mame not interrupted them at that time? Would Mew have woken up from his trance and backed out, like the fucking coward he is? Or would he have hurled Gulf onto the bed, climbed on top of him and—

Shit.

It’s like a reflex. Gulf’s grip on himself tightens and his hand picks up the tempo. It’s an involuntary response he’s been dreading, one he can’t blame on anything other than his own longing. This is ridiculous, he muses, completely and utterly absurd. But it’s also a fantasy he’s been secretly entertaining for how many months now? He can’t tell. Not when he’s trying to get off to the image of Mew crawling over him, pinning him down, wrists and hips alike.

If they had ended up on the bed indeed, would Mew have rid Gulf of his T-shirt? Would he have kissed his way down Gulf’s chest, like Gulf had done to Mew earlier in the NC scene they had been shooting? Would he have stopped at the waistband of Gulf’s pants or would he have unzipped them? Would he have reached inside and palmed him through his boxer shorts until Gulf was writhing underneath him?

He speeds up the pace again, the drag of his hand made slicker with the pre-come his thumb has collected from where it’s oozing at the tip. Stroke after agonizing stroke, he brings himself closer to the point of no return, except now it’s no longer his own doing—it’s Mew’s, it’s his hand around Gulf’s length, squeezing, pulling, teasing him until Gulf’s knees buckle and he staggers backwards, shoulder blades colliding with the cold tile.

With a grunt, he throws his head back against the wall. The last time he was stretching his neck like that, it was to give Mew better access while he was busy marking the side of his throat with his saliva a few hours back. Just seconds before Gulf had an epiphany and rolled them over to begin his own onslaught. He can clearly remember the feeling of Mew’s parted lips against his flushed skin, an occasional, if not accidental, graze of his teeth, a warm swipe of his tongue.

Sighing heavily, he bucks his hips forward and pushes himself farther into his fist in the process, the memory of Mew’s body so close to his own fueling the oddest kind of need deep in his gut. Had Mew accepted his invitation tonight, would he be here with him now? Would they pick up where they left off in the resting room? Would Mew dare kiss him again, touch him everywhere he was so desperate to be touched? Would Mew’s hand end up wrapped securely around him in lieu of Gulf’s own, stroking him at a leisurely pace at first, teasing, pressure continuous and steady, but not sufficient to bring him to completion? Would he speed up eventually, eyes fixed on Gulf’s lips all the while, like they always are when the distance between their faces is reduced to near nothingness?

The sound of heavy breathing joins the melodious pit-a-pat of water against the tiled floor. Mew’s hand would feel different from his own—Gulf muses as his chest starts rising and falling rapidly—better, firmer, possibly more expert, and he can’t help but wish it was Mew tipping him over the edge now, Mew pumping him through the aftershocks, Mew relishing in his final, drawn-out moan.

It’s a pity the only witness of the absolute postcoital pleasure adorning Gulf’s face is Gulf himself, eyes glazed over as they lock in on a pair of identical ones in the mirror above the sink.

“Fuck,” he curses out loud, trembling legs almost giving way under his weight. “Fuck”.

***

Gulf wakes up to a single Line message from Mew. I’m sorry, it reads. No emojis, no further explanation, just a glaring period at the end. The day has just begun and he’s already exhausted.

Groaning in exasperation, he decides to leave Mew on read. For a number of reasons, none of which he’s ready to investigate.

***

Mild and Boat’s presence on the set takes Gulf by surprise—he’s pretty sure they’re not shooting together until much later in the day. Although slightly confused, he chooses to brush it off and doesn’t think too much of it until Mame catches sight of him, waving him over.

“Scenes with the boys today,” she offers matter-of-factly as soon as he’s close enough.

He frowns. “Just those?”

No verbal response follows, but Mame’s nod is confirmation enough.

“Weren’t we supposed to finish the NC scene from yesterday?”

“Change of plans.”

“Why’s that?”

Her unnervingly blank expression betrays no specific kind of emotion when she raises both her shoulders in a shrug. “You know how busy N’Mew is with his single release. Gotta work around that somehow, right?”

Right. Or is it?

Gulf squints at her, not entirely convinced. “Sure,” he mumbles nonetheless, because it’s not like he can find it in himself to openly question her justification of Mew’s shenanigans. “So, when are we moving yesterday’s scene to?”

“TBC,” she says vaguely. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the first one to know.”

***

Well, this is weird. It’s been two days and Mew hasn’t so much as texted Gulf, let alone graced the set with his presence. Save for a single overdramatic and instantly deleted tweet last night about being extremely tired and needing a break, there’s no proof of him engaging in the social media game, either, which in itself is peculiar enough. To be fair, Gulf still kind of owes him a reply to that unnervingly apologetic Line message he had the audacity to send him the other day, but he’d rather accept a severe decline in their interactions than raise a question of What for. Mostly because there’s a long list of wrong answers Mew would be picking from when trying to explain himself, and the thought of it just makes Gulf’s skin crawl.

Besides, Mame could have been actually telling the truth. Maybe Mew is just so busy. That would certainly put an interesting spin on Gulf’s deliberations. Not to say that it would make Mew look any better. Sure, Gulf can’t blame him for going after what he truly dreams of, even if it entails major conflicts in his already packed schedule and some questionable K-pop-inspired outfit choices (there are things the simple jeans-plus-T-shirt combo enthusiast like Gulf will never wrap his head around, alright?), but Mew had better get his priorities straight, and fast. There’s work to be done here, and they can’t just keep on pushing back all their shared scenes, can they?

Actually, it seems that they can, if Mame’s unequivocal lack of concern is anything to go by. Is it just him, or does everybody else seem oddly fine with Mew not showing up for two days straight? Do they know something he doesn’t? Do they keep in touch with Mew regularly while Gulf’s busy sulking and projecting his doubts and insecurities onto whatever kind of relationship they have now?

With a near theatrical sigh, he manages to pull himself out of his musings and back into the reality where Boat and Jame are indulging in the lovey-doveyness of Champ and Dr. Khunpol. The scene in itself is cute, he’ll give it that, but it would be so much cuter if they actually knew how to kiss properly. He'd gladly offer a word of advice like the experienced kisser that he is, but there’s actually no philosophy to it. Either you feel it, or you don’t. If it was Mew and him, for instance—

But it’s not. They don’t have too many cute scenes in this season to begin with, and Mew’s not even here, anyway. Not that it bothers Gulf. Not that he wouldn’t mind Mew’s lips on his again. And everywhere else, for that matter. Well, shit.

It dawns on him like a slap across the face—he’s terribly and utterly fucked. Because right now, caught in a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, Gulf has no choice but to finally admit it to himself—he misses Mew, and this unfortunate fact drives him just as mad as Mew’s prolonged absence itself.

***

Mew’s lips feel noticeably less insistent against his own and Gulf can’t help but wonder if it shows on camera. Is Mew being careful? Is he regretful? After all, he had two full days, and a forenoon as a bonus, to go down the rabbit whole of overthinking. And, judging by how tentative his grip on Gulf’s hip is, he must have done just that.

They’ve abandoned the love scene from a few days ago in favor of this one for reasons unknown to him. Change of plans again, as Mame helpfully put it. No more details followed. Gulf would be lying if he said he didn’t breathe out a sigh of relief upon hearing the news, except that the very next second he learned which scene they were going to shoot instead, and all his optimism flew out of the window. Damage control is clearly not Mame’s forte.

The infamous kitchen scene is potentially underwhelming for future audiences in that it doesn’t take up more than a single page of the script, but as Gulf has already observed, short doesn’t necessarily equal easy. Especially if your co-star is giving you the silent treatment on set while unwittingly providing a trigger for your shower handjobs outside of it.

Mew’s barely touching him, and the difference between his energy now and three days ago is so glaring Gulf wants to roll his eyes to the sky and beg all the deities that have evidently abandoned him to take mercy. Fine, two can play at this game—this one, and all the other games they have going on. It’s not just Mew who can pull off uninvolved in such circumstances, and Gulf will make sure the other man knows as much.

Mew’s face pushing into the crook of his neck is his cue to drop his useless musings and secure his arms around Mew’s shoulders. Feeling Mew’s muscles tense up beneath the fabric of his semi-casual shirt, he lets his soft gasp of feigned surprise blend perfectly with Mew’s grunt of momentary exertion as the latter picks him up and hurls him onto the kitchen counter in one swift motion. Gulf tries his very best to look unbothered when Mew goes straight for his thighs, but when they’re forcefully yanked apart so Mew can step between his now open legs, he can’t hold off a sharp and fairly shaky intake of breath.

“Tharn,” he whines exasperatedly, his tone so characteristic of Type. “Not here.”

“Here,” Mew says, breathes, lips latching onto Gulf’s collarbone the second he makes short work of all three buttons at the collar of his white polo shirt. “Can’t bear to wait any longer.”

And right before Mew’s hand moves to the back of Gulf’s neck to give it a pull, and their mouths reconnect, Gulf thinks—somewhat begrudgingly—that it rings true, that line of Mew’s. At least it does to him.

Which is bad, very, very bad. Suddenly it dawns on him just why he’s been so set on nipping it in the bud, that perilous need of his, that urgency, the yearning. Why he hasn’t let himself indulge in this jeopardous, though admittedly enticing, idea of them being like this, physically close and intimate, but without the prying cameras around. Why he has been determinedly nurturing the vagueness between them and the ambiguity within himself.

All off that was supposed to save them from arriving at this very moment, where, drowning in his hidden, ever-soaring desire, Gulf would slip and let Type and himself bleed into one another like colors on a spectrum. And the inevitability of this—he thinks as Mew abandons his lips to trail kisses across his cheek and down the length of his throat—is what makes him both shiver in trepidation and buzz with excitement.

It’s the light suction against the side of his neck that has him jerk up a fraction, hands flying up to slide over Mew’s shoulders. The sting lingers for a second too long, but it’s not intense enough to pose a threat of a mark forming later. Even so, Gulf curls his fingers around Mew’s shoulders and squeezes in retaliation, hoping to get his point across as his nails dig deep into the flesh beneath the thin layer of ecru silk. He’s not here to play around. He’s here to win the next round and level up.

Or is he? Mew’s lips are back on his before he can properly savor the prospect of his victory. There’s not much left of Mew’s initial cautiousness at this point, one of his hands tangled in Gulf’s hair while the other’s busy kneading the inside of his thigh, and Gulf would be congratulating himself on withstanding the attack, if not for the fact that he’s failing miserably. It’s exactly when Mew licks into his mouth whilst simultaneously moving his hand that much closer to where his thigh connects to his upper body that he feels it—his walls crumbling down around him as his willpower to seem unaffected vanishes into thin air.

He’s pretty sure that the level of desperation he’s displaying right now is rather unnecessary, if not a tad humiliating, and, what’s worse, completely unscripted, but the way Mew’s panting into his mouth while keeping him pressed into the kiss with an unyielding grip on his nape stirs something deep inside of him, a curious urge to have him closer, closer than that, closer than ever. Without him realizing, his legs move up to wrap around Mew’s thighs, and he’s pulling him in, removing the last bit of space between them.

The addicting tingly sensation in his muscles dissipates along with the warmth of Mew’s lips against his own. It’s sudden, unexpected, and utterly uncalled-for. In his state of mild panic, Gulf instantly starts to rack his brain for whatever lines he’s supposed to deliver right now, positive that there can be no other reason why Mew pulled away and stopped dead in his tracks with his hand still settled on the back of his neck and his eyes dangerously narrowed.

He blinks at Mew, both dazed and inquisitive, as he attempts to search his face for any telltale signs and read those parted lips that spill no words. And it’s then that it hits him—just a thought in passing—how much Tharn has changed in those seven years. How much more accomplished he looks in that perfectly ironed shirt of his, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair parted to the side to reveal his thick, sharp brows. How well-rounded. How fucking sexy. He can’t help but draw a parallel between the current Tharn and today’s Mew, so similar in their pursuit of what they want, and so different from their past counterparts. Not unlike Tharn, Mew has come a long way, and there’s something undeniably riveting about it, something that makes Gulf want to just reach out and—

“Cut,” Pique instructs, and—really—thank God for that. Gulf’s hand freezes in mid-air before dropping to his lap. “That was… intense, but that’s what we were going for, so good job, boys.”

“Just one thing,” Pique adds somewhat tentatively, as if reluctant to break the news to them. “The lighting looks kind of botched. Short break while we have it adjusted and we’ll re-shoot. Five minutes should do it.”

Mew has taken a step back by now, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw clenching in that typical kind of way. Out of the corner of his eye, Gulf sees him nod his acknowledgement in the general direction of Pique and other crew members. With a nod of his own, Gulf pushes himself off the wooden surface, gracefully hitting his ankle on one of the cabinet drawers in the process of dismounting the countertop, and he hisses miserably.

“Come,” Mew’s fingers curl around his arm the moment his feet meet the floor, and he gives his elbow a single tug, the lightness of his touch in stark contrast to the hoarseness in his voice.

It’s the first thing he says to Gulf out of character in three days, besides maybe a dry greeting he tossed at him upon his arrival an hour back or so. Gulf can’t really tell if he’s relieved or plain horrified.

He’s not given much time to ponder the current status of his emotions before Mew’s spinning on his heel and dashing off. And just like that, Gulf finds himself breaking into a sprint to follow Mew out of the kitchen and into the hallway, rounding a few corners before they both come to a halt in front of a familiar door.

“A bathroom, really, phi?” Gulf scoffs, because it’s plain ridiculous, like a trope straight out of a cheap porn movie. “What is it that you’re trying to do, anyway?”

Mew just swings the door open, ushering Gulf inside. “No time,” he says. “Just go in.”

Unconvinced, Gulf tilts his head to the side in utmost suspicion, but his feet start moving on their own. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“It’s a bathroom,” he gestures around vaguely, like it’s explanation enough.

“So? It’s the only room with an actual lock on the door. Can’t be picky.”

“And why would you need to lock the door?” Gulf squints at Mew in inquiry as he watches him snap the lock shut.

“Trust me, you don’t want anyone to walk in on us when we’re fighting. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

“So we’re fighting now?” Gulf raises a brow, confused but daring nonetheless. “Just a moment ago you didn’t look like fighting was what you wanted to do.”

His words earn him a silent grunt and a glare that sends a shiver up his spine. All of a sudden, there’s a palm grasping onto his shoulder, squeezing, pushing just so, and it’s not long before his back’s hitting the door, head cushioned by Mew’s free hand against the wooden, white painted surface.

“I’m not sure,” Mew gazes at him with the intensity that’s been reserved just for Type thus far. “I’m still debating.”

Fuck, this is vaguely… hot. Which Gulf knows for a fact is definitely not what he should be thinking right now, but for some inexplicable reason, both to his dismay and chagrin, his frustration seems to be fueling the very same urge that’s been forcing his hand into his pants for the past few days. The same urge that made him reach between his legs in the shower that time, and again in the middle of the night, in half-slumber, amidst his lingering dream fantasies. Has it always been like that, or should he blame it on their nap room adventure? On Mew’s hands grabbing onto every part of him, like he could never get enough? On the way he touched him like he meant it, like he wanted it, wanted him, not Type?

“If you don’t stop staring at me like that,” Mew all but growls, a tightening grip on Gulf’s shoulder startling him out of his reminiscing reverie. “I swear to God, I’ll—”

“What? Kiss me, then turn your back on me?” Gulf can barely restrain a triumphant smirk when Mew’s face twists into a wince. “Because yeah, rings a bell.”

The pressure against his shoulder disappears completely, but not before Mew’s hand runs over the spot where a couple of creases have formed on Gulf’s polo shirt, in a vain attempt to straighten up the fabric. Gulf almost rolls his eyes at how jarring this gesture is under the current circumstances—they’re supposed to be at each other’s throats, not looking out for each other, for God’s sake.

“We’d better go,” Mew finally says, tone disengaged. “I’m sure we’ve used up all our time now.”

With that, he reaches behind Gulf to unlock the door, but his attempt proves futile when his wrist lands in a firm grip. “No.”

“Nong,” Mew lets out a sigh, a warning, trying to wriggle his arm free. “Just—"

“No,” Gulf insists. “You don’t get to drag me all the way here, rile me up, and then leave me hanging like that. Again. What is it all about, anyway? Are you trying to substitute the guessing game with whatever push-and-pull bullshit this is? Because really, I don’t have the strength for that.”

“I’m riling you up?” Mew finally manages to yank his wrist out of Gulf’s hold. “You were the one who brought up the kiss just now.”

“So what were you planning to fight about then?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe you going off script, again?”

“Wow,” Gulf shakes his head in disbelief. “So that’s what it’s all about.”

It’s genuinely a farce at this point. Gulf can’t help but draw an analogy between the current discussion and the happenings of three days ago, when that very accusation first rang viciously in his ears. It feels like their nap room confrontation all over again, and he doesn’t appreciate it one bit.

“So you were going by the script when you almost left a mark here?” Gulf reaches up to point at his neck.

“That was in retaliation.”

A frown settles between Gulf’s brows as he scoffs. “In retaliation for what?”

“Alright, it was a childish move, I’ll admit that,” Mew lets out a sigh. “But just so you know, leaving people on read is just as childish.”

“Really?” Gulf throws up his hands in vexation. “You’re sulking about that? You haven’t spoken a word to me for almost three days.”

“I did. I sent you a text, to which you replied with nothing.”

“Well, what do you expect me to say to someone who apologized for kissing me, like it was a regret?”

“When have I ever— Wait, did you think—” Mew splutters, eyes growing considerably larger as his brows fly all the way up to his hairline. “I wasn’t apologizing for kissing you, though? I was sorry I turned down your invitation. I thought it was obvious.”

Silence falls over them briefly while Gulf attempts to make sense of whatever ridiculous development this is. Then he groans. No wonder. It seems that when he said in numerous interviews that they would usually argue about tiny little things and trivial misunderstandings, he had a point indeed. Still, he’s pretty sure they just took their usual fighting pattern to a whole new level of absurdity.

“Obvious my ass,” he mumbles eventually.

“Well, it was to me.”

“How curious. Because to me, all the protective phi shit you fed me in the car that night screamed regret.”

“Are you for real?” Mew’s face contorts with a blend of bitterness and disbelief. “How could I ever regret doing something I’ve been literally craving for months?”

The question’s left hanging in the air dangerously, looming over Gulf’s head like a blade that threatens to come down on his neck any second. Mew winces and folds in on himself a little, like his brain has only now caught on to what his lips spilled, and Gulf gulps, horrified. This is the closest either of them has ever got to admitting to such urges in each other’s presence, and even if it might have been obvious by now, hearing Mew actually say it out loud feels absurd, almost surreal, and—in all honesty—quite overwhelming.

Which is why Gulf doesn’t dare utter a word, eyes nervously shifting from one of Mew’s shoulders to the other, mostly to avoid his face. He has no idea how the hell he found himself on the edge of this precipice without so much as a warning, one foot hovering dangerously above the tragically alluring abyss, and the other actually itching to move forward from where it’s planted securely on the ground to join the first one in the air. It’s tempting, but it’s also a huge leap of faith, and perhaps one he shouldn’t be taking after how the events of three days ago played out. He’d rather not have a repeat of that, thank you very much.

It’s not too late to find a way out of this mess, he reasons briefly, not too late to play it off as a joke or pretend he didn’t catch Mew’s words at all. The pull of the unknown might be strong, yes, but his self-preservation mode has been reactivated, and he can’t afford to fall now, not into the pit of an unmeasured depth, not when he can’t estimate the extent of the bruising that the fall would dictate. Maybe they should just stick with the vagueness after all.

Wow, that’s a lot of negative thoughts for someone who prides himself on his lightheartedness. Hold on a second, is he… overthinking this? For the love of all things holy, he surely is. He should have known that Mew’s inherent skepticism would start to rub off on him at some point—he’s picked up enough of his mannerisms by now to see that coming—but it still somehow manages to take him by surprise. Funny how he’s the overanalyzing one all of a sudden.

Actually, it’s not funny at all—it’s disastrous. He needs to focus, needs to turn this around. “P’Mew—"

“Regret, huh?” Mew cuts him off, chasing Gulf’s gaze with his own, to no avail. A good couple of heartbeats have passed since Gulf immersed himself in his musings, and Mew seems bolder now, recovered. “If I regret anything, it’s that I let you leave before we had a proper conversation. I panicked.

“You don’t say.”

“In my defense, you invited me over after we made out, what did you expect me to do? I was… Let’s just say that my mind went places. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself at the time.”

Gulf has to consciously fight the urge to cuss at himself for being too slow to prevent a snowball from morphing into a full-blown avalanche. No turning back now, he figures. But also, wait—

“Went places,” he repeats, and it’s not even a question.

“Yeah.”

“What do you even—” It’s Gulf’s turn to splutter. “What places?”

In a sudden surge of courage, he forces his head up, locking his eyes in on Mew’s. He needs to see, needs to understand what’s going on in his head, even if his whole body tenses up as he braces himself for whatever’s to come.

Mew reaches up like he wants to place his hand back on Gulf’s shoulder but catches himself just in time. Arm dropping to his side, he sighs. “We’ve been through this before, why do you still act surprised? You know exactly what I mean. We both know why we’re here.”

“Do we?” he pushes, in spite of himself. Maybe, unbeknownst to him, he already jumped off the cliff. Maybe he’s already falling.

“After what happened in the nap room, what’s the use in pretending there’s nothing there?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Gulf shrugs. “I wasn’t the one who bailed out.”

Mew runs his hand through his neatly styled hair, clearly nervous. “Fine, I fucked up, happy? I needed time to process everything. I did a lot of thinking that night.”

“Shocker.”

“Except most of it was just me trying my best not to acknowledge how I wanted to do it again,” Mew clears his throat.

“And?” Gulf raises a brow. “Any success?”

“Not really,” Mew draws near, takes just half a step in Gulf’s direction, but it’s enough for the latter to swallow, hard. “Hence the Line message.”

“Right,” Gulf nods. “Hence the convoluted, ambiguous, frustrating Line message, followed by an emo tweet and three days of the silent treatment.”

“Seems like you make me do all sorts of silly things.” When Mew reaches out this time, his hand goes straight for Gulf’s and envelops it loosely. It’s a bold move at this point, but Gulf’s hardly surprised to discover it’s a welcome one, too. Soothing. Mew lets out something akin to a chuckle, and Gulf finds himself relaxing a tad, even if his heartbeat picks up at the familiar feeling of Mew’s thumb running over his knuckles. “Even now, I’m close to doing one.”

“Oh?” Gulf barely restrains a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Mew’s fingers slot in between his own. Something about the casualness of the admittedly intimate gesture makes the tips of Gulf’s ears tingle.

“Maybe I’ll leave that for later, though,” Mew grins that trademark grin of his, the one that screams absolute self-complacency, and Gulf’s this close to punching his bicep, but one of his hands is busy squeezing Mew’s, and apparently he just can’t be bothered to lift the other one, so whatever. His gaze alone must be a dead giveaway of his frustration, anyway. “Don’t be too disappointed.”

“As if,” Gulf snorts. He pushes himself off the door and reaches behind with his free hand to unlock it. “I think it might have been more than five minutes.”

“My phone has been buzzing in my pocket for ages,” Mew shrugs, voice lined with self-satisfaction. “Still worth it.”

Shaking his head, Gulf wriggles his hand out of Mew’s and turns around. It’s when he makes to wrap his fingers around the doorknob that a pair of arms curl around his waist from behind, pulling him back against a broad, solid chest.

“I’m sorry for overcomplicating things,” Mew pushes his nose into the spot where Gulf’s shoulder meets his neck, taking a long inhale. Trust Mew to always apologize first, regardless of which of them has started a fight. Although, admittedly, the conundrum at hand is all on Mew. Well, most of it. “And for ambiguous texts. And emo tweets. And the silent treatment.”

Gulf offers no verbal response to that, but his arm flies up on instinct, palm coming to rest over Mew’s hands where they’re clasped together on his tummy. He’s well aware that he should be offering an apology of his own now—he has contributed to the misunderstanding, after all—but he’s never found it easy to force an I’m sorry past his lips. Something about the vulnerability-inducing power of these words, maybe.

“How about you drive me home tonight, phi?,” he brings back his own words from three days ago instead, and feels Mew’s lips pucker against the skin of his neck in reply. The tiniest of smiles creeps up his face. Perhaps this substitute for an apology will suffice.

Finally. Finally they’re back to square one. It’s not phenomenal, but still better than what they’ve been doing thus far, running around in circles, and backwards at that.

***

Tightening his grip on his phone like it’s a lifeline of sorts, Gulf continues to nod absentmindedly. He’s pretending to listen to whatever Mew’s going on about—and he’s going on about a lot, and incessantly, too—while scrolling through his tweeter feed he has close to zero interest in. What’s truly taking up all his attention at the moment is one thought and one thought alone—in half an hour, he’s going to find himself sharing a limited space with Mew, with no risk of other party’s involvement or supervision. And the uncertainty of where tonight will take them—if it’ll take them anywhere at all—has him literally squirming in his seat.

He hooks the fingers of his free hand under the seatbelt where it’s straining against his upper body, and gives it a sharp pull, hoping to reduce the tightness in this chest. The air conditioning’s blasting cold air right into his face, and yet it feels like a sauna inside Mew’s car. Is it the humidity of the rainy season, or is it just his nerves?

The contrast between the drive now and the drive three days ago strikes him as odd. At first glance, the circumstances appear similar. They’re headed in the same direction as the last time, after the whole day of shooting like before, nurturing the same kind of emotion, a concoction of anticipation and anxiety. And yet, for a reason Gulf can’t quite put his finger on, Mew won’t stop talking for a second, unlike three days ago when he wouldn’t spare Gulf a glance, let alone favor him with a full sentence. The only constant seems to be Mew’s death grip on the steering wheel, and even that hits differently when juxtaposed with his current chattiness and hyperenthusiastic giggles that erupt through the limited space of the car every once in a while.

It’s bizarre, the way Mew’s so engaged in this one-sided conversation, but then it’s also quite uncommon for Gulf to be this quiet. Different coping mechanisms, he eventually concludes with a sigh. Only he’s still yet to discover what they’re coping with exactly.

It’s when Mew starts updating him on Chopper’s recent weight gain that it suddenly hits him—Mew must be trying to cover up his nervousness with all that talking. Maybe it’s because he’s more determined to go through with whatever he has planned for tonight instead of bailing out like he did previously. Or perhaps it’s simply because soon they’re going to be in Gulf’s condo, just them, with no one to watch them interact, no one to chaperon them or guide them through their intimacy. Goosebumps raise on the skin of his arms at the mere thought.

It definitely doesn’t help that not more than thirty minutes ago they were in each other’s arms, shooting a sweet, domestic kissing scene (a rarity in the second season, to Gulf’s endless dissatisfaction), the cherry on top after two NC scenes in a row. Three days ago they had more than enough time to cool off before the drive. Right now, Gulf knows for a fact that he’s still buzzing from the intensity of it all, and if Mew’s exaggerated rambling is anything to go by, he is too.

He’s violently pulled out of his musings when his head snaps up at the sudden jolt and the accompanying squeal of the tires against the wet surface of the road.

“Sorry,” Mew winces after slamming on the breaks, car coming to a halt. It’s a red light, and he has clearly underestimated the speed at which they were going while overestimating his driving skills.

“If you’re trying to get out of this again, there are less dramatic ways,” Gulf offers, feigning annoyance, but he knows his lopsided smile gives him away. “I’d rather live.”

“Busted,” Mew chuckles. “I’m surprised you didn’t get suspicious about it earlier, considering.”

“Considering?”

Gulf squints at Mew in inquiry, but the only reply he gets is an upwards nod pointing at the windshield, or rather at what’s beyond. Growing more confused by the second, Gulf turns to look ahead and frowns.

“Are we taking an extremely roundabout way to my condo, or did you just forget to throw me out of the car before running away?”

“How long are you going to keep making jokes about that night?” Mew makes his trademark I’m-so-done face. “We’re going to mine.”

Oh.

“Is it because you were scared that if we went to my place, you’d go into panic mode again and just drive away, or that I wouldn’t invite you over in the first place?”

Mew hums for a few heartbeats, evidently pondering his answer. “A bit of both, I guess.”

“Figures,” Gulf nods, poker-faced, even though a warm, tingling sensation spreads in his chest. Mew taking such precautions only means he doesn’t want to screw up this time, or so Gulf hopes, and he can’t help but appreciate the effort. “Better safe than sorry, right, phi?”

***

Tempting though it is, Gulf tries not to assume anything. Just because Mew’s taking him to his condo instead of his family home doesn’t mean he should be expecting a repeat of what happened three days ago in the resting room. It doesn’t necessarily imply that Mew has a master plan which involves physical intimacy or, in fact, any kind of intimacy beyond another round of unnerving conversation about the status of their relationship. It doesn’t mean Gulf should be getting his hopes up, although—truth be told—he’s not sure what he would be hoping for if he allowed himself to, anyway. So, instead of conjuring up all possible what-if scenarios, he opts to focus on the here and now, ready to accept whatever nonsensical development the night brings on. And boy, will it deliver, if the way Mew’s currently acting is anything to go by.

The things is, the moment they got out of the car, Mew’s exaggerated chattiness died down to the point where he would clear his throat every ten seconds just to mask the awkwardness that suddenly settled between them, and the shift in his demeanor was, in Gulf’s judgement, fairly disconcerting, so say the least. The elevator ride wasn’t any better in that they couldn’t have possibly spent it standing any farther apart. Now, watching Mew fumble with the lock on the door, Gulf has more reservations about entering his place than he had about jerking off to the mental picture of Mew touching him, and that alone says a lot about his present state of mind.

He would call Mew out on letting his overthinking tendencies get the better of him again, only he shuns confrontation where there’s a risk of feelings being brought up, or any form of confrontation, really. And something’s telling him that if he were to take that path, he’d end up being forced to engage in a discussion about responsibilities and consequences, and everything he’d rather not be acknowledging at the moment. They certainly haven’t come this far only to make a U-turn now.

Which is why when Mew finally swings the door open and beckons him over, Gulf shuffles inside without a word. Ridding himself of his shoes, he follows Mew into the leaving room and takes a look around. Everything seems pretty much the same as he remembered it from his prior visit a few months ago (a gaming night, was it?), way before he was first invited to Mew’s family home. It feels somewhat weird to be here after all this time with such a glaringly different agenda. It’s like revisiting a place that holds good memories only to taint them, somehow, and this thought makes Gulf wince. He doesn’t even know where it came from, really. The new memories don’t need to end up being any worse, or any less valuable, he reasons. And yet.

“Have a seat,” Mew croaks out, then clears his throat again. “Do you want something to drink? I’m afraid I only have water and green tea, though.”

“Water’s fine,” Gulf shrugs, making himself comfortable on the huge leather sofa, probably a tad too huge for the size of the room—and surely much too expensive—while Mew disappears through the door that connects the living room to the hall. “God, I’m beat.”

“Same,” Mew calls out from somewhere in the distance, most likely the kitchen. It’s not long before he reemerges, placing a glass of water on the coffee table in front of his visitor.

“Thanks,” Gulf acknowledges the gesture but doesn’t reach for the glass. He’s too busy trying to stifle an indignant huff that threatens to slip past his lips when Mew takes a seat in the armchair to Gulf’s left. Away from him. Tragicomedy at its finest.

“It’s been a while since you last visited here,” Mew ponders out loud, and Gulf finds it funny how he rubs his hands together, evidently jittery. “Must have been what, five months now? Six?”

“Around six,” Gulf offers, not entirely sure why he’s even participating in this ridiculous exchange. What’s next, weather talk?

“Right,” Mew agrees. “Half a year. It was around mid-January, I think.”

All Gulf can bring himself to react with is a nod. He honest to God doesn’t know how long he can put up with this farce and keep contributing to this pointless conversation. Silence wraps around them in an awkward embrace, too suffocating to be comfortable. Gulf deems it his cue to reach for his glass of water, if only to keep his hands from clenching around his knees to the point of pain. Fine, maybe it’s not just Mew who’s jittery.

“Not much has changed around here since then,” Mew decides to break the silence only to add to the same fascinating topic.

Gulf feels like pulling out his own hair. Instead, he takes a sip of water. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m rarely here myself. Staying at my parents’ is more comfortable for now.”

“Right.”

“Then again, location-wise, the condo is far more convenient.”

“I know, phi.”

“Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should move out after all. At my age—"

“For God’s sake, P’Mew,” Gulf all but slams the glass on the table, some of the water spilling over the wooden surface. In all truth, seeing that he’s fairly short-tempered by nature, he’s baffled by how long he lasted before finally snapping. “Would you stop it?”

“Stop what?”

“This,” Gulf groans. “It’s ridiculous. What are we, distant acquaintances who only meet once a year to update each other on their living situation? Did you bring me here to practice your small talk skills?”

“That’s not—”

“And just so you know, this whole predicament we’ve found ourselves in is pretty unnerving for me too, and you acting like this, like you’re still not sure why I’m even here, or if you should have brought me here in the first place, doesn’t make it any easier. I’m so done with your mood swings and your constant hesitation that I’m willing to call you out on it, even though you know how much I despise confrontation, and if that’s not saying enough—”

Gulf’s wildly gesticulating hands freeze in mid-air as Mew swiftly leans over the armrest and reaches out to curl his fingers around the back of his neck. Without a warning, he applies a sharp tug, and then he’s kissing him—not a peck, not a fleeting press of lips on lips, but a proper kiss, thank God, and all Gulf can do is ball his hands into fists against his thighs in a hopeless attempt to ground himself. Because this, Mew’s—not Tharn’s—mouth on his own after those three days of emotional turmoil, Mew’s nails digging into the skin of his nape (a tad too hard for his liking, but who cares? Not him), Mew’s lashes tickling his cheek, all of that is—

Alas, too short-lived.

“I know exactly why you’re here,” Mew pulls away just so, and Gulf has to make a conscious effort to keep himself from chasing his lips. It’s too quick, too little, not nearly enough. “You’re here because I want you to be. Because I can barely keep my hands to myself when you’re around, and your mouth, your mouth— God, can’t you see that?”

Gulf finds the sensation of Mew’s thumb rubbing over the curve of his nape distracting enough to disregard Mew’s question, hoping it’s a rhetorical one, anyway. When Mew’s mouth doesn’t reattach itself to his for another few seconds, though, he realizes some sort of reaction would probably be in good taste.

“See what?” he breathes, dazed. He’s surprised how affected he is even after shooting two NC scenes earlier today. Looks like he underestimated the power of an unscripted snog yet again. No kissing scene in the series could ever compare to this. Ever. “You couldn’t have possibly been keeping more distance between us since we got out of the car.”

“That’s because—”

“Let me guess, you were being a protective phi?”

Mew’s lips stretch into a smile, a rueful one, but a smile nonetheless. “That’s because I don’t want to rush it. There’s time.”

“I don’t mind rushing it.”

With his fists still clenched against his thighs, Gulf cranes his neck enough to reconnect their lips, heart skipping a beat when he feels Mew respond almost instantly. It’s a little awkward to be kissing Mew with so much space left between them, and it’s strangely unfamiliar, too. As Tharn and Type, they’re hardly ever more than centimeters apart, roaming hands and entangled legs an ultimate indication of their urgency and ever-present need, and Gulf finds himself vaguely missing the boldness of their fictional counterparts. He chooses to ignore the fact of being jealous of his own character—it’d be hilarious, if it wasn’t so embarrassing. Clinginess might not be in his nature, and yet he’s positive that if Mew wasn’t sitting in the armchair a good half a meter away (and if Gulf was feeling forward enough, he guesses), his fingers would be curling into the fabric of Mew’s Balenciaga T-shirt instead of digging into the meat of his own thighs.

It’s uncomfortable. The strain in his neck, and the growing discomfort that comes with it, has him acutely aware of how weird their positions are, and how much he’d rather have Mew join him on the couch instead of leaning sideways over the armrest of his seat, quite awkwardly, if he may say so. And honestly, judging by the increasing pressure against the back of his head and the way his lips are being worked with soaring urgency, he reckons Mew shares the sentiment. Then why, for the love of God, won’t he do anything about it?

Without him even realizing, Gulf’s hand shoots up from where it’s been fisted in his lap to wrap loosely around Mew’s arm and apply a tentative tug. He’s not sure what he’s trying to accomplish, but he needs the contact, needs him closer, and if that’s not enough of a hint for Mew, he might just have to abandon the couch and deal with the issue himself. Wouldn’t be the first time he has climbed into Mew’s lap, anyway.

(As if he was bold enough to do that now. He nearly scoffs at himself right into Mew’s mouth.)

To Gulf’s misfortune, the pull at Mew’s arm appears to have the opposite effect to that intended. As if coming to his senses, Mew detaches his lips from Gulf’s again, this time putting a lot more distance between their faces. His hand leaves the back of Gulf’s head to slowly glide over the curve of his shoulder and then down the length of his arm, until it places itself atop Gulf’s fist, still clenched in his lap.

“I missed you,” he whispers, eyes trained on Gulf’s, and there’s something about the candid statement, highlighted by the softness of his gaze, that makes Gulf’s stomach flutter. “These past three days weren’t very good, you know. I think it’s the longest we’ve ever gone without a proper interaction, and it didn’t feel too nice.”

Gulf only nods sheepishly in reply, the way he always does when Mew’s in the mood for a heart-to-heart. He’s never been overly vocal about his feelings, and so it’s probably no surprise to Mew when he doesn’t answer with a confident I missed you of his own. Still, he reckons Mew probably deserves to know that he did. Miss him, that is. A lot.

Except words are hard as ever. They’re impossible. So he waits until the momentum is lost, waits until it’s too late, until Mew clears his throat awkwardly, a brief look of disappointment crossing his face before his lips begin to move again.

“Not a single sticker for three days, huh? I never thought I’d miss the stickers, of all things, but there I was…” The forced chuckle is painful to Gulf’s ears. “Anyway, how about a movie?”

***

Gulf has never seen The Notebook before, despite Mew pitching it to him every chance he gets, both on and off camera. Gulf’s no sucker for romantic movies of this sort, or any romantic movies at all, but he’s willing to go with whatever Mew picks for tonight, if only to indulge him. It’s not like he’ll be able to focus on the movie with the amount of stimuli Mew’s proximity is providing, anyway.

Because Mew—God bless his soul—has eventually vacated his armchair in favor of the sofa, and that in itself is making the movie night worth it. Or is it? Maybe not yet, Gulf muses as he examines the space Mew has left between them for whatever reason. That’s bound to change though, he’s positive about it. He has spent enough time with Mew seated next to him on multiple occasions to know he can’t go long without pulling Gulf into his side. Reassured by his conclusions, he attempts, for the umpteenth time tonight, to shift his focus to the red-haired woman and her on-screen partner that keeps staring at her with smoldering eyes. He vaguely remembers how that one time during the campsite-themed Jenim Live Mew mentioned readheads were cute. Is this why he likes this movie so much? Does he think the actress is cute? Not that it matters, obviously. He’s just curious.

In spite of himself, he turns his gaze away from the screen and towards Mew’s sharp profile. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear his jaw was clenched in that familiar fashion that seems to give away his discomfort. There’s no reason for him to be like this now, of all times, not after they have finally talked things out and even locked lips. Repeatedly. And yet…

His eyes return to the screen as realization hits him. They’re already thirty minutes into the movie and he has only now put two and two together, what a joke. The space left between them is clearly a sign, just as the lack of Mew’s arm around his shoulders. And to think he was sure Mew didn’t mind how their post-makeout conversation played out earlier. It’s astonishing how he can still underestimate Mew’s susceptibility to sulking.

“Is something wrong, phi?”

Mew’s eyes remain glued to the TV screen as he speaks, “What’s that?”

“I asked if something was wrong.”

A few heartbeats pass while Mew appears to be pondering his answer. Then, with a sigh, he evidently resorts to a lie, “No. Why?”

“I know you think I never notice anything, but I can clearly see you’re tense,” Gulf’s eyes dart over Mew’s face worriedly. “I thought we were good. But you’re being weird.”

“Weird how?” Mew finally meets his gaze. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Exactly,” Gulf mutters under his breath.

Mew offers no verbal reaction to that. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest defensively and lets his gaze slide back to the screen where the redhead and her particularly sad-eyed boyfriend are about to indulge in their sexual activities. It’s not long before the room fills with a plethora of moans emitted by the on-screen couple, and Gulf decides their current predicament can’t possibly get any more ridiculous. He bites into his bottom lip and lets his eyes follow the movements of the characters on the screen, briefly wondering how Type and Tharn’s NC scenes compare in their intensity and rawness of emotion. Maybe he’s not perfectly objective in his judgements but his preference lies with his scenes with Mew. Mew who’s still evidently moping, by the way.

As the clock ticks off another minute of the torturous, moan-punctuated silence, Gulf’s patience is beginning to wear thin. Honestly, there’s only so much suspense he can take.

“Fine, me too,” he blurts out all of a sudden, partly to appease his guilty conscience and partly hoping to remove the awkwardness that has settled between them. Just as the words slip past his lips, the love scene cuts to the couple speeding in a car, the abrupt change of pace appearing to grasp all Mew’s attention.

“Hm?” he mumbles, looking detached in the most discouraging way. Even so, Gulf’s determination doesn’t falter.

“I said, me too,” he repeats, louder this time. A short pause ensues, interrupted only by a single nervous cough, and then he tries again, “I missed you too.”

That does it. Mew turns his head to his left, gaze inquisitive, searching. He looks distracted and, frankly, rather doubtful. “You what?”

“I—,” Gulf trails off, almost starting to second-guess himself. Why did he think it was a good idea again? “What I just said, phi.”

“You missed me.”

It’s almost scary how real it sounds when Mew quotes it back at him with no reservation whatsoever. It feels like the thickness of his ambiguity-woven safety cocoon has just been reduced by a layer, and suddenly maintaining eye contact proves too much of a challenge.

“Yes,” he forces out in a small voice nonetheless, gaze dropping to where his hands lay in his lap, quite restlessly. “When you didn’t show up on set for three days straight, it felt… I don’t know. Weird.”

“Weird,” Mew repeats after Gulf, as if in a trance.

“Yes. Empty.”

“I see.”

But does he, really? It’s not quite the reaction Gulf was expecting to get. Surely after so many months of interaction Mew must know how much it costs him to actually pour his heart out like that. And yet, instead of blessing him with a satisfied grin, Mew only gives him a quizzical look.

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking, phi.”

Mew repositions himself on the couch, turning his whole body to Gulf. “I’m thinking that I’d gladly get into that head of yours so I know exactly how you feel.”

Well, damn. This is definitely not the type of conversation Gulf is ready to have now. Or maybe, like, ever. Can’t they just skip this whole bare-your-heart-to-me shit and go straight to the kissing?

Swallowing audibly, he rubs his hands together, much like Mew did, not an hour ago. Oh, the irony.

“What I feel,” he starts off tentatively, careful to choose the right words—and those don’t come easy to him, “is that I miss you when you’re not around, even if I don’t say it much.”

Nails digging into the skin of his palms, he gives himself a few seconds to put his jumbled thoughts in order.

“Actually, sometimes I miss you even when you are around. Makes no sense, does it?”

Mew’s eyes narrow in scrutiny. “It might, if you explain.”

“It’s just—” Gulf pauses briefly to think. “It’s whenever you’re there, but not really, you know? When there’s no… interaction.”

“There’s always interaction between us.”

“No, I mean… This is hard, bear with me,” he sucks in a deep breath, then lets out the air slowly. If it was Mew, he’d already have a whole dissertation-long speech ready. With examples. Sometimes Gulf hates how immature he feels compared to Mew. How helpless and incapable. “I mean when you don’t— Ugh. When you’re not—”

“Touching you?” Mew offers, and God, how is he even able to figure it out from the crumbs Gulf’s giving him? “You mean interaction as in physical contact?”

“Yeah,” Gulf nods, tips of his ears burning. “Yes. Just like now. You’re right next to me, and yet—”

“Nong,” Mew cuts him off. His gaze suddenly screams uncertainty and panic, the usual combination Gulf is so familiar with. There will be a fire to put out any second now. “It’s not just the physical proximity between Tharn and Type that you missed while I wasn’t around, right?”

There it is.

“No,” Gulf rushes to confirm, desperate to avoid yet another misunderstanding. If Mew really wants him to lay his cards on the table, then so be it. “It has nothing to do with Tharn and Type, phi. Maybe it never had.”

With the last sentence he manages to surprise even himself. Just how long has it been since he absorbed Type’s feelings like a sponge and made them his own? How long since he could vaguely tell it wasn’t character bleed anymore? How long exactly has he been feeding himself lie after lie, just to not jeopardize the bond that was never going to be enough?

Mew looks appeased, if not slightly satisfied. Fire’s out, for now.

“It’s your fault,” Gulf continues, encouraged by the ephemeral moment of introspection, and Mew’s anticipating gaze. “You’ve got me used to it. It grew on me, I suppose.”

“What did?” Mew enquires, although Gulf’s pretty sure he knows what he meant, that jerk.

“The, um, physical contact. I don’t mind it.”

Mew actually has the nerve to chuckle. With a roll of his eyes and a huff on his lips, Gulf makes to smack (alright, more like tap gently, who is he kidding?) his arm in mock retaliation, but before his hand can come into contact with Mew’s muscle, it stops in mid-air as long fingers close around his wrist. Their eyes meet for a split second—Mew’s playful, though considerably darker than moments ago—and there’s a yank.

Next thing he knows, Gulf’s jerking forward in spite of himself, body colliding with Mew’s in a way that’s both familiar and, considering the circumstances, unexplored. It’s a matter of milliseconds before they’re seated back to chest with Mew’s arms encircling Gulf from behind, trapping him in a secure embrace.

“Better?”

It’s breathed—quite intentionally, Gulf reckons—right into his ear, and a full body shiver it elicits from him should be response enough. Even so, he moves his head vertically in a tiny, yet perfectly discernible nod, smiling when the grip on him tightens subtly.

Now it’s more like it. Allowing himself to nestle back into Mew’s warmth, he shifts his gaze to the TV and relishes the tummy rubs that ensue. The red-haired actress on the screen might indeed be cute, but it’s him who’s engulfed in Mew’s arms.

***

They’re well over an hour into the movie when Gulf gives up on it entirely.

For the last twenty minutes or so he’s been trying, with little to no success, to grasp the gist of the plot, but the fact that he already missed a good part of the movie whilst entertaining Mew with the little heart-to-heart earlier, along with his sworn aversion to romantic plot lines in general and ones with no comedic elements in particular, have made this task rather challenging, to say the least. Mew’s unwavering hold on his waist hasn’t exactly been helping Gulf to focus, either, not to mention the steady rhythm of Mew’s heartbeat against the spot right under his shoulder blade and Mew’s warm breath fanning over the side of his neck. Frankly, with all the distracting stimuli he’s been exposed to left and right, he’s surprised he’s even lasted this long.

Now, staring ahead absentmindedly, he ends up inadvertently slipping into the state of appreciative contemplation. He can’t quite get over how different it feels to be held by Mew after the happenings of the last few days, how much better. It’s quite fascinating how far being honest with yourself and the one you pine for can get you. Might even be worth the potential embarrassment that comes with the risk of failure, and the lurking consequences of putting a professional relationship on the line, but that’s something he’d rather leave in the sphere of speculation. One thing’s for sure—it’s pretty damn great (and refreshing) to be wrapped up in those toned arms while not feeling guilty, for once, for conjuring up multiple scenarios with mildly-to-heavily sexual undertones. And boy, are those scenarios rushing into his head now.

If he wished to—or rather, if he dared—he could easily turn around and claim those perfectly-curved lips, now pursed in concentration, nudge them apart with his tongue and just take what he wants, take what he needs. He wouldn’t even wait for Mew to take control over the kiss before climbing into his lap and bracketing Mew’s thighs with his own, relishing the dumbfounded look that would no doubt flash across Mew’s face the moment they would find themselves chest to heaving chest, groins pressed together and hips itching to move. He can see it very clearly in his head, Mew gripping his sides roughly to keep him in place while he rolls his hips up experimentally, once, twice, rubs himself up against the bulge between Gulf’s legs and watches him squirm, watches him part his lips to let out a string of breathy gasps, watches him slowly fall apart.

So much for not feeling guilty. He’s done that many a time before—fantasized about Mew being next to him, above him, all over him, purely as Tharn and otherwise, even if only semi-consciously—but this, this is different, this feels way less far-fetched now than it has ever felt before. This feels almost… possible.

Which is funny and ridiculous and all kinds of stupid, because of course he’d never be forward enough to initiate this sort of contact, and judging by the focused and unbothered expression sitting on Mew’s face as he remains completely immersed in the movie, he wouldn’t initiate it either, and certainly not now. But if Gulf was daring enough, or if Mew showed an ounce of interest in anything other than the TV screen, would the events play out the way they did in any of his admittedly bold fantasies? And if so, wouldn’t that just be weird?

He’s startled out of his musings and brought back to the here and now by Mew’s lips pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder over the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Albeit sudden and utterly unexpected, it’s nothing that hasn’t happened before, so Gulf just lets it slide without reading too much into it, like he normally would. Except soon enough, the peck turns out to be the first one out of a sequence, the other ones landing just as softly on the cotton of Gulf’s shirt as Mew’s mouth proceeds to mark a path from the curve of Gulf’s shoulder to the crook of his neck, and that is certainly new. So much so, in fact, that he tenses in Mew’s hold, undecided whether to rejoice or drown in dread.

In a sudden surge of courage, probably stemming from curiosity more than anything else, he tilts his head slightly to the side, enough to get a glimpse of Mew’s face. He’s only partly surprised to find him seemingly calm and collected, his expression as unreadable as before, eyes still glued to the TV, except for when his mouth finally connects with the skin of the base of Gulf’s neck where the collar of his T-shirt doesn’t reach. It’s then that Mew’s eyes flutter shut.

His lips remain pressed there considerably longer, the phantom weight and warmth of them lingering even after Mew pulls away. Gulf very nearly groans in protest upon the loss of contact, but remains still and quiet, because that’s just how Mew is, that’s what he does, no need to get excited for no reason. Only it’s reason enough, or at least so his heart decides, if the blistering pace it sets for pumping blood into his rather rigid body is any indication. Mew’s eyes are back on the TV, and Gulf’s are squeezed shut, much like his hands are against his sides. Honestly, where is his chill when he needs it most?

He starts to gradually relax when Mew’s lips don’t reattach themselves to his body, instead parting slightly to indicate concentration while he resumes watching the movie, as if he didn’t just pepper Gulf’s shoulder with kisses completely out of nowhere. Gulf should have known better than to let his guard down though, as it’s not long before one of Mew’s hands abandons the softness of his belly to settle on his leg, just above the knee. Again, nothing spectacular, nothing Mew hasn’t done before. And yet, when the pads of his fingers start tracing random patters over the thick denim, Gulf can’t suppress a tiny twitch in his thigh.

It’s not until Mew’s palm travels farther up his leg, soft, barely-there flutter of fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake, that Gulf shudders, hard and palpably against Mew’s chest. Gulf’s sure Mew’s enjoying it, this quasi-sensual game of endurance, if the way he presses his hand—the one that’s not busy wandering up and down Gulf’s thigh—harder against his stomach is anything to go by. Soon enough, pursuant to Gulf’s semi-conscious predictions, Mew’s hand clamps down on his leg with fingers curling into the flesh of his inner thigh. It’s then that it happens again, Mew’s head dropping to his shoulder, lips pressing against the fabric of his T-shirt and staying there while the kneading continues, undisturbed, and Gulf begins to wonder how he can get Mew to move his hand that much higher, while simultaneously losing his mind over him practically panting into the side of his throat.

It’s safe to say the movie’s all forgotten when Mew finally presses the first open-mouthed kiss to Gulf’s neck.

“Okay?” he asks with lips against Gulf’s skin, and it comes out choked, as if he was out of breath. He stills all movement, waiting.

Not okay, is what Gulf wants to confess. Not enough. But he only nods instead.

Which seems to do the trick, anyway, because the thigh squeezing resumes and another open-mouthed kiss lands on Gulf’s neck, just below the jawline. A trembling breath he releases at the sensation won’t go unnoticed, but he’s way past the stage of giving a shit about potentially embarrassing himself at this point (like he ever gives a shit about it, anyway). And besides, the satisfied groan it earns him in reply would be well worth any sort of embarrassment, he dazedly concludes.

The next kiss is far from tentative. In fact, it’s applied with enough force to make Gulf tip his head to the side, neck stretching prettily in the process. The silent invitation is certainly not ignored, and that’s when Gulf finds out that he might have a thing for Mew’s mouth latching onto the skin right under his ear. Interesting. But also, oh, that thing Mew does with his tongue—

He’s not really thinking when he lays his hand atop Mew’s on his thigh and nudges it upward, gently and hesitantly, but obviously enough for Mew to take notice. It’s not utterly clear to him what he’s trying to accomplish, really—he’s operating at a maximum of 30% of brain capacity at the moment, he supposes—but he knows for sure that the squeezing feels nice, and it’s highly likely it would feel even nicer if applied elsewhere.

To his dissatisfaction, Mew’s hand on his thigh doesn’t budge one bit, and on top of that—goddammit—the warmth of his lips dissipates as he retracts his face from where it was buried in the crook of Gulf’s neck.

“Gulf,” he drops the nong part, a dead giveaway of his excitement. He’s clearly in a hurry.

With his gaze intently fixed on their joined hands, Gulf lets out an impatient sigh, “Hmm?”

He winces when Mew wriggles his hand from beneath his own and brings it up to cup his cheek, turning his face toward him gently.

“Is this—,” Mew starts and stalls right after. Gulf waits, as patiently as he can, for him to choke out the remaining part of his speech and resume the kissing. Preferably in conjunction with the squeezing. Except maybe a tad higher on his body, where his pants start to feel somewhat tight. “Are you… fine with this?”

Gulf raises a brow, “This, being?”

“I don’t know, whatever we’re trying to do, I guess,” Mew runs his thumb along Gulf’s cheekbone appreciatively, and for some reason this causes Gulf’s eyes to flutter shut. When he forces them open again, Mew’s face is a concoction of thrill and faint perturbation. It doesn’t escape Gulf’s attention how his breathing is still a bit labored, and damn, does he find it hot.

“And what are you trying to do, phi?” Gulf enquires, angling his body toward Mew, their knees bumping in the process.

The corners of Mew’s mouth rise slightly in a bashful smile. “Trying to seduce you into surrender, I suppose.”

“Like I am putting up a fight.”

“Alright,” Mew acknowledges, smile vanishing off his face to make room for something else entirely, something dark and enticing. “But just so you know, if you try to reposition my hand again, I won’t stop you.”

God bless. This is progress. Gulf nods in appreciation.

A second later his lips are colliding with Mew’s, and his shoulder blades with the backrest of the couch. Mew’s kissing him as ardently as those three days ago when this whole tragicomedy of tiptoeing around each other commenced, and frankly, it feels quite amazing. His hands are everywhere, too, one currently resting on his nape and the other returning to caress his thigh, and God, he really needs it higher, but okay, alright, they’ll get there.

It goes over his head how Mew does it, how after so many times they kissed in front of cameras, he still manages to take Gulf’s breath away, but there he is, absolutely enthralled and already on the verge of gasping into Mew’s mouth. That shouldn’t be happening, not so fast and so easily, not when all they’re doing is locking lips and exchanging rather innocent—for now, he hopes—touches, and yet there’s something about the visceral intimacy of the moment and the imminence of what’s to come that sets his insides ablaze.

When Mew’s hand inches closer to where his inner thigh connects with his upper body, Gulf feels himself twitching, feels his hips rise off the couch in a minute motion that will by no means go unnoticed, feels willing, and nervous, and very, very aroused. Mew’s other hand is now weaving through his hair while keeping him pressed into the kiss, hold unfaltering but gentle—which is just so Mew, really—and Gulf can do nothing but yank at the sides of Mew’s T-shirt where his hands have been fisting the fabric for a good while now, in a half-conscious attempt to pull him closer, even if they can’t physically get much closer anymore.

As wet kisses are being placed across his cheek and down the side of his throat, Gulf’s skin is burning. But it’s not until Mew’s tongue flicks out to lap at the juncture of his neck and shoulder that he allows himself to sigh in contentment. Mew is not indifferent to the sound. In a split second his mouth is back on Gulf’s, desperate and hungry and demanding, and Gulf is happy to give in, parting his lips invitingly to accommodate Mew’s tongue. Their teeth clank together every so often and there might be an excess of saliva accumulating in the corner of Gulf’s mouth, threatening to trickle down his chin any second, but Mew’s sucking on his upper lip now, and frankly, all other things become irrelevant.

As it turns out, Mew doesn’t need further encouragement to actually move his hand up Gulf’s thigh, the fact that is met with a grateful hum, a hitch in Gulf’s oxygen intake, and a quiver in his chest. The touch is not exactly there yet, not where Gulf needs it, but it’s close enough to tease him, and Gulf briefly considers breaking the kiss in favor of telling Mew to just hurry the hell up. Which he doesn’t, and—in all honestly—wouldn’t do. That’s fine though, because Mew does it for him.

Disconnecting his mouth from Gulf’s, he connects their foreheads instead. Gulf barely succeeds in suppressing a whine and refraining from chasing Mew’s lips, but then his eyes lock with Mew’s, dark and half-lidded, and the promise he finds there sends his heart racing.

They both gasp as Mew’s hand carefully slides over the bulge in Gulf’s jeans. Shit, it feels good. So, so good, in fact, that he wants to cover Mew’s hand with his own, if only to ensure that it remains in its current location, but also, God, Mew’s actually touching him there, and it’s just, it’s just—

A lot.

He lets out a shuddering breath, one that could easily be mistaken for a moan, and Mew, in turn, inhales through his nose sharply. Is this how they were going to end up from the start? The fantasy has been playing on loop in Gulf’s head for as long as he can remember, and yet he feels so ridiculously and helplessly underprepared it hurts.

It also hurts how the pressure Mew’s applying is nowhere near what Gulf needs. Patience has admittedly never been his forte, and now, after all the teasing kisses and tantalizing caresses he’s been subjected to, it’s really starting to wear thin. Which may or may not be part of the reason why he sets aside currently useless notions of dignity and self-preservation, and lets his instincts take over, hips rolling into Mew’s hand, just once, in a tiny, barely discernible motion. It gets him nowhere, obviously, the pressure increasing but a fraction before all that’s left is a light, nearly undetectable weight against his front. He won’t be discouraged this easily, though.

When he bucks into Mew’s touch for the second time, the latter’s forehead presses harder against Gulf’s and his eyes squeeze shut. Gulf can tell Mew is struggling, fighting against whatever kind of need he thinks he should be suppressing, and God, he looks so inordinately hot right now, so exquisite with his parted lips and long trembling lashes casting faint shadow over his cheekbones. He’s so focused, so absorbed in the intensity of the moment that Gulf almost wishes he could pull away to take him in better, relish the view until it’s engraved in his memory for months and months to come.

It’s the next roll of Gulf’s pelvis that pulls a guttural groan out of Mew’s throat. Gulf jerks up when Mew’s hand finally closes around him, gently yet unmistakably, fingertips pressing into thick denim, and then Mew’s kissing him again, hot and wet and urgent. There’s a peculiar dissonance between the insistence of Mew’s mouth and the tentativeness of his touch, and Gulf can’t help but raise his hips off the couch yet again, if only to signal his willingness, show Mew that it’s okay, it’s fine—just too little.

Mew seems to take a hint, thank God, and soon enough he’s full-on palming Gulf through his jeans while panting into his mouth, fingers of the other hand digging into his scalp to keep his face pressed against his own, like he’s afraid Gulf would otherwise turn his head away. As if that would ever happen.

“Shit,” Mew rasps out against Gulf’s lips all of a sudden and it’s puzzling, almost terrifying, so much so that Gulf feels his heartbeat quicken while his fists instinctively tighten around the fabric of Mew’s T-shirt, just in case he makes to pull away for any ludicrous reason. He won’t though, Gulf concludes a few seconds later, because he’s now too busy devouring him with his eyes, glazed over with something delightfully dark and thrilling. It’s then that it dawns on him—he’s just opened his legs wider for Mew in a fully unconscious attempt to convey whatever lewd message his body had ached for him to convey. It’s obvious how much of an effect the simple action has on Mew, the man evidently relishing the eagerness, the willingness, the yearning, all handed to him on a silver platter, and Gulf would perhaps feel a little too exposed if he wasn’t sure it would pay off eventually and earn him the much needed progress.

Which it does, if his head sinking into a cushion mere moments later is any indication.

He’s laid out in front of Mew now, shoulders still trapped in Mew’s grip from when he pushed against them with not a single word of warning. Mew’s hovering over him, breath heavy and cheeks tinted a light shade of red. Gulf briefly wonders how red his own face is now. It’s probably fucking crimson just so it can match the color of his ears.

“Can I—," Mew’s voice hardly registers, and in his dazedness, Gulf can’t catch more than every other word of the remaining part of the question. Even so, he finds himself nodding in reaction to whatever request has just been made, figuring there’s probably close to nothing he wouldn’t acquiesce to at this point, so long as Mew’s hand remains—

Right. Mew’s hand. It’s missing from the one spot he needs it in. Before he can voice his complaint—not that he would if he had enough time—Mew’s grabbing at the hem of his T-shirt and pulling it up a fraction, just enough to reveal his tummy.

The first brush of Mew’s lips against the skin right below his navel feels odd, almost as if the action wasn’t supposed to take place, like it wasn’t allowed. It’s one thing to have Mew knead his belly through layers of clothing, but to have him kiss the bare skin stretching over the (probably too noticeable, he supposes) swell of his stomach is just… quite overwhelming. He’s momentarily torn between sucking in his tummy just for it to look more presentable and simply pulling his T-shirt down to cover himself, but then another press of Mew’s mouth follows, and he can only sigh in half-resignation, half-contentment.

Mew’s lips start a journey up his torso, one of Mew’s hands yanking the T-shirt father up to reveal more skin, while the other remains securely planted on his hip, and Gulf deems it quite amusing how he’s the one with the exposed chest in contrast to Tharn and Type’s usual setup in the series. He kind of wants Mew to do something about it, to join him in the topless club—even if his own T-shirt is technically still on him—but there’s no way in hell he’s saying it out loud; it sounds pathetic enough in his head. So he does the one thing he can do in this situation, which is lying still and gratefully accepting Mew’s advances with an occasional gasp and quiver.

The lying still agenda flies out of the window the moment Mew moves farther up Gulf’s body, his knee shifting slightly where it’s slotted between Gulf’s legs and accidentally pressing against his groin. Gulf doesn’t even attempt to stifle a moan that breaks out of his throat.

Mew’s eyes lock with Gulf’s in milliseconds. With curiosity and unadulterated want painted all over his features, he experimentally moves his knee up just so, watching intently as Gulf’s face contorts with bliss. His grip on Gulf’s hip tightens considerably. He tries again, his knee rubbing against Gulf briefly before he retracts it, and he clearly takes pleasure in how Gulf’s hips try to grind down on nothingness of their own accord, seeking the friction that’s no longer there.

When Mew’s knee returns to its previous spot, he doesn’t even need to apply much pressure. Eyes filled with hunger, he drinks in the view in front of him, Gulf’s hips moving subtly in a circular motion as he basically ruts against Mew’s thigh, half-consciously at best. It’s not long before Mew meets a particularly desperate roll of Gulf’s hips with a gentle and well-aimed upward drag of his thigh, an action that has Gulf throwing his head back against the soft decorative cushion.

“Fuck,” Mew growls, low and deep, then pauses all movement and stares.

And Gulf knows exactly what Mew is cussing about, knows how willing he must look right now, how eager. Refusing to re-establish eye contact, he draws in a long, shaky breath and presses his hips hard into the leather beneath him. He’s perfectly capable of containing his urges. He is. But then, why should he?

“Too much?” There’s a warm palm against his cheek, which, in tandem with a faint quiver in Mew’s voice, unequivocally betrays his concern.

Too much? Is this some kind of a joke? Gulf huffs and shakes his head, perhaps a tad too frantically. “You were staring,” to his surprise, his voice comes out as a whisper.

“It’s hard not to.”

Mew’s hand abandons Gulf’s cheek to slide down the side of his neck and over the curve of his shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. And there Gulf goes again, closing his eyes despite all efforts to the contrary, as if he’s about to reach the peak of pleasure from the barely-there brush of Mew’s fingertips against his skin alone. Which, embarrassingly enough, might well be the case. It would be hilarious how much power Mew seems to hold over his body if it wasn’t so absolutely daunting. Almost terrifying.

He feels rather than sees Mew hike up his shirt even more, lips marking a trail from his solar plexus to the dip of his collarbone. When they finally reach his neck, he arches off the sofa with a silent mewl just to meet no friction before collapsing back to the soft, leather-covered surface. God, he needs Mew’s hand back on him, he needs those long, thick fingers curling around him, working him up until the familiar pressure builds in the pit of his stomach, until it feels good, too good, until he can’t take it anymore.

To his exasperation, Mew seems to have other ideas. With one last press of his lips to the spot right under Gulf’s jaw, he pulls away slightly, both fists closing around the hem of his T-shirt.

“Off,” he demands with an upwards nod, in a tone that you can’t argue against or else you might be in for a fight. Not that Gulf minds getting rid of the redundant piece of fabric. Gaze predatory, Mew watches him prop himself up on his elbow so that he can pull Gulf’s T-shirt over his head. Tossing it to the floor, he makes to dive back in, but Gulf’s palm flat against his chest effectively stops him.

“Off?” It comes out hesitant, more like a question than a request, and Gulf low-key hates himself for sounding like he’s embarrassed or unsure. Which, to be fair, he is. But Mew doesn’t need to know that, does he?

Evidently happy to indulge him, Mew rids himself of his expensive Balenciaga T-shirt, muscles flexing deliciously as he does so. The sight is anything but unfamiliar to Gulf, and yet he feels his throat go dry. It’s not Tharn this time, and God, does it hit differently.

It’s no secret that Gulf likes the definition in Mew’s muscle. Although he could never be bothered to try and part ways with his coconut milk belly, he likes how Mew’s stomach is so perfectly flat and hard against his fingertips whenever he jabs at it as a joke. (He also likes how Mew recoils from him whenever he does, doubling over with laughter, but that’s hardly relevant right now.) He likes his biceps, and how the muscles there pop out when Mew squeezes him close. And he secretly likes his deliciously chiseled chest—so much so that he almost expects Mew to pull him up by the wrist, Tharn-style, and press Gulf’s hand to his pectorals, before guiding it down his torso, all the way to the waistband of his pants (and, hopefully, beyond that point—Gulf wouldn’t be against that at all, or so he thinks).

Mew reaches out indeed, but in lieu of grabbing Gulf’s wrist, he runs an index finger along the center of his chest appreciatively, tracing the (numerous) moles on his way down, until his hand settles back on Gulf’s hip.

“So pretty,” he murmurs under his breath, so quietly Gulf’s not sure he meant for these words to get out in the first place. And then he’s leaning down and kissing him square on the lips, slow and deep and breathtaking.

As the clock ticks off minute after minute, their mouths grow restless against each other, and so do Gulf’s hips. Mew has his tongue shoved deep into Gulf’s mouth and a hand stroking his side when the latter shivers against him down to his toes from the stimulation, back arching and pelvis rising off the sofa, this time finding the friction he’s been chasing so desperately all along. With a groan originating deep in his chest, Mew grinds down, briefly and nowhere near as hard as he should—like he’s just testing the waters—but still hard enough to make Gulf reach out and claw at Mew’s shoulders.

“P’Mew,” he breathes, pleads into Mew’s mouth, not even sure what for.

The reply comes out muffled and hoarse, words punctuated with a downward roll of Mew’s hips. “What is it?”

Hold on, did he actually have the audacity to smirk? Whatever Gulf intended to say dies on his lips as Mew’s lower body presses into his own yet again, and oh, Mew’s so hard against him, so palpably hot even through the layers of fabric separating them that Gulf’s positive he’s this close to going insane.

There’s a sequence of quiet gasps slipping past his parted lips as Mew continues to grind down on him, hips undulating in a rhythm that is steady, yet maddeningly dilatory. Gulf meets every roll of Mew’s hips with one of his own, rubbing himself against him with close to no shame at this point, focused solely on the ever-increasing pressure in his lower belly and Mew’s mouth, wet and hot against his throat. It’s too much and not nearly enough both at the same time, and God, it feels good, so good he never wants it to end.

He’s operating on autopilot when he lets go of Mew’s shoulder and makes to sneak his hand between their bodies. In his state of absolute dazedness, he’s not sure what exactly he’s trying to accomplish, but he needs more friction, more skin-on-skin contact, and—most definitely—less fabric against his erection. Before his hand can make it into his pants, though, Mew bats it away with his own.

“I’ve got this.”

Of course he’s got this, the incorrigible overachiever that he is. Gulf would roll his eyes at Mew’s unsurprisingly excessive and hardly necessary display of care and his constant need to be in control, but in all truth, he doesn’t mind it that much, not when Mew’s fingers are almost tearing his jeans open and pulling them down to mid-thigh in no time at all.

His heart’s almost pounding its way out of his chest as he watches Mew reach between his legs. There’s a noticeable quiver to Mew’s hand and a hitch in his throat as his fingers curl around Gulf through the thin and already partly damp material of his checkered boxer shorts. The moan that the action drags out of Gulf’s throat has him biting into his bottom lip in the hope of muffling all the embarrassing sounds that are bound to follow. Exhilaration blending with budding anxiety, he bucks into Mew’s hand wantonly, even if the imminence of what’s to come weights down on him like the heaviest of loads. Is this what they are now? Is this the development they can handle?

The pressure of Mew’s hand disappears way too soon and Gulf is ready to voice his objections when it registers that Mew’s fumbling with the button of his own pants and pulling down the zipper, and oh, Gulf can feel him so distinctly now, bulge in his briefs throbbing against his own as Mew lowers himself on his elbow and presses down on him, hard.

“Phi,” Gulf mewls, hand flying up to close around Mew’s arm in a vice-like grip.

“Is it okay if I—,” Mew tugs at Gulf’s boxers slightly, the tip of his cock peeking out over the waistband. “If I—”

Gulf nods, albeit not without hesitation. His grip on Mew’s bicep tightens considerably. So this is it. It’s really happening. He thought he’d feel awkward and too exposed, perhaps even embarrassed, but now that they’re rolling their hips against each other in perfect unison, he just feels eminently overwhelmed. It still goes over his head how he ended up like this with his phi, his mentor, his colleague, his partner in crime. His crush. He prays to all deities there are that they don’t fuck it up.

Mew pulls Gulf’s boxer shorts only halfway down his ass, just enough to free his erection from the constraints of the fabric. Gulf expects him—no, needs him—to wrap his hand around him and stroke him to completion, so he’s taken by surprise when Mew reaches into his own briefs instead. Swallowing hard, Gulf watches Mew pull himself out, cock red and leaking against his palm, and God, this feels so sinister and arousing it makes his own cock twitch right against his stomach.

Mew’s mouth is latching onto his shoulder when Gulf feels a drag of Mew’s unclothed cock against his thigh. It’s hot and heavy, leaving beads of pre-come on his skin, and Gulf’s confused because as unfamiliar as it is to him, he can’t remember ever being this turned-on and hard in his life.

It’s not long before Mew’s shifting, and the hot weight against Gulf’s thigh vanishes altogether. Gulf doesn’t realize what’s going on until he lands in Mew’s grip, cock sliding alongside Mew’s.

“This alright?” Mew checks in again, voice laced with concern and something else, something dark and enticing. His narrowed eyes are trained on Gulf’s, searching them for any proof of potential discontent.

“Yes, yes,” Gulf chokes out, acutely aware of Mew’s throbbing erection pressed up against his own. Mew’s grip tightens around them at the confirmation, and Gulf can only do so much to not throw his head back against the pillow yet again. “God, just—”

He trails off because Mew knows, he doesn’t need that spelled out for him, and he drags his hand up their combined lengths, giving them the first experimental stroke. They both gasp at the friction, Mew’s breath fanning over the skin of Gulf’s neck. Another pull follows, quicker, tighter, and Gulf can’t help but raise his hips off the sofa to buck into Mew’s fist. With a satisfied growl, Mew smashes his lips down on Gulf’s, tongue pushing right in, and Gulf lets him kiss him senseless, kiss him like they’ve never kissed before.

Soon enough, they’re panting into each other’s mouths with their foreheads pressed together, the dizzying pace Mew has set for them taking its toll, and God, the way Mew’s jerking them off, urgently and relentlessly, with an occasional flick of his wrist and a drag of his nails, has him trembling all over, fingers digging into the meat of Mew’s shoulders. It’s all too much, too good, too intense, and it sure as hell doesn’t help that Gulf’s field of vision is limited to what’s directly in front of him—Mew’s hooded eyes and parted lips, the evident strain in his muscle as he supports his weight on one forearm laid alongside Gulf’s torso. He’s visibly trembling, most likely from exertion, but Gulf wants to believe at least part of it is his own doing, his contribution, his impact. He wants to believe he affects Mew at least half as much as the man affects him; he wants to believe he holds enough power.

It must be the ragged breathing and his eyes squeezing shut that give him away. He’s drawing closer to the edge, almost teetering on the brink of a fall, and Mew lets go of himself in favor of focusing solely on Gulf, clearly determined to provide that last, indispensable push. A couple of firm strokes, a rub of a thumb over the slit, a hint of teeth against his neck, and Gulf’s coming and coming and coming, a helpless wail on his lips as he’s spasming violently and shooting ropes of white over Mew’s fist and his own stomach.

Behind his closed eyes, the world explodes into a flash of color, and suddenly it feels like his lungs can’t fit enough air for him to live on. Mew doesn’t let go. He pumps him through the aftershocks, through his tumble from his high, through his helpless attempts to regain the ability to draw in a proper breath. A particularly rough stroke has Gulf convulsing against the slippery, sweat-coated leather, and then it’s too much—he’s too sensitive, too overstimulated, too everything. It’s his wince of protest that directly precedes Mew’s gradual retreat, hand slowing down little by little until it comes to a halt and eventually recedes.

With a constricted chest, Gulf watches Mew roll off him and onto his side, eyes never leaving Gulf’s face. His penetrating gaze overflows with curiosity and—dare he say—adoration, so much so that Gulf has to fight the urge to cover himself, if only to stop feeling like a painting on display, studied and, for some reason, admired. It’s fairly puzzling and intimidating, but also oddly endearing.

Never in a million years did he imagine it would be like this. Mew’s lips are ghosting over the skin of his shoulder while his fingertips begin to trace invisible patterns on his forearm, lazily and unhurriedly, as if Mew didn’t just bring him to one of the best orgasms of his life. And frankly, it all just feels utterly absurd—almost like it’s not happening.

It takes him a while to even out his breathing, but when he does, he feels oddly at peace with himself and everything around him, despite having just ruined what might be his favorite pair of jeans. Mew’s breath, on the other hand, is far from steady, even if the languid movements of his lips and fingers against Gulf’s skin would suggest otherwise. Which—okay, fair.

Turning to his side so he could face Mew better, Gulf reaches out with a trembling hand. His intention is unclear until his fingers start hovering over the waistband of Mew’s briefs—and when did he even manage to tuck himself back in anyway?

“What are you doing?” Mew wraps his hand around Gulf’s wrist to stop him, gaze incredulous. “You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it later.”

Of course he would say that, Mr. Mew I’ve-Got-This Suppasit. Gulf can’t help but huff. Admittedly, he’s no veteran of homoerotic activities but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how it’s supposed to go, does it?

“Let me?” he croaks out tentatively, fighting against the tight grip on his wrist. For God’s sake. He appreciates Mew’s concern, he does, but shouldn’t it be pretty obvious by now that Gulf wants it too? All of it?

In spite of himself, he lets his gaze trail down to the obvious tent in Mew’s briefs and he can feel his own spent cock give a tiny twitch at the sight.

With an index finger under Gulf’s chin, Mew forces his head back up so their eyes meet. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Gulf murmurs honestly with a measured, horizontal movement of his head. His heart’s pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. God, he’s starting to get aroused all over again. “But let me. Just let me.”

That seems to do it. The hold around his wrist ceases to hinder, but not to control. With a gentle tug, Mew slowly guides Gulf’s hand down until his fingers slide beneath the waistband of Mew’s briefs. It’s going to be fine, he’s got this. He’s jerked himself off a countless number of times, how much different could this be?

Mew’s hot and heavy against his palm, pulsing. He’s maybe a little bigger than Gulf, a tad thicker, but just as slick and just about as hard as Gulf was minutes ago. He’s not going to lie, it feels somewhat strange, perhaps a bit unsettling, to hold a cock that’s not his own in his hand. Sure, he’s seen his share of dicks in his life, what with attending an all boys school and sharing a shower with fellow football players after each practice back in the day, but this, God, nothing could ever prepare him for this.

He swallows audibly as he secures his fingers around Mew and applies an accidental squeeze, one that’s perhaps a tad too tight, if Mew’s sharp intake of air is any indication. Fuck, Mew’s so evidently sensitive at this point, so worked-up Gulf feels all his blood rush south. Pulling him out with a quivering hand, he thinks back to his alone time in the shower and how he would tease himself while fantasizing about Mew, Mew’s hands on him, stroking him nice and slow, and he doesn’t even realize when he starts doing the same to Mew, sticky fist moving up and down his cock in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

It’s getting harder for him to hold Mew’s gaze, harder to not rub his own thighs together, harder to breathe. It shouldn’t be so hot, and he most definitely shouldn’t be getting this turned-on when he’s not even the one being touched, and yet shivers rack his body, one by one, as Mew bucks into his hand, eager, hungry, restless.

This type of hunger can’t be sated. Gulf begins to understand as much when he finds himself growing harder by the second just watching Mew writhe in pleasure from what’s essentially nothing but some heat and tightness around his erection, delivered in a sloppy and inexpert way. Somehow, though, it seems enough.

Their faces are millimeters apart as they continue to pant into each other’s mouths, lips almost touching, but not quite. Gulf finds himself missing being kissed, missing the messiness of their tongues and teeth and exchanged saliva, but he waits—waits for Mew to close the distance, waits to be claimed. And okay, alright, maybe he’s getting unnecessarily overexcited and impatient when he picks up the pace without a warning, but, really, the low groan that rambles out of Mew’s chest at that seems to prove otherwise.

It’s not long before there’s a hand sliding over his side and clamping down on the hipbone, hard enough to bruise. Mew kneads the flesh there, clenches and unclenches his fist over the protruding bone until it hurts, until he’s bored and lets his hand travel farther, arm curling around Gulf’s waist as a result.

An embarrassingly loud gasp slips past Gulf’s lips once Mew presses against his lower back to pull him flush against the wide expanse of his chest. Great. Now he got all the sticky come on Mew’s abs, and he probably doesn’t appreciate it one bit, the clean freak that he is, and—

“Shit,” Mew growls deep in his throat, and Gulf makes to pull away, startled, when Mew adds in a tone that sounds oddly appreciative, “You’re hard again.”

Oh.

Mew’s eyes turn a shade darker, impossible though it seemed. He looks baffled and almost… enraptured. “I’m flattered,” he breathes, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards, before he eliminates what little space there is between their lips.

He’s kissing Gulf with so much urgency, so much conviction the latter can hardly focus on anything other than Mew’s tongue sliding alongside his own, Mew’s teeth grazing his upper lip, Mew’s grunts spilling right into his mouth while Gulf’s clenched fist, sandwiched between their bodies, continues its alternating upward-downward movement over the leaking muscle. The kiss is sloppy and wet and all kinds of imperfect, but God, the intensity of it just about sends Gulf’s senses into overdrive.

When he shifts slightly, semi-consciously at best, it’s only partly to make more room for his restless hand, now stroking Mew with more vigor, more actual intention, and mainly to shamelessly press himself into Mew’s thigh, grind against his hip, his abs, any part of him he can get himself on, just to have some semblance of friction, some pressure on the hardness against his stomach. It’s unstoppable, this paramount urge, this unmatched desire that can’t seem to be satisfied. Is this what it feels like to have months and months of pent-up need finally come to a conclusion? Is it what it feels like to be able to finally, finally lose yourself and breathe, free of the suffocating weight on your chest?

He swallows yet another grunt, one that sounds vaguely like his name, and he feels it slide down his throat, thick and biting like the strongest of alcohols, and just as intoxicating. His hips buck into the warmth of Mew’s skin, cock dragging wetly alongside his inguinal crease, again and again like it’s an addiction. Mew’s lips are suddenly against his throat, panting, biting, sucking on the goosebumps-covered skin in their frenzy, while his hand begins a slow descent along Gulf’s spine. It’s with a drawn-out moan on his lips that Gulf welcomes fingers splaying over his ass cheek just before they sink mercilessly into the soft flesh. The squeeze that follows somehow pulls him even closer, so close there’s not a millimeter of space left between them, and Gulf can feel it with every fiber of his being, the raw emotion that rushes through his veins, the promise of absolute bliss that it holds.

His fist tightens on its own, wrist twists mid-stroke for a better, firmer grip, and Mew bites into his shoulder in reply. Forcing his eyes open, Gulf watches him through his lashes, feels him groan and shiver against him, so close to coming apart. Does it really take so little for Mew to look like this, so desperate and bothered and spent? He can hardly believe it’s him who’s doing this to Mew, him who’s making him squirm and gasp, and God, he’s so beautiful, so fucking perfect Gulf just wants to give him the world.

Which—wow. It’s a lot. It’s also an epiphany of sorts, perhaps one that he’ll need to carefully ponder at one point or another.

Definitely not now, though. Not when Mew’s hand covers his cock, pressing it harder into the steel of his abs, while his other hand keeps kneading his butt persistently. Not when one of Mew’s fingers dips into the crack between Gulf’s cheeks, probably by accident (not that he will ever know for sure), eliciting a breathless sigh of confused excitement mixed with plain horror from a startled, albeit vaguely curious Gulf, even if he hasn’t ventured beyond handjobs and blowjobs in his nighttime fantasies. Not when Mew drags the heel of his palm along his cock—slowly, yet firmly—and shit, shit, he’ going to come again, he’s going to—

He’s toppling over the edge with a quiver to his hips and a silent whimper, this time pulling Mew along with him. It’s a long fall, one that takes your breath away and forces you to brace for the impending impact, one that makes you feel like whatever had existed before you took that final step and plummeted toward the ground, had meant nothing at all. When Gulf hits the bottom of the abyss, it’s with an armful of a spasming body clinging to him with abandon and lips mouthing cusswords into his neck.

He’s convulsing himself, over and over, hips never ceasing to rock against Mew’s lower abdomen while Mew’s hand keeps pressing where pressure is needed, the metal of his rings fairly cold against his oversensitive flesh. His own hand remains wrapped around Mew, still in motion, still restless as Mew continues to buck into it with gradually diminishing resolve. Panting against Mew’s temple, Gulf indulges in the act of riding off his orgasm against the heat of Mew’s body, only half-aware of a moan he lets out upon realizing Mew’s doing the exact same thing. The latter’s head is nestled in the crook of Gulf’s neck, heavy weight against his shoulder, and his parted lips send puffs of hot air over Gulf’s flushed skin, glistening with a thin layer of perspiration. It might get awkward soon, uncomfortable and embarrassing, but right now, they’re good, they’ve got each other.

It’s only when Gulf’s heart rate slows down considerably that the realization of what they’ve just done hits him like a punch in the gut. There’s come everywhere—testament to their recklessness and want—sticky and thick between his fingers, trickling down his wrist, smudged across his belly, and God, it’s starting to dry. As if burned, he retracts both of his hands in a sudden surge of an emotion he can’t quite place—something akin to shame mixed with trepidation and a hint of embarrassment-induced regret—and he moves to disentangle himself from Mew when the latter’s hand slides up the line of his spine to settle around his nape.

He wasn’t expecting the light pull that follows, nor was he prepared for a press of Mew’s forehead against his own.

“Hi,” Mew says in a whisper, a trace of a smile dancing on his lips.

“Hi,” Gulf finds himself replying, suddenly too caught up in the intimacy of the moment to even remember he was about to move away. God, this can’t be real.

A slight, surely non-accidental shift of Mew’s head against Gulf’s results in their noses rubbing together. Mew’s smile grows bigger and Gulf can’t help but mirror the action. The tension in his shoulders dissipates in an instant. Good lord, he’s fucked. In all possible ways.

“Gross,” he says matter-of-factly to conceal any signs of the imminent emotional meltdown, nose scrunched up as he wipes his come-covered hand on his (hitherto favorite) pants.

“Can’t argue with that,” Mew’s smile turns wicked. “You’ve made quite a mess, tua-aeng.”

“Me?” Gulf huffs, then lightly slaps Mew’s bicep with his unsoiled hand. Damn, will this endearment ever stop making him feel like there’s a whole bunch of butterflies flapping around in his tummy? “It’s all on you, phi.”

Mew just hums and nods in feigned agreement, smile still plastered on his face.

Gulf, in turn, shakes his head fondly. It’s phenomenal, he muses, the way they settle right back into it, that comfortable dynamic of theirs, even despite the acute novelty of the circumstances. He’s forced to abandon his thoughts prematurely because Mew kisses him then, slow and sweet and thorough, and just like that, Gulf knows they will indeed figure it out for sure, whatever it is that they now have.

 

EPILOGUE

They mess up a lot on set initially. Managing the newly-found intimacy and emotional proximity while shooting NC scenes proves challenging, to say the least. Funnily enough, it’s the tameness they suddenly start forcing onto their characters that they’re perpetually told off for. Pique demands more passion, more urgency, but they’re wary, too scared that if they lose themselves in the moment, they’ll overdo it, they’ll be too obvious, and everyone will notice.

The paranoia passes sooner than expected, their professionalism and—frankly—the now acknowledged constant hunger for each other not letting them hold back for too long. Every member of the production team knows them well enough to have formed an opinion on the status of their relationship ages ago anyway, vague though they have always kept it, even between them. It takes them a while to realize as much, but once they finally do, words of endless praise are the only type of feedback they receive.

It’s been two weeks, and yet Gulf still finds himself resisting the urge to pinch himself every now and then. Stolen kisses when no one’s around and rushed makeout sessions in cramped dressing rooms become part of his daily routine, and even though he still needs to learn how to not get on Mew’s bad side as often (Did you really just pick football practice over a video call?), he wouldn’t change a thing about his current situation.

Okay, maybe besides the fact of being stuck in traffic on the most important day for the man he, well, kind of— never mind. Likes. Sure. He’s in like with him, no big deal. Anyway, traffic. It’s something he would definitely like to erase from existence right now.

Despite Bester’s best attempts, they arrive at the venue royally late. Gulf has been scrolling through his twitter feed long enough to know fans are not impressed by his absence, the more generous ones trying to blame it on his busy schedule, those less generous convinced Mew and him are now drifting apart due to their solo projects. He shakes his head; if only they knew. The truth is, he had his schedule all cleared for today just so he could prepare thoroughly, but of course he ended up underestimating the power of Murphy’s law (or rather, the madness that’s Bangkok’s traffic on a Saturday afternoon).

Alright, time to put on a show. A forced smile to help him power through the anxiety, an energetic wave at the fans, a couple of wai’s at the reporters and Mew’s guests gathered inside. An ultra-quick interview to confirm that yes, red roses mean love, what else? (Brotherly one, of course—shit, he forgot to specify). Bester’s back by his side the moment the mini-interview is over. No, let him carry the bouquet himself. No, he won’t stay in the back, he needs Mew to know he’s there for him, even if embarrassingly late. No, he won’t mind the knowing stares and smirks tossed at him by virtually everyone he’ll be passing on his way to the front row.

And then Gulf sees him. Despite knowing shit about K-pop, he’s positive Mew could easily pass as a Korean idol with his bold choice of outfit and the ridiculous amount of accessories he’s wearing. He looks so hot Gulf fears he might stumble over his own feet.

The bouquet is heavy and inconvenient to hold. The rustling of the wrapping paper makes Gulf the center of attention for a fleeting moment, but instead of trying to fold in on himself in embarrassment, he puffs out his chest proudly. Yes, he’s going to deliver this fuckton of flowers straight into Mew’s hands, gossip be damned. It’s the least he can do to redeem himself for not always being the good boy Mew wants him to be. And also maybe, just maybe, to show Mew how smitten and how happy for him he is—so what?

Once seated, he turns around fretfully, glances over his shoulder skittishly to mumble his greetings, throws a few nervous smiles at both known and unknown faces. And when he turns back to the stage, Mew’s expectant eyes are already on him, smiling, crinkling at the outer corners in that familiar, endearing fashion, as if to celebrate his arrival. You came, they seem to be saying appreciatively, like him not showing up was ever a possibility. The tiny little wave in reply to Gulf’s apologetic wai sends tingles all over his body, from the tips of his ears down to his very toes, and Gulf just can’t stop grinning.

Mew’s performance puts him in a daze. He’s so entranced by the way the soft melody seems to be flowing through Mew’s entire body just to escape through his (admittedly delicious looking) lips for the benefit of the audience, that it’s not long before he finds himself gaping in admiration, heart eyes and all. Here’s to hoping his whipped stare won’t get caught on camera.

It’s pure chaos after that. He’s on the stage all of a sudden, smiling at the reporters while Mew’s reaching out to accept the bouquet from him. As flashes continue to go off, Mew leans in to complain, half-jokingly at best, about Gulf missing the screening of the MV, and looks only slightly placated when Gulf rushes to explain that he, in fact, watched the livestream on his way here. Mew nods in understanding, but the absence of his arm around Gulf’s waist speaks volumes. With a sigh, Gulf concludes he still has some apologizing to do.

A few more pictures and exchanged greetings later, he’s being guided down the hallway, James’s hand against his lower back. They enter the dressing room together, both laughing at the joke James just made and it’s when they’re finally alone that James clears his throat suggestively.

“He should be here any second now.”

Gulf simply hums in acknowledgement because he can’t think of a verbal reply that wouldn’t seem suspicious. Yes, obviously he’s here to see Mew, but no one needs to know in what capacity. Not even James. Especially not James, that hopeless gossip.

“I guess it’s a big day for you too, huh?” James cocks an eyebrow. “You must be so proud of him.”

A smile is all the response James will get. Truly, Gulf doesn’t trust his own ability to not spill the tea and he knows how skilful James is when it comes to worming stuff out of people.

“P’Mew!” James is all over Mew as soon as the man steps inside. “You were fantastic out there. Phenomenal. Outstanding. You killed it, darling.”

Mew looks giddy and pleased and so, so attractive with that harness over his shirt and those deliciously glistening lips. Gulf doesn’t even attempt to tear his eyes away from him. And why would he, anyway?

“Thank you,” Mew makes a wai at James, clearly flattered, but it’s Gulf he has his gaze fixed on. “To be frank, it all went by in a blur. I can’t tell if it was alright or a complete disaster.”

“Aow,” James coos, “Look at you fishing for compliments. It was an absolute treat, love. Now, I’ll let this little cutie here shower you with adoration. See you around, my boys!”

And with that, he’s gone.

The moment the door clicks shut, Gulf lets out a tiny cough. “I’m sor—”

His apology dies on the tip of his tongue as a toned arm loops around his waist and pink lips capture his own. Mew’s clearly high on adrenaline, if the way he kisses Gulf, rushed and frantic and demanding, is anything to go by. It’s not long before there’s a hand at the back of his neck and a hint of tongue coaxing his mouth open. Despite the potential repercussions—the door is definitely not locked, and there’s no way in hell their respective lipsticks are going to last—Gulf gives in without a second thought. Against his better judgement, he grabs at the sides of Mew’s shirt to bring him closer, as close as humanly possible, and feels Mew’s teeth sink into the plush of his bottom lip in reply. God, he could kiss him for hours.

It’s over way too soon. With a contented sigh, Mew pulls away just so and looks Gulf straight in the eye, hand leaving his nape to cup his cheek.

“You look breathtaking,” he whispers against Gulf’s lips appreciatively, earning a bashful smile and a squeeze to his arm. Even though it’s been two weeks since they jumped head-first into the unknown, Gulf’s still not used to the amount of praise Mew hurls at him on the daily. And to think it’s his big day, not Gulf’s. It’s him who’s breathtaking. It should be Gulf complimenting Mew, not the other way around.

“I’m sorry I was late,” Gulf manages to finish this time. “You did an amazing job out there, and I let you down.”

“And there’ll be consequences,” Mew narrows his eyes menacingly, but there’s a faint trace of a smirk on his lips. Gulf feels himself shiver, even if he knows Mew’s being only half-serious. “Although I guess not until tomorrow. It’ll be ages before this madness concludes tonight.”

“So you’re not sulking?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Mew’s arm tightens around Gulf’s middle. “Even if embarrassingly late. I was starting to get worried, you know. I would have been calmer had you finally capitulated and started paying attention to what colors you wear.”

“You’re a nutcase, phi.”

“It’s not how you talk to your elders,” Mew admonishes with a squeeze to his hip. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Am not,” Gulf huffs, eyebrows drawn together.

“Sure, sure,” Mew nods mockingly, reaching up in an undisguised attempt to ruffle the hair at the back of Gulf’s head, the truly endearing habit of his, only to retract his hand at the last second. Smart of him. Messy hair on top of smeared lipstick won’t look good, especially in tabloids. “Whatever you say, bad boy.”

***

Fans can be really relentless. It’s not like Gulf didn’t know that before, but God, the things they make him do sometimes. With admirable determination, they keep pushing and pushing, and Gulf feels his resolve progressively melting away with every cute naaa? sent his way.

Call him naive, but he wasn’t expecting such a crowd outside the venue. The whole area seems to be swarming with people, mostly females, all holding out their phones and simply waiting for him to cave in.

And cave in he does.

“Only a bit, alright?” He says hesitantly. “I don’t know the full lyrics yet.”

His words are met with a collective outburst of excitement, but all squeaks and giggles die down the moment he clears his throat in preparation. Here goes nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he prays to all deities of… well, musical performance, he supposes, that he won’t make a complete fool out of himself. And as words start falling from his lips to what he hopes is the right melody, he can’t refrain from smiling—both at the cheering fans, and at how the lyrics—completely coincidentally, he’s sure—reflect a certain confession from a couple days ago.

The only one in my heart.

Notes:

Phew! When I first thought of writing a sequel, this monster of a fic was definitely not what I had in mind. All I can hope for is that people don't fall asleep half-way through. Please don't?

If you wanna say hi, I'll be on Twitter crying over MG @mirror_b_a_l_l so let's cry together!

PS This is for Anne-So for being the best motivational coach in existence. Thank you!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Serendipitous Discoveries