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The day that they get the news from upper management, Yangbo’s phone vibrates on his desk.
Gyutae turns his head automatically, but Yangbo’s fingers slide beneath his chin, grips the curve of it and tugs him back. “Don’t,” Yangbo murmurs, his breath warm and light against Gyutae’s skin. He smells like smoke and he tastes like bitter alcohol, and Gyutae doesn’t know if the combination should be as familiar, or as intoxicating, as it is.
“Answer,” he says, but his voice comes out quiet, an unconvincing whimper in the stillness of the air around them. “Yangbo.”
“Shh,” Yangbo interrupts, soothing. “It’s okay.”
It’s not, but the faint buzzing sound fades away after a few more seconds and, well, maybe object permanence isn’t really Gyutae’s strong suit. Especially when Yangbo drags his mouth down Gyutae’s neck, fingernails scratching at the soft fleshy divots of Gyutae’s hips, painting angry scarlet lines along his waist like a brand.
Gyutae wonders if it’s supposed to be one. If Yangbo’s trying to mark him up, to ink his presence all over Gyutae and make it stick. But that’s probably just Gyutae’s own wishful thinking. Again.
Yangbo seals their lips together, and Gyutae breathes in through his nose, squeezes his eyes shut and lets it happen. There’s a song playing over the speakers connected to Yangbo’s computer, something soft and slow and sultry; the lyrics sound like Mandarin, but not quite at the same time, the inflections just slightly different from the way Yangbo usually pronounces them. The steady drum of the melody drowns out the heartbeat thumping rapidly in Gyutae’s ears; and Gyutae sinks against him, half-dazed already, wanting and longing.
Then the phone starts buzzing again, and Yangbo makes an annoyed noise, pressing Gyutae even harder into the sheets as though it’s his fault, like it’ll make the sound stop. Gyutae nearly laughs, or maybe he nearly screams, but instead he runs his fingers through Yangbo’s hair and relishes the softness of it.
“Answer,” he repeats, pushes the word into Yangbo’s mouth and forces him to take it, perhaps a little vindictively. “Your gir—“
“I know,” Yangbo snaps, and he kisses Gyutae again, rougher than before, all tongue and teeth, a distraction and a denial and an admonition rolled into one. He’s so insistent that it’s nearly careless, the way he pulls Gyutae into him and doesn’t let go, hands roaming down Gyutae’s body, gripping the meat of his hips with a kind of spiteful ruthlessness that feels almost like a retaliation in nature.
Gyutae smiles, and hides it in the curve of Yangbo’s lips. He knows that Yangbo wants him, can feel Yangbo’s desire pressed against his thigh, and Gyutae basks in it, revels in it. He can’t help but be a little smug, self-satisfied even, irrationally pleased by the hard evidence of Yangbo’s attraction to him. It’s so simple, so shallow and so superficial—but oh if it doesn’t make Gyutae preen, delighting in this small baseless triumph.
“What do you need?” Gyutae murmurs, deliberately arching himself up into Yangbo, and Yangbo lets out a throaty groan, his voice low and husky. His thumb strokes along the flesh of Gyutae’s cheek, tracing the bone all the way up to his temple.
“You.”
A rush of heat warms the pit of Gyutae’s stomach, coating the lining of his veins. He likes hearing Yangbo say it out loud, a confession whispered next to Gyutae’s ear, a statement carved into Gyutae’s rib cage, an admission of guilt mouthed against the skin of Gyutae’s navel. Not for the benefit of anyone else. Just for himself, and for Gyutae.
“Okay,” Gyutae responds sweetly, wrapping his arms around Yangbo’s neck and tugging him down, tugging him closer. “You can.”
They kiss to the slithering rhythm of the music, and beside them, the phone keeps ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
Gyutae makes a kimchi pancake.
He chops up the ingredients with brutal efficiency, his movements quick and sharp, the knife in his hand carving steady incisions into the kimchi. He measures out the flour and sugar and water; throws everything in a bowl and mixes well; pours the batter into a pan, watches the vegetable oil sizzle on medium heat.
It’s easy. The kimchi bleeds red all over his hands, but it washes off just as quick, slipping through his fingertips and pooling in the shiny silver sink before disappearing down the drain for good. When the pancake is done, Gyutae meticulously flips it onto a plate and carries it down the hallway.
When he pushes open the door to Yangbo’s room, he finds the jungler lounging across his bed, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He doesn’t seem to care that the ash is flaking onto his duvet in sprinkles of dark gray. Gyutae watches him raise the cigarette to his mouth and take a long drag of it; the smoke billows from his lips, vanishing into the air just as quickly as it appeared.
“Eat,” Gyutae says, sweeping aside the empty disposables and cardboard packs littering Yangbo’s desk so he can set the plate down on it.
“Thanks,” Yangbo answers offhandedly, not even looking over. He’s typing on his phone with one hand, the other still occupied with his cigarette, and Gyutae frowns when he catches sight of a faint, tiny smile curling at the corners of Yangbo’s mouth.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want to know. “Yangbo,” he calls, louder than before. “Come eat.”
Yangbo finally glances up, like he’s only just realized that Gyutae is standing there. “Okay.” He sounds listless, his expression apathetic as he swings his long legs over the side of his bed and gets to his feet.
Gyutae perches himself on the edge of the desk, and decidedly doesn’t watch Yangbo eat. They’re silent for a while, the way they always are after the high of the adrenaline rush has worn off; Gyutae should be used to it by now, but instead he finds himself stifled under it, feeling all awkward and uncomfortable despite the fact that they’ve been here so many times before and Yangbo isn’t even looking at him.
“What will you do?” Gyutae blurts out, the words spilling from his throat before he can stop them.
“Huh?” Yangbo sounds distracted, and it irritates Gyutae, pricks at his chest and crawls under his skin and needles on his nerves.
“You don’t play anymore,” Gyutae says pointedly, and maybe he should feel a little bad, but it makes Yangbo raise his head sharply, his phone momentarily falling by the wayside as he stares at Gyutae. “So you go home?”
It takes Yangbo a few moments to respond, and his tone is entirely dismissive when he does. “No.” He shovels the last bite of the pancake into his mouth, chewing through it within seconds. “They tell me to stay.”
“Oh,” Gyutae mumbles, absently twisting the hem of his shirt around his knuckles. “You… sad?”
He knows what’s waiting for Yangbo back home. Who’s waiting for Yangbo back home. Yangbo’s got a lot of things to miss and a lot of reasons to leave Berlin. Unlike Gyutae.
But Yangbo merely shrugs. “No,” he says, not even pausing to think about it, and Gyutae wonders if he should feel as gratified by that as he does.
“But I change room,” Yangbo adds as an afterthought, and that catches Gyutae’s attention, clamping onto it like a vice.
“Where will you go?” He’s not—it isn’t necessarily panic that inspires the question and infuses Gyutae’s voice, but he’s surprised. And he hates changes to his status quo, hates the distant threat of uncertainty after he’s already been settled into his routine for months now. The routine that unequivocally involves, perhaps even revolves around Yangbo, needs Yangbo’s very presence to function.
Gyutae never said it was healthy.
“I don’t know.” Yangbo deposits his cigarette butt into the designated bowl behind his monitor, immediately opening his drawer and pulling out a navy blue vape that he sticks between his lips.
He doesn’t say anything else, and he still doesn’t look at Gyutae, but at least he’s also no longer distracted by his phone. It’s somewhat of a victory, though a tiny one.
The time on the clock reads close to one in the morning, but it’s not like Gyutae is leaving tonight. He does, however, have to get up early tomorrow. And of course, Yangbo doesn’t.
“Tomorrow I go office,” Gyutae reminds him. “For scrims.”
Yangbo blows a puff of blueberry-scented smoke from his mouth. “Mm,” he hums, indifferent. “With new jungler?”
Gyutae nods, and Yangbo shifts in his chair. “You like him?” His voice is casual, but his shoulders are tense, fingers fidgeting with his vape as he fixes his gaze on the keyboard in front of him.
It’s cute. Gyutae lets the question hang between them for a second, just because he can, just because he’s learned how to play the game by now, just because he knows it’ll make Yangbo squirm and maybe Yangbo deserves it, a little. “Yeah,” Gyutae says lightly, finally. “He’s nice.”
Honestly, Gyutae hasn’t spoken more than a sentence to their new jungler outside of the game, but Yangbo doesn’t need to know that. He really doesn’t need to know that, if his gaze is boring into Gyutae and he’s inhaling another slow drag of his vape and standing up from his chair. He takes three quick steps towards Gyutae, and the haze follows him as though it’s a loyal pet, a cloud of blueberry that seeps insistently into Gyutae’s senses. It clogs up his lungs, thick and smoldering.
“Really?” Yangbo drawls derisively. “He’s nice?”
His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark and slanted with exhaustion, but Gyutae can see the hint of annoyance sparking inside them, a sliver of heat buried in a complicated kaleidoscope of vague emotion. And there’s something almost funny about it, something a little amusing about the whole situation.
Yangbo’s so fucking greedy. Yangbo wants everything he can get, wants to capture the universe in the palm of his hand and keep it for himself. And Gyutae just… enables him. Gives it to him. Over and over again, because if he offers Yangbo enough then maybe he won’t have room to hold anything else in the grip of his fist.
So Gyutae lifts his chin defiantly and answers, “Yes.”
Yangbo’s gaze flickers across Gyutae’s face, searching. “Nicer than me?”
Yes. Gyutae shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, and when Yangbo kisses him, he parts his lips and breathes in the smoke like it’s oxygen and forces himself not to choke on it.
In the night, a familiarly incessant buzz drags Gyutae from his slumber. He opens his eyes sleepily, feeling rather than seeing Yangbo crawl out of bed to retrieve his phone.
Gyutae knows. Of course he knows. He’d memorized the time difference a long time ago, knows by heart when Yangbo will melt from his grasp, when he’ll no longer belong just to Gyutae. It’s a cycle that never seems to end. And to be fair, Gyutae hasn’t tried to cut it off yet.
Before Yangbo slips away completely, Gyutae reaches out and curls his fingers lightly around Yangbo’s wrist. Not hard enough to stop Yangbo from leaving, if he really wanted to. But the jungler pauses in his movements anyway, maybe out of surprise, maybe just for Gyutae.
“Don’t,” Gyutae mumbles, drowsiness making him reckless, making him bold. “Don’t answer.”
Yangbo doesn’t respond for a brief moment, and for that moment, foolishly, Gyutae lets himself feel gleeful about it. Triumphant, like he’s climbed to the top of the world; victorious over a faceless opponent he doesn’t even know by name.
But then Yangbo’s pulling away carefully, and although his tone is gentle when he whispers, “Sorry,” the quiet click of the door swinging shut after him might as well be a knife twisting in between Gyutae’s ribs. He closes his eyes and turns over onto his side and refuses to think about the fading warmth in the space Yangbo left behind on his side of the bed.
Just because Gyutae’s learned how to play the game, doesn’t mean he’ll win it.