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Sungchan hasn’t seen Anton for the past two and a half days and it’s borderline driving him insane.
Okay. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. He talked to Anton prior to getting on the bus two days ago, then at the pit stop, then, again, when they arrived at the resort. He’s also seen glimpses of Anton; at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with his team members, at the beach—with his team members too, at the pool—again, with his team members.
Sadly, Sungchan can’t really blame Anton’s teammates’ constant presence either. The organizational management of this term will end soon—that’s the whole reason they’re at this beachside estate in the middle of nowhere anyways. He tried to reduce this situation into a compact ‘it’s just the virgo in me’ mindset, which just doesn’t make sense in the first place because he doesn’t know jackshit about zodiacs except for the 1960s serial killer.
But there’s still four days to this stay and Sungchan is certain that if by the next hour Anton’s not beside him, he might just walk straight into the ocean to never be seen again.
So, in a desperate attempt at coping, he concluded that whoever organized this end of term plenary meeting-slash-farewell trip hates him and is actively trying to sabotage his— still in the making —love life.
“You know, dude,” Eunseok calls out. He’s sunbathing on a braided hammock, wearing only comically bright blue beach shorts and a pair of shades that’re suspiciously similar to the ones that suddenly disappeared from Sungchan’s wardrobe a couple months ago. “You should try swimming laps in the pool, maybe it’ll cleanse you from your severe insufferable loser syndrome.”
Sungchan wants to flip that hammock upside down, but he opts to feign melancholy instead. “Anton likes swimming.”
A leg flies out, shin weakly hitting the side of Sungchan’s torso. “No shit. Shotaro, please take over, I can’t stand him.”
“You’re literally laying down.”
“Shotaro!”
“What?” a voice, now much softer, slithers into the conversation with a shout. Shotaro, with half his body drowned in the clear chlorinated water, looks up, hands crossed upon the stone siding. “What now?”
Eunseok points an accusatory finger at Sungchan without a word. Weirdly, Shotaro understood, peering his glance to the youngest between the three of them.
“Have you tried texting him?” Shotaro states, tone significantly tender. And Sungchan doesn’t know whether it would be better being gentle-parented by his friend, or getting verbally decimated by his other friend.
“There’s no service,” he pulls his phone out, presenting the empty signal bar on the screen to his one audience member.
“Exactly,” Eunseok interjects, lifting his head slightly. “That’s a sign for you to enjoy—”
“Sungchan,” the owner of the name shifts his attention to Shotaro once more in a rather quick manner; the momentous change to a flat pitch scares Sungchan just a bit. “There’s wi-fi.”
“What.”
Sungchan stills. Shotaro must be trying out a new joke, a sick one at that.
“Someone sent the password in the group chat when we were on the bus.”
Within the very same beat, Sungchan could feel the neurons in his brain going catatonic. Then, silence. The slow digestion of information seems to be very evidently portrayed on his face because Eunseok and Shotaro's overlapping laugh gradually ceased.
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” This query could be interpreted in two ways: about the wi-fi, or about how Sungchan is currently the dumbest person alive. “How could you just let me suffer and not open Twitter for two days straight?”
“You didn’t ask,” Shotaro lazily chirps. “And you survived, right?”
Barely , Sungchan wants to answer. Or maybe drowning Shotaro in the pool would do more justice to his annoyance. “What’s the password?”
Eunseok looks up from his phone. “ Endofterm2023 . All lowercase, no space.”
There’s an immediate pile of notifications bombarding Sungchan’s phone the moment he connects to the internet. Some from his mom—asking how he’s doing and, what seems like a more urgent case, pictures from the trip. Some from his various social media accounts—a couple of likes from Instagram, his brother’s DM from TikTok, and a minimum of ten notifications from Manchester United’s Twitter account. There’s a text from Shotaro accusing him of using the wrong toothbrush (it’s not him and they still don’t know who did it).
Still, no Anton’s name in sight.
“He hasn’t texted me.”
“Good to know that someone’s actually enjoying the vacation,” Eunseok comments, deadpan. “I heard a kid from Giselle’s team didn’t sleep for two nights organizing this trip.”
Well, Sungchan now knows whose name he’s writing in the Death Note he bought when he was ten.
—
Sungchan
I hope a kid from your team can’t sleep tonight because of the mosquitos
Whoever planned this vacation
giselle
?
elaborate pls
Sungchan
I thought I alr requested to be put in the same building as the PR team
Scratch that
I basically begged
giselle
n i told you no
Sungchan
Why though
giselle
why not
Sungchan
What if I jump off the cliff rn
giselle
do a flip pls
—
The sun’s just shy of the horizon when Sungchan grabs the last bottle of Corona from the cooler. A cluster of coinciding laughters, shouts, and screams dances as white noise in the wind as music blast from the gigantic speakers a few steps away from him. He takes a long swig, familiar beats of an 88 Rising track slowly drowning the mountains of chatter behind him.
Recognizable faces are flocking all around him. Some are walking towards the sad excuse of a beach volleyball court, either to be a spectator or to be a player. Some are running along the edge of the sea, kicking sand at each other. Some are sitting in the benches close to where he is, conversing and laughing.
In his years of living as an extrovert, he isn’t particularly accustomed to the concept of people-watching. It’s usually him that’s being watched. But for the past couple of months, he slowly eased his eyes and mind into it. Partly due to Anton’s influence.
They first met in the beginning of the year, at the welcoming party of this term’s organizational management. He could still clearly picture the wavy black hair and how Anton couldn’t stop fixing his collar until Wonbin—one of the managers of Anton’s unit and Sungchan’s most trusted matchmaker—physically removed the younger’s hand and told him to stand still before taking a picture. He thought that Anton was cute, but never paid much more attention to it.
The consequence of his initial indifference finally bit him in the ass when Eunseok dragged him into one of PR team's weekly meetings. Anton stayed quiet most of the time, but when he speaks, it’s always with the softest voice known to mankind. He would brush away the strands of his then newly dyed crimson hair away from his delicate face every five minutes. Every time he laughed, he would instinctively hide his face beneath whatever hoodie adorned him that day. Everything happened so fast and Sungchan felt as if his heartstrings were tied to Sisyphus’ boulder as soon as the meeting ended.
Wonbin, bless his heart, was the first one to notice Sungchan’s newfound infatuation, just a week after the initial meeting—which scared Sungchan a bit because he just accepted the fact that he had a crush merely two days before. So, every Wednesday afternoon, he would get a text from Wonbin containing nothing but a meeting schedule, complete with the time and place.
Shortly after, he also found out that they’ve been living in the same off-campus accommodation, just one level apart. Sungchan once hypothesized, in a conversation with Eunseok, that the tardy realization was caused by none other than the stark difference in their schedules—which is true, but Eunseok just rolled his eyes at him. Alas, Sungchan was ready to go back to church and pray on the night he noticed Anton at the lobby after an event they both attended.
And suddenly, there’s a meeting he religiously attends every Wednesday evening (whilst consistently ignoring the meetings he, Eunseok, and Shotaro scheduled to the point Shotaro threatened to make a memorandum). There’s frequenting Anton’s study sessions at the cafe downstairs every time he comes back from his internship. There’s late-night snack hunting at the convenience store, followed by hours of chatting at his or Anton’s balcony.
Now, the person that Sungchan only gave a fleeting thought to at the beginning of the year became a pivotal part of his day. Maybe even his life.
And maybe Sungchan likes that.
“Earth to Sungchan Jung?”
A shake on Sungchan’s shoulder breaks through his trance. “What?”
Eunseok swiftly enters his field of vision, sitting himself on the bench right across from Sungchan. “Do you,” he pauses, hands digging through his pockets before retrieving a pack of cigarettes, placing it on the table between them. “Sorry. Do you have a lighter on you? I left mine back in our room and I’m too lazy to get it.”
“Only if you give me your cigs,” Sungchan says, already handing out the zippo lighter Anton gifted him for his birthday to the other.
Of course he brought his own share of cigarettes to the trip (“That’s just too much.” Shotaro commented when he saw a whole month’s worth of Marlboros, Camels, and Esses in the pouch of Sungchan’s weekender) , but he would rather use Eunseok’s for now in case Anton ran out and needs a pack or two—if he manages to run into Anton, that is.
“So,” Eunseok begins, exhaling the smoke up and personal to Sungchan’s face and falling into a pit of choked out laughter after receiving a middle finger. “Have you found your boyfriend yet?”
Boyfriend. The word just sent chills up Sungchan’s spine. “Not yet. Both in finding him and making him my, um, boyfriend.”
“Damn. That’s a double homicide. What about a text?”
“Nada.”
“Triple homicide then. Okay. Do you want to get vulnerable with me while we make snow—well, sand angels together?”
“Oh my God. Please shut the fuck up.”
Eunseok props both elbows onto the wooden table, chin resting against the back of his hand. “Okay. How’s the thesis coming along then?”
Rather than a chill, Sungchan feels a burning need to punch Eunseok in the face upon the question. Despite being in their final years of university, Eunseok has definitely taken the lead in their two-person race to a thesis defense, already knee-deep in data collection. Meanwhile Sungchan is left alone and stuck in the stage of constructing his research methodology. Then there’s Shotaro who is out of the picture entirely, having completed his thesis defense a couple weeks ago, passing with an A, and now patiently waiting for the graduation ceremony.
“Are you trying to make me depressed?” Sungchan groans out. “If that's the goal, then congratulations.”
Eunseok holds his hands up in surrender. “In my defense, I thought you were going to go into a ten-minute rant of your never-ending love and affection and fascination of Anton Lee.”
Sungchan stares at Eunseok through the empty beer bottle, morphing the man’s face to something akin to a blob. “I thought you got sick of that two months ago.”
“I’m glad that you’re self-aware, but I would rather have you going ‘ Anton did this’ ‘Anton did that’ than moping around like a—”
“Me?”
There’s a long silence. Sungchan could recognize that soft voice from a mile away, and he’s certain that Eunseok does too, and frankly, they’re both too scared to turn their heads to face whoever decided to show up.
In moments like these, Sungchan is grateful for the longevity of his friendship with Eunseok; they know each other’s deepest, darkest secrets, they’ve been at each other’s side throughout ups and downs, and now, they understand whatever morse code-esque blinks they’re throwing at each other, arguing on who will greet the newcomer first.
Eunseok lost. So, he quickly stubs out his dying cigarette on the ashtray and turns his head.
“Hi, Anton. What’s up?”
Sungchan exhales deeply, flicking his cig before placing it on the same ashtray, following Eunseok in turning his head towards the man he’s been searching for the past two days and a half.
He immediately regrets it.
His conscience already established that Anton’s body was personally sculpted by the Gods months ago (through pictures on Instagram). But now? In damp black shorts that’s skirting the edge of legality in terms of length, neck adorned with the black heart necklace that Sungchan bought him for his birthday, a pair of pushed-back sunglasses that lets a few strands loose to frame his face, and how the warm light ricochets off the droplets of water on Anton’s half-naked body just right ?
It would be the understatement of the century if Sungchan described his shock as less than seismic and Anton’s presence as less than deadly.
The sharp sound of a finger snap from Eunseok cuts through the haze clouding his thoughts, yanking him back to reality.
“Dude, Anton asked you something.”
“Huh? Yes. What?” is the first thing Sungchan says as a response after remembering that he needed to breathe to actually say something. “I mean. Yes, what is it?”
Anton clears his throat. “Do you mind if I sit here? I mean, all the other tables are kind of full—”
Christ. He didn’t even realize that Anton’s holding a tray full of food and beverages.
Sungchan nods quickly. Way too quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Of course,” he turns his gaze towards Eunseok. “Why did you need my permission for this?”
Eunseok shrugs, evidently trying to keep his expression flat despite a grin that’s fighting to emerge. “There’s two people at the table, so I need your input too.”
Sungchan rolls his eyes. Fucking asshole.
“Oh, and Sungchan,” Anton chirps up, and out of all the space available from two benches, he decided to sit right beside Sungchan. It’s plausible that Anton just wants to obstruct the orderliness of his sanity—and he’ll allow it without question.
“Yes?”
The younger takes a sip of what Sungchan could only guess is some kind of lime infused water or just a straight up tall glass of vodka. “Do you want to substitute me for beer pong later?”
“Why me?” Sungchan lifts an eyebrow, turning his upper body to fully face Anton. “I mean, it’s your turn to play—”
“He’ll do it.” Eunseok cuts in, not even looking up from his phone, eliciting a sharp glare from Sungchan that sadly goes unnoticed.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. Wait,” he takes a deep breath. What the hell is wrong with him, actually. “Why though? I thought you liked playing.”
Anton nods, lips pursed into a line. “I do like playing the game, but my tummy doesn’t like beer. Besides, you already won a round at yesterday’s tournament, right?”
Sungchan briefly reflects how the pathways of his life magically led him to this moment of being so bewitched over a cute boy who still unironically says tummy . Or how it made him voluntarily join and stay—for two whole terms—in a university-level bureaucracy that holds annual beer pong tournaments.
“Sure, I’ll take up the challenge,” Sungchan nods, letting a chuckle slither past his lips. An action that’s quickly reciprocated by a wide, toothy grin from the younger. “But I was blasted as fuck when I won yesterday, so I better pre-game now. Give me.”
Anton slides his tray to the middle of the table. “Go ahead, it wasn’t my plan to finish all of this anyways. Eunseok, you can take some too.”
“Thank God. I was waiting for you to say that,” Eunseok heaves out, finally putting his phone down and sliding two glasses of cocktails to his side of the table. “But remind me to stop after I finish these two though,” he points to Sungchan. “I need to be sober enough to record his downfall.”
The witty comment doesn't seem to register as such to Anton. He shifts his head so swiftly that, by the time Sungchan notices, their eyes have already met. Sungchan feels his heart momentarily stop as he observes the subtle pink tint blooming on the younger's cheeks.
“Please bring justice to my name.”
Sungchan gulps, examining and swallowing the sight of the being before him whole. Yeah, that’s a face he will go to war and die for.
There’s a resounding ehem coming from across them. Eunseok is already on his feet, both hands filled with his share of drinks. “I think I’m going to dip now. The game will be at the pool right?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. See you there then,” Eunseok nods, stepping away from the table. “And Sungchan, check the group chat.”
Once Sungchan made sure Eunseok had disappeared from every corner of his eyesight, he immediately did as he was told. He pulls out his phone—promptly noticing Anton looking away as Sungchan unlocks it. Cute —before opening the most recent text notification from three minutes ago.
—
Eunseok
The drought finally ended! @shotaro🧋WOOHOO
@Sungchan remember: #SafeSexistheBestSex
shotaro🧋
? what
Eunseok
Anton finally fucking showed up lol
shotaro🧋
omg???
the incense i burned worked?
anyways @Sungchan if you need condoms i think giselle’s team has some
in their emergency kits ;]
Sungchan
@Eunseok I hope the ping pong ball I throw tonight directly hits you in the nuts
—
“What is it?” Anton asks after Sungchan puts down his phone.
Despite the absence of other people in their whole seating area, the lack of distance between them is still going strong—and growing stronger now that Anton’s resting his head against the table whilst stirring the remaining liquor in his glass, possibly refusing to move. (Sungchan wouldn’t admit this aloud but the way Anton’s cheek is squished against the wooden surface is driving his cuteness aggression levels through the roof).
“It’s nothing,” Sungchan answers with a chuckle that comes out too awkward for comfort. “Just… idiocy?”
Being alone with Anton again feels surreal. Maybe the whole humans are quick to adapt sentiment is true because in less than seventy-two hours, Sungchan managed to lose all memory on how to interact with the subject of his infatuation that he usually talked to with little to no problem. Thankfully, Anton softly laughs at his sad attempt at a joke.
“So,” he starts again, inhaling and exhaling sharply through gritted teeth. “Which drink should I finish?”
Anton straightens up, brows furrowing as he stares with each drink with intent, as if whichever alcoholic concoction Sungchan gets will significantly affect his ping pong ball throwing ability later. “Um. Which one do you like?”
Sungchan steers his glance to meet Anton’s. “I don’t know. Which one do you recommend?”
The question induced the younger into another thirty-second observational analysis of the plethora of drinks (it’s five, actually. Excluding the one Anton’s currently on his way of finishing). Then, he turns to Sungchan again, pointing at a drink that, from the first glance alone, seems indifferent to a normal iced tea.
“If you like to be hit in the face with booze like usual, I recommend this one. Long Island iced tea, I think.”
Like usual. The words repeat like a broken record in Sungchan’s mind, disinclined to flee. Sure, it’s not their first rodeo of drinking together—they’ve done so a handful of times during their nightly talks at each other’s balconies. Yet Anton’s small act of remembering such mundane details of Sungchan is enough to inject a sense of fondness in his chest.
“Sure,” He smiles, securing said drink from the tray to the empty table space before him. His brows raise as he examines the beverage. He didn’t think it would look this similar to an iced tea. “Is there any actual tea in this?”
Sungchan intends the question to sound like rhetoric. He’s never really one to care about the details anyways—he’ll be willing to drink poison, or moonshine, or poisoned moonshine, if Anton’s the one offering it.
“Oh, no, no,” Anton shakes his head. “I think it’s like,” he pauses, looking rather too focused on retrieving information of the contents in Sungchan’s drink that will be ingested and permeate his bloodstream soon. “Coke—the drink, not the other stuff, there’s also vodka, tequila, rum, gin…and I forgot the rest.”
Sungchan shrugs before downing the iced tea-imposter drink generously. The ensuing heat throughout his throat feels as if someone ignited a molotov cocktail in his windpipe, instinctively moving the muscles of his face to such a degree that Anton is collapsing into a fit of laughter.
“What the fuck,” he coughs out, patting his chest once, twice, thrice to relieve the burn. “Who made this shit?”
Anton’s still hunched over the table, heaving, and despite the cuteness in his string of melodious laughter, Sungchan still needs to know who he needs to sue.
“Ningning made that.”
Ah. No wonder.
“You should’ve told me that first before I chugged half the glass!” Sungchan protests, subconsciously reaching over to ruffle Anton’s deep crimson locks softly.
Anton stills. Just as the surge of guilt and regret begins to loom over Sungchan’s heart, the younger eases back into a state of relaxation, even leaning into Sungchan’s touch. And now Sungchan doesn’t know if he wants to cry out of happiness or burst into smithereens. He’s considering both. In that order.
His ruffles stop, instead opting to run his fingers through the younger’s hair. Even when dyed, Anton’s hair stays smooth, sometimes falling outside the gaps of Sungchan’s fingertips. Very much unlike how his own bleached hair. He makes a mental note to ask what hair products Anton uses later.
With the once-blaring music receding into a gentle hum, a comfortable silence settles itself between and around them. A silence that is kind, peaceful, yet far from dull. The type of silence they enjoyed during late-night talks back in the city, differentiated only by a presence of the calm rumbling of the waves.
This is what Sungchan misses the most. Every time the high tide retreats, it grasps the wind, subtly whispering a promise of a somewhat gentle solace that manifests as the high tides return. There’s no empty promises, no words upon words of blurry articles, no piercing buzz of metal that he needs to assemble. Just silence.
He wonders if Anton feels the same.
Slowly tracing his finger downwards—down the back of Anton’s neck, down the blades of Anton’s shoulder, down his back—Sungchan finds a stop at the dip of Anton’s waist. He rests his hand there, careful to not actually put any pressure, but enough to notice when the other shivers.
“Are you cold?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Anton turns to face him, cheeks flushing under the dim light, and by God , he’s beautiful. “Kind of, yes.”
Sungchan only needed that confirmation before swiftly pulling his t-shirt over his head and handing it to Anton. At least there’s a chance that the cold could calm down the slither of heat creeping up his stomach.
“It’s not much, but still better than just going bare.”
The younger looks at the shirt. Then to Sungchan. Then the shirt. Then to Sungchan again, but this time, his gaze lingers. “But you’re the one going bare,” he pauses, squinting in suspicion. “Are you trying to show off?”
Sungchan glances down to inspect his now exposed state. “Maybe,” his lips curl into a slight grin, eyes closing proudly. “I’ll be playing beer pong anyways. There’s still a possibility for me to lose and get chucked into the pool.”
The statement evokes a glare from Anton after he slides into Sungchan’s shirt. “You promised to win though.”
“I promised no such thing.”
The grin plastered upon Sungchan’s face grows wider as he lets his eyes travel down Anton’s now—thankfully—less-nude form. Perhaps the piece of clothing isn’t the most effective shield against the cold sea breeze due to the absence of sleeves and the oversized style, but it exposes Anton’s biceps just enough for Sungchan to unsubtly ogle. The off-white shirt features an array of professionally photographed animals with lit cigarettes between their mouths… and beaks, accompanied by the sentence 'It Looks Just As Cool When You Do It.' in a thin serif font right below the grid of pictures to add a good sprinkle of dramatism.
“You look good,” Sungchan chuckles. “I spent like, the last seven dollars of my first paycheck on that shirt.”
He doesn’t know what sparked him to disclose the unremarkable fact.
Despite that, Anton responds with an acknowledged hum. “The best use of seven dollars, honestly,” he becomes silent for a moment before pointing to the dog. “This is me, by the way. If you even care.”
Sungchan takes a long sip of his now watered down liquor, staring intensely at the shirt to seem like he’s thinking really hard about it. He wouldn’t dare to do a legitimate comparison between Anton and a four-legged canine with a breed even he’s unsure of—it looks like some kind of Sheepdog, but again, Sungchan’s only experience tending to a dog is his family’s miniscule Maltipoo. But in terms of pure, unadulterated cuteness alone? Yeah, he’ll bite.
“I see the resemblance. What about me?”
The younger slides his finger to the left. A small deer. Still with a burning cig between its mouth that makes it look rather metal. “This is you. And I care, by the way.”
He smiles at the remark while momentarily contemplating on putting Anton in his pocket. It’s a talent how Anton manages to look as if he’s drowning beneath Sungchan’s shirt despite their similar stature. It’s special in a way that it makes Sungchan want to curl up and punch his pillow.
Then, a thought dawns on him. A horrid one. “Wait. Does the shirt smell bad though?”
Anton raises his eyebrow, prompting him to gently lift the collar of Sungchan’s shirt until it covers half of his face. How the fuck does he look even smaller?
“Nope,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
Sungchan gives the younger a suspecting look. While the weather wasn’t exactly nearing any heatwave-levels when the sun was up, the amount of sweat that shirt holds is still significant. Thinking about it makes him want to throw up and bury himself alive.
“Really?”
Anton, still with the collar of the shirt hanging on the tip of his nose, takes a deep inhale. “I’m being for real. It just smells like tobacco and, well, you .”
His confusion and shame only deepens with the given answer, manifesting into a frown. His smell? Is it bad? Is it good? Well, he doubts the latter. “What do I smell like?”
“Cigarettes, mostly,” Anton lets go of the shirt, now proudly displaying the thin smile that was hidden. “And those musky, woody notes. It’s…nice.”
As much as he wants to hide it by diving into the ocean just a couple footsteps away, Sungchan feels the heat in both of his cheeks anyways. It’s weird, he thinks. Of all of the people Sungchan had gotten close to, even dated, Anton still takes first place in unconcealing his sense of fluster. Perhaps it’s a testament of the not-so-short time they’ve spent trying to get to know each other. Or perhaps it’s just Anton and his soft voice and his cute antics and his delight of a smile.
“I just said something weird, didn’t I?” Anton’s barely audible question breaks the short lull, and also Sungchan’s heart. Just a tiny bit.
“No, not at all,” Sungchan swipes a hand down his face, as if resetting both his thoughts and his expression. It didn’t work though. “I mean, if you like the smell so much, you can take the shirt.”
Anton falls quiet, and Sungchan’s mind immediately goes into fight or flight to make the situation less—in what his mind perceives—awkward.
“Well, I’m serious but like, you don’t need to think about—”
The younger stretches out his hands and waves them hastily. “I want it, I want it,” he reassures. “I just thought that you’ll give me the name of your cologne or something. But is it really okay, though? This shirt is like…a steal.”
“It’s Santal 33 by the way. The cologne,” Sungchan discloses, hands rummaging around his pockets before pulling out a rather worn-out pack of Marlboro. He internally crosses his fingers as he opens it, hoping the rolls will still be intact. “You can have it, really. It looks far better on you anyways. Also, a smoke?”
Anton juts his bottom lip out in contemplation while Sungchan finds himself entranced. “I’ll protect this shirt with my life. You have my promise,” he giggles at his own choice of words for a simple thanks. “And yes to the smoke, please. I’m running low.”
Sungchan hands him the pack. “Lucky for you, I happen to have packed too much for this trip.”
In fear of yours running out too early, he wants to add—but stops himself before he would regret it.
“Really? You were not planning to run an underground tobacco market in this establishment?” Anton peers at him skeptically, placing a cigarette between his lips.
“I wish. Sadly, it was purely accidental.” Sungchan shrugs, internally congratulating himself on how seamlessly that lie came out. He was about to take his own share from the pack, only to be stopped by the younger.
Anton sways his head in disapproval. “Let’s share this one,” he says, slightly muffled. “You still need to get wasted, my prince charming.”
Regardless of the absurdity of their circumstance, Sungchan finds himself thrilled by the new nickname. It feels like an achievement. A title that only one person can hold, and it’s him.
“When will the game start?”
“At nine, approximately.”
Sungchan turns over his phone, reading the time displayed on the screen. 7.32 p.m. Alright, he’s no stranger to strategic implementation. If he finishes the drinks in front of him—minus his tequila iced tea thing and Anton’s vodka concoction—before eight, the possibility of actual intoxication finally hitting him before nine is above sixty percent. He’s safe.
Anton taps on his shoulder, signaling a sparkwheel motion with his hand. Sungchan reaches across the table to fetch his abandoned lighter. After a moment of clear-headed consideration, he takes it upon himself to light the cigarette himself.
“Move up a bit, angel,” he instructs, and the younger complies by leaning closer. They’re exactly face to face now, and they’re both unwilling to look away, as if stuck in a perpetual stalemate.
The act of spinning a lighter to ignite a flame has been programmed into Sungchan’s muscle memory since he was fifteen. Alongside the instinctual reaction to shield the flame from the wind with his other hand. Now, his palm is filled with the warmth of the fire and his fingertips stings as it lightly grazes the corner of Anton’s lips.
He really really wants to risk everything right then and there.
Nevertheless, he pulls away first, claiming his defeat. The weight of regret surpasses his expectation, manifesting in a cascade of mind games as he distinctly catches the fleeting disappointment etched on Anton’s face.
Sungchan watches keenly as Anton takes a long drag of the cigarette, then handing it to him as the exhaled smoke twirls in the air. It’s artistic, in a way. Anything Anton creates is always pleasing to his eyes—from the results of Anton’s work to how Anton carries himself and even to how the strands of Anton’s hair are placed so flawlessly to frame his face. But just like art, Anton is elusive, distant—forever unattainable from Sungchan’s grasp.
“So,” he says out after a few wordless back and forth. “Which drink should I chug next?”
Anton slides him a highball glass filled with bright blue liquor. This might either be the best cocktail he ever tasted or the day he vows to abstain from alcohol for the rest of his life.
By the time awareness came knocking, Sungchan’s already standing on the edge of the pool. His ears ring with shouts and cheers, and there’s eight red cups set up in a triangle formation on the table before him with two of the empty ones set aside.
He would think he’s doing good so far—if he knows what he’s doing and how far he’s gone. Which, at this point, not really.
An orange ping pong ball flies past him and into the pool, then, he remembers. His eyes peers over to his opponent: Sohee from the Internal Affairs team. This wouldn’t be too hard considering the other only has five cups left and is visibly tanked from whatever junk he smoked or drank.
Sungchan straightens his posture as he receives another ball from the pseudo-referee (which is Shotaro, for some reason). His eyes squint slightly in an attempt to focus despite the instability of his stance and the constant buzzing under his skin. Anton’s familiar warmth is right beside him, with the recognizable voice chanting his name.
He feels like he’s on top of the world.
So, he throws. The ball falls right into the only cup on the very back of the line. Sohee groans as he gulps down another glass of cheap beer, bringing a smile to Sungchan’s face. He might’ve failed miserably in the basketball tryouts in eighth grade, but it’s good to know that he’s still good enough to have a winning streak on shooting a ping pong ball into a cup full of alcohol.
He turns to glance at Anton, who has already set his eyes on him. “Four more, yeah?”
Anton laughs, nodding. He looks so carefree yet so angelic. “Four more to victory!”
Sohee scores a point in one of Sungchan’s cups and the beer tastes so awful he thinks it’s probably spiked with something else. His first suspect is Ningning. Then, he scores again. Sohee drinks once more, and misses Sungchan’s cup by a long shot.
This goes on until there’s five cups left on his playing field, while Sohee’s left with only one. Sungchan feels bad for a split second—Sohee’s a good kid, a cheerful one that always emcees their plenary meetings and events, including this one. But alas, Sungchan has his priorities straight.
Shotaro steps in, stretching both of his arms across the table. “Last cup, everyone!” he announces with a wide grin. “Sohee, do you want to surrender now?”
The younger shakes his head, forming an ‘X’ with his arms. “At least let me drink the liquor of my loss with the dignity of a well-earned match!”
Sungchan thinks that was weirdly poetic for a game of beer pong. Intoxication really does marvelous wonders to people, especially Sohee, who’s now doing a handshake routine with his long-time boyfriend, Seunghan.
Shotaro shrugs, putting the orange ping pong ball into Sungchan’s grasp. “Well, you heard the kid.”
“Right.”
He shoots the small plastic orb without a second thought. It went in. There’s cheers. And before Sungchan could clearly process everything, Anton tackles him into the pool.
The sudden breach past the surface tension hits his skin like a thousand tiny needles. His breath catches in his throat as the water engulfs him whole. Sungchan’s senses are submerged, and in that suspended state, he becomes acutely aware of the weight of Anton’s body on top of him, creating a momentary loss of both his balance and sanity.
“What the fuck?” is the first thing he says after surfacing, hands reaching above water to comb his hair back.
Anton immediately erupts into a fit of giggles, almost hitting his head against the pool’s deck if Sungchan didn’t pull him closer. He’s soaked once again now, just as Sungchan saw him for the first time a couple hours ago. With the only difference being the addition of a shirt that’s now flowing under the stagnant water. A shirt that was Sungchan’s, a couple hours ago.
It takes a minute or so for the younger to finally calm down, coughing out both air and water along the way. He meets his gaze with Sungchan’s, smiling widely. A different smile than usual. More genuine, in a way, as if Anton actually took a piece of happiness itself and paints it on his face.
Is it bad that Sungchan wants to kiss him?
“It’s a celebratory plunge,” Anton explains, looking up to the crowd to validate his stance. “Right?”
Sohee—who’s still dry even though he wasn’t supposed to be—gives Anton a thumbs up. He then crouches down, stretching an arm in Sungchan’s direction. “Good game, Mr. Vice Prez. ”
Sungchan sighs heavily at the abrupt declaration of his position, but he shakes Sohee’s hand anyways. “Good game, kiddo,” he tightens his grip. “And I’m sorry.”
Of course he takes the opportunity to pull Sohee in.
The masses clamores upon the action—some chanting his name again, some even following Sohee’s footsteps by willingly jumping into the increasingly cold water. Yet his focus only tunnels to the proud little grin Anton sends his way and it gets increasingly difficult to not smile back.
When Sungchan comes back with two fresh packs of cigarettes, he finds Anton leaning forward against the wooden railing as he sits in the gazebo they decided to seek refuge in. It was Anton’s idea, and by looking at how densely packed the swimming pool is after the stunt he pulled, Sungchan also thinks that escaping would be the best choice.
Sure, the shouts and the screams still pollute their hearing, but it all acts as a distant echo now. Something so far-flung that Sungchan couldn’t even make out the lyrics from the music the others are blasting, overpowered by the occasional chirps of cicadas near them instead.
On Anton’s shoulders cling a fresh towel they’ve foraged earlier at the foyer, protecting him from a continuous cycle of wetness and the progressively cold nighttime winds. Even as an intoxicated outsider looking in, Sungchan could sense Anton’s comfort; how Anton’s muscles ease at the sight of battling waves in the distance, how Anton accepts the moonlight’s embrace.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Anton turns to him, replying with a shaken head despite the fact that Sungchan just saw a small jolt when the younger heard his voice. He sits himself on the edge of the empty lounger, letting his back fall onto the cushioned surface.
The gazebo, with its open sides, offers a panoramic view of the night sky and its canvas of stars. It’s amazing how much things have changed just a few hundred miles away from the bustling city he grows to embody. He’s unfamiliar with the sequence of the stars, which goes in what constellation, but he’s heard of the stories before—mostly from the Ancient Mythology class he took as his humanities requirement. Andromeda and Perseus, Altair and Vega. Classical angst that both kills and revives love. A thought process that both gave him an A-minus and a psychological crisis over the concept of affection.
His attention maneuvers to his heart, one that ceaselessly skips a beat or two every time his eyes fall upon Anton. Or even just the mention of Anton’s name. Eunseok constantly tells him that he’s ‘whipped’ or ‘madly in love’ , and sometimes he answers with a nonchalant ‘yes’ , without a second thought. But is he really?
Anton shifts to face his direction, wordlessly and perhaps unknowingly. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering lightly due to the breeze. There’s serenity in his face, perfectly accentuated by the dim lighting.
Yeah, he is.
“I brought cigs if you want a bum,” Sungchan finally voices out, interrupting the motion of silence.
The younger scans the packs of cigarettes in Sungchan’s grasp, then to his hazy gaze. “You got Esse?” he asks, leaning closer. “I thought you strictly do Marlboros and Camels.”
Sungchan feels as if he’s been caught stealing red-handed. He hums as an answer, trying to sound as normal as possible.
“How did you accidentally buy cigarettes that are not your usual?”
Anton watches him with suspicion, and the dread climbs up the stairs of Sungchan’s spine akin to when he’s about to start a closed-book Mechatronics exam. His hand flies to cover his face, hoping that Anton couldn’t see the redness creeping up his neck under the moonlight.
“Okay, I have a confession—I lied.”
But Sungchan doesn’t immediately continue. He doesn’t know why he’s scared, it’s not like he actually stole anything or did a federal crime. Maybe it’s the impending doom that is Anton’s judgment. But he’s quite—not fully—sure that Anton wouldn’t take that much offense from the deception.
He peeks from the gaps of his fingers, and Anton is still there. Looking at him, brows furrowed in confusion rather than anything close to resemble anger.
“Well? Elaborate please?”
Sungchan sits up and takes a deep breath.
“I lied about packing too many cigarettes accidentally. It’s actually deliberate and I did it because I’m worried that you might run out. Which did happen, thankfully—for me anyways because the cigs wont go to waste. Not that I’ll actually let it go to waste, I’ll probably rapid-smoke that shit. But anyways, it’s probably an ass situation for you.”
There’s a beat of stillness, filled not with words, but an endless change of Anton’s expression—concern, confusion, a mix of both. He’s blinking slowly, mouth opening for a split second before it closes again, as if his ability to process information is permanently destroyed by Sungchan’s word vomit.
“That’s so fucking dumb.”
It is. Sungchan’s hostile ego doesn’t even want to deny that. Looking back, there is absolutely zero logical basis for the lie; he could’ve just shut his mouth. Does he want Anton to know how cool he is for being addicted to nicotine? Definitely not. Or does he want Anton to see him as a well-prepared man deserving of Anton’s attention and affection? He didn’t even bring enough underwear to this seven-day trip, and that would just add another layer of notion that he does not identify with. Does that count as another lie then? Is this a new revelation of him being a pathological liar all along—
“It’s very cute though.”
Huh?
Wait.
Sungchan tears his eyes away from his hands, now numb due to his unconscious drive to crack his knuckles whenever he’s unnerved. It’s now the younger’s turn to steer clear of his gaze, looking upwards to the wooden ceiling. There’s a couple of fake butterflies hanging on it and also the string lights that can be found thrown throughout the villa, but are those really more interesting than whatever the fuck Anton just said to him?
Sungchan needs answers.
“What?” is what he said to get those answers. Blame it on his lack of creative rebuttals.
Anton turns to him, expressionless but at the same time looking as if he’d seen a ghost. His reddening ears definitely didn’t help. “What?”
“Rewind with me, Anton,” Sungchan straightens his position, and the other follows. Now they both look like two mafia lords trying to strike a drug deal. In beach shorts. And Anton’s thighs are definitely not distracting him right now (he refuses to look away). “What do you mean by cute? What is cute in this context?”
“You,” Anton answers, plain and simple. Too matter-of-factly for Sungchan’s liking because he cannot find a loophole to joke about as a coping mechanism for the heat that’s rising to his cheeks. “I don’t know. It’s nice to know that someone cares enough about me to be concerned about the stock of my cigarettes.”
Sungchan crosses his arms, leaning back against the cushion once more. “ Cute wouldn’t be the word I’d use for that, honestly.”
His eyes follow Anton who’s standing up, towel left discarded on his seat. The younger walks to each corner of the gazebo, unclasping the velcro that restrained the white curtains. Frankly, he doesn’t know what Anton is doing. Either it’s due to the brisk winds or he just wants privacy, but Sungchan’s still left clueless on the reasoning for the latter, yet he can’t bring himself to ask.
With the moon no longer peering inside, they’re left with the low dim of string lights for visual coherency. It’s bright enough for Sungchan to see Anton clearly—to see that his body is no longer soaked, to see the pair of sunglasses are now hanging on the collar of his shirt, to see Anton walking closer then sitting himself on the edge of Sungchan’s lounger.
Sungchan stills.
“Okay,” Anton breathes out, grabbing a pack of cigarettes that Sungchan placed on the table that previously acts as a barrier between their respective seats. He never opens it. “What would you describe it then, if not cute?”
“Dunno…like, a friendly caring gesture, I guess?”
Friend. That’s the last thing Sungchan wants Anton to think of him as.
He meets Anton’s taunting gaze, lips pulled into a snarky smile. Sungchan couldn’t believe how a single glance could make him feel so barren, so exposed. But here he is now, caught in another lie.
“Fine,” he surrenders, and the younger scoffs. “It’s not friendly , per-se, but,” he pauses, chewing on the insides of his cheek. “It’s still a caring gesture nonetheless.”
“A cute caring gesture, actually.”
Sungchan immediately pulls Anton into a pseudo-headlock, earning a surprised shriek and a couple of weak taps on his arm that he decides to ignore. His legs wrap around Anton’s lithe waist, locking him in place.
“Let me go, you asshole!”
“Not until you shut your potty mouth.”
Anton sticks his tongue out. “Make me.”
“Do you really want me to?”
The question abruptly halts the younger’s uncontrolled and exaggerated methods of escape, and Sungchan could faintly feel the rapid beatings of Anton’s heart—he is not doing that much better either. His body feels as though it’s physically light aflame, skin surging with electricity the longer he lets himself cling to the man in his hold.
There’s nothing wrong with asking. Sungchan needed the answers. Desperately.
Anton looks up at him, eyes brimming with the haze of intoxication and something else that is foreign to his sight. Maybe— want ? Desire? Sungchan doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. He just wants to close his eyes, prepare himself for the impending answer.
“Yes.”
It’s a whisper, barely audible. Sungchan believes he won’t even catch the first syllable if their faces are not mere inches apart.
Continuing the conversation with this level of directness is dangerous, but an answer— the answer isn't enough. To him, at least.
He bites his lip, giving in to the urge of drilling deeper, to know better . “What do you want me to do?”
Anton slips out of his embrace, and before Sungchan could grieve the loss of intimacy, the younger straddles his lap as if it’s his own designated throne—evoking a sudden stop for the circulating oxygen in Sungchan’s system and for his back to lean flat against the backrest of his seat.
Without a second to spare, Sungchan finds his hands flush against Anton’s bare thighs. It’s muscular, just like every other part of Anton’s body, as a result of what he could guess is years of competitive swimming. Yet it’s still supple enough that Sungchan is fighting demons to not squeeze down.
God, it’s all so, so warm and Anton is too fucking beautiful under the shitty string lights.
“I want you to kiss me,” the younger answers, short and concise and with a tinge of desperation only Sungchan could hear. “Or fuck me. I don’t know— fuck . Just, make me yours.”
And that is all Sungchan needs—he dives forward, fingers unabashedly digging into the softness beneath him as he swallows Anton’s gasp with his mouth. He kisses roughly, hotly, instincts brimming with a need to resolve the hunger he’d buried since the beginning of the year.
Between the ravenous clashing of tongues, Sungchan takes it upon himself to let his hands wander; slipping past the shirt and upwards Anton’s spine, then down, against the smooth materials of the beach shorts before resting against the underside of Anton’s thighs. Every inch of skin burns beneath his fingertips.
The younger circles his arms around Sungchan’s neck, erasing the already miniscule gap between their torsos. Anton is strong, arms tugging him closer without remorse, legs caging him on each side even if a thought of escapade would never ever be in Sungchan’s mind.
But thankfully, Sungchan is stronger and has significantly less self-control—he hauls Anton’s body forward, ass flush right against the hardness in his pants.
“Oh, fuck .” Anton hisses, pulling away.
Sungchan looks up, guts twisting with unease. “Sorry, is everything—”
“Yes. It’s just—my ass is on your dick. Caught me off guard.”
“Ah. Okay.” Sungchan has never talked this much during a make-out session. He’s also never this awkward when he has someone on top of him. But again, he also never made-out with someone that he had a crush on for almost a year (he’s not into the slow-burn stuff before Anton showed up). “Do you want to continue or?”
Anton answers by connecting their lips once more, now with an addition of grinding motion that drives Sungchan practically insane. His grip flies to the other’s waist, slowly seizing control of Anton’s movements—he doesn’t want everything to end this early.
With a growing pit in his stomach that’s descending dangerously, Sungchan braves himself to drag the kisses downwards. First stop, Anton’s jawline, then downwards once more, stopping at the juncture of Anton’s neck. The taste of smoke and liquor lay heavily on his tongue, so addicting that it might just permanently alter Sungchan’s tastebuds.
Delicate digits find their way into his hair, running along the strands before pulling him by the ones on his nape. Sungchan lets out a low groan. Everything is open-mouthed and hot and messy and he doesn’t want it any other way.
And sensing how Anton reacts in his hold, there’s definitely a shared sentiment. Anton is just as wrecked as he is—moaning with every bite, gasping with every lick, hips grinding a tad too roughly for Sungchan to continue living until the morning.
“Do you want us to get caught?” he mouths against Anton’s collarbone, eyeing the blossoming splotches of red that he could proudly proclaim as his work of art.
Anton lets his arms fall, now resting idly on Sungchan’s shoulders. “The prospects are appealing,” he giggles, massaging the back of Sungchan’s neck. Beneath the shadow of his hair and lashes, Anton’s lips glisten with spit, all red and puffy. Sungchan stills.
That’s his doing.
“Never thought you’d be the exhibitionist type.”
Anton shuts him up again—deservingly so, still with the same sense of fervor, just paired with a significant amount of certainty, as if knowing that both of them won’t flee from each other’s touches anytime soon.
While the flurry dissipates and time being kind enough to slow down, Sungchan could feel everything in much better clarity; Anton’s weight pushing him down against the cushion, their hips moving in tandem, Anton’s finger cruising above his skin, curiously cascading in a line before it stops right at the waistband of his very un-sexy camo-themed beach trunks.
“Can I?”
He takes in Anton’s gaze that, amidst its carefulness, hides a mountain of hunger and greed. Then, to the curtains. “You really want to do it here?”
Anton follows his eyes before turning back to face him. “Are you uncomfortable with it?”
The thought of getting discovered doing indecent acts during an organizational trip definitely excites Sungchan a little, despite many times he wants to internally push that fact aside. Concerns arise when he starts to think about the repercussions, especially one that Anton has to face.
“To be honest, I just want your mouth on my dick, but,” Sungchan pauses, lips turning into a thin line. “What if we get caught?”
Anton’s hand travels upon the smooth fabric with glee, fingertips leaving slight touches enough to tease a man into a frenzy. It stops atop of Sungchan’s crotch, squeezing it lightly. The immediate gasp that he lets out could only be described as humiliating, to his ego, at least.
“That settles it then,” the younger lifts himself from Sungchan’s lap, not forgetting to leave a small kiss before he strays far. He eyes the shorts. “Off, please.”
Sungchan complies, hastily undoing the frazzled string before tugging down. The cold breeze hitting his dick is rather unexpected, but the taste of freedom after being confined in the jail that are his camo trunks is enough to elicit a deep exhale.
Without a second to waste, Anton spits on his hand and wraps it around Sungchan’s length, swiping around the leaking head before giving it a few strokes, reaping a choked moan from him. Contradicting temperatures hits him all at once and it’s far too much for the growing tightness in his stomach.
Before he could lean into the younger for a semblance of stability, Anton shifts away, situating his face between the spreaded legs, back arched and ass up in all its glory. Sungchan wants to close his eyes at the sinful sight, thoughts of repenting almost crossing his mind.
Then, there’s gentle kisses raining down his shaft. Then there’s a repeated lazy—or, rather, teasing—licks, from the base to the tip. Then there’s Anton’s mouth wrapped around him.
And Sungchan trembles. Mind delirious, gone. Insides set ablaze.
“God, fucking shit.”
Anton shoots him a look from below—of warning? Of pride? Both? Fuck if Sungchan knows, any form of comprehensible thought is out the door at this moment. Still, he puts a hand over his mouth for precaution.
His body is kept in place with Anton’s grasp on his thigh, restricting his movement as the pair of swollen lips inches closer to the base, until it stops. Sungchan could feel the tip of his cock grazing the back of Anton’s throat and he wants to scream all of the profanities the dictionary has to offer out of his own.
Even the sharpest stoic ideology he promised to apply in his life back in first year couldn’t curb his urge to thrust into the wetness and warmth that surrounds him. So he does exactly that, desperately, with half-lidded eyes and slurred moans. Anton sends him a satisfactory hum, pleasure striking him at once from the vibrations alone.
“Fuckfuckfuck —I’m not gonna last long, angel,” Sungchan admits, breathless. Hands, though hesitant, reach out to run their fingers through the brunet locks of the man under him, pulling on the roots in a gentle manner. Despite the confession, Sungchan does his best to not release right then and there as he angles Anton’s head in an attempt to explore—or rather hit—deeper.
Anton’s gaze clashes against his, the seemingly innocent eyes contrast each vulgar movement. The younger’s jaws go slack, so open and so vulnerable as Sungchan relentlessly glides his dick in and out, pushing himself closer and closer.
Mentally, Sungchan starts counting to five in pursuit of any semblance of control, assisted by the increasingly harsh tug on the strands of hair beneath his touch. It’s not the first thing he failed in. By the count of three, the too familiar spiral in the pit of stomach becomes uncomfortable, unbearable—any concept of numbers immediately disappearing from his lust-stricken mind while he hits the back of Anton’s throat again and again and again.
“Angel,” he warns again, the word not even sounding right anymore.
Anton whines around him, slowly easing off from Sungchan’s now obscenely wet girth before pressing his tongue flat against the slit.
And it’s so, so over.
Eyes rolling back and all Sungchan could see is white. It’s all hot and blinding and his skin burns like the same shade of crimson on Anton’s hair. He groans, voice low and broken and like nothing he’d ever heard of as Anton’s tongue continuously swipes over the leaking tip through his high, over and over and over.
Without giving a chance for the euphoria to calm down, Anton connected his lips with Sungchan’s own once more. The piercing saltiness greets his taste buds immediately, which he welcomes. It’s gross, probably, but Sungchan couldn’t care less because Anton is kissing him so slowly, so fulfilling that he couldn’t help but to cup the younger’s face in his hands, thumb grazing over Anton’s cheeks as he closes the small distance between them.
Harsh breaths race in unison when they pull away, lips glistening under the low warm light. Sungchan rests his head on Anton’s shoulders without a word, nuzzling into the warmth emitted.
“You are so, so hot.” Anton breathes out, giving a small peck on Sungchan’s temple. He thinks it’s kind of romantic.
“And you are,” his voice is coarse, eyes closed shut as he collects the scraps of his previously shattered sanity and erases the remaining graininess in his vision. “So fucking crazy,” he continues, muffled against Anton’s skin. “Sorry for jizzing all over your face, by the way.”
The younger’s hearty, melodious laugh dances through the air. So calming it almost lulled Sungchan to sleep. “It’s fine. It can be like, my new fashion statement.”
Sungchan leaves a small kiss on the crook of Anton’s neck before checking out the statement with his own judgment. Truthfully, it’s a bit hard to look when Anton’s holding him in such an odd position, but he would rather die than escape the embrace.
From what his eyes could gather—besides the cemented fact that Anton is really beautiful, that is—Anton's face is kind of a wreck. Hair sticking up in every direction, hazy eyes, and the cherry on top which almost made Sungchan’s brain free-fall and implode on itself: the droplets of, well, his cum. It’s smeared on the corners of Anton’s lips, on the cupid’s bow, some even flew up to the cheeks, even the bangs.
“Looks good on you. Kind of sexy, actually.”
“Really?” Anton raises a brow. He raises a finger to gather all the mess on his face before cleaning it, nonchalantly. With his tongue. Then swallowing. Sungchan’s gaze froze, jaws might as well be slamming onto the floor.
Scratch that. Anton is so very sexy and he wants to coil up into a ball and cry his eyes out.
“Genuine question here. Are you fucking with me?”
Still with the faux puzzled expression, a sly little smile paints itself across Anton’s features. “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing, no?”
“Touché.” Sungchan shrugs, leaning back. Perhaps the gesture presents itself as an invite, because without another word uttered, Anton climbs into his lap again. Everything feels snug. Cozy, even.
“So…”
The pursuit of a new conversation was cut short by Anton’s voice.
“I think you should lessen your smoking.”
It’s almost inaudible that Sungchan needed to do a double take—both hearing and vision-wise, staring down at the man that’s snuggled on top of him like a koala on a tree. “What?”
Anton doesn’t meet his eyes, and decides to keep drawing circles on the broadness of his shoulder. “To be frank,” he mumbles. “It’s bitter.”
Sungchan would be lying if he said that his ego wasn’t a tad bit bruised by that statement. If memory serves him correctly, he didn’t recall any bitterness when he kissed Anton after the whole blowjob action. And he’d never miss out on keeping his fruits and veggies intake in check. But maybe his sense of taste are fucked over by the bewildering amounts of alcohol he consumed within the past two days.
“You also smoke though,” he retorts—a defense, a dirty one at that, but a defense nonetheless.
“Not as much as you do.”
“Wanna prove it?” it sounds more like a challenge than a question. And such a wonderfully idiotic thing to be so defensive over.
“Weird way of asking to jack me off,” Anton comments, giggling as he tears himself away from Sungchan’s bare chest. “But sure.”
They scramble, momentum fleeting back to a rush, all hasty and clumsy—Sungchan’s hand almost misses the hem of Anton’s shirt as he assists the younger in taking it off, throwing it to the empty seat beside them. The enthusiastic buzzing on his fingertips reminds him a couple years back, of a kid opening up a present that’s so nicely wrapped for him on Christmas morning.
It should be a world record how fast he stripped Anton down, all bare and naked all for Sungchan’s eyes to see. Crude, sure, but Anton deserves a prideful devotee that worships him and he would kill to be the first in line.
“Hey,” the younger snaps his fingers, breaking Sungchan from his heavenly reverie. “My eyes are up here.”
Astute observation. “I’m not sorry,” Sungchan says flatly. He wraps an arm around Anton while he straightens his back. Giddiness filled his chest on how the curve of the younger’s waist fits perfectly against the dip of his elbow. Then, his attention shifts to meet Anton’s eyes.
“Good to go, angel?”
“Yeah,” Anton mutters, a pink tint rushing back to adorn his cheeks. “I like how you call me angel, it— fuck!”
Sungchan would’ve loved to hear more about the babbling, but given by how there’s less commotion outside beside Usher’s ‘Daddy’s Home’ still booming from the speakers, nightfall is definitely catching up to him. The terrifying possibility of Anton’s team going on a search rampage when they realize that he’s not in their room hangs above his head threateningly, and he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with both a bad hangover and Wonbin’s lecture first thing tomorrow morning.
He imitated Anton’s previous action of utilizing spit, immediately wrapping his slicked-up hand around the base of Anton’s half-hard cock. All the briskness resulted in a gasp and nails digging into Sungchan’s biceps.
“You could’ve given me a warning!”
Sungchan grins sheepishly. “Sorry. My bad,” he leaves a small peck on Anton’s pout with the lackluster apology. “Do you want to continue?”
The younger answers with a nod. “Be gentle though,” Anton adds, whispering as a cheeky smile adorns his dimly-lit features. “If you can.”
Not going to lie, that just made Sungchan want to do the absolute opposite of gentle.
“Where’s the ‘please’? ”
“Can you stop —”
It’s now Sungchan’s turn to shut Anton up. He dives into another kiss, thumb smearing all the spit and pre-come all over the tip of Anton’s dick before tightening his grip, swallowing whole each and every moan that ensues.
Anton shakes under him, so easy to please that it’s amusing. Just a mere suck on his lower lip gifted Sungchan with a whiney mess. A rather harsh tug brought him limp in Sungchan’s embrace, head leaning on his shoulder for support. The sight does nothing but yank on the pit of arousal in Sungchan’s stomach, boosting both his ego and the urge to break Anton with his touches alone.
“Sungchan,” the younger finally calls out when Sungchan trails his lips along Anton’s earlobe, voice trembling and small, nails sinking deeply into his shoulder to the point that it’s painful. Nothing that Sungchan couldn’t handle, really—he would brag about the dents it left around like a trophy if he could.
“Yes, baby?”
Anton’s hips jerk upwards upon the nickname, followed by a breathy gasp that took Sungchan by surprise. He swipes his thumb over the slit, smiling proudly when Anton reacts similarly.
“Come on,” he eggs on, letting his rhythm grow erratic for a split second just to watch how the younger crumbles in his hold. “Use your words, angel.”
Sure, Sungchan admits that it's dirty play, petty even by his own already six-feet-under somewhat ethical standards—but who wouldn’t be a tease when the man of his dreams could do nothing but squirm before him?
His thumb found its way on the underside of Anton’s cock, dragging his nail slowly as he drew abstract lines down the younger’s spine with his free hand, providing empty reassurance. With every stroke, Anton leans closer, back arched. Following that, the pace grows quicker.
At this point, Sungchan doesn’t give a fuck about the noise, nor does he mind his once more growing erection—not when his attention capacity is filled by Anton’s pleasure and Anton’s pleasure alone.
“I’m so,” Anton huffs, letting out a broken whine when Sungchan jerks him quicker. “I’m so close.”
“Yeah?” Sungchan moves his free hand to cup the younger’s face, urging him to move away from his shoulders. To look Sungchan in the eyes. “Do you think you can cum for me, baby?”
Anton does look at him, eyes almost brimming with tears as he nods desperately. He looks so gone and so breathtaking and Sungchan wants to fuck him then and there, but he saves the plan for next time—he hopes there’s a next time.
It only took a twist of his wrist for Anton to break, spilling white throughout the back of Sungchan’s hand and even to their bare stomachs as he dampened his moan with Sungchan’s other hand on his face.
“You did so well, angel,” he whispers continuously, stroking Anton through the aftershocks, with Anton only responding with a groan every now and then, body resting against Sungchan’s own languidly. “My pretty little angel.”
They stay like this for a while; Anton still on his knees with his full body weight supported by Sungchan’s far too upright sitting position. It is awkward and Sungchan could already feel his back going sore, but everything is worth it when he looks down and sees the younger nuzzling his cheek against his chest. He tries to steady his heartbeat too, in hopes of helping to ease Anton’s nerves.
When Anton’s breath finally stabilizes, Sungchan shifts away, adding a slight distance between them to clean the mess with the towel that was long-abandoned. He maintains gentle pressure, careful not to overwhelm Anton's senses any further.
In spite of that, the younger budges, though still hesitant—or just too tired—to lift his head. He mumbles something under his breath, indecipherable to Sungchan’s ear.
“Hey,” Sungchan says. His impulsive thoughts want him to pinch Anton’s cheek that’s basically melting off of his face, but his conscience urges him to tap it instead. So he does, softly. “Anton, baby, you okay?”
“Mm.”
That’s one incredibly unhelpful answer if Sungchan’s ever heard of one, but he takes it as a yes.
“Do you need anything?”
Anton shakes his head. Alright. “Do you want to get dressed now, baby? Do you think you can do it?”
Sungchan doesn’t mind his own naked body—he’s seen it numerous times for far too long in the comfort of his bathroom mirror while getting ready for an 8 a.m. class. But Anton’s though? He still needs Eunseok to slap him or God to strike him with lightning to ever register this as real.
Once more, Anton shakes his head, arms constricting around Sungchan’s body. “ Noooo, ” he whines, high-pitched yet small. “Stay.”
And how could Sungchan say no to such a tender request?
“Fine,” he sighs, then groans. Christ, his back and legs have probably gone numb. “Let me lay down though, this position’s killing me.”
The younger complies rather unenthusiastically, given by the exasperated huff he lets out when propping himself up. Sungchan, not wanting to let the sulkiness simmer for long, immediately rested his back on the padded lounger, stretching out his legs.
It only took, approximately, ten seconds for Anton to settle atop of him once more. He chuckles, reaching back to ruffle the younger’s hair. “Missed me that much, huh?”
“You’re warm,” Anton replies, rubbing his eyes before lifting his head.
“We’ll both be warm when we’re not butt-ass naked.”
“Thought you liked my ass.”
Sungchan gives him a stern glare, lips curving into a frown, but the schtick doesn't last long as it dissolves into a grin. “Love it, actually. Very much.”
“Thank you, big boy. I like your ass too.” Anton absentmindedly comments with a giggle, as if the subtle pet name and the compliment didn’t just make him blush like a prepubescent teen getting a secret admirer note for the first time.
Still within the realm of confessions, Sungchan thinks he finally should clear something up. “I have a question,” the words verbalizes itself before he could perfectly construct the sentence in his head. Some may deem his confession as risky—but they were stripping each other naked in a villa with eighty other people in it, so there’s a small chance that something else exists to topple that level of riskiness.
“Shoot.”
“First of all, I’m glad we did this.” he really doesn’t know why he’s talking like he’s giving an appreciation speech. Force of habit, probably. “But is the whole ‘make me yours’ thing, you know, for real?”
Can’t believe he just asked Anton the infamous ‘What Are We?’ . This feels surreal, in a horrific, nightmarish way.
Worse, Anton is looking at him like he’s a lunatic. Even going so far as to actually get up, peeling himself away from Sungchan’s body.
“Are you actually serious?”
He’s so fucked. His love life is over.
“You actually need to revise the priority scale on your application papers. Holy shit,” Anton’s head is in his own hands now. “I like you, Sungchan—if the blowjob wasn’t enough to get that into your head.”
Oh.
Sungchan feels all of the built-up dread in his body whisked away by the waves at once, replaced with a mountain of embarrassment that’s proudly presented with the bright blooming redness on his face, up to the tips of his ears and down to his neck.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he blurts out, pinching the bridge of his nose for the impending migraine he just costed himself. “I—me too.”
“ Me too, what? Look at me when you say it, please.”
He knows that Anton’s just messing with him by now, provided by none other than the taunting smirk painted along his features when Sungchan looks up.
“I like you very fucking much,” he says, loud and clear. He would scream it if the younger told him to. “And I’m sorry for not catching that from the blowjob.”
With that, Anton’s finally falling back in his arms, all warm and cuddly. “Apology accepted only if you kiss me.”
Sungchan doesn’t need to be told twice.
—
wonbin
fuck you
Sungchan
?
It’s 9 in the morning what did I do
wonbin
anton
he has a slight fever i know it’s your fault
Sungchan
Well not exactly but also you’re not wrong
Let me get some advil from Giselle’s team
—
anton
i’m sorry that you felt the wrath of wonbin :’[
it’s only a cold i swear
Sungchan
Not my first rodeo, angel
Rest up, okay?
I’ll bring the breakfast up to your room
anton
thank you
you still can’t kiss me though
Sungchan
:(