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Dongmin thinks Sanghyuk looks prettiest like this: face flushed, chest heaving, strands of gelled hair sticking to his forehead as he pushes himself up on one arm.
He would like it better if they were alone in Sanghyuk’s room, of course, but right now he’s just one of five hundred people staring reverently at Sanghyuk and his team, and Dongmin’s head is swimming trying to rewind their performance for mistakes that the judges will hopefully dock some points for instead of focusing on how the colorful lights perfectly illuminated the curves of Sanghyuk’s body as he dominated the stage.
“Hello? Earth to Han Dongmin?” Two snaps from bitten fingernails make him blink back to reality. “Get up, we have to go on deck now. They’re running a little early,” Jaehyun says. He tilts his head a bit as if to ask You okay? and Dongmin nods hastily. Thank god for Myung Jaehyun , he thinks, though he would never say that out loud. Jaehyun’s the enthusiastic director to his stoic leadership, the sunshine megaphone to his reserved planner—not to say that Jaehyun isn’t the one keeping Dongmin on track half the time. He has one extra year of directing Unity under his belt, after all, and Dongmin is eternally grateful that there was someone to show him the ropes. Jaehyun grabs his hand to pull him up from the floor.
Woonhak pops up next to him like a puppy on caffeine pills as he starts ushering the team outside. “Wow, hyung, that was insane! How’d they get their jumps so in sync? And their partner work was crazy! And how was their tutting section so clean? Do you think they got outside training, or is Sanghyuk-sunbaenim just good at every style?” he comments rapid-fire.
Dongmin tenses a little at Sanghyuk’s name, but Woonhak doesn’t notice, and instead he pouts a little, getting quieter. “Do you think they’re going to win?” Woonhak asks. Dongmin gives him a rare smile and ruffles his hair. The kid’s a prodigy, he just needs to control his energy a bit—on and off stage. “Let’s just do our best,” he responds.
But he can still hear Sanghyuk’s voice in the speakers as the MC asks him: “Last year, your team came second to Unity by a hairline margin. Do you think Persist can reclaim the championship this time?"
“Well, that’s up to the judges,” Sanghyuk answers, and Dongmin can see his smirk even though he’s rounding the corner backstage. “But I think we’ve shown what we’re capable of, and I think they’ve seen some first-place material.”
Dongmin’s face hardens with resolve. He’s not letting that happen.
Sanghyuk is leading his team outside when Dongmin arrives at the stage door. He looks like he just went for a light jog rather than doing backspins and freezes for five minutes straight, triumphantly dapping up the other waiting dancers as they applaud raucously. Dongmin doesn’t realize he’s staring until Sanghyuk’s eyes suddenly meet his. He expects nothing, maybe a gloating grin, but Sanghyuk’s gaze is surprisingly soft when he sends Dongmin a smile—no fangs, no malice. It’s the same expression he gives Dongmin after coming down from his highs, arms wrapped around each other, just a tad too tender for who they’re supposed to be around each other. Dongmin’s pulse jumps and he whips his head around. “Okay, guys, headcount. Is everyone here? Shoes tied?” he says with a clap of his hands, slipping into leader mode a little too quickly to try and calm down.
They pass by each other, sleeves brushing in the cramped hallway, sending a tingle down Dongmin’s spine. They don’t talk when they’re at competitions; they never really do when their teams are together except for courteous acknowledgements as fellow directors. It’s a little maddening, he can admit, but it’s for the best, for the good of their teams. He hopes.
Dongmin doesn’t know how they got here in the first place. Well, he does; he’s replayed their story in his mind a billion times before he drifts off to sleep, but he has better things to worry about, like his biology exam’s atrocious curve and the ridiculous price of his formation app’s premium version (it’s better than using pen and paper, he supposes). Anyways. Unity has always practiced at a studio in the middle of Seoul, because despite his sky-high tuition, his school can’t afford to open a few more mirrored rooms. Persist is in the same boat, apparently, because the two teams practice in adjacent studios at the same time, forced to keep their speakers’ volume low lest they spoil even a second of their set to their worst enemy.
It’s the first week of practices this year, and since all of the board members stay behind after team chant to debrief their plans, most of his teammates have already left. Dongmin’s a little sad about it—he’d gotten pretty close to Jayoon and Gunwook last year through their commutes back to the dorms—but a man needs some personal space sometimes, especially after realizing just how much responsibility this directing thing was. He lets out a deep sigh as he waits impatiently for the subway. He’s already a little in over his head; their team last semester was mostly seniors and now he has to figure out how to assimilate an influx of eager newbies into the group. They’re bright-eyed and talented but not as obedient as he’d hoped. His throat feels dry at the mere memory of having to raise his voice a few times to quiet the studio. He twists to grab his water bottle, but something—no, someone—catches his eye. He squints. The baggy zip-up and jorts are unmistakable, even if Dongmin has only seen his outfits in passing at the studio. Why is Lee Sanghyuk suddenly taking Line 2? Dongmin never saw him at this station last year. He snaps his head back to the front when he sees Sanghyuk look up at the rumble of the incoming train. He glances to the side again when the train screeches to a stop and the doors slam open. Shit . They’re going to be in the same car.
At least he’s not on this side , Dongmin thinks as he sits down by the window. There aren’t many people on the subway at this hour, though, and Sanghyuk’s orange hair glints in the corner of his vision regardless of how hard he tries not to sneak any glances. He still does, of course, and he has to quickly avert his attention to the book in his lap when Sanghyuk inexplicably meets his eyes. On multiple occasions. He swears he sees Sanghyuk force down a laugh every time.
Dongmin warily looks up again (he’s not doing it on purpose, he swears!) and somehow Sanghyuk has teleported to the row of seats facing him. Dongmin’s eyes widen like saucers while Sanghyuk’s narrow in amusement.
“Dongmin-ssi. I didn’t know you took this line too. Congrats on becoming director,” Sanghyuk says with a strangely polite smile, and Dongmin’s mind freezes for a second. Lee Sanghyuk knows who he is? Lee Sanghyuk is talking to him? Lee Sanghyuk is going to be on the same train as him after every single practice?
He promises he’s not freaking out for no reason. Sanghyuk is like god to every dancer he knows: dance lessons since fifth grade, enrolled in one of the most prestigious training academies in Korea from middle school, trained at a company for four years, then suddenly pounced on the college dance world. He helped Persist break Unity’s winning streak, and ever since then, he’s only been rising in the ranks.
By the time he regains his senses, Sanghyuk is already sprawled in a seat on the opposite bench, head resting on a pole as he stares intently at his sideways phone, probably monitoring videos from today.
Jaehyun’s voice is reverberating in his head as he tries to control his pulse. We have to beat them again, he’d said during their meeting. We have a reputation to uphold. And honestly… I just want to feel that feeling again. Made me feel like I’d done something right for once, he concluded shyly. Dongmin isn’t sure when this rivalry between their teams began, but all he knows is that he’ll see any goal to the end. That's what brought him into dance in the first place, isn’t it?
So he’s extra careful to make sure his Bluetooth headphones are connected to avoid playing their songs out loud, restrains himself from marking the moves in his seat as he watches their practice recordings, and keeps Sanghyuk in his peripheral vision until he gets off the train a few stops before Dongmin’s.
He huffs in relief as the doors close. These commutes were going to start feeling so much longer.
And so the next few weeks pass: three times a week, Dongmin will enter the subway station to see Sanghyuk already leaning lazily against the tiles. They get on the train and greet each other curtly before spending the rest of the ride in silence. It’s chill. Jaehyun doubles over with laughter when Dongmin tells him about his situation, but ultimately reminds him to keep his mouth shut.
Yeah, that won’t be a problem , Dongmin thinks. No way in hell is he talking to Evil Incarnate, also known as the one person who can destroy his dream of winning this competition.
Until one day when hell actually starts to freeze over in Dongmin’s life. He’d taken the world’s worst chemistry exam this morning (how is he supposed to remember the solubility of fifteen different compounds?), had a three-hour ecology lab, rushed to finish his formations before classes ended, then spent the entirety of practice trying to get everyone’s attention over and over again. He winces at the harshness of his voice when he yells, but it finally shuts everyone up so he can explain a canon for the third time. Their first competition isn’t for another month and a half, but Dongmin can feel the sand slipping through his fingers and his eyebags bleeding darker. The final straw is when he walks into the station, head pounding and fingernails digging divots into his palms, to find Sanghyuk looking as relaxed as ever.
He’s on autopilot when the train pulls in, mind still clouded. Jaehyun was actually the first one to approach him today, pulling him into a hug after practice and asking Dongmin to explain what went wrong. But in the end, Jaehyun didn’t have the advice he wanted; no one has never not listened to him when he speaks. Perks of having somehow unlimited reserves of energy, Dongmin supposes—he’s sure the team could see him slipping today.
He could ask Hanbin for help, since he’d led a dance team in undergrad before becoming one of Unity’s choreographers, but a twinge of embarrassment sparks at the thought of asking someone he’s supposed to direct about how to be a good leader. Dongmin would rather jump onto the tracks right now.
He runs through a few more options: maybe last year’s directors, maybe a friend from home, maybe… his gaze trails across the train car against his will. He blinks rapidly and flinches at the sheer audacity of his thoughts. There’s no way he would ask Sanghyuk for help—there’s no way he could. He would know Dongmin’s weaknesses, smell his fear, report back to his team that hey, we’ve got this win in the bag, their director can’t even get them to listen to him!
But the devil (or maybe the angel? They’ve hybridized recently) on his shoulder is jabbering back into his ear. This is The Lee Sanghyuk sitting right there casually like he’s not the god of all aspiring student dancers in the city. The same Lee Sanghyuk that somehow found the effort to learn his name and to smile at him every time they see each other. Dongmin would be stupid not to obtain some of his wisdom, and maybe get the chance to pick at his brain a little. He just has to be smart about it.
“Sunbaenim,” Dongmin calls quietly. Shoot. His earbuds are in. “Sanghyuk-sunbaenim?” he says louder. Sanghyuk pulls out one earbud, head swiveling around to pinpoint the voice. He finally registers Dongmin and cocks his head to the side in confusion.
“Could I ask you something?” Dongmin’s cheeks grow hot.
“Uh, sure? What’s up?”
“I need some advice.” The words feel thick on his tongue.
“Sure, hit me. Wait–” Sanghyuk pats the seat next to him. “Come over here. It’s kind of hard to hear you right now.”
Dongmin freezes for a second, but obliges. He purposefully leaves half a foot of space between them.
“So,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “My friend back home also runs a team and he actually came to me for help first,” he fibs. “He’s having a hard time getting people to listen to him, but he hates raising his voice or being overly harsh. I wanted to help, but, um, that hasn’t really been a problem for me. Not that I’m saying it happened to you, of course!” he adds quickly. “I just—”
Sanghyuk laughs. “It’s fine. That’s nice. Where are you from?” he responds.
“Gwangju.”
“Cool. Well, to be honest, I also don’t think I’ve ever had to deal with that this year or last year… hm. I think it’s because I am blunt sometimes. I make sure that people know if they’re getting something wrong, because they probably won’t correct themselves if I don’t. I think some people tend to be too nice because you recognize that, yeah, everyone is doing this for fun in the end, everyone is a student and stressed and dealing with things outside of dance, but, well, so are you. And you have the added responsibility of keeping them in line. So remind them of that. Push back. You’re a competitive team, train like it.” Sanghyuk shrugs and leans back further in his seat.
“Okay. Thanks.” Dongmin says curtly.
“It seems like you guys are doing fine, though?” Sanghyuk speaks again, making Dongmin blink in surprise.
“Us? Um. I guess. Thanks.” Fuck, he sounds so stupid right now.
“No, seriously.” Sanghyuk turns towards Dongmin, looking directly at him. “I saw your audition choreo from a few weeks back and the take with all of the returning team members was already so clean. And you took the newbies I would have accepted as well based on their small group runs. You taught it well. And duh, the choreo is good, they wouldn’t have made you director otherwise.” He smiles, and Dongmin notices the unusually sharp points of his canines poking out.
“Thanks?” he repeats like a broken record. “Wait, you watched that?” Dongmin lets himself be a little starstruck. Lee Sanghyuk likes his choreo?
Sanghyuk hums, turning back to the front and tapping his heel on the floor. “Just doing some recon, you know. Figure out what your team can do with the new leadership.”
Oh. Dongmin’s only a bit disappointed. (Or so he tells himself.)
Dongmin can’t say he’s not nervous for his next practice. Sure enough, things go south quickly: some unusable chatters here, a few too many repeated mistakes there, and he makes an executive decision, stopping the music abruptly in the middle of another botched run. He chooses his words carefully despite his ire. Push back , Sanghyuk had said.
“Hey, guys, I don’t know what’s going on, but that was honestly the worst run we’ve done in a while,” he begins, running a hand through his hair. “I understand that you’re tired of doing the same thing so many times, but even from the beginning of practice, there was no reason for why I only saw, like, three of you going full out when I told you to. We all have to put in enough work, okay? It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to your teammates. Got it?”
The room goes silent and Dongmin worries he’s gone a little too far. Thanks a lot, sunbaenim , he thinks bitterly. But he’s quickly relieved when he sees sincerity in his teammates’ eyes instead of fear, and his own expression softens. “One last time, and then we’ll take a break, okay? I trust you guys. I believe in you. Let’s do this,” he declares. Smiles light up around the room, including his own, as he watches the next run bring his choreography to full vibrance.
He approaches Sanghyuk first again after practice.
“Sanghyuk-sunbaenim. I did what you told me—” he coughs, remembering his initial excuse. “I mean, my friend told me that he did what you said last time, and his last practice went a lot better. He says thank you.”
Sanghyuk grins. “Tell him I said it’s no problem. If he has any other questions, he can always ask me. You look like you’re doing better today, too,” he adds, and Dongmin clears his throat again, ears heating up.
“Thanks, I guess? I think I was just tired last time.”
“That’s putting it lightly. You looked like you were going to pass out on the platform, and I can’t lift up a six-feet-tall guy. Glad you’re feeling better, though.”
Redness spreads to his entire face as the mental image of Sanghyuk carrying him plagues his thoughts. The train pulls up and they choose their usual seats across from each other. They’re silent, like always, but something feels different in the air between them. Sanghyuk waves bye to him when he leaves, and Dongmin freezes in disbelief. There’s a first time for everything, he figures.
Dongmin’s stomach makes an embarrassingly loud noise as he recites announcements during their team debrief the next week. He laughs lightly with his teammates, a rare sound these days. “Sorry, guys, I didn’t eat before practice. Which means you should make sure you do so before you sleep, please, we really have to up our stamina. This is a long set and most of you are in at least half of it,” he counsels before turning it over to Jaehyun, who gives his notes and leads the team chant to officially conclude practice.
When Dongmin arrives at the station, he doesn’t see Sanghyuk anywhere along the platform. Weird , he thinks. He definitely saw Sanghyuk at the studio today; Persist was meeting right next to them after practice—maybe he’s going to a friend’s house for the night?
The train’s lights are beginning to illuminate the tunnel when Dongmin hears frantic footsteps behind him. It’s Sanghyuk, catching his breath as he comes to a stop next to Dongmin, just in time for the doors to slide open. Sanghyuk hands him a plastic bag after they step inside, and Dongmin freezes, confused.
“For you,” Sanghyuk has to clarify, nodding at the bag as he takes his usual seat, crossing his arms. “Heard you didn’t eat dinner yet.”
Dongmin opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Did Sanghyuk overhear him earlier? It feels too good to be true. He’s still standing and has to reach frantically for the closest pole when the train leans to one side. Sanghyuk sighs and rolls his eyes. He stands as the train steadies and pulls Dongmin by the wrist to sit down. Sanghyuk takes the seat next to him, opening the bag and pulling out two triangle kimbaps from the convenience store near their studio. “Eat,” he commands forcefully—but without cruelty.
“Thank you?” Dongmin says, peeling the wrapper off of the first kimbap. How much gratitude does this guy want from me? he thinks.
“Of course,” Sanghyuk replies, leaning back in his seat. “Gotta take care of my hoobaes. We might win a little too easily if Unity doesn’t compete. It’s only fair.” Dongmin nearly chokes on his bite. Sanghyuk shakes his head when Dongmin offers him the other rice ball.
Sanghyuk sidles up to him first on the platform after their next practice. “Dongmin-ah. Did you eat today?” he asks.
“I did, sunbaenim, thank you for asking.”
“Good.”
They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, but as Sanghyuk gets up to leave, he turns back.
“Good night, Dongmin-ah. And no need to be formal anymore, if that’s okay. We see each other often enough.”
Dongmin can’t help that his heart skips a beat.
They strike up a comfortable routine: after getting on the train and settling in adjacent seats, they pull out their headphones and tilt away from each other temporarily to monitor their practice videos, furiously typing critiques in their respective Notes apps. Once they’re both done, they’ll talk about anything and everything.
Hyung, how was your day?
Dongmin-ah, did your test go well? You were studying the entire train ride last week.
Hyung, have you heard of this choreographer? I want to take his class on Friday.
Was everyone listening well to you during practice today, Dongminie?
Dongmin will tell him about the music composition class he took for fun this semester and began to love, and then he’ll listen to Sanghyuk rant fervently about the teams on the new Mnet street dance show. Sometimes they’ll both be working, Dongmin shuffling through flashcards and Sanghyuk jotting down ideas for his dance history papers. Sometimes they’ll eat, having stopped by the convenience store together for a post-practice treat. Sometimes, they’ll sleep, dead to the world after grueling cleaning sessions. Sanghyuk will sway back and forth as the train rattles through the tunnels before his head finally falls upon Dongmin’s shoulder. If it were a stranger, Dongmin would immediately pull back. Instead, he just stares from the crown of Sanghyuk’s fading orange hair down to his fluttering eyelashes and the slope of his nose, and then closes his own eyes and leans into Sanghyuk’s warmth. Unfortunately, Sanghyuk always seems to know when it’s time for him to leave.
Dongmin knows how it started, but he really doesn’t know how it became something deeper. One day, Sanghyuk is showing him one of his high school dance videos, and they’re doubled over in laughter at the craziest, uncontrolled facials Dongmin has ever seen. His head is buried in his arms that are resting on Sanghyuk’s shoulder when Sanghyuk looks up. “Oh, wait, it’s my stop,” he says, and he’s pulling away to leave when something flips in Dongmin’s brain and his chest and his stomach and he pulls Sanghyuk back down to press a kiss to his cheek.
Sanghyuk just stands there for a second, frozen. The doors open and it finally sinks in. Ok. Wow. Why did I do that. His face burns and he looks away, expecting Sanghyuk to wrench his hand away and turn around without a word, and he’ll lose something he never should have had in the first place.
Instead, Sanghyuk laughs softly, no scorn to it, like a gray cloud giving way to sun. “You’re cute,” he says. He sits back down, cups Dongmin’s cheek in his hand, and their lips finally meet.
Dongmin thanks his lucky stars once his neurons start firing again that there’s no one else on the train at this time of night, because Sanghyuk’s mouth is moving against his and his hand grips his shirt and his hair like he never wants to let go.
They get off at Dongmin’s stop, his pinky brushing the back of Sanghyuk’s hand as they walk towards the exit.
“I didn’t know you were into guys,” Sanghyuk smirks.
Is he? He’s never really thought about it. Sure, he’s casually talked to a few girls in the past few years, and his parents would always complain about how he’s never brought a girlfriend home, but in the end, feelings are feelings. It’s never really mattered who those feelings are caused by.
“Maybe I’m just into you,” he admits. He doesn’t need to ask Sanghyuk the same question—everyone knows he gets around, including with his co-director Kim Donghyun, which he only knows because Jaehyun walked in on them making out while looking for a water fountain. Dongmin mentally retches. There should be some kind of rule against getting involved with your coworkers. (There’s no rule for archenemies, though, is there?)
His heart pangs. What does Sanghyuk think of him, then? He’d kissed him back, called him cute, hadn't pulled away. Dongmin thinks he likes Sanghyuk. He wants to hear him talk for hours, stare at the mole under his eye like it’s his North Star, watch him dance without the ugly voice of comparison in his head.
“How are you getting home from here, hyung?” Dongmin asks, checking the time on his phone. “The last train in the other direction just left.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just call a car. I live near Seodaemun, so it’s not too far from here.”
“Seodaemun? Isn’t that on Line 5?”
“Yeah, but my stop was undergoing renovations for a while. It just opened back up a few weeks ago.”
“Really? So why are you still taking Line 2?”
Sanghyuk shrugs, but there’s a coy twinkle in his eyes that makes Dongmin flush.
“Well, why do you live all the way over here anyways?” He says to change the topic. “Isn’t it far from your campus?”
“Yeah, but it’s way worth it to not have to live in those dumps for my last year. The commute’s not bad, and it’s actually closer to the studio than my old dorm. I spend like, half of my waking hours there anyways.”
Sanghyuk’s car pulls up then, and Dongmin waves shyly as Sanghyuk gets in. He waves back.
And so it begins. After their next practice, on a Friday night, Dongmin shyly asks if he can kiss Sanghyuk again, and he obliges, breaking apart temporarily when the train gets to each stop because Dongmin is a firm believer that sloppy PDA should be outlawed. He lets Sanghyuk take him to his apartment and hastily texts his roommate I’ll be back late today, hyung! Don’t worry—we just scheduled an extra practice because the competition is coming up soon before Sanghyuk pushes him impatiently against the wall, thigh firm between Dongmin’s legs, making his eyes flutter shut and lips part around a sound he hasn’t heard himself make, like, ever . The rational part of his brain—which he likes to think is a vast majority of it, thank you—knows that they should probably talk about it, about whatever is happening in Sanghyuk’s doorway right now, but it’s at times like this when Dongmin is so desperate to banish of all the worries in his mind that he lets himself drown in the feeling of Sanghyuk caging him in, guiding him through waves of pleasure like he’s teaching a choreography to a beginner. Which he is, but he can’t dwell on that fact because he doesn’t have to think at all. He just feels . Donghyun and Sanghyuk are still fine, and they definitely had more on the line if their relationship went south, so how badly could this end, really?
Dongmin knows he hasn’t completely lost his mind after a few weeks of whatever this is because his chest always squeezes sharply when he sees Sanghyuk at the studio. Sanghyuk’s gaze is never on him, and neither is his mind, probably—he’s either laughing with his teammates or rapidly conversing with Donghyun, never glancing his way. They never talk to each other here; it’s an unspoken rule that maybe Dongmin made up the first time he fell into Sanghyuk’s bed, but it doesn’t seem like Sanghyuk wants to break it either. They can’t distract each other from the goal. Dongmin can settle for having him when they’re alone.
And now the goal rests on the next six minutes of the life that Dongmin is currently rethinking the entirety of. He closes his eyes, breathes in for an eight count, holds for four, exhales for eight, regulating the thumping of his heartbeat as he hears Jaehyun walk up and down the single-file line they’ve formed in the backstage hallway, reminding everyone to relax, you’ve got this, and don’t forget to double-knot your shoes. He opens his eyes when he feels Jaehyun’s hand rest lightly on his shoulder.
“Are you nervous?” Jaehyun asks. Dongmin shakes his head. He’s done this too many times to have stage fright now. But deep down, he can feel the ice solidifying in his veins, sharp crystals of anxiety that betray his consciousness. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Yet again, Jaehyun figures him out too easily, “You don’t need to look tough, Dongmin-ah. I felt the same way last year. It’s normal.” He lowers his voice. “I know we want to beat them, but seriously. Don’t let that take over you on stage, you’ll just overthink it. Remember that you’re doing this for yourself in the end.”
Jaehyun gets most of it, he really does—but Dongmin can’t tell him that he’s not worried about Persist as a whole, but just one person who’s probably comfortably sitting back in his plush seat, smugly watching him struggle. So much for not being a distraction.
The team before them enters the hallway, panting to catch their breaths, and they applaud them for a job well done. It’s time. The stage manager leads them into the dark wings, and Dongmin can catch the tail end of the MC’s introduction: “...everyone, let’s give it up for your reigning champions, Unity!”
He leads the team out, head held high despite the buzzing anticipation in his limbs. He takes his place and exhales one last time. The metronome ticks, the lights glow, the bass hits, and he’s off.
The stage lights are always too blinding to see people’s faces, as hard as he tries to look into the audience members’ eyes to maintain intimidating focus like he’s constantly been taught. Luckily, that means his hearing is especially enhanced, and he’s grateful to hear his non-dancer friends call out his name when he slides into center stage.
Maybe his wires are crossed trying to align his body’s movements and his facial expressions, but he swears he hears the high timbre of Sanghyuk’s voice yelling “ Let’s go, Dongmin!” as he spins out of his footwork sequence. He’s definitely hallucinating. Sanghyuk has never said his name like that. Nevertheless, he’s suddenly teetering off balance, arms windmilling and shoes stomping down hard on the wooden floor. Shit. Fuck you, Lee Sanghyuk . He lets himself be resentful for only a millisecond before snapping back to focus, letting muscle memory take over while he wills his mind to go quiet. Before he knows it, he’s sinking down into his final pose, eyes boring into the front camera lens.
Jaehyun slaps the floor triumphantly after the lights fade and Dongmin flops onto the floor, legs giving out and sweat dripping into his eyes. He lets Woonhak pull him up and into a bear hug, stands back and nods like a robot as Jaehyun answers the MC’s questions about teamwork and winning, mentally replaying his stumble over and over. Jaehyun throws an arm around him as they walk off the stage and he’s too spent to pull away. “We did it, Dongminie! How did it feel? I think it went pretty well,” he proclaims.
“I fucked up,” Dongmin replies flatly.
“Aw, Dongmin, it’s okay. I’m sure they didn’t notice. I literally messed up my own choreo at one point.”
Dongmin can’t stop seeing visions of the judges’ frowns as they furiously scribble on their scoresheets.
After composing himself enough to make it through what feels like an eternity of smiling group photos, he escapes to a bathroom, splashing ice-cold sink water onto his face as if the chill will shock the apparitions away. He pushes the door open a little too forcefully and someone stumbles back to avoid the blow. “Sorry, my bad—” he apologizes quickly. His gut twists when he realizes who it is. “Oh. Sanghyuk-hyung?”
“Hi, Dongmin,” Sanghyuk says, unfazed.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. While you’re here—good job. I was watching. The set looked great.”
Dongmin’s face heats up despite the water still trailing down his cheeks. Sanghyuk scans his face, looks at the soggy tips of his coiffed hair and the smudges of eyeliner on his lower lash line.
The worst part of their arrangement, if he can call it that, is that Sanghyuk knows a little too much about Dongmin now, knows just what he wants to hear to feel better. He confides in Sanghyuk often, not just for advice, he can admit—but also to hear the words Dongmin received the first time he asked Sanghyuk for help, when they barely knew each other. Sanghyuk will never give them to him willingly, of course; it’s only when he asks first, as he’s noticed. There’s no point in asking now, is there?
Sanghyuk opens his mouth as if to say something else and Dongmin fidgets with his sleeve to fill the silence.
“Are you going straight home after this ends?” Sanghyuk asks.
“Yeah. I can feel my social battery dying already.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” Sanghyuk smiles politely and sidesteps him to enter the bathroom.
When Dongmin returns to their holding room, his teammates are huddled in clumps, staring intently at various phone screens.
“Dongmin-hyung! Come watch! My friend Eunchae took a video for us,” Woonhak calls, waving him over to where Jaehyun is kneeling, propping his phone up on the table. Sanghyuk was right, their performance does look good. He breathes a sigh of relief seeing his last-minute cleaning adjustments implemented in the final performance, but winces and watches through half-shut eyes when the video gets to his center part. Jaehyun squeezes his hand. “It looks fine, Dongminie. On beat and everything,” he chuckles. He can still feel his throat burn with guilt.
They return to the auditorium to watch the rest of the show. Dongmin gets to relax for the first time the entire day, cheering happily for the rest of the performers. He’s not really worried about them—let’s be real, he’s only watching to see which one will squeeze into the bottom of the podium. He stares wide-eyed in awe at the judges’ performances, joining the crowd’s standing ovation.
The MC returns. “Alright, everyone, the judges are going backstage to deliberate right now, but could we get all of the performers on stage? You know what time it is,” he booms.
They crowd on stage in a half-circle, open to the audience. A hip-hop beat flows through the speakers and a dancer steps out after a few measures, jumping straight into a top rock sequence before swiftly transitioning to a six-step and backspin into a crazy vertical freeze.
Cyphers are Dongmin’s favorite part of competitions. He’s content sticking to the back of the crowd, using his height advantage to peer over the rows of raised phones and appreciate the dancers showing off their foundational freestyle skills.
A few more dancers push into the circle, and then he sees Hanbin stepping in when the song switches to one with a scarily fast tempo, arms flying and contorting as he performs a rapid-fire tutting freestyle that leaves the audience roaring and the dancers snapping their fingers in praise. Donghyun provides an equally jaw-dropping contrast with his smooth waving.
The beat changes again, back to a classic hip-hop tune. Someone makes their way out of the crowd, drawing shouts from a group on the other side of the circle. Of course, it’s Sanghyuk, as dazzling as ever as he seamlessly jumps between breaking, popping, and litefeet elements, expertly isolating his joints like his bones are liquid.
Dongmin feels like he’s just chugged a shitty jungle juice of emotions: Like? Lust? Awe? Envy? Which one will make him black out and forget everything the fastest?
Honestly, this is all Sanghyuk’s fault in the first place—well, technically, it’s Park Sungho’s fault, but Dongmin would never hate him. He was just the catalyst. Either way, the first time he sees Sanghyuk is in high school on the screen of Sungho’s phone as he shows Dongmin a video from the idol training academy he wants to join in Seoul. The dancers are wearing colorful suits, covering EXO’s Love Shot. His eye catches on the one clad in all-white with silvery hair; he looks like the youngest out of the group, probably around his age, and even though he’s the shortest member, his presence fills the recording as he sways his hips, arms waving with impeccable dynamics.
He snatches the phone from Sungho’s grasp, ignoring his protests, and starts scouring the academy’s account for the mystery dancer. Bingo. lsh.03__ —Lee Sanghyuk, 15, born October 22, from Seoul. His account is devoid of selfies, just row after row of dance videos: in the studio, in his room, on the street.
Dongmin huffs out a laugh, handing the phone back to Sungho. “There’s no way he’s our age,” Dongmin says passively, but he can feel his chest tightening, the same knot that appears when he sees his name not quite at the top of the student ranking or when a teacher tells him he could have done more. It hasn’t been long since Dongmin started dancing; he’s only done a few covers with Sungho at the latter’s insistence, who is convinced that he’ll get noticed by a casting director through their videos. But now, something flips on in his brain. He needs to get better. He turns to Sungho, who’s watching the rest of the Love Shot cover, and asks: “Hey, does your team have auditions every semester?”
He didn’t think he would see Sanghyuk ever again—it seems like he left the academy since he stopped appearing in their videos, probably because he was snatched up by some hotshot company to become their next main dancer. But one day in Dongmin’s freshman year, he’s stalking the Instagram of the collegiate team he was just accepted to and comes across the account of another team, seemingly from another nearby university. He barely has to scroll before his eyes narrow upon seeing a recent birthday post for one of their members, posted on October 22nd. Happy birthday, Sanghyuk! it reads, otter emojis punctuating the caption. He checks the tagged account to make sure he’s not hallucinating from the joy of his acceptance email, but sure enough, lsh.03__ is staring back at him through the screen.
Well. A little more motivation never hurt anyone.
Sungho doesn’t want to become an idol anymore; he’s somehow too old for auditions at the ripe age of twenty. He also doesn’t dance as often—after starting college, he threw himself into singing instead, and Dongmin often opens their dorm door after practice to the sound of Sungho’s soft voice over the strums of his guitar. He can’t help but envy how his friend was able to switch seamlessly between his talents. Dongmin doesn’t really think he’s good at anything but dancing now, doesn’t know where he would be without it: he studied foundations as hard as he memorized the steps of mitosis, wrote his college application essay about dance, and curated his class schedule so he could make it to Unity’s practices. It’s his life, yet looking at Sanghyuk now in the center of the cypher circle makes him feel like he has to ascend to the heavens to get on his level.
“Alright!” the MC booms, snapping him back to attention. “It’s time. The judges have finished deliberating. Before we announce them, let’s give a big round of applause to all the teams here today. You’ve all put in so much work and no matter what the result is you should be proud of yourselves. Now, drumroll please…”
Dongmin could care less about third place. It goes to a high school team that must have been Woonhak’s old one, because he jumps up from his seat like he just won it himself. Dongmin applauds politely, but he feels like he’s underwater, processing everything through a haze. Everyone knows there’s no competition except for the one between Unity and Persist.
“Second place.” The haze clears. “This was a close one; we had to triple-check the math. Drumroll please!”
Next to him, Jaehyun’s eyes are closed, hands clasped, nails pressing dents into his skin. Maybe Dongmin should start praying too—pray that their name doesn’t get called now. It’s too soon—
“Unity.”
The audience erupts with cheers and their teammates stand, hands over their mouths in excited disbelief. Dongmin and Jaehyun let out a simultaneous sigh before joining their teammates’ stampede onto the stage to accept their trophy. At least some of them are happy. They’re all crying and hugging and snapping triumphant photos while Dongmin pointedly tries not to look over at where Sanghyuk is sitting.
“Saved the best for last,” the MC declares. “Who do you think is tonight’s champion?”
The crowd yells out a chorus of names. Well, just name, singular.
“You know the drill, come on. Drumroll please.”
Dongmin smacks the MC on the head with imaginary drumsticks.
“Persist.”
The ovation that follows seems to echo three times louder than the fanfare they received a few minutes ago. He waves weakly to his friends in the audience to avoid the sight of Sanghyuk striding confidently into center stage, bowing to accept their big, stupid, shiny trophy, and raising it triumphantly with his team around him. He grit his teeths and smiles for group photos, Unity and the third place team flanking Sanghyuk’s.
Some of his teammates are still shedding happy tears, but the quiver of Jaehyun’s mouth betrays the desolation in his watery eyes. Dongmin… just feels numb. He pats Jaehyun on the back, forcing his leader face back on to corral his teammates. The now-fully-lit auditorium is piercingly bright, the flashes of thirty phone cameras are too sharp, and the people looking away from him and towards Persist are too damning. He needs to go home, like, now.
Dongmin’s in the lobby of the venue after doing a final team talk when he sees a flash of orange hair pass him, a plastic-wrapped rose drifting onto the floor behind him. He looks up, and finds Sanghyuk on his way out, one arm wrapped around the trophy and the other around a million bouquets. He must have dropped one—Dongmin can’t stand littering, so he picks it up and uses his leg length advantage to catch up with Sanghyuk, mindful of the trophy in his own hands.
(“Take it,” Jaehyun had said just a few minutes earlier.
“What? No way. Why would I want to have a reminder that I fucking failed my first chance at being a director?” Dongmin snapped, immediately regretting his tone when Jaehyun’s face fell. “I’m sorry, hyung. I just– I just don’t think I deserve to claim that I won anything. You’ve been guiding me throughout everything. And it’s my fault we lost, anyways.” He said flatly.
Jaehyun sighed. “No, it’s not, Dongmin. I talked to the judges when I was picking up our scoresheets—they said this was our best set yet. You should give yourself more credit.”
But it wasn’t enough to beat their best, was it? Dongmin thought bitterly, but he begrudgingly accepted when Jaehyun turned his infamous puppy eyes on and he could never say no to that.)
“Sunbaenim!” he calls towards Sanghyuk. He doesn’t turn. “Sanghyuk-sunbaenim,” Dongmin tries again, and he finally turns around, confused.
“Dongmin-ah,” he responds, gaze softening.
“For you,” Dongmin says, holding out the flower. “I mean– you dropped this earlier,” he clarifies. “And also, um, congrats. You were really good—in the performance and the cypher.”
You’re more than good, hyung. You’re a star, you’re spectacular. You’re so good I can’t stand it , he wants to say.
“Aw, thanks. I didn’t think you would be watching,” Sanghyuk teases.
Of course I was watching, hyung. I would spend hours just watching you dance. Even if you were just standing there, I would stay , Dongmin wants to scream, but instead, silence falls hot and humid between them. They’ve never held a conversation for this long when there are other people around, Dongmin realizes.
He doesn’t realize he’s still holding the rose until Sanghyuk takes it gingerly from his hands and sets it firmly in his grip, guarding it as if Dongmin had really given him the flower. “You did well today, Dongmin-ah,” he says. “I’ll see you at the station? I just need to say bye to some people first.”
Dongmin can only watch as Sanghyuk turns, spotting a teammate elsewhere. He also melts away back into the gaggle of different teams on their way home. Like always though, they end up together eventually, shoulders knocking together and hands gripped tightly around their respective trophies in their laps against the rocking of the subway car.
They stay silent for a while, Dongmin’s gaze flitting anywhere but towards Sanghyuk. In his periphery, Sanghyuk is fidgeting with the envelope of score sheets as if he’s resisting the urge to read them and gloat in his face. His face burns. Sanghyuk was always telling him how much potential he had, how talented he was, how well he led his team. Stupid , Dongmin thinks. He let himself become deluded, let his guard down because of some silly compliments from his sunbae , while Sanghyuk remained focused on the goal—and he succeeded.
Dongmin’s eyes finally fall to his trophy and he furrows his eyebrows. He’s always been a silver guy; metallic rings adorn his ears, neck, and hands, glinting against his pale skin and reinforcing his whole mysterious emo persona thing. But as he stares himself down, features distorted and gray in the convex curve of the cup, he finds himself thinking he would look a hell of a lot better bathed in gold.
He instinctively looks towards Sanghyuk’s trophy and then up to his face. He looks radiant as the harsh subway lights refract off the yellow metal and onto his skin.
(He’s the Seoul collegiate dance scene’s golden boy—and Dongmin’s—with or without the award.)
Fuck fuck fuck, Dongmin thinks when the uneasy bubble of hurt he’s suppressed in his chest rises to his throat. His lips purse tightly as he tries to blink away the wetness in his eyes. He doesn’t cry very often—he’s not supposed to cry either, he will never cry in front of his team because he’ll try to comfort them first, because if he breaks they all break—but Sanghyuk is turning his head to look at him with so much care and concern and his Sanghyuk-hyung is putting a hand on his shoulder and asking if he’s okay and the tears finally overflow.
He tries to breathe through it, but the lump in his throat leads to choked sobs. He sounds fucking pathetic. He feels like it too, curling into himself and away from Sanghyuk’s touch and staring listlessly out of the window. Sanghyuk still reaches for him anyways, splaying his fingers between Dongmin’s shoulder blades. The resulting silence is punctuated only by Dongmin’s sniffles until Sanghyuk taps him lightly. “Dongmin-ah. Let’s get off here. I’m not letting you go home by yourself like this, okay? Let’s go to mine.”
Limbs heavy, Dongmin lets himself get pulled from his seat and off the train. They walk side by side towards Sanghyuk’s apartment. Normally, he would be trailing Sanghyuk like a stray cat, impatient to touch him, kiss him, hold him. Dongmin stares at the concrete the entire way back.
Dongmin is surprised when Sanghyuk leads him to his bedroom instead of making him sit in the living room, instructing him to deposit his things while he gets him some warm water. Dongmin fidgets with the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do now. He’d usually be pressed into the bed by now. He observes Sanghyuk’s room. It’s neat, clean, like he carries himself; all polished wood and metal finishing as if he just stepped into a furniture showroom. His team’s posters from competitions are plastered on the pristine white walls, giving them some color. The shelf next to his desk is lined with trophies, big and small, and it feels like there’s already a space carved out for the newest one right in the center.
“You can sit, you know,” Sanghyuk says as he walks back in, handing Dongmin a mug of steaming tea. “I figured you’d be more comfortable in here than outside.” He sits on the foot of the bed and Dongmin follows suit.
“You want to talk about it?”
“It’s my fault, hyung. I fell.”
Sanghyuk frowns. “Have you seen the scoresheets yet? They probably didn’t notice,” he reassures.
“Not yet. Jaehyun-hyung has them, he said he would send them when he got back home.” As if on cue, his phone lights up with a message from their team chat. He scrambles to open it, setting the mug on Sanghyuk’s nightstand, and sure enough, it’s Jaehyun with a series of photos. He clicks straight on the last picture and exhales a shaky breath when he sees that the deductions box is blissfully blank.
He looks at the final score next. 94/100. Better than he’s done on some of his exams recently. It’s a great score. So why does he still feel like throwing up?
“They said it was really close, didn’t they?” Dongmin says quietly, eyes beginning to sting again. “What did it? Was it my choreo? Did I not clean them enough?” Maybe it would have been better if he fell—maybe then the endless hours he’d spent in the studio would still have held the most merit.
“Dongmin. Every judge is different, every competition is different. Maybe they were looking for specific themes, maybe they were looking for certain foundations. It’s never any one person’s fault, especially not you.”
“I just want to know what they didn’t like,” Dongmin laments. He drops his head into his hands to muffle the words he can’t seem to hold back. “You always said I had so much potential, hyung. You said I was good. Do you still think so?”
“Of course you’re good. You’ve always been. That’s why I wanted to get to know you, I love the way you dance.”
Dongmin’s only temporarily placated before a worse, sick thought stabs through his mind. “But do you still like me , hyung?” he pleads.
His heart drops when he doesn’t hear a response. Only the sound of their breathing, one pattern erratic and the other unnervingly steady, cuts through the silence.
“Dongmin-ah,” Sanghyuk finally calls, gently prying Dongmin’s hands away from his face. “I think—I think you’re the only person I can be honest with. So, yes, I do. I do like you,” he admits.
“Then why do you act like I don’t exist half the time?” Dongmin interjects.
“You’re always working so hard. I didn’t want to distract you. Trust me, Dongmin—I always want to hear from you.” He slides his hands down from Dongmin’s wrists to interlace their fingers and Dongmin’s heartbeat accelerates unhealthily.
He laughs bitterly. “Fuck this stupid rivalry.”
“Agreed. But I don’t think I would have met you otherwise.”
And if Dongmin has to blink away the moisture in his eyes as Sanghyuk leans in to kiss him, he tells himself it’s only because it’s past his bedtime.
Their mouths move in tandem, slow and steady, until Sanghyuk releases his hands to settle at Dongmin’s waist as he drags his tongue lightly against Dongmin’s lower lip. He lets Sanghyuk in immediately, hands scrambling to find their place.
Sanghyuk’s hand brushes across Dongmin’s chest as his lips map Dongmin’s carotid artery from the sensitive spot below his ear to the hollow of his collarbone. Dongmin lets out an involuntary whimper. He tries not to think about how Sanghyuk can feel his lifeline pulse under his warm mouth.
Sanghyuk pulls back. “Do you have practice tomorrow?” he murmurs.
Dongmin scoffs incredulously, snapping out of the pleasant fogginess in his brain. “What? Of course not, we literally just competed today. I know our limits, I’m not that cruel—”
The words are punched right out of his mouth when Sanghyuk pushes him flat on the bed, attacking Dongmin’s lips with his own. Dongmin clambers backwards when they break apart, shoulders knocking clumsily against the headboard as he reverently watches Sanghyuk shift towards him.
Sanghyuk skims a hand across Dongmin’s torso, making contact with the newly exposed skin under the hem of his competition t-shirt, their team names screen-printed side by side in the design. He swings a leg over Dongmin’s thighs, tantalizingly keeping his full weight off of him.
“Can I keep going?” Sanghyuk asks, and Dongmin almost gets a cramp in his neck from how quickly he nods yes. Sanghyuk immediately leans forward again to meet his jawline. Dongmin’s hands move to Sanghyuk’s waist, his tastefully oversized comp shirt bunching up in his hold. He resists the urge to squeeze when Sanghyuk’s teeth graze the skin at his collarbones.
He can only imagine how many wine-red bruises are blooming on his neck when Sanghyuk finally comes back up. They can’t be as bad as the ones that have been accumulating on his knees thanks to his least favorite floorwork section, but for better or for worse, Sanghyuk’s currently not staring at his legs like he wants to devour them. Just his face.
“You’re incredible, you know?” Sanghyuk says after a beat. Dongmin flushes immediately. There’s something so humiliating about being lauded, even if he didn’t ask for it. There’s too much he needs to work on before he deserves any flattery; he can see it in his hesitancy to freestyle, the malfunctioning of his muscle memory, the silver cup still illuminated by the moonlight.
When Dongmin doesn’t respond, Sanghyuk continues. “You’re a million times better than you think you are, Dongmin-ah.”
He traces his painted fingers across Dongmin’s face: the crease between his eyebrows, the lines of his cheekbones, the dip of his cupid’s bow. “You change your expressions perfectly whenever there’s a new song, a new mood. A lot of people struggle with that. But no matter what, I think you always try to show your authentic self.” He laughs. “It’s a little funny, though, because I don’t think you realize how different you look on and off stage. It’s cute. You’re cute when you’re with me.”
He brushes his hands along Dongmin’s arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Did you know I used to train with Hanbin-hyung? I talked to him after the competition; it was obvious that he made the waacking section in your set. He was really impressed with how quickly you picked up the proper form. You never trained formally in any style, right?” Dongmin shakes his head. “But your foundations are really solid. You’re versatile. You learn things quickly. That’s important. Give yourself more credit, okay, Dongmin-ah?”
Warmth blossoms in his chest like the pink flowers of spring trees before they give way to lush green. Maybe it is fate, from the moment Dongmin first laid eyes on Sanghyuk in middle school 200 miles apart to right now, face to face, separated only by a few layers of fabric. Maybe it wasn’t destiny for them to end up on the same stage, but rather to be side by side off of it, to be able to tell each other things they can’t even express to the people they spend the most time around.
Sanghyuk’s hands continue to roam around Dongmin body, pressing soothingly into his sore muscles. Dongmin sighs softly, pliant and relaxed.
Scratch that. Sanghyuk’s touch becomes lighter, more electrifying, skimming enticingly over the places he knows Dongmin is most receptive to. Blood rushes out of his head embarrassingly quickly when Sanghyuk brushes against his chest, sensitive even through his shirt, and his hips twitch against his will.
“Aw, baby. Need some help?” Sanghyuk teases, a sharp glint appearing in his eyes. Dongmin can only let out a choked whimper as he shifts his legs uncomfortably. All he needs to do is nod once, and Sanghyuk is lifting his arms to take off his own shirt before doing the same to Dongmin. Dongmin’s sweatpants follow, and Sanghyuk snickers at the sight of his already-dampening boxers before they’re being pulled down as well.
Dongmin moans when Sanghyuk finally touches him, the slide of his hand over his cock a little rough but mouthwatering nonetheless. He tightens his grip, thumb rubbing over the slit as his other hand comes up to run over his lower lip. Dongmin pants, his eyes screwed shut as he melts into the touch.
Again, the rational side of Dongmin’s brain is active the majority of the time! So he’s perfectly content with the prospect of coming like this, Sanghyuk’s hand wrapped around his length. He still needs his body to function in the morning, unfortunately. But the horny side, which only ever comes out around Sanghyuk these days, wants exactly the opposite, replaying images of Sanghyuk’s small frame somehow still towering over Dongmin’s body as he fucks him into the mattress.
As if he’d read Dongmin’s thoughts, Sanghyuk whistles lowly, hand still working consistently. “Feeling good, Dongmin-ah? I’d fuck you properly, but you’re already going to be sore when you wake up. You can make it up to me soon.” He grips tighter, wrist twisting just the right way and Dongmin’s mouth drops open. Heat coils low in his abdomen and his hips kick up inadvertently before he realizes he’s close, too close—
He flails up, swatting at Sanghyuk’s wrist and he lets go in surprise.
“Please, hyung, you can—” his mouth goes dry as he pants heavily. “You can fuck me. Please, I can take it. I need you.”
He blinks rapidly, ears turning scarlet at just how pitiful his voice sounds, high and needy. He’s always trying to get what he hasn’t earned—first, the competition title; now, more of Sanghyuk’s attention than he’s worthy of.
Sanghyuk’s focused expression softens, turning into something unfamiliar— adoration —and Dongmin turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. Sanghyuk places his clean hand on Dongmin’s chin, turning his face back around. He smirks. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Dongmin feels Sanghyuk’s hands grip his thighs and he’s being pulled roughly down to land flat on the bed, hair fanning out over the pillow. This dance is familiar, the steps muscle memory: Sanghyuk reaches over to his nightstand for lube and a condom. Dongmin watches Sanghyuk warm the lube between his fingers, squirming when he finally reaches down. One finger slips in, then two and three, and he gasps every time Sanghyuk presses in deeper.
“Hyung, I’m ready,” he whines before long. Sanghyuk takes mercy on him, rolling on the condom and lining himself up. They both inhale sharply when Sanghyuk pushes in, and Dongmin throws his head back as he adjusts to the stretch.
Sanghyuk bottoms out and Dongmin locks his legs around his waist in response, jaw going slack and eyes fluttering closed. He nods once when the rise and fall of his chest slows, and that’s all it takes for Sanghyuk to dig his fingers harder into Dongmin’s waist and start moving. The pace is slow, gentle at first, but Sanghyuk doesn’t let up for long. He props himself up with one hand next to Dongmin’s shoulder, the heel of the other one coming to his thigh, kneading steadily. Dongmin moans at the dual sensation, tension melting away in one part of his body as it rises in another.
Sanghyuk’s silver link chain, the one he always wears during practice and performances, dangles down and Dongmin bites at it instinctively. The harsh metal between his lips is quickly replaced by Sanghyuk’s warm mouth as they kiss messy and wet. Dongmin’s leaking cock rubs deliciously between their stomachs and he whimpers—Sanghyuk must notice, because he raises himself back up with a final nip at Dongmin’s neck, eyes full of amusement, still driving into him.
“Hyung,” Dongmin cries. “Please, hyung, please—” He’s cut off by his own heavy breathing, pleasure overtaking any mental functions.
“Use your words, kitty,” Sanghyuk taunts.
“Please—please touch me,” he chokes out, feeling light-headed from just a silly nickname.
“But you’re doing so well, love. You said you could take it, no?” Sanghyuk smiles, sickly sweet, fangs poking out.
Dongmin bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle a moan (pointless, he knows, Sanghyuk has heard much worse), but Sanghyuk immediately reaches up to pull his mouth open, thumb swiping over the wetness. “Let me hear you, Dongmin-ah. You need to relax more, okay? Let go. You don’t need to think right now, take advantage of it, baby.”
Dongmin’s brain goes fuzzy, mirroring the unreasonable softness of Sanghyuk’s words, and in stark contrast to the roughness of Sanghyuk’s palm finally wrapping around his cock again. He moans again, unrestrained, and Sanghyuk speeds up the pace of his thrusts and his hand. It only takes a minute before Dongmin’s legs tighten their hold and he’s releasing into Sanghyuk’s hand, and then just a few more thrusts until he feels Sanghyuk fuck into him one last, hard time and spill inside the condom.
Dongmin tilts his head back on the pillow, fucked out and lightheaded on top of his existing exhaustion, groaning lightly when Sanghyuk pulls out. He’s lost in the floaty feeling of his limbs and the warmth of Sanghyuk’s chest pressed to his own. He looks down, watching Sanghyuk mouth lazily at his neck. He’s a sight for sore eyes, literally—the post-cry puffiness of his eyelids hasn’t faded yet. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs without thinking, and Sanghyuk lifts his head. He smiles drowsily.
“Feeling better?” Sanghyuk asks. “You definitely look less tense,” he says, pinching Dongmin’s cheek with a soft laugh. Dongmin rubs his face with his palm timidly, but responds affirmatively.
They rest unmoved for a long while, Sanghyuk twisting Dongmin’s bangs with his fingers while Dongmin plays with the shaggy hairs on Sanghyuk’s nape.
“Dongmin-ah. Let’s go clean up, okay? It’s been a very long day,” Sanghyuk says, rolling off his chest.
Dongmin snorts. “That’s putting it lightly— ow ,” he responds, wincing as he tries to swing his legs off of the bed. “Hyung, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to move tomorrow,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t complain when Sanghyuk’s arms wrap around his waist to support him on the way to the bathroom.
Sanghyuk’s fingers trail lightly over Dongmin’s collarbones and his arms are wrapped around Sanghyuk’s waist after they shower, yet Dongmin’s voice still comes out hesitant and soft when he says: “Hyung. You’re the one who made me start to dance, did you know that?”
Sanghyuk looks up at him, surprised. “Really? You never told me that. Didn’t you start dancing in high school? We didn’t meet until last year.”
“It was your Love Shot cover, the one that went viral.”
Sanghyuk groans and laughs into his chest. “I blocked that out of my mind forever. You were so attracted to fifteen-year-old me that you decided to dedicate your life to dance? Creep.”
Dongmin flicks him lightly on the top of his head. “I just wanted to be as good as you, hyung.”
“Some things never change,” Sanghyuk laughs. “I always mean it when I tell you how talented you are, Dongmin-ah.” He tilts his head up to kiss the tip of Dongmin’s nose and warmth spreads throughout his body. “You’re perfect.”
All Dongmin can do is stare. How could he not? Moonlight filters in through the gaps in the blinds, somehow casting rays instead of shadows onto Sanghyuk’s face. Dongmin would get caught in Sanghyuk’s supernova if he willed himself to. He’s a star.
It’s better than any award he could have received.