Work Text:
A very, very long time ago
San looks out from the bars of his cage. He tries not to think of it as his, but the cage is certainly not anyone else’s. He’s been in here a long time. Long enough that the stone, which was once a jagged piece of marble, now resembles him closely. If he looks at it too long, which he tends to do, as it’s in his direct line of sight and he is forbidden from leaving, it scares him how much it looks like him. His lover comes around from the rear of the statue, chisel in hand.
“Do you like it, my love?” the man asks him.
“I cannot say no, as it resembles me so strongly,” San replies. He’s gotten quite good at twisting his true feelings into words his lover will want to hear. His lover gives him an empty smile, devoid of any emotion.
“It will make a nice home for you,” he says.
San remains quiet. He does not know what that means, and it frightens him.
“Would you like to see it? All of it?”
He would not. But he would like to get out of this cage. San nods.
“I will show you,” says his lover. He approaches the cage, fumbling with his smock before pulling a key ring out of his pocket. He unlocks the padlock on the cage and San stays, still as the statue, at the back of the cage until his lover says, “Come on out, love.”
San scoots to the edge of the cage before shifting onto his knees, crawling out of the cage and onto the dirt. His lover grabs his elbow gruffly and yanks him to his feet, kissing him roughly. San doesn’t move. He lets his lover kiss him, touch him, until he stops, pulling away. The man grins at him. San gives him a timid smile in response.
His lover keeps a firm hand on his elbow as he leads San slowly around the statue, clearly proud of his work. San resents the statue almost as much as he resents the man, but he has to admit, however begrudgingly, that it is beautiful work. The man is a better artist than he ever was a lover.
“What do you think?”
“It looks just like me,” San responds. He will not give the man anymore than that. His lover’s expression darkens slightly, but San doesn’t notice, too busy staring up at his body etched in stone. He’s nude. Not him. The statue. The statue is nude. San thinks that his lover was perhaps too generous in carving his body. Perhaps that’s really what his lover sees when he looks at him. San doesn’t feel as beautiful as the statue looks, not when his lover treats him like he’s so small. Like he’s worthless.
“You will grow to love it,” his lover says. “You will like it in there.”
“In there?” San asks, finally turning to meet his lover’s gaze.
“I made it for you,” his lover says, keeping his hand on San’s elbow as he steps in front of him. “You will have nowhere else to go, and I cannot lose you. You will be near to me, forever.”
“I am already near to you,” San says, unable to stave off the panic creeping into his voice. “I am right here.”
“But you long to be elsewhere,” says his lover. San’s heart pounds. “You cannot hide it. You crave other things. Other people.”
“There is no one else,” San says quickly. “There is no one but you.”
His lover sighs, looking at him regretfully. “You may believe that now, but you will not forever. Others will tempt you. Why do you think I have had to keep you here, away from prying eyes?”
“Do you not trust me?” San asks, trembling.
“It is not you that I do not trust,” whispers his lover. “But I cannot protect you from the others. There will be others.”
San is scared. He doesn’t know what his lover intends to do, but he is starting to piece it together. The cage, the statue. You will like it in there.
“I will not leave your side,” San promises, frantic. There are tears gathering in his eyes. “I will remain with you, forever.”
“Forever,” his lover agrees. He is raising his hands. He wraps them around San’s neck.
“Please,” San begs. “I will never leave you.”
“You will never leave me,” his lover agrees.
He tightens his fingers around San’s throat.
⭑
Present day
Yeosang pushes through the brush and into a clearing, huffing out a breath. Relief floods his body. He hasn’t gone mad. There, in the center of the clearing, is the statue.
“There you are,” Yeosang says to it as he approaches. It’s a larger than life approximation of the most beautiful man Yeosang has to believe has ever existed. Yeosang pauses, staring up at the statue’s face. He wonders who carved the statue. Someone who coveted this man above all else, clearly. He circles the base, studying the way the vines and leaves creep up the statue. Its legs are almost completely covered in ivy, with some strands breaking away and curving up its torso.
He discovered the statue a week ago, and he thought he was crazy. His friends have called him crazy for this: exploring the forest, going further than what most people would consider “off the beaten path.” They say he’s taking his life into his hands. Sure, but then again, he discovered this statue, so to him, the ends justify the means.
“Who are you?” Yeosang asks, extending a hand to the statue. He hesitates, then pushes his hand through the ivy, placing his palm on the cool marble.
A loud CRACK! echoes through the clearing and Yeosang jumps back, crouching near the ground and tucking his face into his knees, bringing his arms up to cover his ears and head. He stays like this for far longer than is necessary, only brave enough to raise his head after several minutes of silence. He peeks out from his knees and falls backwards, onto his ass, barely catching himself by digging his hands into the dirt behind him.
The statue is gone. In its place is the crumpled body of what seems to be a man. A naked man.
“Oh my god,” Yeosang says, panicked, “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“I am not a god,” says an unfamiliar voice, and Yeosang shrieks. “Please do not do that,” the voice says, and Yeosang slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispers into his palm, even though he doesn’t know who he’s talking to. He braves a look at the statue’s base once more. The man is wrapped in ivy, lying prone. Yeosang watches as his hands clench slowly into fists. He covers his eyes with his hands, half out of fear, half out of respect.
“Where am I?” says the not statue, definitely man.
“The woods,” Yeosang says timidly. It’s all he can offer to this stranger, who, despite everything Yeosang understands about the universe, appears to be the statue, turned human. Whatever region he is from surely does not exist anymore.
Yeosang peeks out from between his fingers. The man seems to be trying to push himself off the floor with his hands, but he can’t quite figure it out. Yeosang supposes that if he used to be a statue, he’d have a hard time, too. “Do you need help?”
“Help with what?” the man snaps.
Yeosang stops hiding behind his hands. “Getting to your feet,” he says, now staring unabashedly. He’s beautiful, as one would expect of a statue. He looks the same as he did when he was stone, but colored in. It’s certainly him. He’s a bit less symmetrical than he was as stone, but Yeosang thinks it makes him look prettier. Full lips, a strong nose, thick eyebrows. His hair is cropped closer to his scalp at the bottom and longer on top. And the rest… He stops his eyes from trailing over the man’s body and snaps his gaze back up to the man’s face.
“I am fine,” says the man. He’s definitely not. Yeosang takes a few timid steps closer to him and offers him a hand. The man seems to look at it skeptically before raising up an arm towards him, but he flings it upward, like he’s not used to moving it. Or, perhaps, like he’s not used to the weight of it.
“You weigh less,” Yeosang whispers to himself. “You’re not a statue.”
“Excuse me?”
Yeosang takes his hand gently. “You aren’t made of marble,” he explains. “You weigh less. You can move easier.” He takes the man’s other hand and helps him into a sitting position, grateful that the ivy is wrapped so thickly around his legs and middle.
“I know,” says the man, but he seems less certain now. “These words… marble, statue. What do you mean?”
Yeosang hesitates. “What do you remember?”
The man is quiet for a very long time. “I do not wish to share that,” he says.
“That’s okay,” Yeosang says. “Umm…” Where to start? He doesn’t understand how this is possible, nor does he even really understand what happened to begin with, so how can he explain it to someone else? This man is clearly the statue, if not come to life, then the statue’s inspiration. Yeosang thinks he read, a long time ago, about souls being trapped inside statues, cursed to live on forever, never eroding, while their world left them behind. Perhaps…
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Yeosang says finally. “And… this might be hard to hear. But, um… I think… I think you were a statue.”
“I am not a statue,” the man says, turning to glower at him. He still looks beautiful, even with that look on his face.
“You’re not,” Yeosang agrees. “Not anymore. I don’t know. I really don’t. But I think, maybe… you may have been trapped inside of one,” he finishes, his voice getting quieter as he finishes his sentence. He sounds crazy. This is crazy.
The man is quiet for even longer this time.
“I believe you may be correct,” he says finally. “I remember… I remember some things, I think. I was a person. I remember that. And then there is a very, very long time, where things do not make sense.”
“Can you describe it?” Yeosang asks.
“It is like looking into a darkness. Inside the darkness, you hear things. You cannot see much, but through a small orb of glass in the center of the darkness. In that orb, I see flashes of light. Some people. I do not know them. More people, thousands and millions of people. And I cannot move, I cannot speak, I cannot breathe. It is like holding your breath for centuries. I want to get out. I try, for years, to get out. I try to flex my limbs and to open my mouth to speak. But it does not work, I am not strong enough. So I stay there and I let the people pass me by and I wonder how they cannot see that I am trapped inside. It becomes blurry. I want to stop seeing. I want to stop feeling. I am not feeling anything, but I can feel that I am not feeling anything, and it hurts. And then there is this brightness. The orb is larger. There are less people. There is greenery. Trees grow. I become patient, I become somber. I lose myself. I forget my identity. And then, I feel something. A human touch. You?”
Yeosang nods. The man takes a deep breath and continues.
“And then there is a crack. In me, in the universe. The light becomes blinding. And then I feel things. I feel the air, I feel the leaves. I remember how to breathe. I can speak.”
Yeosang doesn’t know what to say. It’s quiet for a while longer. Finally, he asks, “What’s your name?”
The man turns to look at him. “I am San.”
Yeosang smiles at him. “I’m Yeosang.”
San reaches a hand out to him, slowly and cautiously, like he’s not sure how much effort he needs to use to move it. “Thank you for freeing me, Yeosang.”
“You’re welcome,” Yeosang replies, shaking his hand. It floods over him, all at once, what all of this means. San is very, very real, and new to this century, and alone. He pulls his hand back, resting his chin in his hands as he tries to think this all through. He needs to start with what he can solve. For starters, San needs clothes. When he glances back up at San, the other man is staring at him intently. Yeosang almost blushes under the weight of his gaze.
“You need clothes,” Yeosang says, and San glances down at his body.
“I do,” San agrees. His gaze flashes back up to meet Yeosang’s, slightly panicked. “Please do not leave me,” he begs, his eyes flashing.
“I won’t,” Yeosang reassures him. “Let me think.”
San goes quiet and still beside him, and Yeosang reaches into his pocket for his phone. Navigating to the messaging app, he opens his chat with Wooyoung and types purple apricot. It’s the phrase they came up with years ago for emergencies; it was mainly in case they were ever stuck in a time loop, but Yeosang figures this is close enough. It means that Wooyoung has to believe him, no matter what he says, and he can’t think he’s crazy.
purple apricot, Wooyoung replies. Yeosang bites his lip while he tries to think of how to explain this, then decides he can do his explaining later.
I need you to meet me here and bring me clothes, he types, attaching his pinned location. He glances over at San again, who is pretending he hasn’t been staring at Yeosang’s phone in wonder. Bigger clothes. Ones that would fit me.
Wooyoung replies, are you naked in the woods?
Yeosang stifles a laugh. I’m with someone who is, he types. He’s not from here. Understatement of the century. Of the millennia, maybe. I’ll explain later. Just be nice to him when you get here, okay?
Three gray dots appear, then disappear, then appear once more. i will come to your shady murder woods and i will be nice to this mystery man, the text reads.
I owe you, Yeosang texts back. This is the easy part. The hard part will be everything else.
Wooyoung texts back, youve owed me for 4 years, idiot.
⭑
Wooyoung bailed on him as a roommate earlier in the year, and Yeosang has been dragging his feet around getting a new one, so, luckily, he has a room for San in his apartment. When Yeosang shows him Wooyoung’s old room, San seems surprised that he’s offering it to him.
“You want me to sleep there?” he asks, pointing at the bed. Yeosang scratches his head awkwardly, unsure which part San finds confusing.
“Yes,” he says. “No one lives in this room, not anymore. It’s yours.”
San steps into the room, looking around it in fascination. It’s not much, just a bed, a desk, and a bunch of thumbtack holes in the wall, but San regards it like it’s a room at the Ritz.
He sleeps on the floor for the first few nights. Yeosang discovers this when he checks on him before bed and in the mornings. He goes to bed later and rises earlier than San, so he peers into his room whenever San’s in there, just to make sure he hasn’t turned to stone again. By the second week, San has finally accepted the bed, and Yeosang’s heart does a complicated set of flips when he peeks inside one morning to find San buried under the covers, bundled up and looking so small in the bed that inexplicably seems far too large for him. When San stumbles into the kitchen later that day and notices Yeosang smiling at him absentmindedly, he demands, “What??”
San adapts to modern life rather quickly. He questions everything, but when he can tell that he’s exhausted Yeosang’s knowledge on any given subject he lets it go. He likes instant noodles and soap operas and riding the train. Microwaves and toasters fascinate him, so Yeosang buys him poptarts and frozen waffles and microwaveable meals.
“I would like to learn how to cook,” San announces one day when Yeosang comes home from work.
“Okay,” Yeosang says. Admittedly, he’s gotten sick of instant food, and he’s not surprised that San has, too. He shows San how to use everything he can think of in the kitchen, from the oven to the can opener, demonstrating himself and then making San show him he can repeat his motions several times before he’s satisfied. He will not risk coming home to find San missing a finger or his apartment in flames. When he decides that San isn’t a walking catastrophe risk, he shows San how to use his iPad to look for recipes and cooking videos.
In a turn of events that is somehow unsurprising, San is an incredible cook. Better than Yeosang ever could be, which San complains about when he starts wanting to make things with ingredients that Yeosang has never even heard of. Yeosang orders an extra credit card and gives it to San, instructing him not to venture further than the train can take him in either direction. His biggest fear is San getting lost somewhere and not being able to find him (he refuses to use a cellphone, even a flip phone). “I’ll take you other places when I’m off work,” Yeosang promises.
Naturally, after this promise, San starts studying online maps and travel blogs, making notes in an old spiral notebook that he finds and presenting Yeosang with a list of places he wants to travel each week, from grocery stores and cafes to parks and walking trails. Yeosang does his best to accommodate all his requests, using his lunch breaks to create itineraries for each weekend.
No matter where he takes him, San loves it. He despises a lot of things about the 21st century, like traffic and litter, but he likes technology (not cellphones) and buses. He’s fascinated by the birds, even the ones that Yeosang sees every day and finds rather unremarkable. Yeosang buys San a birdwatching book and binoculars.
Wooyoung calls him one day. “How’s San?” he asks. Yeosang smiles to himself. After the first day with San, Wooyoung kept referring to him as the statue, something that disturbed Yeosang deeply. But San knows Wooyoung now, and Yunho, and Seonghwa, too, and all the rest of his friends. The ones he can trust, at least. The first three are the only ones who know the truth about him. Everyone else thinks he’s just quirky.
“He’s good,” Yeosang replies, staring into his living room from the balcony. The door is closed, just in case San cares enough to listen to his conversation. San has taken up crochet, and he’s good at that, too. Yeosang watches him fondly, completely distracted by San until Wooyoung clears his throat directly into his ear. “Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed.
“Are you going to tell him you’re in love with him?” Wooyoung asks.
“I am not in love with him,” Yeosang replies automatically. He’s not. He doesn’t think he is, anyway. He’s just fond of him. Who wouldn’t be?
“Okay,” Wooyoung says, clearly unconvinced. “But if you fall in love with him by the end of the year you owe me a thousand bucks.”
“Do I have to pay you if I’ve fallen in love with him already?”
“Jesus,” Wooyoung mutters.
“I’m kidding,” Yeosang says. He’s not kidding.
“You’re not kidding,” Wooyoung says. Yeosang can hear him rolling his eyes. “Well, ask him if he wants to come to the beach with me and Seonghwa this weekend.”
“I’ll ask,” Yeosang replies, his gaze wandering back into the apartment, watching San concentrate on the row he’s crocheting. Yeosang is pretty sure he said he’s making a scarf for Yunho. “He’ll probably say yes.”
“You can come, too,” Wooyoung offers.
Yeosang shakes his head before remembering Wooyoung can’t see him. “We spend enough time together,” he responds. “He likes you guys. I’ll text you what he says.”
“‘Kay,” Wooyoung hums. “I’ll get him Saturday morning at 9. Love you.”
“Love you,” Yeosang replies, staring at San.
⭑
There’s something about San that Yeosang just can’t figure out. San has never told Yeosang about his past, about what happened to him, though Yeosang knows he remembers at least a little bit. It doesn’t bother him. San is entitled to his privacy, and he doesn’t want to know anything that San doesn’t want to tell him.
There is something, though, that Yeosang has suspected, almost from the beginning. It would be easy to miss, and he’s sure that his friends have no idea. But he spends almost all of his free time with San, and they live together, and he notices things.
Things like the way that San avoids touching him as much as possible, and if he does, he always asks permission first. Yeosang respects this and does the same, never touching San unless it’s strictly necessary. He asks permission before touching him, too. San always gives it.
Things like the way that San becomes obsessed with rom-coms, which Yeosang hates. But San consumes them like they’re air, and Yeosang gets another streaming subscription just to expand his options. Despite his dislike for them, Yeosang watches them with San quite frequently, watching San’s face more than the movie. It’s the way that San’s eyes get wide, unblinking, when the leads kiss. There’s a penguin-shaped plushie that San crocheted (he’s fascinated by penguins), and Yeosang notices the way he clutches it tight to his chest when the music swells and the most romantic parts of the movie proceed.
The worst thing, and the habit that Yeosang works his hardest to break, is San’s tendency to ask permission for everything. Not just touching him, but touching anything. Doing anything. Every time, Yeosang reminds him that he doesn’t have to ask. Every time, San apologizes, looking embarrassed, and then Yeosang feels worse. Rinse and repeat. Finally, one day after San asks him if it’s okay if he turns the movie off early and goes to bed because he’s tired, Yeosang forces him to sit back down and talk to him.
Yeosang gets up and turns the lights on, then returns to the couch, where San is sitting, looking at him anxiously. Yeosang takes a deep breath, trying to decide where he needs to start.
“San,” he says, after a while, “You do not need to ask permission to do things. I promise. You’re your own person.”
San looks at him for a long time. Finally, he says, “It has been a long time since I was my own person.”
Yeosang doesn’t think he’s talking about being trapped inside the statue. He remains quiet, hopeful that San will elaborate, and he gets his wish.
“When I was younger,” San starts, “My family was not very well off. There were not a lot of options. My parents decided that to be anything was preferable to staying with them and suffering. They believed that there was no worse suffering than being lower class.
“It seemed the best option to them to find someone for me to live with. Someone who was not them. I believe they believed they were doing what was right. But what feels right is not often what is truly right.”
San stares down at his hands.
“I do not wish to recall this. I do not like to think about it. But I would like to tell you what I can. What I can tell you is this: He kept me away from everyone. I did not see my family. I did not have friends. It was my responsibility to be with him, always. It was my responsibility to obey his wishes. If I did not, there would be pain. So I did as I was told.
“He became jealous and greedy. I was no longer allowed to leave his home, even when I was accompanied by him. He moved me into a cage. He spent his months carving me out of stone. When I looked at the statue, I saw my body, but I did not see myself. He said that it was a home for me.”
San’s hands are trembling. Yeosang reaches out a hand and lays it face up on the couch between them. San lays one hand gently in his.
“I used to think that I wanted to die. But once I realized that he was going to kill me, I knew that I did not. Is that shameful? That I wanted to escape him so badly, but not enough that I would die to do so?”
Yeosang shakes his head sadly. “It’s not shameful, San. It’s brave. I think it’s brave that you didn’t let him take your desire for life from you.”
San hums quietly. “I suppose so,” he says after a while. “It did not feel very brave at the time. I was very scared. I am ashamed to say that I begged. It did not matter. He got what he wanted.”
Yeosang shakes his head again. “He didn’t,” he says gently. “You weren’t trapped in there forever. You were trapped in there long enough that the world forgot about him. You’re free, now.”
“I did not forget him,” San says quietly.
“I know,” Yeosang whispers. “But you will. One day. He can’t hurt you anymore. No one can.”
San cocks his head at him.
“I am grateful that you found me, Yeosang,” he says.
⭑
Weeks later, San bursts into his room. “I need you to help me,” he says. He’s shaking like a leaf.
Looking up from his book, Yeosang regards him warily. “What’s wrong?” He places the book, face down and spine open, on the bed.
San shuffles further into the room, looking miserable. He scoots up to the edge of Yeosang’s bed and says, “My stomach.”
Yeosang peers over his glasses at him. “What about it?” He doesn’t mean to be crass or insensitive, but Yeosang is still getting used to San’s new body just as much as he is, and Yeosang can’t help him if he doesn’t use his words.
San presses a hand to his abdomen. “It’s hot,” he says. Something must be very wrong for San to be using contractions. Try as he might, Yeosang just can’t convince San to use them regularly. He says it makes his speech sound too informal. Yeosang places his hand on San’s stomach, over his shirt. He doesn’t feel hot.
“Can I…?” he asks, slipping the tip of his index finger under San’s shirt. San nods. Yeosang slides his hand under San’s shirt and presses it flat against San’s stomach. San whimpers quietly, his hips jerking ever so slightly. Several things click into place at once.
“Are you horny?”
San stares at him blankly. Yeosang curses internally. “Do you want to…err…” He’s not sure what would best help San understand. “Do you want to have sex?”
“Sex?” San repeats, still clearly not understanding.
Yeosang sighs. He moves his hand down, in front of San’s crotch, careful not to touch him. “Do you feel something here?” he asks. San nods rapidly. He hesitates. “Do you think it would feel good if someone touched you there?” The light in San’s eyes flickers. Shit. San clearly doesn’t want to go there, so neither does he. Yeosang thinks about it for a bit longer. Finally, he says, “Would you like to put your…” he gestures to San’s crotch, “Inside of… someone?" He thanks whatever god made San real again that he managed not to say me. The light is back in San’s eyes.
“You are asking if I want to fornicate?” Fornicate. Naturally. Yeosang refrains from rolling his eyes, both at himself for not thinking of the word and at the ridiculousness of it all.
“Yes,” Yeosang affirms.
“With you?”
“Well,” says Yeosang, trying not to let it show that the question makes him feel faint, “We could, yes. Or I could find someone for you. We could. On an app. Remember the apps I showed you?” He had tried, once, to get San on dating apps, even if it was just so San could meet someone other than him and his friends. He’s felt almost guilty about being San’s only reference to the modern world, because he is certain that there are other far more interesting, far more qualified people for San to get to know than him. Of course, it went the same way as it is going right now, with San asking him:
“A stranger?”
“An attractive stranger,” Yeosang says.
“You are attractive,” San says. “And you are here. And I would very much like to have… sex… with you.”
Yeosang feels himself turn red. San using words like this is going to give him heart failure.
“Okay,” he whispers. “We can have sex.”
When he looks back up at San, he’s chewing on his lip. “I do not know how,” San admits. Yeosang feels himself melting. “Once upon a time, I did. Know, that is. But it has been a long time. And…” He hesitates, his brow furrowing as he thinks out what he wants to say. “I do not think fondly of those times,” he finishes.
“I know,” Yeosang says gently. “It’s okay. I’ll help you.”
“You will show me?”
“I’ll show you,” Yeosang promises. “And it will be better. Than those times. It will feel good, I promise.”
“Thank you, Yeosang,” San says earnestly. He’s so cute that Yeosang feels the urge to turn around and scream into his pillow.
“You’re welcome, San,” he replies, instead of doing that.
San hesitates, biting his lip again. “But… what about you?” he asks, after a beat.
“Me?” Yeosang asks. “What about me?”
“Will it feel good for you?”
Yeosang flushes. “It will feel good,” he assures San. “But this is for you, not me.”
“It should be for both of us,” San says, a displeased look on his face. “You should not be neglected.”
“I know,” Yeosang reassures him. “I agree. It’s important that both people are taken care of. But right now, I want to help you.”
San looks at him. “Yeosang,” he says slowly, carefully. “I do not like what you are implying. I am not so cruel or callous that I would deny you pleasure for my own sake.”
“I know,” Yeosang says, his face flaming. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just—”
“When I had a lover,” San interrupts, “He was not kind. He did not care how I felt. It did not matter what I wanted. I will not be that man to you.”
“That’s not a lover,” Yeosang says softly.
San ponders this for a moment. “No, I do not think it is,” he says, finally.
“I know you aren’t like that,” Yeosang continues. “I don’t want you to feel that you’re acting that way. It’s different, I’m different. This is different. Because I… I feel strongly for you. Emotionally. And because I want to help you. I want to make you feel good. It will feel good for me because I want to make you feel good. Do you understand? This is what I want.”
For a while, San is quiet. Then he says: “I think I understand.”
Yeosang gives him a small smile. “Good,” he says softly. “If you’re unsure, just ask. Please. I won’t lie to you.”
“Okay,” San replies, nodding once. His eyes flick across Yeosang’s body. “Will you show me now?”
Yeosang nods, taking his book and placing it on the nightstand along with his glasses. He scoots backward, leaning up against the pillows at the head of the bed.
“First,” Yeosang explains, “I have to prepare myself.” He turns onto his side and rummages through his bedside table, searching for a bottle of lube. He shows it to San triumphantly when he finds it. San stares at the bottle quizzically.
“I’ll use this,” Yeosang says. “And my fingers. So it doesn’t hurt.”
San is quiet for a long time. Finally, he says, “There is a way for it not to hurt?”
Yeosang swallows. His stomach twists. Several images flash across his mind, things that he never wanted to see. Ways he never wanted to imagine San. “Yes,” he says quietly. “At least, not as much.”
“I do not want to hurt you at all,” San says.
“It won’t hurt,” Yeosang murmurs. “Not the way you’re thinking.” The words make him wince. He hates thinking of San that way. San just looks at him solemnly. Yeosang sighs. “It will hurt a bit. But it’s… a good hurt? I don’t mind it. It’s not painful. It’s a little uncomfortable, at first, but if I prepare myself right, it won’t be very bad. And it’s okay, because I… Hmm.” It’s hard to explain these things, harder than he ever would have thought. “I want you to be inside of me,” Yeosang finishes eventually. “I want it. I’m expecting it. So it hurts a little at first, but then it feels good. Really, really good.”
“You will not be in pain?” San asks.
Yeosang shakes his head. “I won’t be in pain,” he promises. “I really, really want this, San. As long as you aren’t forceful with me, it won’t hurt.”
“I would never be forceful with you,” San says emphatically. “I would never do that to you.”
“I know,” Yeosang says softly. “I know. I don’t mean to imply that you would. I just want to make it clear that, as long as I do it right, and you’re gentle, I won’t be in any pain.”
“I will be gentle,” San promises. “Please do it right,” he adds.
“I will,” Yeosang exhales.
There’s nowhere to go but forward. San watches with interest as Yeosang lifts his hips off the bed and pulls his pants down, kicking them off and onto the floor. He hesitates before sliding his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear, tugging those down as well. He feels it’s only fair, as he’s seen San naked before. He’s shy, but he wants San to see him. This much of him, at least. He keeps his shirt on, not quite ready for San to see all of him. Not yet. How do you show your whole self to someone who is beautiful enough to be carved out of marble, immortalized in stone?
Yeosang feels his cock pressing on his abdomen, half-hard already. He opens the lube and spreads some onto his fingers, bending his knees and spreading his thighs, embarrassed yet steady. He doesn’t feel any shame, only desire. He wants San more than he even realized.
San stares, entranced, as Yeosang pushes two fingers into his hole.
“You look very,” he says, swallowing thickly, “beautiful like this.”
“Haah,” Yeosang chokes out, half a laugh, half a moan. “It’s just because you’re already turned on.”
San turns back to Yeosang’s face, that look of not understanding clear across his features.
“It means you feel attracted to me, because you… ah.” His fingers are still inside of him; it’s hard to talk and stretch himself at once. San’s gaze is panning back down his body, back to where his fingers are buried in him to the knuckle. “You’re horny. And you’re hard. So you feel excited looking at me, because I’m doing something lewd, and it’s making you want to fuck me.”
“You turn me on quite often,” San says.
Yeosang freezes, his fingers stilling inside him.
“No, San, that’s not—”
“But that is what you said. You said that I feel attracted to you, and that I want to f…fuck you.” The word doesn’t roll off of his tongue very smoothly, but it still makes Yeosang’s heart jump. “I feel this way about you a lot. When you come out of the shower, and your hair is wet, I feel this way. Or when you do your exercises, and you get very warm. You excite me, then. And other times, too.”
“Oh, San…” Yeosang says softly, taking his fingers out and propping himself up with his hands.
“Did I embarrass you?” San asks, seeming embarrassed himself. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Yeosang says. “I’m embarrassed, yes, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m just shy. I’m flattered.”
San nods curtly, suddenly avoiding Yeosang’s gaze. “Please continue,” he says shyly.
“Okay,” Yeosang whispers.
He lays back on the bed and moves his hand back down between his thighs, but before he can go any further, San says, “Can I come closer?”
Yeosang gives him a shy smile. “You can come closer,” he murmurs. San climbs onto the bed and settles at the foot of it, sitting back on his feet.
“Thank you,” San says.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Yeosang replies, grunting a little as he pushes his fingers inside of him again. “I like this, and you. I want this.”
“I want you,” San says. The words, along with the way Yeosang is scissoring his fingers inside himself, make him moan. San takes note. “Does it help when I say that?”
Yeosang is starting to lose his mind, the edges of his sanity blurring with pleasure. It’s not just the fact that he’s got two fingers inside himself, even with San’s words making his heart beat faster. It’s the intimacy of it all, the way that San is watching him, salivating, as Yeosang fingers himself, opening himself up slowly for San to come inside.
“Yes,” Yeosang manages to force out, “I like it. I like that you’re watching, too.”
“I like watching you,” San says, his voice noticeably deeper. Yeosang realizes that his pants are tenting and he’s digging his fingers into his knees so hard that his fingertips are white. “I… would like… to touch you,” San adds, each word coming out slowly. Yeosang swallows hard.
“Come here,” Yeosang grunts. The words have barely left his mouth before San is between his legs, eyes roaming his body hungrily. “Do you want to try?” he asks, his own voice thick, pulling his fingers out once more. San nods eagerly, so Yeosang takes one of his hands in his and reaches for the lube again, pouring some over San’s first two fingers and spreading it down his digits. San’s fingers are thicker than his. Yeosang wraps his fingers around San’s wrist and tugs it down, pressing the tips of San’s fingers against his hole. San falls onto his elbows and pushes his two fingers inside in one fluid motion, stopping only when he can’t go any further. Yeosang cries out and clutches San’s shoulders with both hands.
“Do you like that?” San asks, so earnest, and Yeosang feels so endeared that he can’t help but whimper.
“I like it,” he whispers, digging his nails into San’s shoulders. San pulls his fingers out and then thrusts them back in, a little harder and a little faster than Yeosang was doing to himself. “That’s good,” Yeosang pants. “Try moving them like this.” He lets go of one of San’s shoulders and makes a scissoring motion with two of his fingers. San copies him immediately and Yeosang gasps, bucking his hips up. “Good,” Yeosang manages to get out.
San continues to scissor his fingers inside of him, making Yeosang squirm, struggling to stay still as San’s fingers reach further and open him up wider than his own can.
“You can hold me,” Yeosang pants. “Down. You can hold me down. With your other hand. I can’t— I’m too wiggly.”
San looks up at him in concern. “What if you decide you do not want that?”
“I’ll tell you,” Yeosang pants. “I promise. I promise.”
San watches his face for a few more moments before he does as he’s told, splaying his fingers across Yeosang’s abdomen and pressing down firmly. He moves the fingers inside Yeosang faster. Yeosang moans, writhing underneath him. Several delirious moments pass before he finally grits out, “I think it’s enough.” He doesn’t want San to stop. He wants to ride San’s fingers until he comes all over himself, but he can be greedy next time. If there is a next time. This is for San, he reminds himself. San removes his fingers from Yeosang’s hole and his hand from Yeosang’s stomach slowly, clearly unable to tear his gaze away from Yeosang’s slick rim. Yeosang can’t help but blush.
“Now you,” Yeosang pants, tugging at the hem of San’s shirt, and San sits back up, fumbling to get undressed. He pulls his shirt over his head and then takes his pants and underwear off at once, kneeling in front of Yeosang, seeming hesitant. His cock is thick, a nice length. Yeosang wants it inside of him.
“Can I touch you?” Yeosang asks, scanning San’s face.
“Yes, please,” San gasps out. Yeosang sits up enough to reach forward and San shuffles a bit closer instinctively. Delicately, Yeosang wraps his fingers around San’s length. He pushes the foreskin back and drags his hand down San’s shaft, watching his face as he does so. San’s eyelashes flutter as he jerks his hips forward. “Yeosang,” he mumbles, reaching for him, wrapping his hand around Yeosang’s wrist, the one he’s using to tug gently on San’s cock.
“I’m here, San,” Yeosang whispers. “I’m right here. I’m going to put the lube on you, too. It will make it easier for me. Okay?”
San nods, staring at Yeosang’s face instead of down at his hand, reaching down and touching Yeosang’s face gently. Yeosang turns his head so that he can press a kiss to San’s palm before gabbing the lube once more, spilling some into his palm before spreading it over San’s dick. San lurches forward, trembling in Yeosang’s grasp.
“You can touch me,” Yeosang reminds him, and San moves one hand to Yeosang’s waist, holding on tight.
“Yeosang,” San mumbles, “You are…” He shakes his head, seeming ashamed not to be able to finish his sentence. Yeosang smiles, stroking him gently.
“Do you want to put it inside me?” he asks quietly.
San nods. “I want that,” he whispers. His eyes are closed in pleasure, but he cracks them when he answers Yeosang.
“Good,” Yeosang exhales. He tugs on San’s arm and San falls over him, propping himself up with one hand in the pillow next to Yeosang’s head. Trying to slow down his breathing, Yeosang keeps his hand wrapped around San’s cock and guides it toward his entrance. Ducking his head down to look between them, San covers Yeosang’s hand with his own, pressing the tip of his cock to Yeosang’s hole. “Go on,” Yeosang breathes, staring at San, whose eyes are glued to where their bodies meet, pressing his hips forward as he pushes his cock inside of him. Yeosang moans, arching his back as San buries himself inside, grinding gently into him. He seems to understand this part. San lowers himself on top of Yeosang, tucking his head into Yeosang’s shoulder.
“I think I could just stay like this,” he says, muffled. Yeosang wraps his arms around San’s back, dragging the pads of his fingers slowly over San’s skin.
“We can,” Yeosang says kindly. “If you’d like, we can stay like this for as long as you want.”
“Maybe for a bit,” San says faintly. His hands are back on Yeosang’s waist, gripping tightly. Yeosang closes his eyes and lets his body adjust to the fullness, the sensation of San’s girth inside him. He places both hands on San’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. Carefully, he presses a kiss to the side of San’s head.
After a while, San begins to grind into him once more, rolling his hips forward. Yeosang gasps at the feeling, clutching San’s head tighter.
“I—I need,” San whispers into Yeosang’s shoulder.
“I know,” Yeosang says quietly. “You can move. It’s okay. Do what you like, San.”
“Do you promise you will tell me if you want me to stop?” San asks, his breath hot against Yeosang’s neck.
“I promise,” Yeosang replies. In his head, he thinks, I won’t want you to stop.
San raises himself back onto his arms and Yeosang stares up at him with wide eyes. He gives San a small nod, and San takes a deep breath before pulling out and then thrusting back in. Yeosang throws his head back, moaning.
San finds his rhythm quickly, a slow, steady in and out that makes Yeosang feel like he’s going to explode. Each pull out makes him gasp, and each thrust back in knocks San’s tip against his prostate, making Yeosang moan loudly in San’s ear. He hooks one leg behind San’s back, keeping his hands on San’s head, trembling when San presses gentle kisses across his collarbone.
“I—San,” he gasps. San hums against him, biting softly on Yeosang’s collarbone over his shirt. “Keep going. It feels good.” He needs to make sure that San knows it’s okay—that he likes this. That he can keep going, because he’s worried San will stop. San kisses up the side of Yeosang’s neck, nosing at his ear.
“To be inside you,” San murmurs, low in his ear, “is like nothing I have ever felt. You feel… like heaven.” Yeosang lets out a tiny sound, a helpless whimper he can’t contain. San keeps thrusting in at that same pace, steady and intentional, as he slides his hands under Yeosang’s shirt, moving them up and down his sides. Yeosang can only whine, smoothing his hands down the back of San’s neck and across his broad back.
“You make me feel so good,” Yeosang gasps, arching up into San, who moves one hand to the small of his back, pulling his middle up toward him. San drags his lips down the center of Yeosang’s throat and then down his chest, kissing him gently. Yeosang’s mind is long gone. No one has ever made him feel like this. He feels a pressure in his stomach, a heat building inside of him, near busting. “San, I—It—I’m going to come,” he moans, pulling San down on top of him so that every inch of them is touching, burying his head in San’s neck. His cock is pressed between their abdomens and he grinds frantically against San, the friction on his length and San’s thickness inside of him almost too much for him to handle. His eyes roll back in his head and he wraps his arms around San tightly, pushing his sweaty forehead into San’s shoulder. He moans loudly in San’s ear and then he’s seeing white, the tornado of pleasure at his center overtaking him as he comes.
San must feel his release and his softening cock, because he pauses his thrusts, lifting himself onto his arms just enough that he can look Yeosang in the face, concern written all over his features.
“I will stop,” he says solemnly.
“No,” Yeosang blurts out immediately, “Please don’t stop. Please.”
“But you are finished,” San points out. “I have other ways. I can do something else.”
“No,” Yeosang repeats, reaching up to cup San’s face in his hands. “Please. I want you to keep going. I…” How can he explain something like this? He doesn’t just want it, he needs it. Yeosang moves a hand down to San’s ass, squeezing tightly. San moans quietly. “Please keep going. I promise it feels good. I promise I want it.”
San studies him. “Will it hurt?”
Yeosang shakes his head. “It won’t hurt. It feels good. You… Your…” He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s too hard to concentrate on what he’s trying to say when all he wants is for San to keep fucking him, keep pressing on that sweet spot inside of him. “There’s a spot inside of me, and it feels good when you touch it,” he rambles, trying to get his words out as quickly as possible before he forgets them, almost delirious from bliss. He wants—needs—San to keep going, to bring him closer, back to that ledge. He needs to feel the pleasure that San is giving him throughout his entire body. “If you keep fucking me, like this, I’ll come again. You won’t hurt me. San, you could never hurt me.”
“Inside you,” San says quietly. He hesitates, then pulls out quickly before pushing back inside, hard. Yeosang bites down on his tongue to keep from screaming. “There?”
“There,” Yeosang grits out, clenching his teeth. San pulls back out again and thrusts in hard. “There, there,” Yeosang moans, unable to stop himself from clawing at San’s back. Encouraged by the sounds spilling out of him, San continues to fuck him hard, groaning into Yeosang’s ear. He slides his hands up the back of Yeosang’s shirt, pressing Yeosang’s body to his, dragging his teeth along the junction of Yeosang’s neck and shoulder.
“Mark me,” Yeosang begs. “Make me yours. San, I’m yours, I’m yours.” He shouldn’t be saying this, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. San sinks his teeth in, sucking on his skin, eager to turn it purple, red. Yeosang arches into him, moving his hands to San’s front, squeezing his pecs, then dragging them up to San’s face, pulling his head up and forcing him to look at him. San stares down at him, dazed, his eyes unfocused, his pupils blown wide.
“Yeosang,” he pants. “I—I think, I. My stomach, it—”
“Are you going to come?” Yeosang asks. San nods eagerly. His gaze is focused on Yeosang’s lips.
“I’m going to come,” San moans.
“Come inside me,” Yeosang whispers.
San chokes out another moan, and then he’s coming, filling Yeosang up, and then Yeosang is coming too, the feeling of San releasing his semen against his prostate shattering the glass ball inside him. Waves of pleasure flood his body. He’s lightheaded. Yeosang whimpers, shaking as San grinds against him, humping his release further into him, still pressing on that spot.
“San, San,” Yeosang mumbles, locking his arms together behind San’s neck, pulling him close.
“Yeosang,” San murmurs, kissing the side of Yeosang’s neck, his jaw, his cheek. “My Yeosang,” he whispers.
“I’m your Yeosang,” he whispers back, his eyes fluttering closed. He’s boneless, exhausted. He can’t move. But he has to. He wants to stay like this forever, just holding San, feeling his weight on top of him.
“San,” Yeosang whispers after a while, once San’s breathing has evened out, once San has stopped rolling his hips forward into Yeosang’s sensitive body. “We have to clean up.”
San lifts his head from where it’s buried in Yeosang’s neck, looking up at him, disoriented. He nods, lifting himself up onto shaky arms, and then he pulls out, slowly, making Yeosang whimper as his body stretches around him. They both look down between them, watching, entranced, as San’s cum spills out of Yeosang’s hole. For once not asking permission, San reaches between them and drags a finger across Yeosang’s hole, dragging it through the mess of his own cum. The tip of his finger against Yeosang’s tender hole makes Yeosang jerk, closing his thighs around San’s hand instinctively. San looks back up at his face. Yeosang gives him a tired smile.
“Did that fix it?” he asks softly.
“It fixed it,” San affirms. He seems to hesitate. Finally, he asks, “Did… Did I make you feel as good as you made me feel?”
Yeosang’s smile broadens. “You made me feel amazing, San,” he whispers, dragging a couple fingers over San’s cheek. “No one has ever made me feel like that.”
San flushes. The sight is so rare, so pretty, that Yeosang has to bite his lip to keep from cooing at him.
“No one has ever made me feel like that, either,” San says quietly. “I have… never felt pleasure before you.”
Yeosang bites his lip harder. Tears well in his eyes, and he doesn’t even notice them until one rolls down the side of his face, wetting the pillow. San looks at him in alarm.
“I did not mean to make you cry,” he says, panicked, and Yeosang shakes his head frantically, wrapping a hand around the back of San’s neck. He can’t try to explain the bittersweet feeling San’s words make him feel. Some things, he’s learning, he can’t put into words. Not even for San.
“I’m crying because I’m happy,” Yeosang says softly, which is close enough to the truth that he doesn’t feel guilty about it. He brushes the tears out of his eyes and pushes himself off the mattress, letting San pull him into a sitting position. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk,” Yeosang admits.
“I will carry you,” San replies, getting off the mattress and gathering Yeosang into his arms. Yeosang starts crying again, silently, when he lifts him off the bed, carrying him bridal style to the bathroom. He sets him down on his feet once they get there and Yeosang grips onto the edge of the counter for balance.
“Can you turn the shower on?” he asks timidly, and San does, returning to Yeosang and helping him into the shower once it’s warm. Once they’re inside, it’s quiet. Yeosang is exhausted, too worn out to worry over San, for once—maybe even for the first time since he met him. San doesn’t seem to mind. He washes Yeosang’s hair, then his own, before washing Yeosang’s body gently. After San is done washing his own body, Yeosang loops his arms around San’s neck, pushing his face into his shoulder. San hugs him tightly, kissing the side of his head, and they stand there for a while, under the spray of the water, until Yeosang starts to shiver. Without saying a word, San turns the shower off. He towels Yeosang off tenderly, then himself.
San carries Yeosang into his own room, setting him down on the edge of the bed. He rummages through his drawers until he finds a big shirt for him to wear. He shows it to Yeosang, who nods, lifting his arms over his head so that San can pull it gingerly over his body. Once he’s dressed(ish), San moves Yeosang under the covers, tucking him in sweetly. He gets dressed himself, climbing into bed next to Yeosang, leaving too much space between them for Yeosang’s liking.
“Will you hold me?” Yeosang asks quietly.
“Of course,” San replies, turning onto his side, pulling Yeosang’s back to his front. “Thank you,” San whispers into Yeosang’s neck.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Yeosang whispers back.
⭑
Strangely, nothing changes after that. At least, not right away. For the next couple days, everything seems almost normal. Almost. There’s that hickey that San sucked on his shoulder, which Yeosang can’t stop himself from staring at every time he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Yeosang catches San staring at him often, and even when he’s caught, San doesn’t turn away. He just smiles at him fondly and continues whatever he was doing.
It drives Yeosang mad. His brain is constantly circling through two possibilities: one, that it meant nothing, and San truly did just need an outlet. Possible, but not likely. Or so he tells himself. The other possibility worries him: that it did mean something, but San isn’t ready for that yet. He supposes that’s reasonable, but when he remembers anything about when they slept together, it doesn’t seem right. San had worried about going too far with him, had called him My Yeosang, had washed him so tenderly, had held him afterwards. No, it doesn’t seem right. But what else is there to believe?
It’s not until a week later that San seeks him out again, approaching him while he’s in the kitchen, returning a juice carton to the fridge. When he closes the door to the fridge and sees San behind it he startles, placing a hand over his chest.
“I am sorry,” San says. Yeosang hadn’t noticed how much he apologized until a week ago.
“Don’t apologize,” he replies. “You just surprised me.”
“I—” San starts, then stops, not apologizing, like he’s told. Yeosang gives him a small smile. San shakes his head and switches gears, taking a deep breath. “I would like to ask you something,” he says. Yeosang leans his hip against the counter and nods.
“Okay,” he replies, curious. San fidgets with his fingers for a while. Yeosang waits patiently. Finally, San speaks.
“I would like to see you,” San says, phrasing his request carefully. Yeosang can tell that he practiced this phrase, said it over and over in the mirror until he felt it was right.
“See me?” Yeosang asks, but his heart is beating rapidly. He thinks he knows what San means.
“I would like to see your body,” San elaborates.
“Oh,” Yeosang says faintly. He feels like he might fall over.
“You can say no,” San says quickly, misreading Yeosang’s reaction as disinterest. “I do not want to make you uncomfortable. But I would like to. When you—we—when we—” He hesitates. “When we fornicated. You were clothed. I… I would like to see you. Naked.”
“I’m no statue,” Yeosang says softly, meaning for it to be a joke, but it falls flat.
“Of course you are not,” San says, furrowing his brow. “You are human. Like… like me.”
“Like you,” Yeosang agrees. “I just mean… I’m not, you know. I wasn’t… I’m not perfect enough for someone to sculpt me out of marble. Not like you.”
San only draws his eyebrows further down, staring at Yeosang quizzically. “Of course you are perfect,” he says, looking at Yeosang in confusion. “You are beautiful. There is no one like you.”
Yeosang gives him a wry smile. “You’re hardly seen anyone else,” he replies. “You just think that because you see me every day.”
“Of course I have,” San argues. “I watch the movies you show me. I see the people who walk by on the sidewalks. I look at photos on the…” he seems to forget the word. “The internet,” he finishes, a proud smile on his face when he’s able to complete his thought.
“Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome,” Yeosang says, almost to himself. San cocks his head at him, and he remembers that San doesn’t know what that means. “It’s when you’re kidnapped, and then you fall in love with your kidnapper,” he elaborates, wincing, recalling that San has been kidnapped before and this is not a good time to bring that up. “I shouldn’t even say that, anyway,” he rambles, unable to stop himself from talking. “It’s not even a real phenomenon. It’s just sexist. And—” He cuts himself off, dejected. San gives him a gentle smile.
“You have not kidnapped me,” San says. He pauses. “I have not fallen in love with you,” he adds, and Yeosang blushes, staring down at the floor. He’s so unusually foolish when he talks to San, typically so careful with his words, but being around San makes all of that fly out the window.
“San—” Yeosang starts.
“Not yet,” San says at the same time. Yeosang’s head snaps back up. “I was human for a short time,” San continues, “and then my soul was trapped in marble for a very, very long time. I lost my humanity. But I have not forgotten what it feels like to love someone. I believe that I could love you, Yeosang. If you allow me the time.”
“San,” Yeosang tries again.
“No, not could. Will. I believe that I will love you, Yeosang. I believe that I am already on my way.”
Yeosang inhales deeply, trying to keep himself from shaking. San is staring at him in earnest and Yeosang just wants to kiss him.
“I’m not good with words,” Yeosang whispers.
“You are very good with words,” San answers, looking puzzled. “You explain things to me very well.”
“I know,” Yeosang says. “But that’s different. This is… this is something else.”
San looks at him nervously. “Yeosang…” he starts, trailing off.
“Feelings are hard for me to explain,” Yeosang continues. He looks at San, really looks at him, his expression as open as he can make it. “San,” he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes,” San replies quietly. “I would like that.”
Yeosang steps toward him and breaks the distance between them, placing one hand on San’s chest and cupping his face with the other. Time feels like it slows down as he moves in closer, tilting his head and pressing his lips against San’s. If his eyes had been open, he would have noticed the way San’s gaze flickered from his eyes down to his lips before he closed his own eyes. San places his hands on Yeosang’s waist, pulling him somehow closer, pressing their bodies together.
San is, surprisingly and unsurprisingly, a very good kisser. Yeosang lets him take the lead, twining his wrists behind San’s neck. San kisses him softly, knocking their noses together as he presses his lips to Yeosang’s over and over. He coaxes Yeosang’s mouth open with his tongue, licking into Yeosang’s mouth eagerly and moving one hand up to Yeosang’s face, cradling it gently. He presses on the small of Yeosang’s back with his other hand and Yeosang melts into him, nipping at San’s bottom lip.
Yeosang pulls away, keeping his arms locked behind San’s head, looking up into San’s face. San is eyeing his mouth hungrily, but he manages to tear his gaze away, staring into Yeosang’s eyes.
“I would really like it if you fell in love with me,” Yeosang exhales. “I think I fell in love with you the very first moment I saw you.” It’s a truth he’s revealed to no one, not even himself, until this very moment, but even as he says it he knows it’s true.
San’s eyes widen and a light blush spreads across his cheeks. “Yeosang, I…”
“It’s okay,” Yeosang says softly, smoothing a hand down the back of San’s neck. “I know where your heart is. I’m not scared of waiting.” He moves a hand to San’s chest, pressing gently over his heart. “I know what’s in here,” he murmurs.
“You are the only one inside my heart,” San whispers.
San leans in, kissing him again, eagerly, more fervent than before. Yeosang smiles to himself when their tongues meet once more, the heat of it addicting. San pulls away and pants out, “Yeosang, I need to see you,” his expression desperate and pure.
“Okay,” Yeosang replies, shy, but also excited. He takes San’s hand in his and leads him down to San’s bedroom. If they’re going to do this, he wants to do it here, where San and everything he loves is all around him.
Yeosang guides San to his bed and pushes him onto the edge of it, smiling embarrassedly when San sits down on the edge eagerly, his eyes raking over Yeosang’s body. He takes a few steps back, hesitant, feeling like he wants to warn San once more that his own beauty could never compare to San’s. He doesn’t care, he realizes, as he watches the way San’s eyes trail over his form, hungry and excited. San wants him as he is. He can give him that.
Yeosang crosses his arms and grabs the hem of his shirt, hesitating briefly before pulling it over his head in one go. San watches quietly. His hands are clutching his knees, a sign that Yeosang now recognizes as an indication that he’s getting turned on. He unbuttons his pants before tugging them off of him with his underwear, and then he’s standing there, bare, in front of San.
“Ta-daa,” he says, awkwardly, not embarrassed, just shy.
“I do not understand why you do not consider yourself perfect,” San says after a beat. His fingertips are turning white where they’re dug into his thighs.
Yeosang blushes. There’s nothing he can say to that. Instead of responding, he shuffles closer, standing between San’s legs at the edge of the bed. He places his hands on San’s shoulders and San tips his head up, meeting his stare.
“I think you are the most beautiful person that I have ever seen,” San says softly.
“San,” Yeosang whines, his face turning redder. He turns his head, unable to hold San’s gaze. San places a finger on his chin and turns his face back to him.
“May I touch you?” San asks. Yeosang nods, biting his lip.
“Please,” he whispers.
San slides his hands up Yeosang’s torso, over his stomach, over his ribs, up to his chest. San’s hands, which were soft and unblemished when he first met him, have gotten coarser. Yeosang shudders, closing his eyes briefly to center himself, trying not to lose his balance. When he opens them again, San is dragging one hand down the center of his torso. Yeosang inhales sharply, clutching at San’s shoulders as San wraps his hand around Yeosang’s dick.
“Yeosang,” San says, gazing up at him as he strokes him gently. “I would like to make you feel good.”
“You are,” Yeosang mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed.
“That is not what I mean,” San replies. Yeosang opens his eyes and looks down at him.
“You want to have sex?” he ventures.
“I would like to fuck you,” San says. Yeosang’s knees buckle and he has to hold himself upright using San’s body.
“I would really like you to fuck me,” Yeosang whispers. “I’d really, really like that.” San’s fingers are digging into his waist. Yeosang feels faint.
“Can I prepare you this time?” San asks.
Yeosang nods. “The lube is in my room,” he says quietly.
For the first time, San looks embarrassed. “I bought some,” he says, just as quietly. “I had hoped… I had hoped that we would need it.”
Overcome by emotions, Yeosang takes his face in both hands and kisses him passionately, breaking away only when he’s out of breath. “I’m so lucky I found you,” he murmurs.
“I am lucky you found me,” San replies, smiling broadly, his eyes turning into crescents.
“I have an idea,” Yeosang says. “I… I’d like to make you feel good, too. Can you get the lube?”
San nods. Yeosang steps out of his way and San gets up, going into his bathroom. Yeosang climbs onto the bed, smiling when San comes back out, lube in hand.
“Sit at the head of the bed,” Yeosang instructs San, who nods. He strips quickly before doing as he’s told. This is so different than the last time, so opposite of how it went before. Yeosang is hungrier, unashamed of the desire wracking his body. San is more confident than before, so sure of what he wants. Yeosang is happy to be what he wants.
Crawling over to San, Yeosang straddles his lap, kneeling over him. Needing no further instruction, San opens the lube and coats his fingers, sliding his hand up Yeosang’s thigh and prodding at his hole. He holds onto Yeosang’s hip with his other hand.
“Is this okay?” San asks, and Yeosang nods breathlessly, needing him to touch him, needing those thick fingers inside him. San pushes both of his fingers inside of him at once and Yeosang lurches forward, clinging onto the headboard for stability. San thrusts his fingers in and out a few times before he starts to scissor them, stretching Yeosang gently. As he continues to move his fingers inside him, Yeosang manages to reach for the lube, using it to coat San’s dick with. San’s hips stutter when he touches him, thrusting shallowly into Yeosang’s palm.
“San,” Yeosang whispers, “I’m ready. Are you?”
San nods eagerly, pulling his fingers out.
“Lay down,” Yeosang says quietly. San does, sliding down the bed so that he can lay underneath him.
Moving backwards, Yeosang positions himself over San’s cock, reaching between them to guide it to his entrance and sinking down onto it slowly. They moan in sync as their bodies meet. Yeosang feels dizzy. San’s cock is so deep inside of him, the angle and the pressure making him breathless.
“Yeosang,” San gasps, holding onto his waist with both hands. “You feel amazing.”
Yeosang places his hands on San’s chest, feeling steady as he stares down at him. San’s gaze centers him, helps him breathe.
“You feel so good, San,” he whispers. “I’m going to move,” Yeosang says quietly. San nods.
“Please,” San exhales.
Yeosang moves his hips slowly at first, grinding deliberately on San’s cock. San’s eyelashes flutter, but he keeps his gaze locked on Yeosang’s face, his hands tight on Yeosang’s hips. San starts to guide him, using his strength to pull on Yeosang’s body gently, tugging him into small circles. Yeosang tangles his fingers in San’s hair, following his lead, throwing his head back in pleasure.
“Let me make you feel good,” San says quietly, and Yeosang looks back down at him again. Biting his lip, he nods. Before he can brace himself, San thrusts his hips up, knocking Yeosang off balance. He cries out, falling onto San. He braces himself with one hand next to San’s head, using the other to hold onto San’s waist. San thrusts up into him again, harder.
“Oh, San,” Yeosang moans, pressing his hips back to meet San’s thrusts, grinding back onto him as San thrusts up into him. Yeosang removes his hand from San’s waist and reaches behind him to grab blindly at San’s hands, looping his fingers around San’s wrist and moving San’s hand to his ass. San seems to hesitate before digging his fingers into it, squeezing. He moves his other hand to Yeosang’s ass, too, kneading it eagerly.
Yeosang leans down to kiss him and San lifts his head up, meeting him halfway. Their kiss is hot and wet, sloppier than when they were kissing in the kitchen. Their teeth and tongues clash messily. Yeosang has never needed anyone more than he needs San right now.
“My Yeosang,” San murmurs into his mouth, thrusting his hips up. Yeosang moans in response, the feeling of San’s hands on his ass and his cock so deep inside him and his tongue in his mouth too much, too good. He whimpers, moving one hand to stroke himself roughly, grinding back on San’s cock and forward into his hand and falling apart all at once, spilling on San’s chest. He collapses on top of San, tonguing lazily at his neck as San continues to fuck up into him, groaning in his ear. “My Yeosang,” San says again. Yeosang summons all the strength left in his body and clenches down hard around him. San moans. Yeosang feels it as he comes inside him.
Yeosang continues to kiss him lazily, and San kisses him back, sliding his hands slowly up and down Yeosang’s back.
“Yeosang,” San says softly, breaking away. Yeosang pulls back and nods, staring down at him. “I think I have fallen in love with you.”
⭑
Years Later
“Do you want to get married?” San asks one day, out of the blue. They’re standing in their shared bathroom, Yeosang brushing his teeth, San fixing his hair. Yeosang spits his toothpaste in the sink and makes eye contact with San in the mirror.
“Do you want to?” he asks. He would like to, eventually, but he’s not in a rush. He knows that San is his, and he is San’s. He studies San in the mirror as he combs his hair back. He’s so handsome. He’s only gotten more attractive over the years, filled out more. Yeosang could stare at him for days.
San shrugs. “Your generation seems to value it quite highly,” he says.
“Don’t your generation me,” Yeosang huffs. “You sound old when you say that.”
“I am old,” San teases.
Yeosang rolls his eyes. “You are the same age as me,” he says. San knows as well as he does that he can hardly count the years he was trapped inside the statue as years he lived, but he still tries to argue for counting them into his age when he’s feeling annoying. “Are you getting antsy? Worried about me running off?” He smiles at San in the mirror so that he knows he’s teasing. They both know he’s not going anywhere.
San looks at him fondly. “I’m not worried,” he says lightly. Just those three words make Yeosang’s heart beat a little faster, make his breathing a little heavier.
“Sure,” Yeosang says, turning to San and looping his arms around his neck. “Let’s get married.”