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Smack.
Yeonjun rubs the sting on his cheek.
He’s had enough.
There’s no point in pretending it did nothing. It would only make things awkward.
Yeonjun hates awkward.
Yeonjun also hates Beomgyu.
At least for what he did earlier. For crossing lines he had drawn since they set this relationship up — albeit with a dulled point — blurring them in the midst of their fans, in the midst of the lavender haze on that wide, raised, spotlight-warm stage. Crossing them, with a broad, damp palm pressing into the exposed flesh of his hips, heat against heat. With hot, thick breath ghosting his neck, the hair rising on his nape. Crossing them like he didn't understand what it meant to.
Like he hadn't been warned of the consequences.
And, oddly, still seeking more.
Yeonjun doesn't want to understand why.
He knows; that’s the easy part. The slow stroke of a thumb over swollen lips, the lazy tangle of limbs after sex. The brush of hair stuck to temples, behind warm ears. A lingering gaze between each other. Hands resting just a moment longer on his thighs, before erasing all the evidence. Like a crime, without blood. Something they shouldn't be doing.
It’s something they shouldn't have done.
Beomgyu shouldn't have ever asked him that fateful day, two years ago.
“Show me, hyung,” Beomgyu had said, crowding him against the kitchen countertop, cold marble prickling his back. “Is it different?”
Yeonjun was his hyung. He wouldn't teach him wrong.
Yeonjun taught him wrong. He said nothing, trembling hands finding Beomgyu’s cheeks instead, cupping them like grains of sand. Time would teach him, he thought. Time would teach him all he needed to know.
Yeonjun never cared for time.
He leaned in.
And welcomed Beomgyu’s lips.
Tentatively, at first, as if he would sour under his tongue. The tart of strawberry, familiarity of sugar. Unbidden. Then surer, deeper. Yeonjun pressed into his mouth like a man starved, like a man discovering thirst and the oasis to quench it. Like being pared down to his base needs, need of a guy with dimpled cheeks and the gentlest eyes. What washed over him in that moment, cornered in the empty yet suffocating walls of their dorm, he wouldn't know, for years to come. Wouldn't dare learn to.
Still, it was a fact: he tasted Beomgyu, Beomgyu who pulled him close, learned the curves of his body, drank in every absent tear from his eyes, down his lips.
He tasted Beomgyu, and knew he wanted more.
Yeonjun wanted infinitely more.
Beomgyu had never kissed a man until Yeonjun.
It was a miracle Yeonjun even agreed to his clearly selfish desire.
But then, desires are selfish in nature: a need to exist, not for any lack, but as an excess no vessel — no person — would be able to hold without spilling, losing some of themselves. A self-inflicted pain, almost.
Beomgyu’s has long since overflowed.
He knows it, and would be lying to himself if he didn't feel it right now, more than he’s ever felt it before, standing outside Yeonjun's room. Preparing himself for the other’s sharp words, another attempt at drawing a line in between circles. The inevitable return, the anticipated violation. The reused apology.
Deep down, a cruel part of him doesn't regret it.
He liked it.
Yeonjun’s near-imperceptible shudder at the slap on his hips, his small missteps. The warmth only the hand on his skin could feel, only the person pressed into him, caging all of him and more. Too close for comfort, closer than they practiced. Closer than they agreed on. Yeonjun's slender thighs, the dip in his waist. Torturous, dangerous. A warning. How he pressed back into him, swaying, grinding against the heat in Beomgyu’s pants. The hide-and-seek between their lips, faces. An almost-kiss. Feverish breaths. Hiding that traitorous, pretty smile.
Beomgyu could've devoured him right then and there.
Could’ve fucked the cameras, fucked the rest.
Could’ve dragged teeth across his clean neck. Sucked on the hollow, the flush. Could've curled a thumb into his waistband, pulled him in by his little half-skirt. Knotted the strings between his fingers. Could've dug into his waist, see the red ripen, the purple bloom, in the shape of his hands. Could've grinded into the curve of him, chased their pleasure, fucked him clothed and wet.
Fucked him like he wanted to.
Broken all the rules.
Beomgyu knows he can't.
He knows he wants to.
He wants to leave this place, here outside of Yeonjun’s room, in the cold hour of midnight, in the scent of lavender soap trailing down the hall. To wash it all down with a bottle of whiskey, toss it under his bed. Wake up with a throb in his head.
He knows he can't.
He knows he has to.
So, he knocks.
Yeonjun has just finished towel-drying his hair when he hears raps on his door.
Taehyun and Kai must’ve settled for takeout, then. It is pretty late, after all. Though there are open establishments nearby, and less busy ones too, with good food and cheap drinks, so that doesn't seem too right.
It's not.
“A second,” he calls out, heart hammering inside his chest. “Changing.”
Shit.
He should’ve realized faster that “changing” was anything but a deterrent.
He should've locked the door, even.
Beomgyu barges in like lightning.
Too bright for the lamp-lit room, too fast for Yeonjun to adjust his eyes to.
Yet, all the same, just as expected.
Yeonjun feels exposed, suddenly.
He feels dark eyes leaving goosebumps on his legs, his thighs, the oversized shirt barely reaching anything below. Then, trailing upwards, over his chest, his neck, the heat of his face, he feels, to meet his own.
Beomgyu parts his mouth as if to say something, closes it again. Presses it into a line.
An apology, maybe. A clarification for his aggression, his close press to his back.
Possession.
Yeonjun searches for the reprimand.
Don’t do it again, do you understand, he’d say, but Yeonjun does, in different ways, and he understands; don't make me leave this, don't make me hate you, but he’s never left. He’s never tried.
Don’t you dare, and he doesn't.
Beomgyu does.
Every time.
Crowding him in his own room, like this, against his own bed.
Heavy-lidded eyes working him open.
The swallow of that throat, tremble of those lashes, the tightening of Beomgyu’s jaw.
The lightest licks of flame.
A warning.
Yeonjun knows; that's the easy part.
This time, he’s scared he’ll understand.
“Lock the door.”
The back of Beomgyu’s legs hits the footboard as his head meets the mattress.
A strong pair of legs drives the words from his lungs in one hitching breath before he can taste them.
Can feel them harden on his tongue.
“Hyung, need you— Fuck.”
Yeonjun hovers over him.
The freshness of lavender, the spice of cinnamon.
Those long, bare legs, spreading further apart, over his chest, his face.
Over his mouth.
Settling by the sides of his waist.
Beomgyu’s nails dig into his palms.
He must be losing his mind.
It’s downright sinful, the way Yeonjun angles over him, lip caught between teeth, but never enough to suppress a gasp.
Downright sinful, how the dark cotton of his shorts rides up to offer a handful of pale thighs.
Beomgyu’s downright shameless, for grabbing those thighs, velvet-smooth, warm and lightly damp, his hips lifting to the pressure between them.
Beomgyu’s shameless.
Fuck, he is.
Yeonjun slaps his hand away.
“Move an inch”—he presses a palm over Beomgyu’s waistband, the sinking of his stomach—”and you’ll be using your hand tonight.”
Beomgyu’s throat dries.
“Understood?”
He’s said this a hundred times, a hundred different ways, and every time, it bites Beomgyu all the same.
Hard, and aching for more.
Beomgyu lets his muscles loosen under Yeonjun’s nimble fingers.
Nods, like a puppy desperate for treats.
A meal.
The cream of Yeonjun’s thighs, the sweet honey of his neck.
The tenderness of his hips, how they roll slowly against him.
His strawberry-red mouth, the way his hands melt, like candy, on Beomgyu’s waist.
Like he wants him, almost.
Like he’s ready to.
Beomgyu has never stood a chance. In all these years, he hasn't.
When all is said and done, when he’s dried of every drop, he’ll never stand a chance against this beautiful person.
Beomgyu never wants to.
He can keep on falling forever, he thinks, if forever feels like this.
Feels like the softness over him.
Feels like Yeonjun.
Yeonjun palms Beomgyu over his tenting sweatpants.
Beomgyu’s hard, he can at least be sure of that. Dripping, too, just from a little grinding, a bit of slapping. Even squirming from some heavy-handed words.
Two years of sleeping with Beomgyu has inevitably taught him some things.
Like how he bucks against Yeonjun when he presses down on him, reaching for Yeonjun’s thighs or, more often than not, the bare stretch of his ass.
How he hardens, fast, at a flash of nipples, especially underneath loose, light fabrics like Yeonjun’s wearing, likes to see them raised and wet and swollen over — by — his mouth.
Or like how, right now, he’s itching to do something, see something: the veins on the back of his hands bulging, the straining of the apple in his throat. A broken moan. The flushing of his chest, parting of bitten lips. He wants to feel more than this, Yeonjun knows, wants the thrill, the routine. A whiff of familiarity. Cut of peril.
So, Yeonjun provides.
He doesn't miss the heavy gaze Beomgyu fixes him, rising from the wet spot on the latter’s crotch. Doesn't miss the way his hips stutter, the way his breath catches when Yeonjun’s fingers hook into his own waistband. The swallow of his throat, again. Quivering of his lashes. The clenching of his jaw.
Beomgyu, really, is a creature of habit.
Yeonjun’s shorts slide to his knees.
Beomgyu’s going to lose it.
Yeonjun makes it hard, every time.
Yeonjun, floating, like an angel, the shorts caught around an ankle his only tether to the bed.
Yeonjun, luminous against the dark ceiling, staring him down like the devil.
Yeonjun takes his fingers.
He brings two to his lips, hot breath coating each trembling digit, and licks.
Staring into Beomgyu.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Beomgyu fists the sheets.
Without breaking eye contact, Yeonjun dips his head, and closes his lips around his fingers.
Full, red, wet lips.
Sucking on his fingers.
Grazing them with teeth.
Full, wet lips.
Flattening his tongue.
Fuck.
Beomgyu’s going to lose it.
Yeonjun savors his fingers, like candy.
Holds his wrist like it’ll leave him.
Grinds down like a fucking cat in heat.
As if sucking isn't enough, his eyes reddening at the rims not enough, he pulls off Beomgyu’s fingers with a pop, lashes casting shadows over flushed cheeks.
Looking down at Beomgyu.
Trailing his tongue up his fingers.
Then, slowly, gently pressing a kiss to the roughened tips.
Stroking his wrist.
Beomgyu has never stood a chance, really.
He should've known he was bound to lose.
That he already has.
Yeonjun makes it so easy, every time.
Yeonjun makes it all so easy.
Yeonjun leans down again.
He takes three fingers into his mouth, searching Beomgyu’s face for something.
Anything, Beomgyu thinks. Everything.
Beomgyu doesn't remember the last time he closed his eyes.
Eyes, Yeonjun’s, soft, and heavy and watery.
Yeonjun takes more of him, takes him deeper, in the warmth of his mouth, against the glisten and glide of his tongue.
Beomgyu shivers, the lightest press.
A fluttering in the back of Yeonjun’s throat.
The grip on his wrist tightens.
And then Yeonjun’s letting go of him, teeth dragging across his fingers, biting them, coughing, scurrying to take them out of his mouth.
A wetness drips down his fingers.
The first tear drips down Yeonjun’s face.
Beomgyu’s breath hitches.
Fuck, if he doesn't want to press back in.
Yeonjun presses back in.
He takes two this time, the ridges of his throat seeming to learn Beomgyu. Because Beomgyu stays there, a fraction longer than he was able to, before it pushes him out again.
Beomgyu presses back in.
Fuck, fuck, holy fuck.
Beomgyu’s eyes squeeze shut.
The hold on his wrist tightens, locks.
Nails scratch at, and dig into, the skin of his stomach.
But when the mouth around him slackens, and when teeth nip his knuckles, he searches for Yeonjun again.
Yeonjun wants to kill him.
He’s glaring down, fingers still lying across his tongue, drool dribbling down his chin, but he looks like he wants to kill Beomgyu, and for a second, Beomgyu thinks he will.
He does.
Yeonjun lets the thickened saliva slide down Beomgyu’s fingers, the cup of his palm.
Warm, and silvery under the lamplight.
Dripping down his wrist.
Yeonjun’s dripping against him.
Yeonjun.
Beomgyu’s legs kick underneath.
“Didn’t I tell you”—Yeonjun rises from his seat, his shirt soaking through, and his thighs parting slow, shaking, almost imperceptible, sheened, the mole there, the blush—”to stay still?”
The edges of the room seem to blur.
“Did you want to use your hand tonight?” His own kneads Beomgyu’s pants. “Do you want to?”
Beomgyu shakes his head, immediately.
No, he only wants this.
Only this.
Only—
“Good,” Yeonjun says, hips shifting, now hovering over Beomgyu’s lower stomach, delicate legs caging him, light hands falling to Beomgyu’s chest, “because I’ll be needing it.”
this.
Only—only this.
Yeonjun takes his hand again.
Only…
He drags a thumb over his wet fingers, stroking him like silk.
Absolved of the coarseness, the rough.
Only—
Guiding them, reverently, between his legs.
Only, only you.
Yeonjun trembles, the lightest touch.
Only you.
Angel.
Then, he sinks.
It begins as a flicker in Yeonjun’s stomach.
A twisting.
He opens up for Beomgyu easily this way, walls parting to grasp him there. And then: the faintest scratch, a hint of nail. Is it wet enough? But then the fingers slide thick, and warm, easing their way in. Beomgyu eases his way in. And then, he realizes: Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s eyes are holding him open too. Something dark in them, like wine spilled on marble floor. A swirl in the glass. Brimming, risk of stain.
But soon he’s gasping, and forgets. Bites down on his tongue. A moan threatens to pull from him, and he bites that down too. The sting of copper. Beomgyu’s wet mouth, parting on a groan. The timbre of his voice, the raspiness. Eyes claiming his. Is it good enough? He rides harder, to make sure. Beomgyu’s cock stirs. That clothed curve, hot and hard behind him. Against him. His own, dripping on Beomgyu’s shirt. Still covered by the soaked fabric. Soaking Beomgyu, tainting him. Hardening. Feels good enough. Beomgyu’s fingers press in, and in, and in. Around, and in, and never at it, never where he thinks it must be. A burn he can't cool, can't douse. Am I still good enough?
Beomgyu must've read through him.
He moves a hand to Yeonjun’s waist, tracing lines under his shirt, warm against warm skin.
Move an inch, and you’ll be using your hand tonight.
And grips enough to bruise.
His fingers fuck in. Yeonjun scrambles, at the wrinkling sheets, at Beomgyu’s heaving chest. Fucking in. Beomgyu’s wine-dark eyes, spilling into his own. Intoxicating, and ripe, and raw. Black currants. Did he drink? The acrid rusts his tongue, torches the tip. Fucking in. Beomgyu fucks in, carves another home there, another space to hold him. Holding his eyes, cherry-bitten lips. When was the last—? He feels him curve in. His lungs strain. The swelling, the burning, the deepening of Beomgyu’s musk. Beomgyu builds a rhythm. A warning. Sweat slides between them, cool and binding. Yeonjun presses down again on Beomgyu's stomach, ceasing the grinding of his own hips, of the tightening and taking of his body. A pinch on the damp skin. The message is clear. Move, and I’ll stop.
Beomgyu must've known.
Beomgyu doesn't stop.
If anything, he fucks him harder. The copper trickles down Yeonjun’s throat. Beomgyu’s fucking him harder, spreading him apart, driving him down his long, thick, brutal fingers. Heat spreads under his skin, and the slap, the squelch, with it. Sharp, sweeping, slamming against the walls. Beomgyu’s not letting up until he gets what he wants, not letting go until he’s bruised his skin, Beomgyu’s fucking him until he understands, and Yeonjun’s going to come on his stomach like he’s coming from his first high because his body likes it. His body likes it so much.
Salt crawls onto his tongue.
He can't.
He can't understand.
Beomgyu won't let him go, at least that, he knows. A rise, and he’s tugged down. A twist of his body, and he’s pinned against the sheets. A strangled cry, and it makes Beomgyu all the harder. So he fumbles for the phrase, the wall he built not long ago. Move an inch… Move an inch, and— But the words cut his tongue, crumble into the hollow of his throat. But he hauls them back up, hoists them by the dust. But then, failing to free them, he flings them aside, somewhere in the room, somewhere by his pile of clothes, fetching new ones, finding new ones. Failing again.
Yeonjun feels the second tear fall.
Feels Beomgyu’s eyes on him.
The catch of his breath.
Beomgyu’s grip softens.
Move an inch…
He lifts. Finds Beomgyu’s wrist, unsteadily. Still, and soft. Looks at him, and breathes, and breathes again.
“Lube,” he manages. “Stay here.”
But he knows Beomgyu won't. That, as he rises, soaked, from Beomgyu’s stomach, Beomgyu will stir again. That, as he crawls, on the bed, toward the nightstand just in reach, Beomgyu will look over, and see his naked buttocks, and stir some more. That when he draws the drawer open, and searches for the lube, some condoms, he’ll hear a rustling behind him, feel a rush of hot air. Then he is pinned from behind, and pressed against a pillow, and fucked raw, and opened.
He feels nothing.
Beomgyu is lying on the same spot, nursing his neglected cock. He’s not looking at him, not even turning his head in his direction.
It flickers again, that thing inside.
Yeonjun shuts the drawer hard. Beomgyu turns around.
“I’m not in the mood anymore,” he tosses out, pulling the covers over him. “Get out.”
The look on Beomgyu’s face as he sits up is so colorful Yeonjun can't begin to find the words to paint it.
“Hyung,” Beomgyu rasps, the outline of his pants soaking through. “You promised.”
“You have a hand, don't you?” Yeonjun crosses his arms. “Use it.”
“You used it,” Beomgyu mutters, looking away.
“What was that?”
“I said I’ll use it.” Beomgyu frowns, almost a pout. “But…” His fingers trace the covers, Yeonjun’s ankle under. Drumming across the gooseflesh. Featherlight. “You feel better.”
“Wha— What do you think you’re doing?”
“You feel the best.” His tone drops, fingers trailing further upward: Yeonjun’s calf, his tingling knee. “You see,” he drawls on, shifting higher on the bed, pressing along the covers, along Yeonjun’s still-damp thighs, and finding— ”my hand can't do this.”
A moan escapes Yeonjun, the first tonight.
“Can’t make pretty sounds like this.” He presses harder on Yeonjun, finds the edge of his pleasure.
Yeonjun shuts his eyes.
Beomgyu strokes upwards, over the contours of his stomach, the peak of his nipples. Thumbing them through the fabric. “Can’t make me weak like this.”
Another gasp pulls from him before he can swallow it.
The fingers dance up, up, up, over his racing chest, his loosening shoulders, collarbones. Lingering at the swallow of his throat. Over his neck, thrumming, arching into the touch.
“Can’t be this beautiful.” The fingers stop by his lips.
Yeonjun’s eyes spring open.
Beomgyu traces his lips, the curve of his jaw.
The lobe of his ear, the silver hanging from it.
In all this spill of gold in the dark, Beomgyu drinks him in like the sun.
Yeonjun pushes him.
“Hyung—”
“Strip.”
Then, when he stiffens, Yeonjun shoves him against the pillows. Clutches Beomgyu’s collar, the crimson of his rising chest. Leans over him.
“Do you need me to do it for you?”
Beomgyu exhales sharp. Coiling, dark, hot against Yeonjun’s lips. A hairsbreadth. Black currants, the aftertaste of tannin. Cherry-bitten lips. Show me, hyung. Yeonjun seizes. Shrinks back, digs his heels into the bed. Is it different?
This is different. Beomgyu grasps him, grips his wrist. Pulls him to his chest. Eyes into him, him only. Water pouring over rocks, clear and cool as springs. Invading. Different. Yeonjun’s breath catches, pulls free. Twisting his wrist. Burning his knees into the mattress. The cold brushes his waist. But Beomgyu gathers him, cups him close. But he pulls the hand off, finds Beomgyu’s shoulder to avoid the fall. But Beomgyu seizes him, draws both of his arms; Beomgyu catches the frantic spill of his limbs.
Beomgyu catches him.
All of him.
This close, their breaths touch, almost, to the tremor of his lungs.
Ceaseless as springs, and gentlest still.
Different.
“Let me—” His words break against Beomgyu’s lips. “Let me go righ—”
Beomgyu swallows them with a kiss.
Beomgyu kisses him like the first time.
The second, the third — fuck, the last, even.
Fuck it.
Fuck it, all of it.
Beomgyu kisses Yeonjun, and he kisses him hard. Hand grabbing his neck, crushing their lips into moans. Grazing his bottom lip with his tongue, searching for the sweetness in his mouth. Then finding it, feasting on it, on Yeonjun’s whimpers, on his loosening tongue, on his hand tugging Beomgyu’s hair. On his attempts of pushing Beomgyu away, and of reeling him back in.
Fuck all of it.
His hands travel down Yeonjun’s body, tightens around his waist. Waist that molds perfectly into his touch, warming beneath his palm. Waist he’s held so many times, wanted to mark so many times. That stage, those fragile strings. Smooth, honeyed. Like candy. Then, still, reaching downwards: Yeonjun’s hips, the give of fat over muscle, the round of his buttocks, the softness, the swell. Squeezing them, kneading them, spreading them apart.
Fuck, he’ll never get enough.
Yeonjun moans into his mouth, a guttural sound.
Eyes squeezed shut, hips grinding against him.
He clings to Beomgyu this way: a hand behind his neck, another scratching his scalp. Their clothed cocks brushing against each other, precum soaking his pants. Yeonjun’s hard. Yeonjun wants this. He wants me. Yeonjun, who’s sucking lightly on his tongue, chasing more of his lips, raking a restless hand through his hair. Yeonjun-hyung wants me. As if Beomgyu would never give this to him again, as if he wouldn't allow Yeonjun to devour him flesh, blood, and bones if he asked. As if he’d dissolve, as if he'd ever fucking leave.
Yeonjun pulls away.
Beomgyu pulls him back in.
He devours him, pressing to his face, melding them as though with hot glue. How would hyung like it if I never leave? Nipping his bottom lip, biting it, then, when Yeonjun parts wider, slipping in, sucking on the dew of his tongue. How would he like it if I stayed inside him forever? But he feels Yeonjun shoving him, digging into his shoulders. He feels Yeonjun trembling, moaning, hooking into his waistband. Fisting his hair. And then, heavy, rushed pants. And then: a squeeze on his dick.
Beomgyu groans.
“Are you— Are you trying to—kill me?” Yeonjun’s glaring at him, scratching at him, his ears and face flushed. Lips swollen, glistening. Bleeding.
A line of red drips down the edge of his mouth.
Beomgyu licks it away.
Copper, flowering.
Him.
And before Yeonjun can tell him off again, his mouth is back on him: his sharp chin, his jaw, the quickening pulse of his throat. Grazing on the skin there, too, grazing with his teeth like a mad dog, like a starved animal, trying to sink into the vein, to rip it into nothing but the stubborn shreds of his name.
The rawness of Yeonjun’s whimper sends shivers through his body.
He licks down to the base of his neck, then, the sweet spot he has eaten of so many times, tasted so many nights, drank in many moans from Yeonjun when he kissed it, played it, licked it, hard — and sucks.
Yeonjun’s nails sink into his nape.
Beomgyu sucks even harder.
But he won't let him cry so easily. No, Beomgyu has to earn it. Yeonjun’s tears are as precious as the rest of him: the longer he’s strung, the sweeter he cries. So Beomgyu only licks the spot to soothe the redness, the bite, before pressing a chaste kiss to it.
He kisses Yeonjun again.
One hand begins to work over his clothed nipple.
“Baby,” he starts, absentmindedly, in between this soft succession of kisses, “can I take this off?”
It’s only when Yeonjun’s lips stop moving against his that he realizes what he called him.
Baby.
In the past, during their intense couplings, Yeonjun allowed him to call him anything he pleased, encouraging him to say it at the height of the moment. Beomgyu understood that to mean endearments: — anyone would — he could finally call Yeonjun my baby, sweetheart, or, his favorite, love. But once, after a particularly passionate night in which he had used love for the first time, Yeonjun, tossing him his clothes, clarified that what he meant was Beomgyu could use any actual names of living people he pleased. Maybe Yeonjun had had enough, then. Maybe he just disliked love.
But Beomgyu didn't understand; he pressed on. Yeonjun pushed him away again. Beomgyu pulled him close. So he explained, in Beomgyu's arms, avoiding his eyes: Beomgyu could call him the names of people he liked. He could call him the name of, say, a friend he had a thing for, wanted to sleep with. He could even imagine them in his place, if it got him off quicker.
Beomgyu couldn't imagine that. Hell, he couldn't even think of anyone but Yeonjun. So, he asked: why? Why did he think so low of Beomgyu? Did Beomgyu not show him enough, did he not make Yeonjun understand enough? Was he not enough?
Yeonjun didn't answer.
Looking back at it now, it was Beomgyu who didn't understand.
“Baby.” The name leaves his mouth softer, clearer. “Baby, can I take your shirt off?”
Yeonjun only stares at him.
“Guess that’s a ‘yes’,” he says, reaching down to pull over the hem of Yeonjun’s white shirt.
Only when the shirt is halfway off does Yeonjun respond by gripping his arm.
“Your clothes,” he rasps, palming Beomgyu’s chest. Looking at him. “Take them off.”
Beomgyu pulls Yeonjun’s shirt free.
Immediately, he curls into Beomgyu’s arms, seeking, it seems, his warmth. But Beomgyu would never deny him that; he would never deny him anything. So he splays a hand across Yeonjun’s back, rubs the shivers from his skin. So he pulls him close, until all he can breathe in is the minted lavender from his shoulder, the cinnamon from his hair. Until he’s breathing heavily against the shell of his ear, until he’s pressing into the tender crook of his neck.
“I said,” Yeonjun says, gripping his shoulders, pushing him away, “take off your clothes.”
Beomgyu’s only a man.
He really is only one, when it comes to Yeonjun.
He flips them around.
From this angle, knees sinking into the mattress, he can hold all of Yeonjun.
Breathless, and red.
He can hold all of him — from the tousled caramel of his hair; to the mole under his right eye; to the sharpness of his nose; the crimson plushness of his lips; to the dimple of his chin; the violet at the base of his neck; to the moles around his nipple, dark and stippling; to the narrow of his navel; to the heart-shaped mark below it, and on his hipbone; to the flush of his cock… sweet, dripping on his stomach; the sheen of his inner thighs; his shapely, blushing knees; his slender calves; delicate ankles; the tips of his toes… — and not spill any of it.
An angel.
Really, he must've been, in the past.
But, in this moment, he’s as human as can be, as Yeonjun as he can be.
The Yeonjun Beomgyu can hold, can touch.
Beomgyu thinks there's nothing better than that.
Nothing better than this.
Than him.
A darkness unfurls in his stomach as he does it, a bottomless, all-consuming, ravenous darkness: his restless hands parting Yeonjun’s legs, his trembling limbs discarding his own shirt, his pants off. His aching length rubbing against Yeonjun’s thigh, against Yeonjun’s flushed cock. His aching mouth dipping down to capture a raised nipple, circling it, sucking it. Like candy. Yeonjun’s moan, the fingers in his hair, behind his ear. Yeonjun.
Hunger still brooding, still unsatiated, he latches onto the left, the sweetness of Yeonjun’s gasp bursting on his tongue. He licks at it, small, savoring licks at first. But, growing hungrier, the darkness solidifying, he bites around it, nipping it, taking it in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue — until Yeonjun's shaking in his grasp, until he has to push Beomgyu off.
All-consuming.
“But I’m not done yet,” he whispers in Yeonjun’s ear. “I’m not done ye—”
“I am.” And he feels himself shoved into the sheets.
Yeonjun’s straddling him now, eyes heavy and dark. Hands rubbing their cocks together, roughing them together, tracing a sensitive vein on his length. A finger spreading the precum on his slit, precum not his wetting it, wetting him. Working him, over and over, down and down, up and above. Slicking them, rubbing them. Stroking them together.
Beomgyu can't help the moan that leaves his mouth.
Yeonjun strokes them faster.
Wetter.
Harder.
His bitten lips.
Fuck.
When did he say he was done?
“Wha—” And Yeonjun is pushed against the sheets again, eyes widened, lips parted and glistening. A pinch in his brows.
“I said I’m not done yet, hyung.” The voice sounds foreign to his ears. Miles, and miles away. Flooding in. “I want to come inside you.”
He believes, for a moment, that Yeonjun will finally let him, that Yeonjun’s grip on the sheets will slacken. That he’ll part his legs wider, so Beomgyu can prepare him, and ease him, and fuck him well into the morning. That Yeonjun will listen to him, that Yeonjun will listen at all.
Beomgyu’s thrown against the sheets again.
Yeonjun looks down on him, nails raking his stomach, his face impassive as can be.
Looking down on him.
Grinding down on him.
Smiling.
The darkness in his stomach begins to puncture the flesh.
An incising of sinew, a cleaving of bones.
Beomgyu gives in.
Yeonjun’s stomach hits the bed.
He feels a rush of hot air behind him.
Before he can process it, before he can lift his cheek pressed into a pillow again, two strong hands drive the breath from his lungs.
Bearing down on his back.
Hot, weighted.
Beomgyu.
“Next time,” he leans in, breath hot and dark against Yeonjun’s nape, “learn to listen properly.” A click of his tongue. “Hyung.”
Yeonjun’s breath stutters.
“You know,” he continues, a hand running down his waist, his hips, “I want to give you what you want, right?”
He doesn't have to see Beomgyu to know the clench of his jaw.
Yeonjun tries to turn his head around. “What do you mean what I want? I don't—”
A heavy slap lands on his right hip.
Yeonjun seizes.
“This.” Beomgyu kneads the stinging spot with his broad hand. “This was what you wanted, wasn't it?”
What he wanted.
No, he didn't.
He’d never—
He didn't—
Another slap lands on the back of his thigh.
“You’re not listening, hyung.” Beomgyu tuts. “You know I don't like that.”
Yeonjun’s breath catches.
His cock is aching against the sheets, a blinding flash of strain, with Beomgyu’s hands pressing him down.
More than anything, he wants to escape.
So he forces the words out, a hard scratch in his throat. “I didn't… I didn't want that, ah—”
Fuck.
He should've just stayed quiet.
The harshest slap yet lands on his ass.
The grip on his waist tightens impossibly.
“I hate it most when you lie, do you know that?” A hard nip, a bite, on his nape. Yeonjun’s cry is muffled against the pillow. “Fuck, you know that.”
He shakes, and shakes again.
A thickening pools in the depths of his stomach.
Again, and again.
His limbs sink against their will, into the cotton sheets, against Beomgyu’s burning hands, under his torso.
Yeonjun knows.
Yeonjun knows; that's the worst part.
The tears that follow are only consequential.
“Can I eat you up?” Beomgyu licks at the bite, kisses the expanse of his shoulder. “Can I eat all of you?”
He must be drunk, Yeonjun thinks. Yeonjun must've missed the taste of alcohol, when he kissed him.
He must've really swallowed the tang of black currants, held the acrid of it on his tongue. He must've mistaken the sharpness of it in his throat, for all the blood mixed in.
He must've—must’ve been wrong.
“Hyung, can I have all of you?” Beomgyu kisses the shell of his ear.
Yeonjun trembles, the barest shift.
“Not just tonight.”
His breath slows.
Beomgyu pulls away, his kisses stopped.
Cold air floods in.
Beomgyu.
“Not just tonight, hyung.”
Not just tonight.
Beomgyu’s grip on him loosens.
Yeonjun breathes, and breathes again.
He turns around.
Beomgyu’s eyes are drinking him in, watching for the slightest change.
An answer.
An answer, which he has yet to know.
Yet to understand.
Yet he decides to give him one, anyway.
He takes Beomgyu’s hand.
Places it over his own chest. Over that pulse inside him, the thrumming of his blood.
Over his racing heart.
In the almost three decades he has been alive, Yeonjun has never known stillness.
This time, he’s beginning to understand.
He closes his hand over Beomgyu’s, then. Drinks in the redness of his eyes, the dark and light in it, as much as he wants, as much as he thinks he needs.
As much as Beomgyu can give him.
Risk of stain.
He remembers the black currants, the wine spilled. The trickling of blood in his throat, the copper of it between their tongues.
And brimming more.
He remembers the taste of strawberry, and sugar, between clumsy lips, clacking teeth. The waft of black tea from a forgotten cup. The coldness of the countertop against his back.
Holding him open.
He remembers the gentle hands on his waist, guiding him to music. Music, from their lungs. The narrowness of the practice room, despite being so wide. So bright.
A burn he can't cool.
A burn he can't douse.
So he feeds it, instead. He takes the fuel, the hardness inside, the coals. He feeds it, he stokes it, he kindles it; he lights it all up.
He burns it all down.
Ceaseless as springs.
He plants his feet on either side of Beomgyu.
Gentlest still.
And opens himself to him.
Immediately, Beomgyu descends on his lips in a rush of heat and breath, of tongue and teeth. Salt finds its way onto his tongue, again. But he welcomes it, this time — he savors it between his teeth, down his parched throat; he laves at the life-giving sweetness of Beomgyu’s mouth.
Not just tonight.
Beomgyu pulls away first. He lets him. Yeonjun caresses the angle of his jaw, the prickle of his chin. He trails down the knob of his throat, the broad slope of his shoulders. And, still, his flushed chest, the hardness of his nipples, the soft give of his stomach.
It’s when Beomgyu strokes him that he realizes how wound up he is.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, fingers trailing down Yeonjun’s length, then further down his— “Love.”
Yeonjun bites on his moan instinctively.
Beomgyu pauses. Leans in, dragging a coarse thumb across Yeonjun’s lip. “I want to hear you.”
Yeonjun’s first thought is to shake his head, keep biting his lip. But he remembers: the strawberry, the wine. The salt on his tongue. His hands stop in their tracks, then. And, slowly, he parts his mouth, and breathes, and breathes again.
Beomgyu presses a gentle kiss to it.
Not just tonight.
He lets himself fall into the feeling. Fall into the sensations, eyes closing. No clear destination, no carved-out path. Violet, ardency, their aftermath. He lets himself spill all over Beomgyu’s warm hands. The familiar click of a bottle through the room, through his ribs. He lets Beomgyu spread him wider, raise his hips. A damp hand splayed underneath. He lets himself overflow, at the risk of stain; he lets Beomgyu kiss him again.
The first finger has him clenching immediately. That shouldn’t be; he’s just been worked open. But he feels the stuttering of his lungs again, a last sizzle into the depths he’s swimming in. But he meets Beomgyu’s soft gaze, and realizes it’s safe to sink. The second finger, then, enters with less resistance. Beomgyu, however, doesn't add a third as fast. With light touches, he coats Yeonjun inside with a kind of warmth the viscous, cool liquid shouldn't have. It’s psychological, Yeonjun thinks. Metaphorical, even. But the deeper Beomgyu works him, the deeper the warmth threads through his limbs, his skin. High, yet low, it flows. High, like the color of Beomgyu’s chest. Low, like the breaths between them.
When the third finger enters him, Yeonjun grabs Beomgyu’s hand. Beomgyu stares, presses on. Are you sure?
Yeonjun’s instinct is to nod. Yes, I’ve never been surer. But he stills, and thinks, and finds truer words. “I want to feel you better.”
Beomgyu captures his lips in a kiss.
They’ve done this a hundred times, and more. They’ve kissed each other harder, explored each other rougher — they often did. I’m just curious, it had first been, when Beomgyu knocked on his door like this, two years ago, after the kiss in the kitchen. Is it really that different?
Yeonjun should've dismissed him, reiterated he was his hyung. Lied that he wasn't his type. Should’ve told him the consequences, if the others were to find out; if they ever crossed this second, grave line. But Yeonjun didn't, and he didn't answer him. He chose to show him instead. Because how would Beomgyu know, if he didn't try? Because how else could Yeonjun have responded, when he had never, either?
Together, in each other, they found themselves.
The next time, it was to find out more. Beomgyu had been surer, then, in his movements, in his kisses and touches. Yeonjun had stayed the same: quiet, stiff, a bowstring pulled taut, dreading its release. Then, the third: Beomgyu just wanted to be sure, wanted to confirm the tenderness, the hard lines of men that differed from those of women. Then the fourth, a bit more certainty, of what pleasure looked like on another, how deep he could find it in Yeonjun. The fifth, a deeper confirmation. Sixth, shower sex. Seventh, a blowjob. Eighth, and ninth, and all the way to the thirtieth, all the way to… Yeonjun’s long since stopped counting.
Am I still good enough?
He doesn't know, nor understand. But if there's a certainty, it’s this:
even after learning deeply of Beomgyu, Yeonjun still wants to learn more.
To discover more.
A spring he wants to sink forever into.
Beomgyu.
“It’s okay,” a deep, warm voice reassures him. “It’s okay.”
It's only then he realizes that the head of Beomgyu’s length is pressing against his entrance, loosened though he is, but he's clenching too tight to let him in.
Too thick.
Yeonjun breathes, and breathes again, and giggles, a little.
He wraps his arms around Beomgyu’s neck.
And welcomes him.
Beomgyu sinks in.
Fuck.
He could do this a hundred times more, a thousand times more. Forever more, he’s sure, given the chance.
Yeonjun’s shuddering, in his grasp, with his hands around his neck. He’s clinging to his lips, sucking him in, holding him there.
Beomgyu kisses him with as much fervor.
Below, Yeonjun’s holding him in, too. The slide is easy, and warm, but Beomgyu slows; Yeonjun’s trembling, and Beomgyu thinks he is, too.
When he finally buries himself inside fully, Beomgyu pulls away from the kiss.
Yeonjun’s crying.
Beomgyu kisses him again. Love, he breathes in between. Love, my love, he says, and kisses the corner of his eyes, and kisses him again.
Yeonjun breaks away.
He traces Beomgyu’s lips with his brimming eyes, wet lashes, and touches a kiss to them.
I want to feel you better.
So, Beomgyu gives.
He secures Yeonjun’s thighs in his arms properly, and, before moving, looks into him again. “I want to hear you more, love.”
Then, he thrusts in.
Yeonjun’s unbridled moan is music to his ears as he finds a familiar rhythm in his body, a rhythm joined by the creaking of the bed and the slapping of their hips against each other. Softer, he thinks. Gentler, he wants. But Yeonjun’s heat is enveloping him with every slide, gripping him with every drag along his smooth, tight walls. Yeonjun’s sucking him in, molding around him; Yeonjun’s grasping his cock with each temporary slide out, as if he’d ever leave. As if he’d ever want to leave.
Despite himself, a darkness unfurls, again, in his stomach, in the pit of it, crawling back out, crawling out again.
How deep can I reach inside him?
Yeonjun bucks his hips, eyes wide and glassy, eyes flicking up at him, waiting.
I want to feel you better.
Beomgyu fucks him better. Faster, surer, shallower, at first. He sinks in, a succession of thrusts that leave in only the tip of his cock, that swallow it, clamp around it, that leave him seeking more inside Yeonjun’s hot, tight body, that leave Yeonjun moaning and gasping and grasping the sheets under him with his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Fuck, he curses under his breath. He can do this forever. He can fuck Yeonjun this hard, this fast, forever.
Yeonjun’s thighs quiver in his hold.
He pulls out, and squeezes his thigh, as tender as he can.
Yeonjun’s eyes flick up at him.
He holds his legs this time, securely. Shifts closer so that the tip of his cock, leaking harder than it ever has tonight, presses against Yeonjun’s entrance. Wetting him, soaking him.
Yeonjun’s anticipating gaze.
Angel.
Yeonjun lifts his own legs.
And spreads them back, reverently, for Beomgyu.
Beomgyu bends down immediately. A moan rips from Yeonjun’s mouth as Beomgyu folds him in half and enters him again in one smooth slide. The sinful stretch, the blissful tears on his cheeks. Beomgyu licks the salt away. Down Yeonjun’s cheek, down his heavy, parted, red lips. Down his chin, the point of it against his tongue. Down Yeonjun’s throat, the juncture where it meets his marked neck. Don't leave any, Yeonjun would warn him. I’ll kill you. So Beomgyu bites into the dip again. So he sucks on the honeyed skin, on Yeonjun’s delicious cries, of pleasure, and of overwhelming, succeeding pain. Of their pain. He bites hard, and fucks him hard, and with every snap of his hips against his they’re jolted up the sheets, up the pillows. Up somewhere, up and far beyond here.
He chases their pleasure, then. He sinks into the heat, into the sensation of his cock disappearing into Yeonjun’s body. Of Yeonjun’s cock pressed between them, hard, dripping on his stomach. He allows himself to take him as they both want, as they’ve been waiting for since earlier. He lets himself take, and take, and take. And give in, give in to him.
He lets his mouth fall to Yeonjun’s forehead, the gentlest. Lets it kiss the furrow, the sheen across. He lets himself suck on the dip of his neck again. Feed on Yeonjun’s unadulterated moans, on his shivers. He lets himself feel for him. Perfectly rubs that spot, he thinks, when a new flavor of spasm greets him under. He lets himself graze past that spot harder, certain now. Remembering the exact roll of hips, the exact length and pace of strokes to leave Yeonjun trembling, to draw out from him the sweetest cries.
He isn’t unaffected, either. Yeonjun’s swallowing his cock like it's the only sustenance he needs. Milking it root to tip, so that he has no choice but to set a merciless rhythm, no choice but to bite down hard on Yeonjun's collarbone. And Yeonjun whines, cries of something with Beomgyu’s name mixed in. Beomgyu thrusts faster. Harder. Erratic. Relentless. He can't feel his lungs. That addictive ring of muscle, pulling him in, squeezing him. Clinging to him. How Yeonjun grips him with every slide out. The desire to fill him with himself only. His cock. His cum. To watch himself leak out of Yeonjun, to see himself drip down his thighs. How deep can I fill him? The thought spurs him on. How much can he take? Stretching him out, fucking him deeper. Beomgyu fucks him deeper. Yeonjun cries out, bites Beomgyu's lip. He trembles under, and shakes, and cries again. Looking up at Beomgyu. Eyes glassy and pleading. Gentler, Beomgyu thinks. Slower, he warns himself. But one hard clench and a lift of Yeonjun's hips to meet his thrust and he's gone. So fucking good. So fucking pretty. Yeonjun's tears, the glisten of his lips. How they chase after his, how he cradles Beomgyu's face. How his lips part on the loudest moan yet and his nails scratch down Beomgyu’s nape and his hands pull him in closer. How Beomgyu’s hips stutter, at the feel of him clenching, tightening. How he finds Yeonjun’s mouth again, drinking him in, his thrusts growing frantic, hungrier. Desperate. Despite Yeonjun's cries, despite the shaking of the thighs under his arms.
When he feels a warm wetness between their stomachs, Beomgyu spills inside.
Fuck.
Yeonjun cries into his mouth.
Beomgyu kisses him.
Beomgyu kisses him, again.
A white-hot pleasure finds him below.
A heavenly ecstasy, even.
But Yeonjun’s tears and the digging of his nails into his skin fill him like nothing else.
Yeonjun places his legs on the bed again.
He’s searching for something in Beomgyu’s face, again.
But Beomgyu already knows, and wraps Yeonjun’s legs around his waist.
I want to feel you better.
He stays there, for a fraction of forever.
Kissing Yeonjun.
Spilling everything he has to give.
Hooking him in.
Lining them up.
Sinking in.
Yeonjun doesn't remember how many times they’ve gone at it tonight. Or what tonight is, or if it's even just become night.
One moment, Beomgyu’s licking a stripe up his tense stomach, sucking on his nipples, almost biting through the skin. Sucking new marks onto his neck, his throat. Sucking all over.
The next, he’s slamming into him from behind, pulling him flush against his cock. A hand stroking him. His head pressing into the sheets, limbs threatening to sink. To succumb. To spill. He feels himself being split open. Carved open. He's going to die, he thinks. He's going to bleed. He feels himself being stretched, filled. Fucked. A continuous cycle.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Beomgyu moans, in his ear. "You feel the best." Coming for what seems to be the hundredth time, the thousandth time. His walls involuntarily milking Beomgyu of his seed, of every warm, sweet drop, trickling out, trickling down. Being stained, inside. Crying out, screaming out. "Love," slipping past his own lips. "Don't stop."
Beomgyu stills, against his back. The hold on his waist softens. Loosens. Yeonjun stiffens. Then, he feels himself being turned over. Beomgyu's eyes, unblinking, glistening. His hands, trembling. The knot in his throat. So he searches for it again, finds it again. He says it again. "Love." My love. The ceaseless fluttering, the gentlest pulsing, inside. "Please."
Beomgyu kisses him. Beomgyu kisses him so deep, so soft, so gentle, he feels his own flesh parting to hold all of him. He's never coming down from here, he knows. Never coming down from the deep, final thrusts inside him, never coming down from the softness of their kisses, the salt of tears between. Never coming down from this litany of love.
Then, the third, another blur. An hour, or two, or three. Their gentleness fermented, pressed. He's on Beomgyu's lap. Hands falling onto Beomgyu's chest, riding him dry, the slap of their skin shamelessly filling the room. Shamelessly moaning at the way his body stretches around Beomgyu. At Beomgyu's hands kneading, spreading his ass. Pinching his nipples. His dark gaze. Love, in it. The sinking. The stimulating, encompassing numbness. It's impossible, evading this pleasure. It's impossible, with the thickness inside. Is it possible to have a dick this—? He moans, unrestrained. Impossible, with Beomgyu's hands pulling him close. Deeper. Body falling over, as Yeonjun lets go, as his legs finally give out. As he gives in. As Beomgyu thrusts up and undoes him all over again.
The fourth, Beomgyu’s between his legs, sucking him off, draining him of every cum, of every cry his hoarse throat can still draw out. Fingers digging into his thighs. Fingers he sucked, fingers he rode, fingers that fucked him open. Yeonjun pushes him down. He bucks into the heat of Beomgyu's mouth, of the hollowing of his cheeks. Lets himself sink into it. Into his welcoming mouth, his pliant tongue. Into him. When Yeonjun feels the twisting again, he pulls off, tries to push Beomgyu's head off. Beomgyu holds his hips down. And then he spills, and convulses, and spills into the warmth of Beomgyu's throat. The red mouth stretched around him.
The fifth, which is right now, he’s the one between Beomgyu’s legs, knees sinking into the pillow on the hardwood floor. He’s feeling tears well up again from the big cock stretching his lips, the tearing sensation at the corner of his mouth. The stretching of his upper lip over the blunt of teeth. A welcome pain. A craving, even. But Beomgyu is too thick; he can't take him inside his mouth for long. He strokes the remaining length, instead. He licks at the tender spot under the head, where a fat, protruding vein branches down the middle. Beomgyu hisses. He looks up at him, as oblivious as he can make himself seem. Beomgyu curses and curls into his hair. He turns his kisses to the heavy head instead, flushed and dribbling. Sucking on the crown, tongueing the slit. A finger tracing the prominent vein. Then, a hand cupping Beomgyu’s heavy sack. Beomgyu jolts, fists his hair. Yeonjun takes him deeper. Then, he taps Beomgyu’s thigh. Beomgyu looks down at him, thumbs his lip. Are you sure? But the answer is the same.
Beomgyu presses his head down.
And thrusts in.
Yeonjun chokes. At the sudden thickness, the sudden pressure against the roof of his mouth, his tongue. He’s still hard, the thought rushes in. He’s still fucking hard. The tears start to drip down his face, and he can't breathe properly, and he tries to ignore the shameful state he's in. But his own cock is hardening, swelling, again. No, he won't rut against the pillow. No, he’ll just relieve himself afterward. But Beomgyu’s hand is forcing his head down with every brutal thrust, and the huge cock fucking and leaking into his throat tastes as salty as his tears. He touches himself, shamefully. He strokes himself in time with the thrusts into his shameless, eager throat, strokes himself to the string of curses leaving Beomgyu’s mouth. How many—? But Beomgyu’s fucking into him, and fucking fast. Until all he can feel is the coiling in his own stomach, until all he can feel is the stuttering of Beomgyu’s hips.
Warmth spills down his throat.
He comes in his own hand.
Beomgyu gently pulls him off.
And then he’s sinking, again, somewhere. Love, in his ears. My love. A brush of hair from his temples, a soft kiss to his cheek, his forehead. Beomgyu. Beomgyu takes him again, on the bed. And lets him fall into his arms, and breathe in his deep musk, and breathe again.
The sun is spilling through the sheer curtains when Beomgyu finds Yeonjun smiling down at him.
His breath stops, for a moment.
“Am I dreaming?” The question tumbles out of him before he can chase it down.
“You’re in the afterlife.” Yeonjun’s propped-up elbow burrows into the sheets. “Even though you killed me.”
His fingers, his lips, Yeonjun’s tears…
“Are you sure?” Beomgyu chuckles, propping against an elbow on his side too. “Last night, you took me like a—”
Smack.
Yeonjun hits him hard.
On his hip.
“Is this payback?” Beomgyu rubs at the spot. Yeonjun falls beside him. “Are you still mad at me?”
Yeonjun doesn't grace him with an answer.
Instead, he settles into the pillows, and looks at the ceiling, and sighs.
“I don't know if you’re staying because you want to,” he starts, eyes fixed on the plaster, “or because you don't have anywhere to go.”
“I mean—” he continues, “We've tried everything.”
Still continuing, “Scratch that. Stupid. This isn't normal.”
And, still continuing, “What if— What if they—? What if we don't work ou—"
Beomgyu shuts him with a kiss.
He kisses him, and he kisses him deep, swallowing the rest of his words, the hesitation in his throat.
My love.
When he pulls away, Yeonjun stares at him, eyes wide and mouth red and cheeks prettily flushed.
“What was that?” Beomgyu asks, and he can't help the smile, the lightness inside.
Yeonjun doesn't answer.
“If you want to know, though,” he answers instead, “I do have somewhere to go, hyung.”
Yeonjun swallows.
“Even if I don't,” Beomgyu continues, “I’d still return to him.”
He meets Yeonjun’s eyes.
The softness in them.
The gentleness.
He knows he’ll fall forever, and that forever’s a long way to fall.
He knows, very well.
With Yeonjun, though, it doesn't feel impossible.
With Yeonjun, it feels like breathing.
“Come here.” A gentleness breaks across the distance.
Yeonjun.
“Come here, dummy.”
Meanwhile…
“Do you think it’s safe to go back?” Kai bites into his second egg tart. “I mean, it’s almost noon.”
“They could be having sex in the living room.” Taehyun switches through the channels on the television. “Or the kitchen.”
“You already used up ‘morning sex’,” Soobin says, walking over to the couch with a bowl of colorful, assorted candies.
“Noon sex, then.”
“Afternoon too?” Kai laughs, crumbs falling to the carpet. “Are they doing it for a whole day?”
“Did you see what they did on stage yesterday?” Taehyun puts down the remote. “We’ll be lucky if it's only a day.”
“Hm.” Soobin settles into the cushions.
“Something on your mind, hyung?” Kai turns.
Something.
Soobin thinks back, to that something. There had been a something, once, too.
He thinks back to when he had asked Yeonjun in the kitchen, three years ago, on a breezy spring day in March, when nothing was wrong, but nothing was really right. To Yeonjun’s scrunched-up face, his soft hands as they pulled away, gently, from his. To his words, after.
I can't.
I already like someone else.
Something.
“Nothing,” he returns. “This candy's too sweet, I think.”