“You’re awfully difficult to find.”
When Yeonjun looks up, he’s greeted by a Sleeping with Sirens t-shirt pressed right into his face. He knows who it is — that shirt had belonged to him at some point. When his eyes travel further up, he’s greeted by a scowling Beomgyu. “I didn’t realize you were looking for me.” Yeonjun can’t help but tease. There's a buzz in his ear and his mouth feels like cotton – the kind of feeling you get with sleep deprivation. It's either that, or there's too much alcohol in his system for how early the night still is.
Beomgyu’s scowl worsens. It’s amusing to Yeonjun, who was supposed to be his plus one. They were supposed to go together, but Beomgyu had ditched and said he was going to be late. How is it any of Yeonjun’s business if Beomgyu can’t find him after? “Fine. Be that way.” Beomgyu huffs, turning around hot on his heels.
His hand reaches out before his mouth can form the younger’s name on his tongue, fingers closing and clasping around his slim wrist. “Hey, I’m sorry.” When Beomgyu turns back to him, Yeonjun’s words die in his throat. Here before him, is the boy he’s been following around for months (or was it the other way around), in his shirt, wearing his only pair of ripped jeans (Yeonjun knows it is, because he'd been the one who had gone shopping with him the day that he'd bought it). Here he was, dressed in all the wrong clothes, eyes rimmed black with kohl just like Yeonjun taught him, all because he wanted to look like he fit in. Like he fits in with him, like they’re something similar; like it matters at all that he looks anything like Yeonjun.
“You look good,” he states, pointedly eyeing him up and down as Beomgyu rolls his eyes at him. He’s trying to make it obvious, because that always works — he can tell it does when Beomgyu’s feet shuffle, one foot raised to kick a bit into the carpet. “Wanna go grab a drink?” He offers, but doesn’t wait for Beomgyu to answer. He knows how it goes by now. He gets up and drags the other boy behind him, greeting people as they walk past them, making a beeline to the kitchen. Beomgyu’s probably rolling his eyes so far back into his skull — Yeonjun can almost see it in his mind.
Once they’re inside, he pulls Beomgyu forward and shoves him towards the kitchen island. When Beomgyu knocks into it, the punch bowl sways — Yeonjun’s hand darts out to catch it, same time as Beomgyu does. Four months ago, Yeonjun had found Beomgyu in this same kitchen, on a Thursday night, tongue shoved down some girl’s throat. He smirks when Beomgyu turns to him, face almost knocking into his. His arms move to cage the other boy in, as he laves his tongue over his own lips in anticipation; he tastes nothing but coconut gloss. Beomgyu’s staring at his lips, gaze unwavering, and Yeonjun can’t help the little thrum in his veins as the other boy gapes so listlessly, eyes following Yeonjun’s movements as he bites down on his lower lip — plush and plump, pearly incisors digging right down into it.
In his periphery, he thinks he sees people moving, in and out, most scurrying away at the sight of them. Yeonjun chuckles to himself. “Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to keep staring?” Beomgyu pulls back slightly, eyes darting from his lips to his eyes. There are probably too many people here for his liking, too many eyes and too many mouths to spread natter. He sees contemplation cross his face for a split-second, but Beomgyu blinks, lashes fluttering slowly, like he knows Yeonjun is holding his breath because of it (he is), and it’s gone. It disappears as quickly as it came. Yeonjun anticipates the foreseeable hyung, maybe not here uttered with care and urgency, but it never comes.
Instead, Beomgyu’s eyes are back on his lips, hands coming up and resting on Yeonjun’s flexing forearms. His hands are cold but the touch burns, and the breath Yeonjun’s been holding unfurls itself. Beomgyu’s still staring, as he finally grasps him hard enough to prop his weight slightly onto him, head moving forward until soft, plush lips are pressed on his. Yeonjun immediately smiles into it. Like this, Beomgyu’s perfume wraps around him like a fog — hazy and thick as it settles in the back of his throat. Yeonjun hums before he kisses back, hard, sucking him back in when Beomgyu attempts to pull off.
The younger boy whines lowly, clearly out of breath, and Yeonjun finally lets him off. He feels more than sees Beomgyu pant – hot and warm against the center of his face. They’ve only kissed a handful of times, even less so in public. Being seen together is one thing, but being seen kissing is another. Yeonjun doesn’t mind; Beomgyu’s comfort trumps everything else.
“Where were you all day?” Beomgyu asks, breathless and still coming down. The pleasant thrum in his veins halt as his heart drops to his stomach. Beomgyu wasn’t supposed to find out. “Out,” he tries, voice leveled carefully, feigning nonchalance. The other boy leans back even further, and Yeonjun has nowhere to hide.
Beomgyu’s eyebrows furrow. “Out where?”
The park. Then, a random In-N-Out. He’d gotten ready at Wooyoung’s, too strung up to pass up on free booze. “Just out.”
Yeonjun sighs in defeat when Beomgyu glares at him, clearly not buying it. He looks more boyish when he’s angry than he usually does— shoulders broad and square, jaw shut tight and flexing at the extremities. “You know I can see the swell, right?” He says, teeth gritting at the expense it takes him to keep his voice controlled. Beomgyu’s eyes are trained on his left cheekbone. Yeonjun knows the concealer did the job. The pack of frozen peas? Not so much.
The low lighting in the kitchen probably makes it look worse than it is. But with Beomgyu’s intent gaze on him and nails digging ever so slightly into his arms, Yeonjun can’t run from him fast enough. His eyes flutter shut as his head hangs, lowering in defeat, as a hand comes up to press onto his radix. “It was just a stupid jar,” he declares, still fully intent on downplaying it. “I asked him to close it, and he threw it at me.”
It must be the alcohol, Yeonjun insists, at the way his chest aches when he looks up and he sees Beomgyu’s face crumble. It shouldn’t feel this devastating to see him like this; but it does, it truly does. Yeonjun’s fingers twitch where they press into the counter, itching to reach up and caress Beomgyu’s cheeks in a useless attempt to preserve whatever is left to salvage. “I’m sorry,” he utters helplessly, not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. It’s terrifying to think about how this boy was merely a stranger five months ago, but now he holds Yeonjun’s heart in his hands — wet and bloody, willing to be crushed at every impulse, throbbing and pulsing as he drips. It’s petrifying to be bleeding so openly in front of him, gruesome in the way he gushes crimson; worse, when Beomgyu doesn’t take his eyes off of him. Don’t look at me, I am hideous. Don’t look at me, when I am a blood bag of feelings, so easily squashed under the constriction of your palms. Don’t look at me, I am unsightly and appalling. Still, Beomgyu doesn’t turn away.
Instead, he loosens his hold on him entirely. For a moment, Yeonjun fears that Beomgyu might push him away, palms pressed to his chest as he runs. Away from Yeonjun, away from his bloody knuckles, and his grime, and his filth. He can’t help but tense up in anticipation, fingers clenching to form fists — ready for whatever Beomgyu brings, ready to put up one last fight. It doesn’t matter if he has to beg for him to stay, it won’t be the first time he does. Nothing happens for a minute, Beomgyu only stares. Until his hands come up into Yeonjun’s hair, gentle in the way he settles on top of it, gentle in the way he threads his fingers through it. Yeonjun stops breathing when Beomgyu smiles up at him.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. Yeonjun’s breath escapes his airways violently. Beomgyu’s hands are moving down, down, down, until he has a grasp on both sides of his face, thumb setting over his cheekbones, the heel of his palm pressed lightly into his jaw. “You’re good, hyung.” Beomgyu states. It’s the way he says it— like he’s never been more certain about anything in his life. Like Yeonjun could never do anything wrong; has never done anything wrong. Yeonjun thinks he starts crying then, one shameful teardrop after the other as Beomgyu frowns at him. He lets himself be pushed back, as Beomgyu lifts himself off of the counter, hands finding purchase in Yeonjun’s. The younger boy drags him out of the kitchen, with Yeonjun plastered to his back to hide away from the prying gazes he’s sure he’s receiving, up the stairs and down a hallway, until they reach the door to the rooftop balcony.
It's everything all at once after that — the night breeze against his wet cheeks, tears dripping in waterfalls. Beomgyu doesn’t stop wiping, not even as he drags Yeonjun to sit on the floor. The feeling washes over him again — the crippling fear he can’t get used to no matter how many years it’s been, the way his body froze up when his brother hurled the jar at him. He doesn’t know when he starts shaking, but Beomgyu starts squeezing his palms in alternation at some point, one hand still busy wiping his cheeks. He doesn’t give up, no matter how pointless it seems. Yeonjun tries not to flinch when he wipes over the swollen cheekbone a bit too hard. Sorry, I’m sorry, Beomgyu shushes, quick to place a kiss on top of it.
Yeonjun gazes at Beomgyu through tears, the balcony lights illuminating from behind his head look like sunlight through lace and chiffon in his hair; Yeonjun would let him press his fingers into his bruise again a hundred times. “It’s so f*cking stupid,” he sputters, eyes screwing shut as he grimaces at the mental image of the hundred other mornings he'd spent walking on eggshells and stepping on glass shards. It’s stupid, because he should be used to it by now. It’s stupid, because he should not be so scared anymore. It’s stupid, because he’s a whole head taller, and his brother shouldn’t terrify him this much. It’s stupid, because there’s a part of him that’s still fourteen and shaking under the dining table every time it happens.
It started with his mom’s boyfriend. But it didn’t go on for very long — they both had disappeared when he'd turned sixteen. Now, though, his laced-up older brother, wearing shoes that don’t fit, hurls objects and insults at him. It doesn’t happen that often, he had told Beomgyu at one point. Beomgyu had stared at him with a frown and said that’s not the point. Yeonjun can’t bring himself to admit it — his brother had done everything to take care of him after their mom walked out. He’s the reason Yeonjun could finish high school, he’s the reason Yeonjun can walk around in clothes that fit and are only tattered as a statement. Beomgyu and his friends can cuss at him all they want, but Yeonjun can’t. “It’s just been a tough week,” he mumbles, hesitant to even try, lest Beomgyu starts screaming at him too. There’s a wad of cash in his back pocket that his brother had thrown at him, don’t come home. It’s mostly drug money, and Yeonjun will probably last a week with it. But on this side of the city, no bill is filthy enough to spit on.
“I know,” Beomgyu breathes out. “You’re okay,” he repeats. It shouldn’t feel this humiliating to bask in comfort that is being handed to him, palm open and ready for his taking — he doesn’t even have to ask. But it burns in his core, and his mouth tastes acrid. His brother didn’t start using until very recently. In the past, he'd dealt, too far and sometimes too much. He’d come home bloody and battered because he went past his area, desperate to make ends meet, yet he’d still make Yeonjun dinner with swollen hands. Yeonjun didn’t notice at first, deeming his hyung’s lethargy to be a result of exhaustion. Until he started getting angry; angrier every day, worsening when Yeonjun was anywhere near him.
It started with insults about his outfits – f*cking sissy, and he’d once torn up Yeonjun’s skirt with a blunt kitchen knife, nicking parts of Yeonjun’s legs. When he runs his fingers over the scars in the shower, Yeonjun still can’t breathe. Then, the guilt came, and Yeonjun had woken up to a whole bag of skirts, placed carefully in front of his bedroom door. The patterns started getting noticeable about two years ago. Yeonjun had been kissing a boy in front of their door, too touch-starved to say goodbye without a kiss. His brother had dragged him in by the hair, screams of just like mom and why can’t you just be normal echoing through the house. Yeonjun had stared at him in shock, gaping with tears running down his face. Yeonjun swears he could feel his systems shutting down, right there and then, because his brother had been the first person he'd come out to, and he’d never had any issues with him before.
Pleas of hyung, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I won’t do it again, had resonated; every apology met with a grimace, every word uttered a hit to his ribs. Yeonjun can still taste the blood in his mouth and the scrape of his knees against the carpet. His brother doesn’t pull his hair anymore. He hardly lays a finger on him these days. But the objects, and the furniture… Yeonjun’s breath catches in fear again. “Don’t think about it. Jun, get your head out of there,” he hears Beomgyu whine in urgency. When he opens his eyes, Beomgyu is kneeling in front of him, eyes wide and tear-filled. He has both hands pressed against the sides of his head, palm to his ears, and shaking him with every call of his name. He’s thankful the other boy isn’t calling him hyung right now. Beomgyu’s quick like that, too smart for his own good but too dumb to stay away from him.
“He doesn’t mean it, right?” He urges, “He doesn’t hate me, right, Gyu? It’s just been a bad week. He didn’t mean to do it.” He knows he sounds insane. He knows it hasn’t been true for a long time. His brother should be in jail, or maybe in rehab (they can't afford it), and he should move somewhere safer. Their father had stopped sending money over three years ago, about a year after his graduation. With what money? He can hear his own voice, lingering somewhere in his mind, the same rebuttal on the tip of his tongue like always. Beomgyu all but fails to catch a sob from escaping. “No one could ever hate you, Jun.” But it’s not enough; Yeonjun still feels filthy, and grimy, and soiled. He feels like scum. Nothing anyone says could ever convince him otherwise.
Beomgyu's hands feel wrong where they're holding him, suddenly too tight and too heavy. Yeonjun turns his head away and out of his grasp. Beomgyu frowns at him — a sight he's so used to by now. The vulnerability still feels new to him, somehow. "Jun, you know it's not your fault, right?" Beomgyu urges. Yeonjun knows it isn't. Everyone has been telling him the same thing for years. But it feels like dirt in his mouth, when Beomgyu's reassurance is out in the open, and he inhales it in his next breath. It's not your fault, it's not your fault. But his brother's voice is louder, drowning out everyone else's, stabbing in the way he bites it, filthy, filthy, filthy. Beomgyu's hands find purchase in his hair again, soft and gentle, like he's scared Yeonjun will dissolve into thin air. "It has never been your fault," he mutters, quite hesitant; Yeonjun can't help but pick up on it.
It hadn't been very long since they've met. Yeonjun only knows him by extension – Soobin's best friend. It had been one fateful afternoon, a trembling hug by his cousin's doorway and old Nintendo CDs splattered on the floor of Soobin's apartment. He'd ran there, terrified, and Soobin hadn't said anything— hadn't asked. He's silent in the way he understands, and Yeonjun appreciates it. Beomgyu didn't live far, only a few minutes away, and Soobin had sent him a picture of their game with a text that read come over? Beomgyu had been all smiles and easy conversations, and Yeonjun didn't need to think about the phantom hands on his neck, and the bruise he was sure was forming. Beomgyu didn't ask, he didn't even look at it; Yeonjun could only marvel at the sparkle in his eyes, swirling under the lights and always trained on his. Never lower, never anywhere else.
It had been mellow after, random texts here and there, sometimes a cute cat video in his messages. Yeonjun didn't think Beomgyu would've wanted anything to do with him since they'd gone home with tight-lipped goodbyes. Beomgyu kept popping up everywhere, though, somehow finding his way into Yeonjun's circle. Summer break, Soobin had told him. They're enrolled in different classes but they used to share a dorm, Yeonjun had jotted down every detail about Beomgyu to his brain on the go as he learnt it. Maybe it's the round eyes and pearly grins; Beomgyu had been so, so easy to get along with. He filled a space in Yeonjun's life he himself didn't know existed.
It's every other day that Yeonjun lets himself feel. Most days, he can tame the burning licks of his deep-rooted emotions with alcohol, sobriety out the window the moment he remembers. Some days he remembers harder; with violent kicks to the mental image of himself, helpless, useless. Yeonjun doesn't realize he's doing it most of the time. But today had been awful, and he hadn't stopped shaking even on the way to Wooyoung's. Right now, though, with Beomgyu's fingers in his hair and gentle eyes filled with misplaced pity, the violence feels wrong. Especially to himself. But sometimes he's fourteen again, baseball bat to his skull, bleeding out of his crevices, lying on a hospital bed in the emergency wing. And he can't understand why: he was such a good kid, he did everything as asked, he never acted out of line— so why, why, why?
Beomgyu's pity should not be wasted on him, because why should it be? If anything Beomgyu shouldn't even be seen with him, shouldn't even hang around him at all. It won’t take much longer, Beomgyu’s just having fun with him now, but he’ll go back to his life at some point. With his posh friends from uptown, having brunch in their perfect little sweaters. It’ll get worse once he graduates — he’ll move to Japan like he’s been planning to since he was sixteen, and Yeonjun will be 'the one dude he spent one summer with', left behind to rot in the dump that is his neighbourhood. The city glitters in the distance, pulsing with his heart; Beomgyu won’t even miss it. There’s nothing here that ties him to it.
Yeonjun closes his eyes as he grabs the other boy’s hands, presses it to his cheeks and tries to let the warmth of it burn through his skin. “Stay with me,” he begs, even though it’s pointless. Even though Beomgyu will never understand the depth of his request. Even though he knows he’ll be left behind again, unwanted, unloved, unworthy. Beomgyu misunderstands just like he hoped he would, and Yeonjun can’t help the wet laugh that topples out of his lungs when the other boy tells him earnestly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
It's a f*cked-up satisfaction that fills his core — molten lava bubbling and morphing in the shape of his guts. Beomgyu’s so predictable. Yeonjun smiles at him, tears slowly drying up at the realization; nothing he says will ever be enough for Beomgyu either. “Will you tell Soobin, at least?” The suggestion makes him chuckle, an incredulous kind of laughter that points fingers and mocks. He can’t run to Soobin every time. He has… friends. (Does he, really?) He’ll just stay with Wooyoung again, he won’t mind. (Except he does. He’s getting tired of his sh*t, too.)
“Yeonjun,” Beomgyu calls solemnly. “Can’t you just stay with me?” It’s not the first time he’s offered, but Yeonjun has never humored him. It’d be too dangerous, and he’ll start having ideas. He’ll start getting used to it, and then Beomgyu will leave. He shakes his head, smile strained and tight, like he always does. Beomgyu sighs in response. “Jun,” Beomgyu calls again, nervous as he blurts, “He’ll kill you. One of these days, it won’t be just a cut or a bruise.”
Yeonjun pulls back as if burned. He knows Beomgyu means well, knows he’d said it out of concern. Yeonjun knows this. But Beomgyu would never understand, because he wasn’t there when he and his brother were scraping the bottom of their rice cooker and choking down overripe kimchi without complaints. He wasn’t there when Yeonjun’s brother was counting coins for his bus fare to school. He wasn’t there when they’d last been at his dad’s house, humiliation burning their tongues with a fat envelope in his brother’s pocket, we won’t go back, I promise.
Beomgyu lives on the other side of the city, where lock-picking is a myth and the windows have sensors. He lives on the side of the city that can afford to have interchanging patrols at night and the only drugs they have are either medicinal or the good kind — the kind you can only get if you know the right people. The stuff Yeonjun’s seen can be found at the back of gas stations and random alleyways — the kind you can get only if you know the wrong people. And boy, does he know a lot of wrong people. The only reason he's stayed as clean as he has is because of the things he's seen and the things he's not willing to see. Yeonjun cannot afford to have dreams but that doesn't mean he should leave his will to live to decay in the dark corners of their street. He doesn't know what the future holds for him anymore, but he's stopped thinking about it a long time ago. He didn't think he'd be here, sitting in front of a pretty boy with tears in his eyes, either. So, that's a good direction so far, he thinks.
"I'm sorry," Beomgyu says. He looks sorry. In fact, he always looks sorry when he's around Yeonjun. It does nothing to soothe the vulturous swirls of disgust that pricks at Yeonjun; stabbing and prodding at his conscience. Beomgyu is always saying the right things for the wrong reasons, and Yeonjun can't ask him to change. He's not that entitled to wish for compromisation that doesn't come as easy as comfort or pity. He'll bite his tongue and let Beomgyu's words bite at his heart — one bloody rip of teeth at a time, until there's nothing left of it except a phantom beat; an amorphous cavity of something that used to be whole. It's easier like this, where he doesn't hold the mistakes over Beomgyu's head, where he doesn't talk about every single wrong thing that has ever escaped from between Beomgyu's teeth, where he acts like he belongs in Beomgyu's life even if they wear their hearts on their sleeves in completely unidentical ways. He can feel and see the hesitation on Beomgyu's face all the time. It makes sense that he doesn't get to look at Beomgyu in public, it makes sense that they're strangers who only feel too much.
Yeonjun wants to tell him it's okay, it's fine like always — except, this time, he truly can't. He wants Beomgyu to feel sorry, just this once. For all the times Yeonjun has forgiven him, he wants Beomgyu to rot with him right now, in the shoddy, sopping pit of despair that he's carved out with his own hands. It still doesn't help, and it still doesn't work, because one look at Beomgyu's face has him holding his breath again. You terrify me, he thinks, the tip of his tongue bitten raw from all the things he's held back from telling the younger boy. Because swirling amidst the pity and guilt is something else, something he can't bring himself to pinpoint. Don't pretend to care about me, I'm a waste of your time. But Beomgyu doesn't let up. He only keeps staring, a chaos of emotions as he keeps his eyes on Yeonjun; I care, I care, I care. Yeonjun can't look at him for longer than he's allowed to — he averts his gaze to the rip of his own jeans. He doesn't remember there being so many of them. Had there always been this many?
There's a crack of light coming from somewhere behind him, and he turns back to find Soobin, smile easy as always and eyes wide when he meets Yeonjun's. He doesn't ask — Soobin never does. But he complains. "I thought you guys left." It's not some well-kept secret that they're together (together how? Yeonjun can't answer). Everyone that should know, knows by now. But they also know that they're not completely exclusive, and they also know that Beomgyu's only here because he's unsure. Yeonjun's not willing to unpack that discussion any time soon. Beomgyu doesn't owe him anything, he has this memorized and repeated every night before bed like a mantra. "Just needed some air," Beomgyu answers before he can. From this angle, Soobin can't see the bruise. From this angle, it only looks like they came to get away — maybe for a kiss, maybe for something else. Somehow that feels safer than the other option. When Soobin walks closer, Beomgyu moves too... almost like he's shielding Yeonjun from him.
"Something happen?" He asks, leaning back against the railing. It's odd how the host of the party came all the way up here to look for them. Some friend's birthday — Yeonjun doesn't even know who. The thing about Soobin is that he's too observant, too in-touch. Yeonjun feels exposed even when he's not looking at him. He keeps his gaze on Beomgyu, almost questioning, but with little to no force in his prodding. Yeonjun sighs. "Same old, same old," he replies, simple as that. Soobin hums and nods, but still doesn't look at him. Yeonjun feels even more seen-through like this.
It was easier when he could pretend that Soobin could care less, like they'd grow apart the older they get and eventually, they'd lose contact. But it's worse like this, when the younger boy is avoiding his eyes with his thoughts a projectile of bullets into his direction; even in the dark, Yeonjun can see him think. It's worse like this, because he knows Soobin cares, so much, more than Yeonjun wishes he would. It's worse like this, because Soobin has never left him behind, not even once. It's always been the two of them against everything else — Yeonjun wishes he would understand less of it than he does.
It's a text message every few days, even when Yeonjun doesn't reply for weeks at a time. It's a shuffle of worried feet in front of his door, dragging and scuffing against the wood of their worn-down flooring. Yeonjun pretends he isn't there, sometimes. He closes his eyes and prays that his brother will ask their cousin to leave, gentler than he talks to Yeonjun most days. Sometimes it's a poorly put-together meal-box by his door; Yeonjun has cried into too many black containers to count. It's bad and it's always going to be bad, to have Soobin both as a friend and a brother.
For that reason, he surrenders. For that reason alone, he grits out, "Can I stay here?" That's all it takes for Soobin to finally look at him — too clear, too thorough — as he runs his eyes over him, over the bruise, over his tight lips and frail frame. "Always welcome," Soobin tells him, far too easy on his lips, far too much light in his eyes. The party dies down an hour later, with a few of Soobin's friends staying back to help clean up. They're all people that Yeonjun has met — some he's even shoved a hand down their pants in a flight of impulsivity and too many drunk kisses in. Seunghan hovers over him for a total of ten minutes, until he bids his goodbye with a tight-lipped Beomgyu hot on Yeonjun's trail. "He still likes you," Soobin remarks. He's too open like this, unintentional in the way he observes and admits things. Beomgyu's mood sours further in his periphery. "I know," Yeonjun replies, unsure what else to say. It's not his place to deny the obvious attraction his past fling still had towards him. Beomgyu won't speak up about it unless prompted, and Yeonjun is too tired tonight to fight. He owes just as little to Beomgyu as the other boy does to him.
It's only later in bed, a good amount of distance between them, that it is brought up. Yeonjun clenches the softness of the comforter thrown over him for support, as Beomgyu asks, "How long were you guys together?" His voice is low and tired; soulless and empty, and so unlike him. "A few months," Yeonjun admits into the darkness. We weren't together. Yeonjun bites the insides of his cheek, both in petulance and discomfort. "Did you f*ck him?" His little breath hitch doesn't go unnoticed by Beomgyu. Whatever he had with Seunghan was none of Beomgyu's business. Whoever came before him was entirely Yeonjun's to keep under covers, to shove into his little chamber of secrets, the way Beomgyu does about him. Maybe it's the alcohol leaving his system, maybe it's the boy to his right looking at him with little glimmering eyeballs, round as they come, and always too pointed. "A few times," he admits with a sigh. He cannot fathom why it would serve Beomgyu anything to attain this information, but whatever floats his boat.
"Do you wanna f*ck him again?" Beomgyu asks, body shifting to turn towards him completely. Yeonjun tightens his hold. The obvious answer is yes, because Seunghan was easy, and he knew how to keep to himself, how to respect Yeonjun's boundaries. He didn't treat him like a dirty secret, name uttered only in hushed whispers. He didn't get weird when Yeonjun wore skirts, and didn't get weird about his bruises and cuts like Beomgyu does. He settles for, "Maybe," because even in the dark, Beomgyu's eyes are still telling. His breathing is telling, his body is telling. Everything about him is an open book that Yeonjun refuses to look at.
Beomgyu hums. A beat passes. "How about me?"
Yeonjun's hands loosen in shock. He whips his head to look at the other. "What about you?"
"Do you wanna f*ck me?" Yeonjun chokes around a nonexistent lump in his throat. They've never talked about it before, barely a few dirty jokes and dick-size jabs. It shouldn't be this startling, but it is; Beomgyu has never expressed even the slightest bit of actualsexual interest in him before. When he takes too long to answer, Beomgyu's face falls. It's horrifying for Yeonjun, who has never had any trouble reading into what Beomgyu says and does. To be handed the reins of his emotional state like this, when he knows the other boy is fully sober— it's terrifying.
The longer Yeonjun doesn't answer, the more Beomgyu's frown deepens. "Forget I asked," he grits, expression bordering hurt. Yeonjun should say something, he should dispute it, say anything that will convince Beomgyu how utterly hopeless he gets about him. But he only stays frozen in shock, mind whirling a hundred miles per second, because truly... he hadn't thought that was an option, at all. Sure, Beomgyu's attractive, and everything Yeonjun would want, but somewhere down the line he'd given up on their relationship ever turning into something more. He's only here, sleeping in the same bed as him, with separate comforters, because he was unsure. Because he wanted to know and Yeonjun was willing to find out with him. Because Yeonjun was pretty enough to catch his eye and easy-going enough to kiss on random nights. Because Yeonjun's door is never locked on nights Beomgyu goes out; because Yeonjun is easy. Easy for Beomgyu, easy to hold in his mouth and easy to spit back out. They've hardly even kissed, let alone talk so extensively about anything that has to do with their separate sexual lives. Beomgyu squirms when Yeonjun spares him too many details, and Yeonjun wants to die every time Beomgyu talks about his own past partners. So, they've learnt to avoid the topic, with careful maneuvering around names and faces, and bodies they know a bit too much about.
He's never done anything like this, and he doesn't know what to name it even. It's something; at the same time it's nothing at all. Beomgyu is everything and not enough, because he only kisses Yeonjun when one of them is sad, when there's too much in the air and the static catches on his tongue, when Yeonjun looks too good under certain lights and looks soft enough to hold in his hands. Yeonjun always wants to be soft; it's a crime and a sin all in one. A fault in his design, taken apart by Beomgyu's careless hands and buzzed gazes. Beomgyu has no business knowing if Yeonjun wants to f*ck him or not, because at the end of the day, they're not going to f*ck. At the end of the day, he'll go back in search of warm c*nts and soft chests to lie on and he'll come back smelling of perfume and lotion, hair wet from whoever's shower he'd borrowed. He'll kiss Yeonjun with absolutely no guilt in his heart and Yeonjun will let him, and he'll fall asleep on top of Yeonjun's bones and deteriorating flesh. One press to the soreness, and he'll fall apart.
It's the height of the last heat wave of the year when Yeonjun gets fired from his part-time job at the diner. It's four in the evening and all the wrong steps to his day, a bruise in his ankle from where he'd sprained it in the morning. He can't even go back home— his brother has his girlfriend over. It doesn't help that he'd been running on three hours of sleep and a hole in his stomach, all meals forgone for the sake of getting to places on time. His ankle throbs angrily. He can't even call anyone— everyone he knows has something going. He considers Changbin for a minute, he'll pick up, sure, but he won't be able to get out of the workshop at this time. He feels around in his jacket pockets, planning to dial one random number on his list (maybe he'll call Seunghan, that's his safest option), when a cigarette packet drops out. It's Beomgyu's. Yeonjun knows it is, because there are doodles over the smoking kills warning. It makes him laugh, dry and scratchy.
He could call Beomgyu. He should.
When he finds his phone, there's a notification that pops up. Wanna hang out? It's Beomgyu, because it is, because the universe works like that, because there's some omnipotent being out there that craves to f*ck up Yeonjun's life completely. Pick me up, he texts back, unwilling to elaborate any further. It takes exactly three minutes for Beomgyu to respond; probably the amount of time it took him to process that Yeonjun texted back so quickly, and the time it took him to sit up in bed. Yeonjun smiles to himself. Right now? It's the most unsurprising question ever. Beomgyu's so predictable, it's almost amusing. Yeonjun stares at the message and considers explaining over text, albeit throwing that plan out the window again. He can't possibly expect Beomgyu to understand just how sh*tty his day has been. He can't expect Beomgyu to show up with his heartbeat in his throat, worry apparent in his entire frame. Yeonjun's not that cruel. He texts back a simple smiley face, and the read status stares back at him in less than a second.
Beomgyu arrives in about twenty minutes, face crestfallen when he finally spots Yeonjun sitting pathetically by the curb. He's choking on smoke, coughing into his elbow when the other boy scurries out of the car and towards him. "What the hell happened to you? Why are you smoking my cigs?" He's borderline shouting, albeit it's too soft, softer than the ones Yeonjun is used to. He's always too soft. "I was bored," Yeonjun shrugs, hoping to play it off, even though he knows that Beomgyu is more or less referring to his general disposition. Filthy, filthy, filthy. Yeonjun offers him a grin, lopsided as it may be, and just as unconvincing. “Why did you show up looking like that? What if you get mugged?” He knows he's being obnoxious about it — this area is one of the least dangerous places you could find yourself in. It's almost good enough for people like Beomgyu to walk around in. But Beomgyu looks too... well-off, in his dress shirt and fitted pants, designer sneakers and his pretty face. God, he's so f*cking pretty.
"You wouldn't let them mug me, though," Beomgyu bites back. Yeonjun briefly wonders who them could mean in this scenario. It's probably people like him, biting onto the shorter end of the stick like it would change anything at all (it won't). It's with a godawful inhale that Yeonjun forces himself to laugh, too dry up his pipes that it sounds almost like a choke. It's difficult to explain just how Beomgyu makes him feel with the statement, but the shame outweighs everything else. He knew what getting associated with Beomgyu meant, he knew from day one. Every day they've spent together has been a sort of preparation, to thicken the shield around his heart for the inevitable that will wake him up in cold sweat and a fuzzy feeling in his legs. And yet, when he stares at Beomgyu like this, neck straining with the effort it takes him to look up, with the sky pink and blushing behind the younger boy... Yeonjun can hardly find it in himself to care at all. If this is the only happiness he gets, and life deals him cards that end up with him dead in a ditch in less than five years — he'll take it.
Beomgyu doesn't remark on the unwilling laughter that Yeonjun offers him, and only smiles. It looks too easy for how f*cked the situation is, and Yeonjun can't bring himself to smile back. That's way too many muscles on his face than he's willing to spare right now, as compared to the dirty, fake exhale disguised as a laugh. Beomgyu doesn't remark on it though, and only kicks some dirt off of the spot next to Yeonjun's left, and plops down unceremoniously. "What happened in there?" He's asking out of courtesy, or at least that's what it looks like to Yeonjun. He knows Beomgyu will spare him if he wishes to run away from this conversation, but for some reason today, Yeonjun wants to drag him down with him. He wants Beomgyu to sit in his filthy puddle of feelings with him, and sod himself grubby, too.
"Everything that could go wrong, went wrong," Yeonjun offers, smoke curling around his face when he exhales. Beomgyu swats at them, trying to get them to disperse — like it offends him, like they're in the wrong for blocking his view of Yeonjun. It's too much; Yeonjun bites down on his tongue to suppress everything else. "There was an explosion — the soda kind. And burnt fries. And burnt fingers. And there were yells, and oil on the ground. I don't really remember the rest." Except, he does. He remembers everything — every word, every scream towards him, even though it wasn't his fault. Filthy, filthy, filthy. And yet, he can't bring himself to explain it to Beomgyu, who wouldn't get it at all. He wouldn't understand how it was to grow up as the butt of the joke, how the halls of his high school looked like with shoes that don't fit, and bruises that stood out too much. He wouldn't understand how it felt to be the person closest to the counter when rich kids would shoplift, and somehow it always ended up being Yeonjun's fault.
Beomgyu places a hand on the widest part of his back, right in the middle, where his heart hits the hardest — dull throb of blood and flesh against bone. "Do you want a hug?" It's so like him to ask, still, and he does it every time too. He never really asks if Yeonjun is okay these days, and doesn't give him empty promises of it either. It's always some sort of placating and an offer of comfort, and Yeonjun will take that over the helpless and pointlessI'm sorry any day. Beomgyu doesn't really wait for an answer, taking Yeonjun's silence as one, before he leans in sideways, engulfing him into his warmth. It's like all the ache in his bones and the dull throb behind his eyes dissipates. The pressure on the back of his neck unwinds, too. Beomgyu squeezes even harder. "Beautiful sunset out here," he remarks, like Yeonjun's pain isn't an eyesore, like he's always been here and Yeonjun just has not looked hard enough. The clench of his jaw loosens at the feeling.
Beomgyu likes dark rooms — keeps his blinds drawn all the time. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if this is the first sunset he's seen in a while. Yeonjun doesn't like sunsets, though. It's the in-between, the time of the day when the exhaustion and sleep deprivation sets in bone-deep, and people are too tired from work to be nice to him (as if they were ever nice to begin with). It's when he's reminded, so terribly — how human he is, and how his struggles have made little to no difference in the grand scheme of things, at all. It is the admonition life gives him, to remind him that it is all pointless. He could drag his heavy feet across decade-old floor tiles and wipe his bloody nose with a dirtied kitchen towel, and nothing would change. He'll go home to his brother and his hands, and Yeonjun will sleep with bruised feet and blood on his tongue — only to do it all over again the next day. Nothing will change, he's sure of it.
Sometimes, he wonders if that's why he's clinging so hard to Beomgyu. He's the one change in his life that Yeonjun can neither label as negative, nor positive. Beomgyu is just... Beomgyu. He's there at the back of the diner if he has enough time on his hands. He's on Yeonjun's bedroom floor, nose-deep into his old yearbook to find traces of who Yeonjun was before they met. And right now, he's retracting his arms and Yeonjun mourns the warmth of them. Beomgyu leans against his shoulder, almost like he can tell Yeonjun needs to feel it (he does). He pries Yeonjun's abandoned cigarette off of his fingers, and moves to grab the pack from Yeonjun's lap. "You didn't even inhale properly," he muses, with a slight tease to his eyes when Yeonjun meets them.
Beomgyu lights the cigarette with practiced ease, the motions too natural on him. Yeonjun can only stare. The first few puffs look careless — aimless in the way Beomgyu has never been. Then, Beomgyu turns towards him, eyes glinting with mischief. There's a lazy smirk on his lips, when he whispers, so low the traffic a few streets over almost drown him out, "Open your lips when I lean in." Yeonjun nods, too dumbfounded to say anything else. Beomgyu takes one long drag, holding it in for a few seconds, smiling as he does it. Slowly, he leans towards Yeonjun, amusem*nt apparent in his features when Yeonjun's lips part obediently, just like he was asked. It's confusing for a split second, because it looks like they're about to kiss at the wrong angle. But Beomgyu grabs his neck — long, bony fingers cold against the heated skin, and he leans in so close their lips are a breath apart; the distance does nothing to calm the thudding of his heartbeat, hands turning clammy where they lie limp on his lap.
The younger boy smiles when he finally exhales, mouth forming a perfect O as he passes the smoke through Yeonjun's open lips, not a single puff escaping the sides. It's so distracting that Yeonjun almost forgets to inhale, and Beomgyu taps the fingers clasping his neck as if to signal him. When Yeonjun starts pulling the smoke in on his own accord, Beomgyu's done too, pulling back to stare at his masterpiece. "Now, pull it down your airway, think of it like inhaling dust." The description, crude and displaced as it is, helps him visualize what to do with it. Yeonjun closes his lips, and swallows. It comes back out of his nose with coughs and sputters; Beomgyu laughs at him, airy and soft. Somehow, that soothes the burn in his throat.
"Do you wanna try again?" Beomgyu asks, much too eager for Yeonjun's liking. There's an ugly emotion crawling around inside him, that feels green and claws at his flesh. Had Beomgyu done this with other people? Had they been as pliant as him? Did Beomgyu hold them this tenderly too? Still, he nods. Beomgyu's laughing even as he takes another drags — smooth, bubbling giggles that shakes his chest. What takes Yeonjun by surprise though, is when Beomgyu drags him by the neck, pulling him into his space instead. Then, he presses their lips together — an actual kiss, almost; he forces the smoke into Yeonjun's open mouth, closing it with his own. Yeonjun's heart stutters in his chest.
He can't help when his hands wander, across his own lap, towards the warmth that's barely a few centimeters away — he snakes a hand up Beomgyu's t-shirt, and the other boy shivers at the sensation. Yet, he doesn't pull away; pulls him closer, even. Beomgyu's breath hitches ever so slightly in his throat, as Yeonjun settles over his ribs. His fingers digs into Yeonjun's neck, albeit gently, and Yeonjun swallows. This time he feels it; every cloud of smoke that enters his crevices, and the wetness of Beomgyu's mouth pressed against his. When he pulls off to catch his breath, Beomgyu pulls him back in only a second later. Yeonjun feels it all — the plush of his lips, the tiny exhale that escapes his nose, and the curl of his fingers where they twitch on Yeonjun's neck.
Beomgyu kisses with intent, and is relentless in the way he doesn't allow Yeonjun to pull away. He can't help the moan that garbles out of his throat when Beomgyu licks into his mouth, jaw slack with deliberation, and Yeonjun's guts squeeze as does his legs. He'd meant to pull off, to tell Beomgyu not here, not here, but the separation doesn't last before he's pulled back in with a filthy wet lick into his mouth. Yeonjun moans into the kiss; a buzz in the back of his head taking over all his other senses. They've kissed before, a couple of times, but never like this. Not this obscenely, and never in public. Beomgyu barely pulls back for a few breaths before he throws the cigarette somewhere behind them, moving climbing on top of him, almost too naturally, and Yeonjun's thighs shake at the weight as the other boy straddles him.
Like this, it looks like they're something else. Like this, it looks like Beomgyu would hold his hands at parties. Like this, it looks like Yeonjun could ask Beomgyu what's for dinner? Except, it's nothing like it looks, and they're essentially nothing to each other. The safety of it somehow does not outweigh Yeonjun's yearning — for what, he's unsure. It's pretty deserted out back, and Yeonjun has yet to pack his pathetic work bag, and any of his co-workers could come out to see them. And yet, there's that filthy part of him that wants someone to see. He wants someone to see and wonder what they're doing, and wonder if they're lovers or something else. He wants someone to find them where they are, and see that Beomgyu wants him, Yeonjun didn't conjure it up on his own. He wants this to be his testimony, and his heart yearns for witnesses.
"You're so beautiful," Beomgyu declares, staring down at him so pointedly. With intent. The same way he does anything at all. Beautiful how? Yeonjun can't ask. He can't know the answer. There had been too many nights when he'd lied in bed, blinking tears away, trying to convince himself that Beomgyu didn't mean it like that. He never calls Yeonjun handsome, never calls him charming, never calls him anything — except beautiful, pretty, like a girl (at one party). It doesn't matter, because either way he'll take it. He'll be beautiful to Beomgyu however the other boy wants. Filthy, filthy, filthy. "I could stare at you forever," Beomgyu adds, before leaning down to pull him into a kiss once more. It's less heated now, more coaxing and far less obscene.
Yeonjun buzzes, and the static thrums in his veins. He wants Beomgyu so f*cking bad. It doesn't help that the other boy is sitting right on his groin, his half-chub suffering under him. Yeonjun tries to adjust, so that the contact would be less direct, subtle in his movements. And yet, he fails so wonderfully, a guttural moan choked right out of him when Beomgyu grinds down. Yeonjun pulls off with a panicked whisper of, "You can't do that." Beomgyu stares back, an eyebrow raised as if to say and why the f*ck not? He grinds down once more as if to prove a point. Point f*cking proven. Yeonjun scrambles to hold the small of his back, arms bent up with strain. "I-I'll — I'm — Beomgyu." Yeonjun whines, his words failing him so terribly.
"Yeonjun," Beomgyu drawls, uncaring of where they are, uncaring of anything except the satisfaction that Yeonjun's panic brings. He can feel the growing bulge under him, Yeonjun is sure, and even more so when he shifts up slightly, so evidently on purpose that it makes Yeonjun groan. "Can't — people will see — we're — can you please get up?" Yeonjun scrambles to lift him, and yet he doesn't budge, at all. "You're hard," Beomgyu remarks, smirk adorning his face. Yeonjun feels sick; he doesn't know if he wants Beomgyu to get up or press closer. His... situation... is getting harder to ignore by the second, so obviously interested as Beomgyu makes a show of grinding on him.
"Beomgyu, please." He's never been above begging; he's just never been this outright with it. But Beomgyu remains merciless, bending to drag his lips down Yeonjun neck, hot breath fanning the expanse of skin from where his mouth remains open. Yeonjun strains against his jeans, too tight and tenting. With every kiss Beomgyu presses against his neck, his co*ck twitches. The sun is descending further, the sky now painted in hues of orange and purple — the faint pink from a while ago is now long gone. Yeonjun burns red under Beomgyu, too tired to protest, but too strung up to do anything about it. Beomgyu has his fun, sucking into spots he likes. Yeonjun wonders if this is how he treats his girls too — careless and unminding. The thought sours his mind, but does nothing to wean off his boner. "Please," he begs again, not entirely too sure what he's pleading for.
Beomgyu seems to decide for him, though, as he pulls back slightly to stare at Yeonjun. "You flush so prettily. Everywhere, too," he says, looking out of breath. He presses a kiss to Yeonjun's cheek, one after the other, and Yeonjun can almost feel his own blush against his lips. It's too hot and too much. "What are you doing?" Yeonjun questions, sounding less firm than he'd intended to. He just sounds pathetic, even to his own ears. "Having fun," Beomgyu replies, seemingly disinterested in the conversation, almost too completely. He presses soft kisses on Yeonjun's eager mouth, tongue curling and lapping against his. This time, when he pulls back, there's a string of saliva between them. Yeonjun can't find enough shame to not find it so ridiculously arousing, when Beomgyu follows the trail back to his lips once more, grinding down once, twice, so harshly.
"I think— Gonna — Beomgyu," Yeonjun starts, unsure what he meant to say. He can't help the pathetic little upward thrust he does against his better judgement, but it feels so good he can't pretend to care. He's too hard now, and it's bordering painful. "Think you can get off like this?" It's a stupid question; Yeonjun has gotten off with less. But Beomgyu doesn't know that. Beomgyu doesn't know much about him at all. So, he nods, obedient and willing, like all other times. Beomgyu rewards him with a soft peck. Then, he grinds down, filthy filthy filthy, panting hot and wet in Yeonjun's face.
It's almost too raw — the sensation of his co*ck pressing into the fabric of his briefs, but it forces him to feel. He's looking absolutely wrecked, he's sure, and he's only momentarily respited by the darkening sky; otherwise, he feels far too exposed. Forget getting fired, this could earn them an arrest. Beomgyu doesn't seem to care though, because he only seems to look at Yeonjun's eyes. Yeonjun can't help but wonder what he sees — is the sunset reflected in his eyes too, the way it is in Beomgyu's? He can't turn his mind off even as he lets out soft, quiet moans, chasing the pleasure of having Beomgyu in his lap, clothed co*ck rubbing up to his ass. It feels way more exposing somehow, because he feels far too turned on for someone who hasn't even seen the other boy naked. Not once. Usually, it would take him much more to get him this worked up.
"Close—I'm—God, f*ck," Yeonjun moans, hands clutching too tightly onto the back of Beomgyu's shirt, wringing it in his hold. It'll probably be overly stretched out once he's done. He's too terrified to sneak a hand in again, too afraid he'll combust once he touches skin. "You look so pretty like this," Beomgyu whispers, "So pretty. So good. Can't wait to see your co*ck, too. Bet you're all red now, swollen. So eager to f*ck into something." Yeonjun's hips stutter in response. Beomgyu's never talked like this to him, has never even mentioned his co*ck in such explicit words before. He twitches and pulses, lower back burning at the strain and effort it takes him to thrust up. "Bet you're big, too. What if I had a c*nt, hm? I'd let you put the tip in right here — just the tip though, because you're so big, and I've never taken dick before. What if I cry once you're in? Imagine how warm and wet I'd be inside, all just for you."
Yeonjun has never been talked dirty to like this before. He's too buzzed out to think about whether or not it bothers him. For a split second, he wonders if it's because Beomgyu has only ever been with girls, if this is just all he truly knows. But he'd said it with intent, like he'd wanted Yeonjun to think about it, and nothing else. And yet, it still takes effect. He doesn't realize he's coming, too dizzy to fully process anything Beomgyu is whispering to him. He only feels, and feels; his org*sm morphing into a series of sensations, and not just one. "f*ck, f*ck," he cries, head lowered to peak at their joined hips, Beomgyu still grinding ceaselessly. At some point it gets too much, and Yeonjun topples over until he's lying boneless against the other boy, with his forehead pressed onto Beomgyu's shoulder.
"Sorry, 'm sorry," he says, although he's not sure what he's apologizing for. It just felt right. "You're good, Jun," Beomgyu affirms. "So good. Listened so well, too." Hands come up to his nape and one settles in his hair; it's tender and gentle and it makes his writhe. Yeonjun can't help but smile at how ridiculous this whole situation is. He has no idea what either of them are talking about, but it takes that edge off. He's good, and he listened. He let Beomgyu have fun with him, and he's happy. That's all that matters.
He's unprepared for how terribly hoarse his voice comes out, when he asks, "Can we go home now?" Home could mean anywhere. Right now, Yeonjun hopes it's Beomgyu's apartment. He can't bear to face neither his brother nor Soobin, especially not with ji*zz in his underwear. "Let's go, baby," Beomgyu says, and Yeonjun freezes in his hold. Beomgyu's hands pause too. They've never wandered into pet names before — fully uncharted territory; dangerous waters. Yeonjun pulls back to look at Beomgyu, eyes skimming over the other boy's features, looking for anything.
When he doesn't find what he wants, Yeonjun smiles. "I like it. Like being your baby," he admits, too soft and dopey, giggles bubbling out of him before Beomgyu smiles and pulls him in for a quick kiss. "My baby," Beomgyu repeats, like it changes anything at all (it does).
Five minutes later, he does the walk of shame into the back lockers while Beomgyu waits out back in his car. His co-workers barely look at him at all, too tired of their own lives to pay much attention to someone else's. He'll just be another one they sent off in silence, too exhausted to care, too tired to wish him well. Somehow, that seems comforting to Yeonjun — at least he'll leave as a nobody, as someone who served his purpose and left no marks behind. He doesn't care too much once he's outside, and he finds Beomgyu smiling at him, head bent and turned sideways to stare at Yeonjun expectantly. He'll be alright, he thinks, as he watches Beomgyu buckle his seatbelt for him, all sweet and chivalrous.
Yeonjun can't help but stare at how calm he is. “Do you—,” he swallows, “— aren't you…,” he trails off, opting to make gestures towards Beomgyu's crotch instead, too embarrassed to outrightly offer him anything. Beomgyu chuckles, catching on much too quickly. “Sorry to disappoint, but uh— no need.” It's toe-curling shame that licks at him then, hot and simmering as it flows down his spine. His thighs squeeze at the feeling, too flustered to attempt to change the subject. Beomgyu drives off in silence, pointedly staring in front, while Yeonjun continues to gape at him — indignation apparent, ears red with guilt. Didn't do it for him, filthy filthy filthy, not enough. Yeonjun clutches onto the seatbelt, right above his heart, head whipping to look out the window, neck strained to maximum capacity. The tears burn hot on the rim of his eyes, nose burning too, as his throat closes up with humiliation. He knows Beomgyu can hear him sniffle, and still he doesn't acknowledge him.
_____
Yeonjun favors thinking of Beomgyu as something that pulsates — a light, a beat, a presence. Even when he's right next to him, Beomgyu feels fleeting. Especially now, under the shimmering lights of his room, he looks somewhat diaphanous... and Yeonjun is too terrified to take his eyes off of him. His hair is getting longer, but not long enough to cover the clip-ons he'd borrowed from Yeonjun as they glint on his ears — two on the left, one on the right. He doesn't look as out-of-place as he'd done when he first came in here.
"You're staring," Beomgyu remarks, voice flat. His nails are clacking against his keypads, as he types away almost furiously at whatever dreadful assignment he had to hand in at midnight. "It's distracting me."
What's truly distracting is the dull throb on his left shoulder, right where his brother had thrown a bottle at him earlier this evening. His fingertips tingle weirdly, but icing it isn't an option — not after Beomgyu showed up unannounced, barging into the otherwise empty house uninvited. Yeonjun had trailed after him nervously, like a child hiding his sins. Beomgyu hadn't paid him much attention, setting up take-out on Yeonjun's desk like he owns the place. It didn't matter that there are several blood-stained tissues on it, and it didn't matter that Yeonjun has a knack for squeezing and picking on wounds; Beomgyu wipes everything down with wet wipes and doesn't acknowledge it.
Beomgyu says the food on this side of the city tastes better; it's cheaper, and less healthy. They had eaten over the sound of Beomgyu's show playing on his iPad; Yeonjun doesn't really care for it, but still, it's pretty fun to watch he thinks. That was an hour ago. Now, with Beomgyu's full attention on something else, Yeonjun doesn't know how to exist on his own.
"I'm just thinking," Yeonjun admits, uneasy at the furrowed brows on Beomgyu's face. It's difficult to not feel like he's somewhat responsible, even though he knows he's not. Habits, habits.
"About?" He doesn't look up from his screen.
"Why you're in my bedroom at 10 P.M. on a Monday. Why you decided to pursue something you have no passion for. Why you look like you're ten minutes away from dropping out." Yeonjun had meant for it to be light-hearted. He's in absolutely no place to be the one saying all this — he couldn't recognize passion even if it were to stare him in the face.
Beomgyu only chuckles. "Did I ever tell you about my mom?"
Yeonjun hums noncommittally. Beomgyu had, once or twice, (or maybe a few times) talked about her. But never in a sit-down conversation, never in more than a few sentences over his chewing, and never in a way that would indicate that he wants Yeonjun to listen the way he is doing now. "Not really."
There's very little they know about each other, and yet, Beomgyu knows his coffee order, and how to ice his bruises just careful enough to let him know he cares. Beomgyu knows what Yeonjun used to dream of in middle school— he wanted to make clothes; and yet all he ever does is make sure his own clothes fit right. His mother's sewing machine is old, and has traces of her still in the crooks and crannies. Yeonjun doesn't know when he stopped looking at it with disdain, and more with a nostalgic bitterness. And yet, he doesn't know much about Beomgyu, other than the fact that he majors in Dietetics and Nutrition, and he likes when Yeonjun sits in his lap— even more so if he's wearing a skirt, and Beomgyu can run his palms over the plush of his thighs.
"Before the divorce," Beomgyu starts, fingers halting where they hover over his keyboard, "She liked talking to me. Sitting down face-to-face, warm tea in our hands, that sort of thing." He turns to look at Yeonjun, eyes almost downturned in the way it never is. "She also liked cooking. And food. Often said they didn't have enough growing up. I don't understand why that affected me but it did. Even way after, when she'd tell me I looked too much like my dad, and that she couldn't look at me anymore." There's something disturbing about the calmness Beomgyu is always enshrouded in. Yeonjun wants to leave scratch marks on it.
"I hate the subject. I'd rather do something more fancy, like anthropology maybe. But I loved my mom." It's awful— the way he says loved, even though she's alive and well, and Yeonjun has met her twice. And Yeonjun doesn't get how anthropology is any fancier, but he's never had the chance to know either of the two. He will have to trust Beomgyu's judgement on it.
Yeonjun knows what Beomgyu's dad is like. He's seen the man on TV, and sometimes on billboards large enough to harbor the million-dollar smile. He's wonderful; Beomgyu thinks the same. They don't talk about the deafening silence and agonizing void filling most of Beomgyu's childhood— not in the way they do about Yeonjun's. If that's a part of himself he's not willing to share, Yeonjun will accept it with zero qualms. But there's that longing— he sees it in Beomgyu's eyes every day— the kind you can spot from a mile away, that begs you to please ask, please help me talk about it, I've been drowning in it for years, it has to be you.
Beomgyu's dad is wonderful in the same way Neil Armstrong was one of the twelve men who has ever walked on the moon, but no one ever ponders who the other eleven might be. He's wonderful in the way he was a father, but never in the way he was a husband. Yeonjun can see it in Beomgyu sometimes — how he'd been a child of divorce long before the divorce happened. He's always looking for something, and maybe Yeonjun just got lucky being that something... for now.
When Beomgyu tells him he's going home, Yeonjun had learned to stop asking which one, because once was enough to see the absolute heartbreak on his face. Most of the time, it's his apartment. Sometimes, it's with the parent who suffocates him. Other times, it's with the parent who hardly ever wants to see him. "Do you miss her?" Yeonjun bites his tongue.
Beomgyu laughs, eyes squinting a bit as they search for any hint of pity on Yeonjun's face. "I barely have the time." His insincerity is as petrifying as his honesty, because Yeonjun can tell by the strain of his jaw that he's lying. Sometimes he's too raw, and open; and yet, right now, he's a wall of cement. Yeonjun doesn't like the look on him. "I moved out because I wanted to live closer to her, but I only see her once every few months."
She gets mean when she goes off her medication; Beomgyu had mentioned once. Yeonjun wishes there was more to remember. Saviour complex— the boy carries it like a wound on his back. Soobin talks about it more than Beomgyu does. He tells Yeonjun about how Beomgyu was just a kid,how he'd light up and dim out in a span of minutes, how apathy coils around him like a thorned vine. Yeonjun sees it when the facade slips, and he's confronted by the sight of a drunk Beomgyu in his arms. I want you, but I can't. The whispers had echoed even in his sleep.I can't, I can't, I can't. How it never sounds like an apology no matter how much he tries, and how Yeonjun wishes it would; the feeling settles deep into his bones like frostbite.
They don't say anything more for a while, not after Beomgyu seemed done with the conversation, clacking away once again. He sits up at 11:34, because Yeonjun has a knack for keeping time, and stretches when he stands up. "Scoot over a little," he says, and Yeonjun makes space for him on the bed. He lies belly-down next to him, the same way Yeonjun is, and presses his upper body on top. Yeonjun sighs at the weight, heart soaring shamefully. He's never been big on skinship, but with Beomgyu, it doesn't feel suffocating. When Beomgyu presses his nose into the back of his neck, Yeonjun can feel him smile against his skin. "You smell good."
Yeonjun can't help the giggle that bubbles out of him. "I mean, it's your perfume." Beomgyu had given it to him a week ago, some fancy Dior sh*t, because he had a gift card for two lying around or something. It's awfully so romantic— almost like being asked to smell of him. "It smells different on you," he insists, pressing a little kiss on heated skin. Like this, with Beomgyu on top of him, nothing hurts. Almost as if nothing had ever harmed him. Almost as if his shoulder stopped throbbing the minute Beomgyu came in contact, and the pain is dissipating with every exhale. It's a nice thought that saves him from the onslaught of tears, because like this, it almost feels like he gets to have Beomgyu.
"Will you go somewhere with me tomorrow?" Beomgyu asks after a while, lips still hovering over the back of his neck. Yeonjun screws his eyes shut, core clenching at the effort it takes to not relish in the feeling and warmth of it. "Hmm?" It's a struggle to even make sounds, not when Beomgyu is pressed this close and he's so, so warm. Yeonjun has never considered himself touch-starved, but it's been months since he's been with Beomgyu, and there hadn't been any room for anyone else. "My lawyer friend opened her own firm last month," he begins, seemingly nervous if his fidgeting is anything to go by. "And she needs a receptionist," he adds, "I was just wondering if it would be to your liking."
It's probably one of his friends that have bathed in liquid assets since they were in diapers. Yeonjun wonders what it would mean to meet more of them. How did Beomgyu introduce him to her? A friend? Soobin's cousin? He can't dwell on it, because he can't choose to be picky. "The pay's filthy good. And she won't treat you badly because you're my...," Beomgyu trails off, and Yeonjun turns around to try and look at him— he can't seem to catch his gaze. "Anyways, I said I'd talk to you first, and to keep the spot open until at least Wednesday."
Yeonjun doesn't know what to think of it. He'd gotten tired of putting together his pathetic excuse of a resume, banging on his worn-down printer every time the paper got caught in the slots. He'd lived carefully, house-hopping, avoiding being home during his previous work hours, but it won't be long until his brother figures it out. "You think I could do it?"
At that, Beomgyu finally looks at him, the most sincere smile on him he's seen all night. "You could do absolutely anything, hyung."
Yeonjun spares him a smile. "Okay. Then, I'll go."
A few bated breaths is all it takes before Beomgyu pushes him over, getting him right where he wants him — on his back, vulnerability hiking up a notch with every passing second as he tracks every little movement Beomgyu makes. Beomgyu smiles before he kisses him, all soft and inviting. Yeonjun leans in, and lets himself melt against the other boy, because for all his troubles, he deserves this at the very least. He deserves to have Beomgyu sighing against him, heated body pressed close, hanging off of Yeonjun's lips like everything depends on this. He deserves the gentle hand cupping the back of his head, and the frail palm pressed to his chest so carefully.
When Beomgyu pulls back there's a blush so high on his cheeks, it bleeds into his temples. Yeonjun has to stop himself from wondering if everyone else gets to see him like this too— pink in the face, with glittery brown orbs whose gaze makes you sizzle so deep within. "You're staring again," the boy on top of him remarks.
Beomgyu's laughter has never rumbled so deeply against him before. Yeonjun swears he feels it in his feet. "I'm not allowed to stare?" If Yeonjun had any more reasoning in his bones, he wouldn't have asked. He'd let shame swallow him and catch on his tongue, and choke on the vulnerability bleeding from his seams. And yet, with Beomgyu glowing on top of him, smile playing on his lips like Yeonjun is the only thing that brings him joy, he can't feel anything but warmth.
He could wake up tomorrow on someone's porch, stripped bare and voided of everything he's worth, and he'd still forgive Beomgyu.He could wake up to his face plastered on every billboard, the biggest fool on this side of Earth, and still he'd forgive Beomgyu. Even if it turns out that this is his biggest mistake, and Beomgyu f*cks him over so grandiosely—by spitting on his name and scrubbing off his touches, and acting like they've never touched lips in their lives; Yeonjun will take it.
Beomgyu presses back in, as if to say: you're the only one who's allowed to stare. I only feel whole with your eyes on mine. And Yeonjun digs his elbows down, lifting himself up to meet him halfway, as if to say: you'll change your mind. I'm trying to make sure it won't matter to me when the time comes, but you'll change your mind.
Choi Yeonjun is twenty-four, and hasn't had much chances to afford having constantsin his life. Not with friends, not with lovers, and less of all, with family. But Choi Soobin comes pretty close — anyone who knows him well enough, would argue. The most beautiful thing about the dark-haired boy would be the fact that he tries. It doesn't matter if he does something well, or if he loses his mind trying to, the most important thing is that he always tries. Yeonjun can't help but wonder where he gets it from; no one in his family is as kind as Soobin is.
They'd been having dinner, Beomgyu a welcome presence on the bean bag, and Yeonjun had gone to the bathroom. Maybe he should've stayed longer, because what he hears through the halls haunts him for the rest of the night. The voices had been low: "You took him to Chaeyoung's?" It's Soobin's anger that had always been far too distinct— incredibly rare, but not nonexistent.
"She had an opening," Beomgyu had told him (like it didn't matter).
Soobin had sighed, and Yeonjun had held his breath. "Don't hurt him, Gyu. Anyone but him."
Beomgyu hadn't answered.
When he woke up this morning, Beomgyu had been sleeping next to him. No alarms had gone off, and the weight behind his eyeballs had only been a distant memory. He'd stared, like he was allowed to, at the way the morning light hit Beomgyu's face. His heart had ached and he'd gotten up in a split second, a lump in his throat, scrambling to get away from the boy on the bed. He'd clutched the edges of his sink, water droplets dripping down his hair, and had wished the ache could bleed instead, so that he could wipe it away and come out unscathed.
The ache had stayed, all through breakfast, and all through the car ride to Beomgyu's friend's place. His hands had been clammy, heart pounding away, with the back of his neck heating up at every glance Beomgyu spared at him. Her name is Chaeyoung, and she has two Cartier bracelets on her left wrist, and smelled of the kind of perfume that suffocates you in an enclosed space — a different note for every minute more you spend basking in it. Yeonjun likes her, because she doesn't smile, and doesn't spare efforts to. She'd been polite, just a step further from nice, and he can appreciate that. He'd said yes, because it was his best option, and Beomgyu seemed happy to be of help. But when he'd told Soobin, his cousin hadn't smiled. At least, not in the way he usually does. He'd said I'm rooting for you, hyung, and had munched on a piece of his katsu pointedly.
It's two hours later with several rounds of old style video games on the TV, and one too many tangential arguments about a paper the younger two boys share, when Soobin brings up something that makes Beomgyu frown. "Seunghan was asking about you."
Yeonjun can't help but stiffen up in his seat, trying not to let the pointed gaze Beomgyu fixes him from the side cloud his senses. "Why would he do that?”
Soobin stretches slightly, a lazy grin on his face. “Some party tomorrow night. I didn’t really ask. Said he just wanted to talk to you. Did you block him or something?”
“He still texts me sometimes. I don’t really know what to think of it.” Yeonjun can’t help but glance at Beomgyu, who doesn’t look like he’s listening to the conversation at all. But from his clenched fists and tight jaw, it’s not difficult to tell he is. It fills him with the urge to rub the pad of his thumb right in between his furrowed brows, taking his fist apart finger by finger, until Beomgyu spares him a tired smile he hasn’t earned. Nevertheless, he doesn’t act on it, because they both know what Soobin is doing. Beomgyu is trying his best not to react to it, and Yeonjun is trying his best not to react to him.
Beomgyu looks at him once, just once, almost in silent question, almost as if to ask him in silence. Yeonjun isn’t sure what, and isn’t sure how to respond to it, so he stares. Beomgyu lets him fizzle in misplaced guilt.
The next time Yeonjun hears from Beomgyu is three days later, with only a few texts here and there, Wednesday through Friday. On Saturday night, he’s bombarded with drunk texts, way too close to midnight than he’d like.
Beomgyu
hyung can you pick
mr up
me*
sorry
where are you
are u drunk
beomgyu?
pls
I’m sorry pls just
I’m at seunghan’s place
pls hyung I dnt wan be here
Fifteen minutes and a uncomfortable car ride later, Yeonjun hands a wad of bills to his uber and doesn’t bother waiting around for his change. Seunghan lives six houses from the street, slightly uphill, and even from the distance he can hear the faint bass pumps. When he gets to the door, there’s a face there he hasn’t seen in years. Yeonjun offers him a side-hug and doesn’t bother trying to wrack his brain for a name. He makes it through possibly five more of similar encounters, before he finds what looks like Beomgyu’s hair across the span of several heads.
Except…
Except, there’s a hand cradling his head, and oh… Beomgyu's kissing someone. The closer Yeonjun gets, the further his heart falls. Beomgyu kisses other people — it had never mattered before. (Except, it does,so, so terribly). He’s never really gone to a party without Yeonjun, at least not on this side of the city. When he wants to get drunk, he goes to fancy clubs with expensive liquor and slides through Yeonjun’s door smelling of everything foul. He’ll then thank him and won’t apologize no matter how much Yeonjun scowls. In the morning, he’ll eat cereal with Yeonjun’s brother and act like he didn’t offer to kill him twice that week alone.
But here he was, tongue shoved down Seunghan’s throat, a firm hand on his shoulders as he lets himself be pushed around, then pressed to the wall, back flat against the surface. Seunghan has a way of kissing, where he almost seems shy, waiting for you to push forward, until he overwhelms you with it once you do. He’d been nice to be with, Yeonjun will admit, and if he had to choose it’d be him. But there hadn’t been love, and they barely even f*cked — friends, maybe, but they couldn’t even make that work. And Seunghan hadn’t cared for him in the way Beomgyu did, and Yeonjun’s too spoiled now to settle for less.
There’s that urge again, Yeonjun gets engulfed by it — the urge to rip Beomgyu apart and sink his teeth into his insides. It has never been enough to be his friend, even less so now. It’s difficult to watch him get grinded on, by his ex-boyfriend at that, and when Yeonjun gets close enough he swears he hears him moan. It’s terrible — maybe Yeonjun had swallowed his brother’s anger this morning with his breakfast. There’s that faint ringing in his ear again, like when he’d almost stabbed another boy with a fork in high school, one too many insults hurled at him. He doesn’t pick up his pace, no. He walks one grudgingly slow footstep at a time, unsure if he wants to reach them at all. It’s when Seunghan’s hand snakes up Beomgyu’s shirt that he takes two steps at a time, a swift pry off gets him a gasp from Beomgyu, and the ringing gets louder when the first punch lands.
It gets worse when Seunghan doesn’t punch back, only clutching his jaw with a smile on his face. It drives Yeonjun insane — the urge to knock the smile off of his head, and have him bleeding right here for everyone to see. There are screams, and hands on his shoulders, and yet Yeonjun tries his best to make sure Seunghan doesn’t smile back at him. It doesn’t work; he’s still smiling even with all the blood. It doesn’t work, because Yeonjun still looks like he lost. It’s not working, it’s not working.
When he gets pulled off, the first thing he sees is Beomgyu, disappointment and shock written all over his face. None of the hands on him had been Beomgyu’s, because by the looks of it, he’d just walked away. Yeonjun wants to spit on him; he doesn’t get to do that — look at him like he’s the one who did something wrong. Yet, Beomgyu still walks over in silence, pulling him up by his hands, and when Yeonjun holds them he finds that he’s trembling. Still, Beomgyu doesn’t say anything, as he drags him through the house with a grip that will never be rough enough to show his anger.
On the ride home, the silence envelops them in the back of the taxi, thick in their throats, and Yeonjun swears he could choke on it. They’re in Yeonjun’s doorway when Beomgyu cuts through it, his tongue a knife that scratches, “Why’d you do it?”
And Yeonjun feels wronged. It’s unfair. Beomgyu doesn’t get to do that to him. He’d consider keeping his voice down, but his brother’s car hadn’t been in the driveway. He doesn’t bother falling with grace. “Why’d you do it?”
Beomgyu’s standing in front of him, back hunched against Yeonjun’s view, motions halted as though he’s contemplating whether he wants to toe his shoes off or not. Yeonjun doesn’t let go of the doorknob behind him.“Can we not do this tonight?” Beomgyu offers an out, whether to Yeonjun or himself — it’s difficult to tell.
“Right.” Yeonjun sighs, brushing past him with an annoyed huff. There’s static in the way their shoulders touch, and Beomgyu can’t help but clutch onto where Yeonjun knocked into him.
Yeonjun can’t look at him. He reaches into the fridge, and tries not to cringe at the sight of it, reaching for a water bottle with a blind eye to everything else. “Hyung, please,” comes the voice by the door, so small the wind could disperse it had there been even the slightest bit of a draft inside. And suddenly his anger feels all wrong; it no longer feels justified when Beomgyu meets his eyes in the low light, glimmering with unshed tears. Because a few months ago when Beomgyu asked to kiss him for the first time, Yeonjun had promised him to be anything you want, Gyu. He signed up for this. He promised to let Beomgyu have what he wants, anything, anything at all, because Yeonjun has the same kind of stupidity his mother did — he promises, and lets himself be promised; all foolish things, all worthless in hindsight. Beomgyu looks almost lifeless like this, and Yeonjun can’t bear to look at him.
“You don’t get it,” the boy babbles, sock-clad feet wriggling in place once they're out of his shoes.
It’s true, Yeonjun thinks, because he honestly doesn’t. He’s never understood Beomgyu, and has no plans to. He cannot afford to do that to himself, not when Beomgyu is this… fleeting. Yeonjun will never get to hold him in his arms, at least not in the way it matters. “Why Seunghan, then?”
Nothing prepares him for the wail Beomgyu lets out — so awfully grating, so high that it rings, so broken that it claws at his insides. Yeonjun drops his bottle in a loud thud, and his feet feel like they’re sinking with it when it hits the ground, one awful pour of cold wetness after the other. Right here in their filthy kitchen, where a chunk of the island’s marble top is missing on one side, where the three-burner gas stove has only had one working for years, Yeonjun drowns in self-pity for the first time in months. Beomgyu’s gaze on him feels too accusatory, and Yeonjun has nothing to get his hands on, so his palm pulsates, and trembles, and Beomgyu stares at that too.
Beomgyu sobs around another hyung, before he crouches, elbows crossed over his knees, head buried in the gap. He’s never looked so small before. The anger turns into something else, something uglier, pointless in the way it does nothing to subside the ache. “Beomgyu,” he calls, and says nothing more. Yeonjun sighs in defeat and shuffles over to him. “Gyu, come on. Get up.” Beomgyu heaves harder. “We can talk about it tomorrow, please.”
And still, he doesn’t budge. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m not angry anymore. Please look at me,” Yeonjun begs, as he moves to crouch as well. Beomgyu drops to his knees, a desperate clamber to wrap his arms around Yeonjun’s neck as he sobs; Yeonjun sighs as he gets a lump of a boy in his arms, and tries his best to balance both of their weights. His hands find purchase where they can — one on the back of his head, and one pressed onto his right wing-bone. Beomgyu shivers when the skin of Yeonjun’s wrist meets the back of his neck.
“Hyung, I’m—”, Beomgyu cries, taking desperate, shallow breaths with every wet heave. Yeonjun’s chest squeezes at it. “I can’t, I can’t.” It’s everything he’s already heard, there’s nothing new there. And yet Beomgyu says it like the first time he’d gotten hard around Yeonjun — with so much shame, and a disposition so terribly apologetic, and the way he’d pulled back like he’d been burnt. “He said— hyung, he said—”, Yeonjun shushes him before Beomgyu chokes, all so terribly overwhelming.
“It can wait,” Yeonjun insists in a hurry, and worry bleeds into every breath he shares with the other boy.
Beomgyu shivers, as a tiny wet choke ripples through him. “Hyung,” he mewls, like a plea. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if he’s too scared that Yeonjun will hear it. “You kissed him. In December. I wasn’t there—,” he whines, “—and you kissed him, hyung. Why did you kiss him?”
It’s only half-true, because Seunghan had picked up his call, and showed up when no one else did, and Yeonjun needed a place to crash. He’d barely known Beomgyu at the time. And when they’d gotten to his place, he’d caged Yeonjun against the door, and Yeonjun had taken one look at him and accepted his fate. A warm body in exchange for a bed — every single lay he’s had lately had left him feeling filthy. Until Beomgyu showed up, at least. Yeonjun still feels it some days, but less often now, and less intensely the more time he spends with the younger boy.
Yeonjun tries his best to cradle him gently, even though everything else inside him wants to run off. Beomgyu weeps into the crook of his neck. “Said— said you f*cked him,” he whimpers as his nails dig into the back of Yeonjun’s neck. “Why did you do it? Hyung, he was inside you,” he whispers, almost in disbelief. Yeonjun doesn’t wish to understand why that matters. Beomgyu’s sobs get more heartbreaking the longer Yeonjun stays silent. Still, he can’t bring himself to offer him what he wants — not like this, not now, not when he’s still angry, and not when Beomgyu sounds so hurt by what they’d both agreed to from the get-go.
“It doesn’t matter now, Gyu. It was before you. Nothing else came after you, I swear.” The reassurance tastes like bile in his throat. He feels bitter still, like some deep, innate part of him has long since decided that Beomgyu doesn’t deserve his kindness, especially not when he’s being this difficult.
Beomgyu’s grip loosens, as he pulls back slightly, to try and look at Yeonjun. Once he’s in Yeonjun’s line of sight, there’s a dull snap of whatever self-preservation he’d had left. Because here he was, Choi Beomgyu, the most beautiful thing Yeonjun will get to hold in his life, torn apart by everything that wasn’t his to claim — red in the face, wet in the eyes, with snot and tears and the look of a man being ripped of light and love. “Baby,” Yeonjun whines, heart clenching at the sight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hyung is sorry.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, because a minute ago he’d been so sure that Beomgyu deserved whatever hell he’d been dragged through by Seunghan. But now, when they’re staring at each other dead in the eyes, and the overhead light is making Beomgyu look worse than he does most days; he can’t bear it — the look on Beomgyu’s face, and the thought of being the reason behind it.
There hadn’t been much love to live for in Yeonjun’s life. He’d barely caught any feelings in the past, maybe there was one person, or two if he tries hard enough to name them. But Beomgyu had been different. Yeonjun knew from the start that they’d be here someday, but he was so sure he’d be the one in tears. “It doesn’t matter, Beomgyu. It meant nothing to me,” he tries again, and Beomgyu’s face twists into another sob. “It matters to me,” he complains, and Yeonjun wants to hold him forever. He can’t help but reach up to cup his beautiful, beautiful face, and he feels light-headed when Beomgyu presses down, onto his palm.
“Okay,” Yeonjun placates, settling for gently rubbing his skin with his thumb. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” And that seems to be all Beomgyu wanted to hear since the start, breaking into a heart-wrenching smile then and there. “Okay,” he says, suddenly soaring in the way he lights up. God, he’s so drunk. Yeonjun chuckles as he shakes his head at him. "Uppy," he giggles as he goes lax against Yeonjun, full weight on him now. Yeonjun groans as Beomgyu raises his arms without a care in the world. It's almost terrifying how fast his mood switches— but drunk Beomgyu has never not been a handful.
"Spoiled rotten," he smiles, as he reins himself better to try and lift the giggling boy. Once Yeonjun maneuvers him high enough, Beomgyu clings to him like a koala, burying his face into Yeonjun's right shoulder. Yeonjun smiles to himself as he bears the exhaustion and the extra weight, patting Beomgyu's butt once, twice, before the boy whines in protest. "Mom calls me that sometimes, still," he whispers as Yeonjun makes the arduous journey upstairs.
"Hm?"
"Beomgyu-yah, you're so spoiled. Beomgyu-yah, you're just like appa," he giggles as he mimics what Yeonjun believes to be his mother. "Beomgyu-yah, you disgust me now. Beomgyu-yah, you never should've been born. Eomma is sorry, Gyu-yah." Yeonjun's stomach drops. The boy in his arms is still giggling. He has his hand on the doorknob of his room, when Beomgyu whispers so, so lowly: "Beomgyu-yah, should eomma just die instead? Gyu-yah, appa won't change. Gyu-yah, my Gyu-yah, no one will love you, you're too much like appa."
"Gyu?" Yeonjun calls, frantically, voice cracking as he chokes on his spit.
"Beomgyu's sorry. Hyung, can you tell eomma that I'm sorry? I just want eomma... just want...," he trails off. Yeonjun moves on auto-pilot, opening his door and plopping down at the edge of his bed. The tears are as timely as Beomgyu's silence is. "Gyu? Beomgyu?" But there's no answer — Beomgyu's fast asleep, out like light. Yeonjun cries quietly as he holds the boy in his arms, clinging to him for comfort instead. Like this, Beomgyu feels too solid. Like this, he feels too real, and Yeonjun worries he'll crumble like gravel in his hold.
Neither of them are making it out of here in one piece. Yeonjun will take his chances to make sure Beomgyu does.
There's a pattern that webs itself so delicately around the house that Yeonjun has learnt to live around it — when to stay home, when to stay out, when to get home undetected, when to live like he doesn't exist, and the likes. It's not difficult to memorize. But today had been a long day, and he'd just wanted to crash on his own bed and stay dead to the world at least until tomorrow. He'll skip dinner and eat a heavy breakfast; big plans, foolproof. Except, when he gets home his brother is there, sluggerish and his bone-deep exhaustion swirls in his demeanor. Yeonjun contemplates greeting him or not, but neither options had ever been safe. So, he settles for a quick, "Hey, hyung," feigning nonchalance as he pours himself some juice to keep busy. Some days they talk, while on other days his brother doesn't want him to even breathe around him.
"Hey," his brother greets back, too calm than how he normally is. "I was making a sandwich. Want one?"
Yeonjun can't help but eye the knife in his hand warily, before he tells him, "No, we had late lunch at work."
His brother stops in his tracks. "They give you lunch breaks now? Matter of fact, why are you home?"
Yeonjun gulps. He hadn't seen his brother in a while, so there hadn't been time to tell him. "Yeah, I'm— I'm working at a new place. Pays better." He doesn't mention the part where he'd gotten fired, because anything could offset the anger. Yeonjun can't keep track of how many times he'd done it on accident.
"You like it better, then?" His brother says, buttering his bread slice. "Are they nice to you?"
There it is, that odd feeling — the one that comes out whenever his brother isn't turning their home into a warzone. It reminds him of being taught how to write a bike, getting his first star sticker in elementary school, and gentle hands in his hair. He takes one long sip, while staring at the back of his brother's head before he answers. "Yeah, Beomgyu introduced me."
His brother turns to him, a weird look on his face. Then, he scoffs, all bitter and agitated. "So, you f*cked your way into it." His snicker sounds grating to Yeonjun's ears. "What, you gonna marry him? Have snotty little kids and let him use your run-through body for company?"
"Hyung," Yeonjun warns, too tired to deal with his sh*t.
His brother laughs, scratchy and loud. "You're just like her, you know? Sensitive. Whiny. Always ready to run to the first person offering comfort. whor*s too, the both of you."
Yeonjun can't dispute it, no matter how much his jaw itches, no matter how much his guts boils, because to disagree means to argue, and to argue means to fight, and he's had enough bruises already. His brother is on a mission, though, because he's still grinning almost maniacally. "Next thing I know, you're gonna leave too. You'll abandon me too, just like her. And you know it."
"No, hyung, that's not—," his breath catches in his throat when his brother steps up to him in one quick motion, kitchen knife pressed to his neck. There's something in his eyes that Yeonjun can't recognize, something so terribly sinister; he's not sure he wants to find out. When the knife presses closer, he starts crying. It's humiliating— how helpless he gets, even though logically he could overpower his brother. It's devastating how awfully weak he gets when he's placed in situations like these, with his brother's gaze a challenge he's not willing to answer. "Hyung, please, you're scaring me."
"What are you scared of, Jjunie? Gonna tell people I've been putting my hands on you again? Cry for help like a little bitch? What, you don't trust hyung anymore?" His brother spits every word out.
Yeonjun blinks around the black spots swarming his vision. He has to get away. He has to...
With one swift push and a scream, he wills himself to move, throwing his brother off and tries not to cry at the sound of the steel knife clanging when it hits the floor. He cries as he gathers his things and runs, out the door and to the very empty street. Back pocket. Phone. Back pocket.
He's sobbing as he hears footsteps behind him, and he screams when he finds that his brother still has a knife in his hand. "Choi Yeonjun, get back inside!" He shouts, and Yeonjun runs. "I'm not going to hurt you! I'm sorry! Jjunie, please!" He runs, over onto the next street, clutching onto his bag strap for dear life. Help won't come. Not on streets like these, where people would rather close their curtains at a crime scene than call for the police. No one will save him here, so he runs. And doesn't stop until he's sure his brother will no longer be running after, until he's sure he's several streets away, until he's slumping over a bus stop seat.
Then, he sags against it, and he wails. Nerve endings on fire, a burning sensation on his neck where the knife had rested, and a throb in his skull so deep that he has to fight the urge to claw his own eyes out. He cries like he's never been held, cries like no one has ever cared to soothe him, and cries like there's blood seeping out of his crevices and every inhale worsens the suppurating wound inside him. Phone. Back pocket. He's heaving so terribly, trying his best to ignore the way his hands are curling up from the lack of oxygen, and dials the first emergency number. He picks up on the second try, and Yeonjun sobs into the receiver.
"Hyung?" Comes the worried voice from the other end of the line.
When Soobin first confided in him, about leaving home, about leaving space there for him, Yeonjun had sworn on everything inside himself to never take up that space.
"Bin." He can't get anything else out. His tongue feels like a dead lump in his mouth. "Outside— I'm— I don't," he wails yet again.
"Hyung. Hyung? What's wrong, hyung?" Soobin's frantic calls do nothing to soothe the panic building inside him. "I'll come get you, stay on the line and send me your location. Can you do that? I'm coming right now, don't cry hyung, don't cry—," the rest of it buzzes away when the static gets louder. Yeonjun spares every ounce of energy into doing as he's asked, at least he thinks he does, because a minute later his hands freeze up quite literally. It doesn't take very long before the darkness swims closer, and Yeonjun gets engulfed by it.
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When he comes to, there are whispers in the air, and the smell of flowers. There's warmth all around him.
"— can't decide for him—"
"— it's not up to you—"
"— he's my brother—"
"— he's not a kid either, Soobin."
His eyes open like prying off glued sheets, and the voices halt in the air. He's pressed to a chest, with arms around him, and Soobin is looking down at him in relief. "Oh, you're awake. Thank God," he breathes, running a hand through his hair. Yeonjun blinks up at him tiredly. His mouth feels as though it's filled with cotton. "Good evening," the person behind him greets, and Yeonjun doesn't have to look up to know it's Beomgyu. He snuggles closer to him, shame be damned. He's had a rough day, he deserves this.
"Hyung, let's go to the hospital," Soobin says urgently, standing up from his chair to get his point across. Yeonjun eyes the walls behind him— muted grey, with white accents; Soobin's spare room. Yeonjun shakes his head.
"Told you," Beomgyu says, gentle hands resting on his head, cradling him almost. His fingers card through Yeonjun's hair so carefully, and Yeonjun wants to cry again. "But hyung," he begins, hesitant and skittish, "Your neck...," he trails off, unsure how to finish his sentence.
Yeonjun knows what they're all thinking of. It's definitely not a deep cut, but it stings, especially in this position where he's straining it. "No hospital," he states, cringing at how worn out his voice sounds. To go to the hospital meant to have to explain how he'd gotten the wound, and to explain meant he couldn't lie about it—not when the placement was this conspicuous. It'd raise alarms anywhere.
"Hyung," Soobin sighs, but doesn't press. He just stares at him in defeat. Filthy, filthy, filthy. Yeonjun pulls back from Beomgyu, suspiciously hasty. "Mmm?" Beomgyu questions, staring at him with dark, warm eyes, and Yeonjun offers him a tired smile. He shakes his head as a response, and gets up anyways. He ignores the way both Soobin and Beomgyu's hands float in the air, way too ready to catch him lest he stumbles. He shuffles his way into the bathroom and slumps on the toilet.
There's no convincing himself now— he can't go back. It doesn't matter how many times he's promised of change; nothing changes until someone dies or runs away. And Yeonjun is too terrified to take his chances. He turn to the sink, too intricate in its design for his liking—a forward pull for warm water, and a twist to the right for cold water. Yeonjun hates it. He splashes his face and rubs down his arms, and grabs the disgustingly pristine white towel from the door-less cabinet. He leaves stains on it, just like he thought he would, and grins to himself at the predictability of it.
He doesn't know why Beomgyu's here, or why Soobin thought it was okay to have him here, but Yeonjun's only partly thankful. He feels disgusting, filthy, and he both feels and looks like a mess. He just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to wake up either. Just... one long, continuous, peaceful slumber. Still, he raises his head, ignores the scab on his neck, and walks out. The first thing he finds is Beomgyu on the bed still, with a little white plastic box with red accents. Yeonjun doesn't ask.
He's silent when Beomgyu pats the space next to him, and Yeonjun sits, feet of the ground and crossing in front of him. He's silent when Beomgyu disinfects the wound, only slightly flinching when he presses too hard sometimes. He's silent when Beomgyu applies ointment, and fixes a gauge and some plaster. Yeonjun lets him do it, and watches him do it with trembling hands, uneven breathing, and tears in his eyes. Yeonjun wordlessly wipes a stray tear that escapes when Beomgyu blinks. "Gyu," he whispers, too scared now to raise his voice any more. Beomgyu shakes his head defiantly, as if to say: I don't wanna hear it. Just let me do this, and I won't ask.
Yeonjun purses his lips and chews on the inside of his cheeks. Beomgyu kisses him so very gently when he's finished. "All done," he smiles, voice awkwardly chirpy even though he's crying. "Where's Soobin?" Yeonjun croaks, trying his best to match Beomgyu's smile. It probably comes out lopsided, and ingenuine, but it's all he can offer.
"He went back... to get your things."
The thing about Soobin is that he's too devoted, too sincere. Yeonjun wishes the ground would swallow him whole. The thought of Soobin going back there, to make sure Yeonjun stays safe, to make sure he has enough clothes and necessities to save him from going back to his reality makes his stomach boil and it's acid in his mouth. It's so shameful, and yet, so terribly thoughtful; Yeonjun wants to die, right here, in front of Beomgyu's warm gaze and gentle touches.
"We should get something to eat," Beomgyu declares, hands moving to pat down Yeonjun's hair. "I'm starving. Come on, we can order ahead." He drags Yeonjun by the chin, and Yeonjun trails after him like always. It's the smallest sliver of normalcy he could've asked for, and he's thankful Beomgyu always has enough tack to ground him like this. He can think about everything else tomorrow. Now, he just wants to think about food, and Beomgyu, and watch Beomgyu eat, and watch how his eyes light up with every bite Yeonjun takes. It's enough, for now.
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The talk didn't end up being as awful as Yeonjun imagined. He didn't even cry when he tells them what happened. He'd slept in Beomgyu's arms and didn't have a nightmare. He'd woken up to songbirds and warm sunlight. And he'd gotten served with warm, homemade food, with rice and actual side dishes, and Soobin had smiled over his spoonful of tofu. It was almost easy. Then, Beomgyu had left, and Yeonjun's terror had grown.
"You're not inconveniencing me. I told you, that room has always been yours," Soobin tells him from across the room, lying face down on the couch. Yeonjun hugs his knees closer to his chest.
"It won't be for long. Just until I can save enough money to get my own place," he insists, and Soobin sighs almost deliberately.
"Whatever. I don't care. You can stay as long as you want." He lifts his head up, turning to look at Yeonjun, hair a disarray of strands. "Should we get a cat? Or a dog? I think it'd be fun."
It's so likely of Soobin to make plans like this— to tell you deliberately that you're included, you're part of the plan, and you even get to decide. Yeonjun smiles as he tells him, "Maybe later." It's a silent promise to stay, to not go back, to accept the severity of the situation however his mind allows him to. When Soobin returned last evening, Yeonjun didn't ask. He'd only thanked him, and smiled at the sight of his pillows too. Soobin had been so, so thoughtful that he figured he could afford to be considerate enough to not ask.
Beomgyu had called Chaeyoung to ask for his leave, and Yeonjun only finds out when Chaeyoung calls in the afternoon. "Beomgyu said you had an accident. Are you okay? Do you need the rest of the week off?" But Yeonjun had told her no, because all he had to do was get through Thursday and Friday, and then he'd get to think about his life on the weekend. He can't both be the newbie and unreliable.
On Thursday, Beomgyu picks him up, with a pre-packed bowl of savory oats and coffee in the back. No one had ever loved him like Beomgyu did, so much so that it's becoming more difficult to accept that the boy is indeed, not in love with him (at least not in the way it counts). Yeonjun swallows thickly around his breakfast and tries not to think of the jacket in the backseat— too small to be either his or Beomgyu's. It's nothing new, and it shouldn't matter that Beomgyu sees him off with a kiss. It shouldn't matter that he's smiling as he waves Yeonjun off. And it truly doesn't matter, Yeonjun thinks, because all this is temporary. He smiles to himself as he watches Beomgyu drive off.
On Friday, Beomgyu picks him up again, with flat croissants (because he wanted to try them) and a matcha latte (also because he wanted to try them). It's funny because they both end up hating it. When they arrive at the parking lot of his workplace, Beomgyu unbuckles his seat belt and almost climbs on Yeonjun, pressing him into the seat, claiming his mouth kiss after kiss, fervently. Yeonjun has no complaints, only moaning into Beomgyu's mouth without a thought in his head. They're both ruining their clothes, crumpling them in their urgency, and Yeonjun mewls when Beomgyu snakes his hand up his canvas skirt. "Stop," he whines, and Beomgyu just laughs, running warm palms up and down the expanse of Yeonjun's thighs.
The boy leans down, pulling on the hem of Yeonjun's top, revealing his chest in all it's flushing redness. It's so unlike Beomgyu to mark him up, and yet his heart soars when Yeonjun finds that Beomgyu's trying to leave a hickey there, low enough for his shirt to hide it, but high enough to accidentally catch glimpses of it when Yeonjun moves or bends. It's terrifying, how effortlessly Yeonjun can always rile him up. When Beomgyu pulls back, he has that annoying smile on his face — self-satisfaction, and an awful look of pride. "You're trying to kill me?" Yeonjun gasps, hands finding purchase on the back of Beomgyu's thighs.
"Just a little," the boy says, grinning so cutely before leaning back in to kiss him. Yeonjun melts under him, and pushes him off a moment later. "I'm gonna be late."
Beomgyu frowns ever so slightly at that, but doesn't protest. He leans back further, dropping back into his own seat in ungraceful movements, keeping his eyes entirely on Yeonjun the whole time. "Can I pick you up? After work?" And it's so irritating, how thoughtful he can be, and how considerate— he never has to ask, Yeonjun will always say yes. He'll take whatever he can get, whenever he can get it.
On Friday evening, at around 5 P.M., Beomgyu picks him up in a completely different outfit than what he'd worn in the morning. Yeonjun giggles at the sight of Beomgyu opening the door for him, mannerism fluid and at ease. He bites back his tongue at the thought of him doing this to other people, and chokes on his spit. "What's with the get-up?" Yeonjun smiles, as he watches Beomgyu slide into his own seat, fingers busy with his buckle. Yeonjun reaches out to fix it for him.
"I just thought you'd like to have a little treat. Have some nice food, enjoy good music, that sort of stuff." Beomgyu seems nervous, even though his voice is so playful.
Yeonjun can't fight the grin that splits his face open. "Is this a date?"
If it were up to him, he'd rather have gone home first, take a long bath, and show up in his cutest fit. But this is nice too, because he's wearing one of his favourite skirts, and Beomgyu's wearing their perfume. It makes his insides curl and his knees feel weak. Beomgyu swallows thickly, hastily moving to reverse the car, and squeaks out a maybe. And Yeonjun will take it.
The place isn't far from his work. A pub, with tasteful neon signs, and fake brickwork exterior that only rich people do for the aesthetics of it. Beomgyu leads him inside with a skip to his steps, "They have my favourite ribs, and their beer is quite literally the best."
Yeonjun likes seeing Beomgyu in his element, he decides, as he watches him haul a table for them, ambient live music in the background, and he can't help but stare wide-eyed and shamelessly when the younger boy orders with practiced ease. It shouldn't be so attractive to watch him order for Yeonjun as well, but the sight makes him clench. They're halfway into their dinner, sharing gossip and the latest episode of Beomgyu's favourite show, when new faces waltz in and Beomgyu freezes.
"Beomgyu! Didn't expect to see you here," a voice greets from behind Yeonjun, and Beomgyu stares like a deer caught in headlights. When they walk up, there's about four of them, and Yeonjun never bothered to learn their names before. "Taehyun, hi," Beomgyu greets, and spares the others a small wave. Ah, Taehyun. Soobin's ex-boyfriend. Notorious for being closeted, and yet somehow still violently hom*ophobic. Yeonjun didn't like him one bit.
He tries not to squirm in his seat, because from this angle it isn't even that apparent that he's wearing a skirt. And yet, somehow, he still feels exposed. "Yeonjun, right?" Taehyun greets, lingering in front of their table even after his friends have dispersed to go get their own. "Beomgyu's newest little boy toy." Yeonjun tries not to flinch at his tone, appalled by the audacity Taehyun possesses— to come up here, just to offend the both of them to his best abilities.
"Taehyun," Beomgyu warns, low and barely audible.
Taehyun chuckles. "What? You ashamed of it? Like you were with Eunseok? I swear to god, Gyu, by the end of this year you'll be all open and loose. Yeonjun here—," he says, pointing to him with a crazed look in his eyes, "— is a real work of art. Word on the street is that he's a level of slu*t even I can't compete with."
Yeonjun gasps when Beomgyu pressed his fork into the arch of Taehyun's neck, so dangerously close. "Get the f*ck out of here, Taehyun. Just because Soobin won't f*ck with your filthy ass anymore doesn't mean we'll take you in. Take your sh*t somewhere else."
Taehyun gulps before he grins at Beomgyu, facade cracking a smidge. "See you around, then."
When he leaves, Yeonjun almost, almost gags outwardly. It's terrible because Beomgyu won't even look at him, and all Yeonjun wants is to hold his hand. And yet, he can't even do that. Not here. "Do you wanna leave?" Yeonjun offers, because they both look like they're five seconds away from retching. Beomgyu nods, placing a couple hundreds on the table, and slides out of their booth without looking back. Yeonjun follows him with his heart in his throat, and almost stumbles when he passes Taehyun's booth and someone slides their hands up his skirt. He can't even retaliate, not when he only has his eyes on Beomgyu's retreating frame. He swats the hand off and runs out.
They get to the car in silence, and they sit there for a while, in the dark, with Beomgyu's hands firmly on the wheel. "I'm sorry," Yeonjun offers, even though it won't help at all. Beomgyu laughs, incredulous and tired. "Not your fault," he states. Yeonjun doesn't believe it. Because, in the months leading up to Beomgyu, whatever Taehyun had said about him had been true. He'd slept around and used bodies to sate the ache, one-night stands in every corner and sometimes even on the street. He'd used sex as a means to cope, and it worked much too well. And he was soft, so soft; and he was pretty in the way most guys weren't. Should've been a girl, they'd say, tutting in disapproval while they'd sink their co*cks into his ass with filthy groans, and Yeonjun let them because the pain blended with the pleasure, and at the end of the day all he'd wanted was to feel anyways, nothing more.
Maybe that's why Beomgyu won't touch him, because he's too tainted, filthy filthy filthy. Yeonjun feels it even more now, when Beomgyu refuses to look at him, let alone come anywhere near him. If Yeonjun hadn't followed, maybe Beomgyu would've left on his own, forgetting that he'd been there with him at all. It's difficult not to feel tears well up, and it's humbling to still be sitting here in the dark, next to the boy who will leave him behind the first chance he gets; still, Yeonjun doesn't run. Because Beomgyu had been kind, because Beomgyu had looked at him without flinching, because Beomgyu had touched his blood without hurrying to wipe it off in disgust.
"Do you wanna go back to my place?" Comes Beomgyu's question, firm and resonant. "I don't wanna be alone right now." Beomgyu never wants to be alone — Yeonjun had accepted this months ago. Better him than someone else. So, he tells him yes, and smiles to himself at how predictable he also is, especially to Beomgyu. He wouldn't have asked if he wasn't sure Yeonjun was going to say yes.
The drive to Beomgyu's place is chattier than he thought it would be, because for possibly the first time since he's known Beomgyu, the boy offers to talk about it. Taehyun cheated on Soobin, and then harassed Soobin's now ex-girlfriend. You know her right, Arin? Then, he started bothering me lately, because while I did go out with a few people (boys, Yeonjun thinks), you're the only one who's stuck around this long. We haven't been on good terms since their break-up, and he's truly out to get his lick back. Beomgyu had laughed, albeit humorlessly.
Beomgyu's apartment is huge, and emptier than Soobin's is. He's only been here maybe twice, that too for quick drop-bys or pick-ups, so he'd never truly been inside. He smiles at the sight of pink slippers by the door— Beomgyu can be so adorable sometimes. He waltz his way in like he's been here a dozen times before, and Beomgyu only smiles at the sight of him rumbling through his fridge. It's so terribly empty, save for water and energy drinks. Yeonjun settles for a Monster, cracking it open with a pop, before Beomgyu steals it from his hands. "Hey," he protests, even though they're both laughing.
Beomgyu only has ambient lights in the kitchen, and somehow that tells Yeonjun all he needs to know about everything else. The entire apartment is earthy, and woody, and warm. It's cute, and so terribly minimalistic still, but the warmth cuts through everything. "Do you like it?" Beomgyu asks, while Yeonjun's still looking around, trying to burn it into memory.
"I do. It's so... you," he tells him with a giggle, when he realizes all the plants are fake, with that sheen of gloss you find only on artificial décor. It's heartwarming— the whole sight of it, and Beomgyu, too.
They stare at each other for a moment, with Yeonjun leaning back on the fridge, and Beomgyu leaning forward on the counter. Beomgyu smiles so painfully sweet before he says, "Hyung, you're so f*cking pretty." Any other time, he'd joke around, a little show of playing into it. But tonight, with his hair a mess, and his makeup faded and melting off his face from the long day he's had, with minimal touch ups in the car, Yeonjun wants to savor it. Especially when Beomgyu's staring so earnestly, trying neither to be convincing nor flattering— he says it like a truth meant to be shared.
Like this, he feels fleeting. Like this, he feels as though he's floating away, and only Beomgyu's gaze is what's keeping him grounded. Diaphanous, and glitching away. He just wants to be held, so he goes... one slow step towards the boy, until his hipbones are pressing into the marble-top, and Beomgyu's looking up at him with dazed eyes. Yeonjun leans further down, and his breath hitches when his lips make contact with Beomgyu's; soft, softer than anything he's ever felt. Gentler than all their other kisses. Passionate, yet patient — Beomgyu doesn't hurry to lick into his mouth the way he usually does. Yeonjun's toes curl and his knees shake, and Beomgyu whines deep from within his chest; yet, it's barely soft presses. It's far more overwhelming, because Yeonjun's vision has spots and it's truly just a kiss.
When they pull back, Beomgyu pants, and looks up at him with wet eyes. "Hyung, I want more," he whispers, so open and inviting. Yeonjun snickers and shakes his head. "Not tonight. I'm tipsy, you're tired, and we'll be too sleepy to do anything. If you wake up tomorrow and you still want it, I'll blow you."
Beomgyu whines in his face. It's so terribly endearing, that it almost makes Yeonjun forget what he's asking for. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Beomgyu doesn't protest, but he's grumbling the entire way to his bedroom. It's all small sounds and it makes Yeonjun's guts twist, but he doesn't act on it. Not when the chances are that Yeonjun will want more, much more than Beomgyu's willing to give. So, they wash up, and go to sleep. He always sleeps well in Beomgyu's arms, regardless of where he is.
Yeonjun wakes up to whimpers in his ear.
When he opens his eyes, Beomgyu grinding into the mattress, still asleep. Yeonjun giggles at the sight— a wet dream, maybe? The sun is barely out, and the bone-deep exhaustion he used to feel every morning is nothing but a memory now. "Gyu?" He calls, voice barely above a whisper. The boy doesn't respond, only whimpering mindlessly, grinding into the mattress in desperation. Yeonjun stares in pity because he's not even grinding very accurately. His co*ckhead is peeking out from the waistband of his boxers, and it looks so angry; Yeonjun salivates a little.
"Beomgyu?" He tries again, louder this time, and the whimpers halt. "Wake up, baby," he says, gently patting his matted hair, as Beomgyu stirs. "Hyung?" The boy croaks, voice sleep-laden. He blinks as he registers his surroundings, eyes following Yeonjun's every move as he presses against the mattress to sit up. "Good morning," Yeonjun greets, as softly as he can muster.
Beomgyu smiles, before wincing ever so slightly. He blinks rapidly before looking down, sparing Yeonjun a loud groan that fills the space. "God, that's embarrassing. Did I wake you?"
Yeonjun laughs at his whining. "I mean, yeah? Kind of hard to sleep when you were moaning in my ear."
Beomgyu burrows even deeper into his pillow. "Don't look at me. I wanna die."
"It's fine, it was cute," Yeonjun admits, smiling to himself when he remembers the sounds that woke him. He'd like to hear them again, he thinks. "Want me to help?" At that, Beomgyu perks up, almost halfway up the mattress in a blink, a small whisper of please tumbling off of his lips.
Yeonjun gulps and curses under his breath, because he hadn't been betting on Beomgyu to agree. It's hurried kisses, and frantic hands down Beomgyu's pants that follow; he's so wet that the first stroke Yeonjun gives him makes a filthy, wet squelch."Ah-hah," Beomgyu moans, pulling Yeonjun down by interlocking his arms behind his neck, and squeezes his eyes shut when Yeonjun's thumb presses against the underside of his co*ckhead.
When Yeonjun looks down between their bodies, he can't help but pulls Beomgyu's co*ck out of its confines. If this is his one chance to see him like this, Yeonjun will go all in. "f*ck, you're big," Yeonjun can't help but whine a little, salivating at the sight of the angry flush of the co*ck in his hands. Beomgyu's looking too, whiny breath hitches escaping him whenever Yeonjun so much as jostles him. "Hyung, hyung," he cries, and Yeonjun looks at his face, tries not to die at the sight of his beautiful eyes looking up at him with so much trust. "Mm?"
Beomgyu groans. "It's not— hyung, not enough. Need— need more. Wanna f*ck you, please."
Yeonjun has never been able to say no to anything he asks for, not even at the expense of having to prep himself at 6 in the morning, but Beomgyu's worth everything he thinks. When he emerges from the bathroom, Beomgyu looks five seconds away from crying. His co*ck sits pretty, snug against his lower belly, still the same angry red it was when Yeonjun excused himself. Yeonjun ignores the wet squelch of his ass rubbing as he strides to the bed, with Beomgyu's eyes on his co*ck the entire time.
Beomgyu's still staring when he climbs back onto the bed, knees spread apart to waddle over, and Beomgyu's eyes follow every bob his co*ck makes. "Next time," he promises, before Beomgyu can ask, because he's too empty now, he'll die if he doesn't have Beomgyu in him in the next two minutes. Sinking down on Beomgyu is easy, because he's so patient, and keeps his hands to himself, and waits for Yeonjun to set his own pace.
He moans almost obediently at every clench of Yeonjun's ass, fingers twitching in their place on the bed, and Yeonjun takes pity on him. He takes his shirt off, and reaches over, lifting Beomgyu's hands, and places them right on his tit*. Beomgyu moans when the barbells dig into his palm. "You have— you—," Beomgyu's words die off in a whimper. All the other guys he'd been with had always noticed this first about Yeonjun, even through his clothes. It’s a lovely surprise, he thinks, that Beomgyu had had no idea they were there.
Yeonjun drags himself up, and drops down with a groan, and Beomgyu squeezes his palms, making both of them moan. “Careful, sensitive,” Yeonjun tells him, already out of breath even though they’ve barely started.
Beomgyu twitches so rapidly when Yeonjun picks up the pace, skin smacking with the force he rides Beomgyu with, that for a few bated moments he fears that Beomgyu might cum. But he doesn’t hesitate to thrust up — tiny movements at first, testing the waters, until he has enough confidence to grab Yeonjun by the hips, holding him in place, making him take it."Feels so good," the boy whispers, desperation bleeding into every word. Like holding Yeonjun isn't enough, like having his dick wet and throbbing so deeply inside Yeonjun still is not enough to sate his longing. "Hyung, you're so warm inside, and so f*cking wet," he says, lifting him slightly before he pulls him back down with a loud, squelching sound as if to prove his point. "Wetter than a c*nt, god, it feels insane inside you."
Yeonjun had lost his words moments ago, only moaning with his tongue lolled out. It's everything he's ever wanted, but more. Because Beomgyu is looking at him with so much adoration, and right now Beomgyu doesn't care about the fact that he's a boy. He's only looking at Yeonjun because he's Yeonjun, and somehow that feels even better than the co*ck nestled deep inside him. Almost.
There's not many people who has had him this desperate, mouthing openly at Beomgyu's neck, saliva dripping everywhere he moves. It's not such a common sight for him, to be rendered so speechless just from sex alone. Yeonjun almost cries when Beomgyu starts sweet-talking instead, telling him how well he's doing, how good he's being, and how good he feels. Yeonjun chokes when he thinks about Beomgyu telling someone else the same things, treating him like one of his girls, and gaps for air. "Gyu," he whines, unsure how to ask for what he wants. But he wants it so bad. He wants Beomgyu to look at him, and him only. It's a bad idea, he thinks, even when he's sucking on Beomgyu's clavicle, blinking tears away as his thighs shake with every brush of Beomgyu's co*ckhead against his prostate.
"Gyu," he calls again, and Beomgyu spares him a little hm? with a slight pause to his thrusting. "Want you," he settles, because his words are working right, because Beomgyu's pulling him back by his shoulders to stare at him. "Only you," he says again, searching for anything to throw him off in Beomgyu's eyes. "Don't want you with someone— don't—," he cries, unsure how to ask for it. It's not his place, it has never been his place, but he wants it so bad he thinks he'll fizzle to nothing, right here, in Beomgyu's arms.
It's utterly humiliating, the feeling of being looked at like he's grown two heads, but Yeonjun has to ask— because he hasn't looked at anyone else since he's seen Beomgyu, because he took all the wrong chances and tried to make the best out of them, because Beomgyu will leave and Yeonjun only wants to rot inside him. "Don't f*ck other people," he finally admits, because he'd been meaning to ask, maybe since three months ago. But he couldn't muster the courage in time, and he didn't want to look like he was deeper into it, so he pretended to sleep around too. And Beomgyu hadn't said anything, so Yeonjun didn't either.
He has to ask, because now that he's had Beomgyu in him, he's spoiled himself rotten again, too. He can't stop clenching, almost as if he's afraid to let go, and Beomgyu groans at every clamp of Yeonjun's walls on him. "I won't, I won't," Beomgyu reassures him, but it doesn't get very far into Yeonjun's brain. "Haven't f*cked anyone else in months. I only want you, hyung," he declares, and it makes Yeonjun's toes curl. Because there's a high chance he's lying, and there's a high chance he doesn't think he owes it to Yeonjun; and yet, the lie feels good, making electricity zap through him in waves.
It's Beomgyu's first time with a man, Yeonjun thinks, and he'd been planning to make it a better time for him than for himself. But here he was, turning into goo, crying in his arms, mouthing at every expanse of skin he can get his hands on. If everything ends and his whole world burns to ashes, and Beomgyu goes back to sleeping around and ignoring him, then Yeonjun will leave his marks on him at least. Show everyone else that he'd touched what wasn't his to touch, and he's proud of it.
"I'm so close, hyung. You?" Yeonjun nods frantically, clambering to lift his hips and drop in the rhythm of Beomgyu's thrusts. There's something else he wishes to say, something he'd been meaning to tell Beomgyu, but it's not the time, nor the place. He cries at the overwhelming feeling of it, and cries even more when Beomgyu strokes his co*ck for him, pressing tiny kisses all over his face. Yeonjun sobs, heartbroken, because it can never be just sex. It's Beomgyu, for god's sake. Beomgyu doesn't seem to get it though, because he's still looking at him with adoration, and all Yeonjun feels is filthy, filthy, filthy.
Their org*sms hit like a bird splashed on a glass window — messy, and sloppy. Yeonjun bleeds at the seams again, eyes pouring, his weeping co*ck in Beomgyu's hands, as the boy tells him, there we go, doing so well hyung, milking me so good. It's too much, and not enough, and Beomgyu will never understand. Yeonjun clings to him like a lifeline, and Beomgyu lets him. Messy and bloodied— the both of them.
He stays through Saturday, and lets himself bask in the feeling the entire day, and pretends like they both don't know where this is going. Beomgyu drops him at Soobin's, and joins them for dinner. It's a normal recurrence at this point, and Yeonjun is thankful despite the lack of necessity for it. Beomgyu bids him goodnight with a kiss, and walks off like he hadn't asked to be buried alive with his dick inside Yeonjun a few hours ago, the second time around. Yeonjun laughs to himself at the memory.
"You guys dating now, then?"
Soobin is a few feet behind him, and yet it feels like he's breathing down Yeonjun's neck. Yeonjun offers him a shrug, because why should that matter? "Just... take care of yourself, hyung. Beomgyu can be a bit...," he trails off, as if contemplating how to finish his sentence. Yeonjun doesn't wait around for it to happen.
"It's fine. I knew what I was getting into," he admits.
Soobin offers him a strained smile. "Do you...," he gets contemplative again, "...care about him?" It's hilarious— the way he avoids the word, but Yeonjun is still thankful he does. Because to talk about it means to admit, and to admit means to accept, and to accepts means to mourn what cannot be.
Yeonjun smiles as he slowly treads slowly towards his own room. "More than anything in my life."
Soobin doesn't ask more after that, and Yeonjun spends his weekend talking to, and missing Beomgyu. On Sunday, he comes over with pho, and makes expensive pods of coffee despite Soobin's protests. Then, he'd left two hours later, after Yeonjun sucked him off against his bedroom door. On Sunday night, Yeonjun digs his fingers into himself trying to remember what Beomgyu felt like. He works up a sweat, and cries into his pillow, because nothing comes close, and he doesn't even get to come.
On Monday morning, he wakes up on the wrong side of bed, dick throbbing in his briefs, scowling at it angrily. He cries in the shower because it's frustrating, and he's just so thoroughly spoiled himself. Soobin doesn't comment on his murderous aura, steering clear of him despite the lack of space in the kitchen. Beomgyu is his only saving grace, greeting him with a chirp to his voice, and Yeonjun melts when he's pulled into a kiss the minute he's inside his car. "I missed you so much," Beomgyu tells him, all honest and sweet, and Yeonjun fights the urge to count his lashes. They converse over a shared bagel, and Yeonjun feeds Beomgyu in intervals between his own sips and bites.
When they arrive, Beomgyu gets off as well, arms wide open as he shuffles over to Yeonjun's side with a pout on his face. "Call me on your break," he pleads, and Yeonjun nods before pecking him. "Pick me up later?" He asks, even though he already knows the answer. Beomgyu beams as he nods, nuzzling into Yeonjun's cheek. "Have a good day," he yells, as he drives off, and Yeonjun has to take a minute to stop giggling before entering.
Chaeyoung greets him by the door, early as always, and Yeonjun barely has enough time to place his bags down before she says, "When did Beomgyu get so sweet? He wasn't like this with me." She says it playfully, only borderline teasing, and Yeonjun knows she's not saying it with ill intentions. Chaeyoung isn't difficult to read; she's strict and she likes boundaries, but she's not malicious like most people Beomgyu surrounds himself with.
"You guys were together?" Like ripping a band-aid off — the sting hurts all the same, whether done slowly or quickly.
Chaeyoung's eyes widen slightly. "He didn't tell you?" Yeonjun shakes his head, trying to not think too much of it, setting his desk to keep busy. "For almost three years, actually. We almost got married."
Yeonjun's chest throbs. So predictable, so Beomgyu. Of course, of course. "Ah, I think he mentioned it in passing. It just slipped my mind." A lie. A big, white one. But it gets Chaeyoung to leave him alone, to set up the work computer, and enter stack of files like every other day. He greets their clients with a smile, back straight by the door, and ignores the chafing of flesh against bones; suppurating sore — his heart. He gets dismissed early today, around 2 P.M., because Chaeyoung has a court hearing, and most of the other advocates are on field visits or on leave.
Yeonjun goes home. For the first time in almost a week, he tells the taxi driver to bring him where he's been dreading to go. His brother's car is missing, so he pays his fare and walks in with weak steps. The house is empty. Yeonjun goes straight to his room, not lingering for even a second in the halls, and he packs. In a frenzy, like a madman, he throws in whatever he can think of, bundling them into his bedsheet. He drags the lump down, stopping by the third kitchen cabinet, and grabs a tiny container. Conspicuous. His brother is never careful.
Then, he calls for an uber, silently placing the large bundle into the backseat, and he climbs in with it. He mindlessly recites Soobin's address. He drags his pathetic belongings to the street, up the stairs, and into Soobin's door. He's not home — he has classes, both him and Beomgyu. He switches his phone off and undoes the bundle in his room. Almost got married. The words ring in his head. Only worthy of deceit. Never worthy of anything else. Beomgyu is so predictable.
What, you gonna marry him? His brother's voice rings even louder. Just like mom, just like her. But Yeonjun hadn't even dreamt of that. He just wanted to be happy, to have Beomgyu in his arms once and then he would've let go. It wasn't supposed to get this serious, and it wasn't supposed to go this far. Yeonjun's stupid, and easy; everyone else says it, too. Good for warmth, good for pretending, good for getting their dicks wet. Nothing more. He's worthless beyond that. Filthy, filthy, filthy.
He's giggling maniacally as he's taking the bundle apart, bit by bit, taking out the clothes and underwear, leaving them in a disarray on the floor. He finds what he'd gone back for — a black two-piece, with a sweetheart neckline — his favourite. Beomgyu would love it, he thinks. Maybe he'd f*ck Yeonjun again, pretend he's a girl too, run his hands over the smoothness of his legs and call him soft, and pretty. Yeonjun will take it, and he'll take it good. He changes out of his work clothes, so you f*cked your way into it, puts on his bathrobe (a fancy, fluffy thing that Soobin bought as a joke), and heads to the bathroom in a daze. He takes a long, warm bath in the tub, rubbing soap suds on unblemished skin for an hour. He shaves, under and over — everywhere he can reach and rubs body butter onto his skin, humming softly to himself. Shaving his happy trail makes him the giddiest, hands roaming over the smooth expanse; Beomgyu will be so happy with him.
He downs a handful of pills from the little container he stole — he doesn’t know what kind they are, and yet he still swallows them, in hopes that they can at least numb down some of the ache. What started with a clench of his chest has migrated everywhere, and Yeonjun struggles to not think about the bone-deep stinging, and tries instead to imagine Beomgyu’s face when he gets here. Will he even come? Yeonjun doesn’t know. He’d been meaning to send him a text, but he’s so tired now — he doesn’t have the energy to reach for his phone and turn it on. Would Beomgyu even pick him up like he’d requested? Will he even care to see if he’s home?
It’s close to 4 P.M. when Soobin comes home, a tell-tale sign of his presence being the jingle of keys and the pitter-patter of his footsteps. He usually doesn’t disturb Yeonjun until dinnertime, you’re allowed to have your own space, hyung. So, Yeonjun spends the time getting dressed. At first, it was okay — slipping into his lingerie had made him all giggly. Then, he’d done his make-up, with shaky hands, and his eyeliner had been crooked. His eyes had welled up at the sight, never having struggled with it before. Then, he’d applied his lipstick, a soft muted mauve, and then he’d stared at himself. You’re just like her.
Yeonjun had screamed in horror; he really did look like her — with his hair falling to his shoulders, in the same soft colours she’d worn before she turned into Yeonjun’s worst memory. He thinks he hears Soobin knock, and maybe call his name, but he’s not too sure. The longer he stares, the worse it gets, because he looks everything and nothing like his mom. His cheekbones are too angled, nose too long, shoulders too broad. Filthy, filthy, filthy. He doesn’t have that softness, and that plush on his cheeks — losing more and more weight every day. He looks atrocious, and there’s a spot on his jaw he missed, stubble peeking out from under his foundation. Filthy, filthy, filthy.
Beomgyu will never look at him again, not when he looks this disgusting, not when…
Yeonjun claws at the spot, then he’s scratching his way down his neck, right over his Adam’s apple. He scratches himself all over, as if that would get rid of the itch, as if that would help with the shame. He hears Soobin call him again, once, twice, before he yells. Yeonjun cries when Soobin walks in, spare key jingling against the handle, eyes widening in shock at the sight that greets him.
“Hyung,” he calls, warily, hesitating to meet his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Soobin is right in front of him, and yet, he feels miles away. The boy is eyeing him up and down, and Yeonjun giggles because he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. It’s weird — he feels so awfully giggly. He watches where Soobin’s gaze lands, and Yeonjun looks down as well; his arms are scratched raw and red, bleeding in some parts. Oh. He didn’t mean to do that.
“Sorry, Soobinnie. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, in between fits of giggles. “Just needed to feel pretty, like a girl,” he whispers the last phrase like that makes it better.
Soobin seems even more alarmed now, walking slowly into the room. “Hyung, did you take something?” He says, looking around the room, eyeing the mess with wide eyes.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, easily. Oops. He didn’t mean to tell him that.
“Hyung, you— did you go home?” Soobin questions, urgently so. Yeonjun doesn’t get it. He can take care of himself. He can go home whenever he wants. Why is Soobin acting like Yeonjun asked for this?
When he doesn’t answer after a minute passes, Soobin walks up to him, and Yeonjun leans back even further into the corner of the room. “You went home. Why didn’t you ask me to come with you? Or I could’ve gotten your things for you.” Yeonjun pouts at that. Soobin is being mean. Does Soobin know he’s being mean?
“Isn’t this your brother’s? Why do you have this?” Soobin questions, panic apparent in his voice now. He’s fumbling with the little plastic container on his vanity. “Hyung, did you take this?” Yeonjun giggles again, but doesn’t respond. “Hyung, answer me, please.”
Yeonjun only spares him a nod, and another giggle. Oh. There it is. That same look — the one Beomgyu gives him sometimes. Closer to pity, closer to apologetic; Yeonjun doesn’t like it. Hates it even. Especially when Soobin starts crying. Yeonjun doesn’t get it. Why is Soobin crying?
“Hyung,” he starts, rubbing his hands up and down his face, until he’s red too. “Yeonjun hyung,” he says, voice tired and small, “I worked all my life to get you out of there. To make sure you stayed away from this. To make sure you at least would make it out. Why the f*ck would you go back there?” He cries, still so softly, and it makes Yeonjun feel so small.
He fiddles with the hem of his upper robe — a pathetic excuse of it, really. “Sorry, Binnie,” he tells him helplessly, so utterly guilty now that it was laid out for him like that. “I didn’t mean to,” he adds, because it’s true. “Just wanted to forget. Wanted to feel pretty, and numb.”
Maybe that’s when Soobin realizes it’s not just about going home, or taking the drugs, or dressing up in girl clothes. Maybe that’s when Soobin’s the most powerful — when he observes and makes mental notes that piece things together for him. “Did something happen with Beomgyu?”
Yeonjun is quick to shake his head with a smile. “Nothing happened.” Then, he backtracks. “Nothing’s ever going to happen.”
That seems to set Soobin off even further, because he’s staring dead at Yeonjun, almost like he’s afraid to take his eyes off of him. It makes Yeonjun laugh, because this is the same boy who would cling to him because there was a spider, who would ask Yeonjun to mix his jjajangmyeon for him because hyung is stronger, who would ask to be sung to sleep even when he’d entered middle school. It’s weird to see him take such a protective stance in his life now.
“Did you know?” Yeonjun asks, because he can’t help himself. “About Chaeyoung, and Beomgyu?”
Even he himself doesn’t get why it matters so much. It’s all in the past, and Beomgyu looks at him with so much affection, and treats him so well, too. And yet, deep down, it hurts more than the exes who cheated on him, and that one guy who only told him he was married a year into their relationship. And yet, it still feels like deception, and betrayal. Especially after Beomgyu had treated him like a dirty secret for months, kept him under wraps like he was ashamed, held his hand under the table and kissed him in the dark.
Soobin's silence makes it worse, because that affirms it — his worst fear is playing out in front of him, and Yeonjun can only watch with tears in his eyes. "You wouldn't have said yes if you knew," Soobin admits, as if it's going to mend the situation.
"She said she was pregnant," Yeonjun laughs, albeit humorlessly. "Said they'd planned to get married."
Soobin sighs, leaning onto the countertop of his vanity; a pretty little thing the boy had ordered for him a few days ago. "She thought she was pregnant. Hyung, I can't speak for Beomgyu, but I swear, he didn't do it intentionally." Yeonjun only smiles at that, because intentions don't matter here. Beomgyu did everything, just how he wanted to, and Yeonjun will sit and rot and accept his decisions.
There's a faint buzz in his ear that grows the longer he stands. His arms feel like jelly, and nothing feels solid. Yeonjun blinks tiredly as something hits him— exhaustion, pain, he can't tell. "Hyung," Soobin calls, grabbing him before he can drop. Maybe Soobin should've let him, and Yeonjun could fall apart like he'd been meaning to for a while— a warm splatter of blood and bones, right here on the white-carpet floor. It'd be pretty, he thinks. "Hyung, we have to go to the hospital. How many of these did you take?"
Yeonjun tries counting, but it's pointless. "Not enough fingers," he says with a sheepish grin, wondering why Soobin is crying again. "Hyung, you can't die," he says, as he drags Yeonjun's limp body up by his armpits. Then, he tries tearing off Yeonjun's clothes, to which Yeonjun protests with a cry. "No, no, no!" He screams, struggling to get his body to work, scrambling to get away from the boy.
"Hyung, you have to change. We need to go to the hospital," Soobin tells him, breathless as he crawls after him on the bed.
"No, wanna be pretty. Beomgyu has to see first," Yeonjun insists, even though it makes absolutely no sense. "Have to— need to show him I'm pretty."
Soobin pauses at that. "Hyung, Beomgyu likes you either way."
Yeonjun laughs wholeheartedly. That's the most ridiculous thing he's heard all day. Beomgyu only likes him because he's easy, because it's easy to pretend he doesn't have a dick— especially from the back, and Yeonjun can keep real quiet to play into the fantasy. Beomgyu's only with him because he was unsure, and Yeonjun wanted him to never be sure. "That's not what he said, though," he argues, because biting on his tongue has been difficult lately. "Called me pretty, like a girl. Said I had a c*nt."
Soobin balks at that, but doesn't reply. Only grabbing around to find a shirt for him, and forces Yeonjun closer by his wrist. "He even bought me women's perfume. Probably wanted me to smell like his girls," Yeonjun goes on, limp and helpless again, as Soobin removes his upper robe and forces him into the shirt. It's the most pushy he's been in his entire life, and Yeonjun hates him for it. "What, you're on his side now? Are you in love with him too? But you have a dick, Soobie. He won't like it very much." Soobin flinches at that, but keeps working Yeonjun's legs into a pair of sweats.
"Come on, hyung," Soobin says, pulling him onto his back once he's fully dressed. It's warm on Soobin's back, and Yeonjun vaguely remembers being carried from the living room to his childhood bed. Soobin jostles him with every step he takes, but somehow that soothes him, too.
"I'm so tired. I just want to sleep," Yeonjun mumbles. They're in the hallway now, and by the sound of jingling keys, Soobin's probably locking up. "I just want to sleep for a long, long time."
He thinks he hears Soobin call him, but it's so faint, and so far away. Yeonjun closes his eyes with a smile, and dreams of his mother's face.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
It's around 7 P.M. when Soobin finds Beomgyu pacing in the hospital parking lot. "Aren't you coming in?"
Beomgyu's head whips up, eyes blown wide and pale in the face. He'd been pacing for minutes now, too terrified to go in. So, he'd texted Soobin with trembling hands. And here Soobin was, lips pulled into a tight line at the sight of his best friend. Beomgyu tries to think of another time Soobin had looked at him with so much disdain and finds that there isn't any. "Hyung," Beomgyu calls, and crouches against his car. Beomgyu rarely calls him hyung. "Is he okay?"
Soobin sighs, walking up to him with a scowl on his face. "Get up." He tells the boy on the ground, who follows mindlessly. The first punch catches Beomgyu aback, but he doesn't retaliate.It's with ringing in his ears, and throbbing in parts of his head he has never felt before, that Beomgyu hears Soobin spit out between gritted teeth, "I told you not to f*ck with Yeonjun. Anyone but him, you f*cking asshole."
He deserves it, he thinks. He deserves it all.
Soobin raises his fist again, and Beomgyu waits with bated breaths. Yet, the punch never lands. Soobin groans into the empty lot. "What are you doing, Beomgyu? With him, with yourself?"
Beomgyu blinks through the sting of tears. He doesn't have an answer that will suffice. There's nothing he could say now that will make anything better. The reality is that everything was one way or the other, whether indirectly or unintentionally, his fault. Beomgyu doesn't even have enough courage to feel pathetic, or to feel guilty. He has nothing to say for himself, so he doesn't. He cries when Soobin pulls him into a hug instead.
"You love him, don't you?" The question makes his heartbeat falter in his chest.
He hadn't truly had time to think about it. Whatever he felt for Yeonjun was his alone, and he'd never thought he'd have to wear it out for others to see. He didn't mean to be so deflective about it, but here they were, bones and flesh, as Beomgyu disintegrates in Soobin's hold. "More than anything," he admits, and flinches when the cold breeze hits his face.
Soobin snickers, all wet and tired, as though he's crying too. "You're just like him," he says, and Beomgyu sobs. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he clings onto Soobin's hoodie. "And he's just like you," his best friend adds, almost reluctantly. "Which is why you need to leave him alone."
"I can't. Soobin, I can't," Beomgyu weeps.
There's static in the air, a muted buzz, and Beomgyu's lungs heave and strain. He'd smoked too much today already. But the phone call that he'd received had been awful, and the thought that Yeonjun almost died — there's very little Beomgyu fears in life, and he'd always considered himself as someone who doesn't have a lot to lose, but when Soobin yelled at him over the sound of the traffic, voice booming angrily over the speaker, Beomgyu had dropped his phone. In the distance, through the fog of his vision, the traffic light had turned green. And Beomgyu couldn't move.
It's difficult now too, because all he wants is to see Yeonjun, hold him in his arms, get on his knees and ask for salvation only he can give. He'd done everything wrong, and looked at their relationship only in the way he knew how — a quiet getaway, something new, blooming so fragilely that he'd been scared to name it for months. Everything he'd said in quiet play had been a stab to Yeonjun's heart; and he didn't know.
Soobin sighs as he pulls back, exasperation heavy in his voice as he says, "At least for a few days. That's all I ask. I don't want him to see you, because he'll get in his head again, and you won't know how to fix it even if you tried."
The fact that it's entirely true does nothing to make it hurt less. Beomgyu runs his fingers through his hair and yanks. "I should go home then? Without even seeing his face?"Soobin seems to contemplate for a few minutes before he reluctantly shakes his head. "He's going to be out for a while. You can see him now, for a short while, but don't ask for anything more."
Beomgyu takes what he can get, and trembles all the way to Yeonjun's room. In front of it, he hesitates, and Soobin has to open the door for him, forcing him inside. The sight he sees makes him turn back around, ready to run away from it, but Soobin blocks his path. "I can't, I can't," he whispers, fresh tears running down his cheeks. "You have to, you're already here," Soobin insists, and turns him around to face his fears.
In front of him, Yeonjun looks dead. Even through the oxygen mask, he looks lifeless— so pale, and so purple still. Beomgyu sobs into his hands and scrunches his eyes closed. Maybe this is some sort of awful punishment, metaphorical lashings from the universe, to make him pay for being careless with the only boy who has ever cared about him enough to wipe his tears and call him perfect. Soobin seems reluctant as well, to walk closer, because the boy on the bed looks nothing like Yeonjun.
"He passed out on the way. God, I thought he'd died for a moment," Soobin utters, sounding still utterly shell-shocked. "The doctor said his heart stopped for a moment when we got here."
Beomgyu tastes nothing but acid in his mouth. "How did he—," he chokes, but Soobin seems to understand. "He went home today. Some pills from his brother's stock, probably. We won't know until lab reports come out tomorrow."
Soobin pushes him closer, until his thighs are flush against the side of the bed. Beomgyu can't help but reach for Yeonjun's hand. "He's so cold," Beomgyu turns to Soobin, panicked. "He's okay," Soobin insists, and yet, Beomgyu has a hard time believing him. He hates how forgiving Soobin can be, when the boy pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, letting Beomgyu cry into his chest so heart-breakingly quiet, whispering soft reassurances, he's okay, it's not your fault, he'll be okay, don't cry, don't cry.
Beomgyu has made all the wrong choices, held all the wrong hands, f*cked up his life so grandiosely. But Yeonjun — he can't let Yeonjun become another one of his mistakes, no matter what happens.
The following days are muted, and stagnation hangs in the air like an awful stench Yeonjun can't rid himself of. His room fills up with flowers rapidly, all from Beomgyu, but the boy never shows up. No matter how much he calls him, no matter how much he begs Soobin. He just wants to go home, sleep in his own bed, and wallow in his sadness.
He's under suicide watch, Soobin had told him, and it sounds as stupid as ever. That hadn't been the case at all. "I just want to see him," Yeonjun begs again, over dinner, taking big bites on purpose, to show Soobin that he's fine, he's doing great. Maybe that'll convince him.But Soobin doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him, only munching away at his own food.
"Soobin," Yeonjun pleads, pathetic and desperate. "Please."The boy sighs as he turns up the sound of the television, drowning out whatever else Yeonjun had to say.
It goes on for a few more days, building a routine, and Yeonjun sits through every therapy session mindlessly. He talks about it easily, like it doesn't matter— about his mom, about his step-dad, about his brother. His therapist doesn't press as much as Yeonjun feared he would, and mostly scribbles incessantly. That can't be a good thing; that much, he knows. On Thursday, there are new flowers by his bed— blue hydrangeas, and Yeonjun swears he catches a glimpse of Beomgyu down the halls, by the elevator. He runs down the stairs before anyone can stop him, wordlessly sprinting, uncaring of the fact that he might fall flat on his face.
He catches him by the back door. "Beomgyu!" He calls out before he can stop himself.
Beomgyu turns around in shock, his hood falling off in his movement. Yeonjun strides up to him, grabbing his arms before the boy can run. "Why are you always leaving?" He hates how awful he sounds; desperate, and miserable.
"Hyung," the boy whispers in shock. "Hyung," he says again, almost in relief, a hand coming up to clench at the sleeve of his hospital pajamas. "I wasn't— you aren't supposed to—," he mumbles, still in disbelief.
Yeonjun melts under his gaze. "You don't wanna see me? Is that it?"
"No, no!" Beomgyu squawks. "That's not the case, not at all," he says, grabbing at Yeonjun by fabric, pulling him into a hug. "I missed you so much, hyung. I thought I was gonna die."
Yeonjun's indignation feels larger than his longing. But Beomgyu's eyes are so earnest, as though he has never lied to him before. "But you didn't come," he argues. Because he'd spend every day, waiting, and Beomgyu never showed up. Not even a single message came through from his side, so Yeonjun had assumed he wanted nothing to do with him anymore. But the flowers... Yeonjun didn't understand it; why Beomgyu wouldn't see him, but still sent him flowers.
"I did," Beomgyu tells him, petting Yeonjun's head gently, "Every day. While you were in therapy. I brought you flowers, and made your bed, and filled your fridge. I even changed your sheets."
Oh.
Yeonjun had assumed it was someone else. Maybe a nurse for the bed, maybe Soobin for the snacks, and maybe a delivery guy for the flowers. Beomgyu tries to pull off, but Yeonjun squeezes tighter. "I wanted to see you," he whispers, shame curling at his sides.
"Yeah?" Beomgyu supplements, but doesn't say anything more.
When he finally pulls back, Beomgyu smiles sadly, a hand coming up to push Yeonjun's bangs away. "You look awful," he says, playful in the way he grins. "You too." They laugh together, uncaring of the people around them; as if it has always been this easy, as if Beomgyu had always looked at him the same way he's doing now.
"Hyung, I have to go," Beomgyu says, distress apparent in his face.
Yeonjun frowns at him.
Beomgyu smiles, so utterly fond. "But I'll come see you tomorrow, if Soobin allows me." Yeonjun's chest unfurls at that. Beomgyu takes his hands in his, pulling them up to his mouth, placing soft kisses on both of his palms. "Please don't be in pain," he says, so softly.
Yeonjun stares at the retreating image of his back, and stays rooted for a long while. Maybe it was worth it after all— to have had Beomgyu pull him apart, and try to put him back together. Yeonjun will let him try.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Beomgyu shows up every day after that, for the rest of the two weeks Yeonjun is admitted. He eats dinner at the hospital and sometimes he sleeps there, upright on the couch next to Soobin, because they're both too stubborn to leave, or to bring actual bedding.
Yeonjun gives away his flowers to little kids on his floor, because there's too much of it now. Beomgyu smiles every time he does it. He also doesn't get argumentative with his therapist anymore. He listens to the man, and watches him scribble. It looks less terrifying now that Yeonjun can talk more about it; more about Beomgyu, more about why it always looks like Beomgyu wants to run from him.
They avoid talking about it like the plague at first. Even after he’s discharged, and Soobin drops him off at work instead of Beomgyu. Chaeyoung is much kinder than when Yeonjun first met her, and he wonders if he’d been wrong from the start, or if she’s only taken a liking to him. Beomgyu texts him sometimes, and on slow days, he calls — to tell him about his day, to ask about his, and to explain to him what utterly criminal food combo he’d discovered that day. Yeonjun looks forward to it, and fiddles with his phone for most hours of the day. Soobin packs him lunch, despite his protests, and Yeonjun cries into his ham and egg sandwiches sometimes.
Beomgyu picks him up on Friday, nails between his teeth, and Yeonjun swats them off as soon as he’s inside his car. He’d seen the boy on Monday, and yet it feels like forever ago. Beomgyu laces their hands together, on top of the gear stick, and laughs at Yeonjun’s tales of the day. There had been a man, coming in for divorce papers, who’d been unsure and backed out at the last minute. He doesn’t know what Chaeyoung and her colleague had said to him, but judging from his face — it couldn’t have been good news. He’d gotten lunch from a ramen place today, from the new shop down the street, to eat with the egg rolls Soobin had packed for him. Beomgyu makes him promise to take him there, and Yeonjun beams at the implications of it.
When they got home (Yeonjun’s been trying to stop calling it Soobin’s place, upon the request of the boy), Yeonjun had toed off his shoes and flopped onto the couch. Beomgyu had lied on top of him, giggling as he did, and somehow Yeonjun breathes easier like that. Soobin had gotten home too, about an hour later, finding them still in the same position. No amount of humiliation had been enough to get Beomgyu off of him.
After dinner, Soobin had retreated to his room, and Yeonjun had been lying on the couch again, eyes trained on the T.V. Beomgyu had been seated adjacent to him, reading through his class notes. Yeonjun had stolen glances, repeatedly looking away when Beomgyu looked up, before the boy sighed and shuffled over to him. He’d giggled as he had in the evening, carving a space out for himself, dropping his body wholly into Yeonjun’s waiting arms.
"How was your week?" Beomgyu asks, trying to make himself as small as possible. Yeonjun wonders if he'd always been this way, or if this has always been how he was around him. It's difficult to not feel a little suffocated, because there's so much in the back burner — a tidal wave about to crash and sweep them along. "It was good. You?"
Beomgyu scrunches his nose, smile rising to his eyes at the amusem*nt their conversation brings. "Nothing new, boring days. Spent all of them thinking about you."
Knowing that Beomgyu means it from the bottom of his heart, does nothing to soothe the ache of what else, what elseand Yeonjun swallows around it like a lump. "What are we doing?" He finally admits, tears already welling up at the implications of the question. He'll never be ready.
"You're holding me," Beomgyu utters, the sound small and pitiful. It's something in the way he says it — like a silent plea, like a shameful desire cracked open against his will, for this to be enough. "I just want you to hold me," he declares, and his eyes flutter shut, almost as if in denial.
It's not enough. They can't go on like this. Soobin won't say anything because he respects their decisions, but Yeonjun knew from the beginning that they would crash and burn. He just didn't expect the fall to be so tender, like a sweet escape; delicate in it's moments, a web of silk as they fall through each of them. One of them has to crush the other's bones to survive — Yeonjun would rather it be his. "I understand why you lied," Yeonjun starts, "Really, I do. But you were planning to get married." Beomgyu clutches onto him like a prayer. "That's not something you keep from someone you see a future with."
Beomgyu burrows deeper into his chest, and if Yeonjun really tries, he thinks he can feel where his tears are starting to soak through his t-shirt. "No, hyung, that's not it at all." It doesn't sound as awful in his head now as it had initially, because in the beginning, he'd first been angry that Beomgyu lied. And then, he'd been hurt that Beomgyu deemed him so insignificant in his life that he didn't even bother to tell him. Now, though, there's a somber sense of acceptance that sits in his heart. "I was ashamed," Beomgyu whispers, sniffling as he does so. "I was young, and impulsive, and it's not something I bring up with anyone. It doesn't matter— no, it shouldn't matter at all."
Except, it does— it matters more than anything in the world... because Yeonjun can't get pregnant. He can't force Beomgyu to stay, to marry him. He can't offer to start a family with him, in exchange for keeping him around. There's a remarkable pattern in the lives of people like Beomgyu— they have their rough youths, and then they get married, and earn the respect back as though it had been waiting for them in some corner, some turn. Not even Soobin is exempt from it, because despite dating mostly men, and having absolutely no trouble admitting to his preferences, the boy still talks about starting a family. Yeonjun can't pretend to not understand how pernicious the idea of it all is, but in the grand scheme of things, no one has the time to wonder which rich kid did what in their strive to grow up.
Beomgyu is worse, far worse than Soobin is, and Yeonjun's not sure he's willing to stick around for him to figure himself out after all. "Two years down the line, you'll talk about me like that, too," Yeonjun mumbles, wretched in the way the admittance claws its way out. Beomgyu shakes his head fervently. "Hyung, you don't get it. You're the best thing to ever happen to me, but I don't know how to show you how much that matters. Can't we just hold each other like this? Isn't that enough?"
Yeonjun doesn't cry anymore, unless in therapy. Maybe he'll cry again, break down on the floor much like he had, in three month's time. Beomgyu is graduating in three months. So, he'll leave in three months. No amount of love Yeonjun has shown him, no amount of sitting together in the pit has ever changed that. Beomgyu thinks promising to come back to him is enough, as though it changes things so monumentally. They're too different. Yeonjun can't let him deteriorate in front of him any longer.
"I don't care if this was just a summer fling to you," Yeonjun admits, quietly so. "If all of this had just been some experiment on your side, and you go back to things that are more familiar to you — I just need you to know that it meant the world to me. One day, you'll talk about me to your kids, and you'll tell them you had a friend. And I'll be thankful, because I got to know Choi Beomgyu, got to hold him, got to bask in his kindness. That's all that matters in the end." Yeonjun has never been good with words, but just this once, he thinks he might've made both his therapist and himself proud with his efforts.
It's difficult to go on when Beomgyu scrambles to sit up, calling out hyung, hyung, Yeonjun hyung, and even when Yeonjun's looking right at him, he doesn't see much of the boy at all. Fleeting, pulsating, diaphanous. It all comes back around.
When Beomgyu keeps coming back, Yeonjun lets him. He doesn't pretend to be bothered by it, and only thanks the heavens for whatever moments he's been granted as scraps. But he does refuse him, and reject his kisses, and lives like they're friends. Beomgyu cries in his face sometimes, desperate and miserable, and Yeonjun watches him with his heart in his throat. He doesn't do that anymore, though. Now, he watches Yeonjun with sad eyes, refusing to take his eyes off sometimes, going out of his way to remind him: hyung, it can only be you. no one else. Yeonjun wishes he could believe him.
He goes back to the mundane, because after a lifetime of turbulence, it comes with acceptance. Beomgyu had come from it, and searched instead for the instability, something to take the edge off; maybe that's why Yeonjun prefers the tranquility of it— it feels like Beomgyu's arms.
When Beomgyu graduates, Yeonjun doesn't show up. Because to show up means to have significance, and they both can't afford that right now. He'd given Soobin his flowers before he'd left, and put on his best shoes and he'd gone to work. Beomgyu had shown up in the evening, outside his work, chest heaving and in tears, hyung, you're so mean. Yeonjun had held him as he cried, but didn't get in his car after. Beomgyu had driven off with a sullen look on his face, tires screeching as they burnt on the asphalt. Yeonjun had texted him two minutes later, worried, please don't die. Beomgyu had read the message but didn't reply.
Choi Beomgyu leaves for Japan on the 9th of July. Yeonjun shows up, for no reason other than the fact that he wanted to seem like he was okay with it. Beomgyu doesn't ask Yeonjun to wait for him. Instead he says, "I'll wait, hyung, as long as you want. It can only be you." It's difficult to keep up with the motive then, when Beomgyu had told him that so earnestly, looked at him with so much adoration, so Yeonjun had cried. In the airport, amidst the masses, in Beomgyu's arms. It was okay up until the night before, when Yeonjun had paced around his room for hours, convincing himself that it's for the better.
When he gets home, he crumbles by the doorway, much like Beomgyu had a few months ago. Soobin finds him there, in his pathetic lump of flesh and bones, and drags him to the kitchen in silence. There, he fixes him tea (Yeonjun doesn't even drink tea), and pretends the weather is nice, even though it's pouring outside, talking about it endlessly — how they should try growing a fruit tree on their balcony, how Yeonjun would be good at taking care of something like that. "It's for the better," Soobin says, even though he utters it like a prayer. Yeonjun cries into his tea, and doesn't mention the rotting cacti in Soobin's room, deprived of everything they need, and yet Soobin refuses to throw them away.
Life goes on in the same, godawful way it always does. Time didn't stop when he was bleeding on the kitchen floor of their old home, and it didn't stop when he'd watched the ant-sized view of what he believed to be Beomgyu as he'd boarded the plane without so much as a glance back. Like watching a nightmare through a foggy glass window — Yeonjun doesn't understand why he'd thought the world would halt for a minute there. It didn't, and the plane took off like every other plane before it had; and when the love of his life was sky-high, Yeonjun had crumbled to the floor. But still, he'd gone home, and he'd taken his tea with tears, let Soobin hold him for a few minutes, then he'd gone on with his life.
Why Japan? Yeonjun had asked, a few months ago — a whisper into Beomgyu's hair, right where he smelled most like himself. Mom used to live there, Beomgyu had told him, like that explains everything. Childhood ghosts are scary, he thinks, and it's apparent in the way Beomgyu has been haunted by them his whole life. He doesn't ask for help, doesn't ask Yeonjun to wait, doesn't tell him about the severity of the scars on his body, not even when Yeonjun offers to listen.
There's a sick, sick part of himself; something so innate and vicious— it makes him wish Beomgyu doesn't find anything there. That he'll give up on his doctorate, stop following his mother's shadow around like a lost child, and come back to him, even if only to destroy Yeonjun. He wants Beomgyu to show up at his door, baggage in hand, tracing his way through the constellation that leads back to him. He wants Beomgyu to fall into his arms and admit that everything he needed was here after all. But then again, it's only wishful thinking— Yeonjun laughs to himself at his desk sometimes, because it's ridiculous.
Monsoon rolls around with damp streets and sopping wet seats at the bus stop. Yeonjun sits in them and tries not to think about Beomgyu's updates. Every text message from him, he'd open with his breath caught in his throat. Waiting for the inevitable hyung I met someone, so most days Yeonjun procrastinates on it. But today... today had been different. He'd woken up to an empty house, and he'd broken down over his morning coffee. Crying over it makes it worse, and yet Yeonjun still can't stop. For months now, he'd break down over the smallest of things— maybe pink slippers by the door, or Soobin's expensive coffee pods, or the crumple of his favourite skirt. He'd texted Beomgyu about it, and it made the boy sad; the sadder he'd made Beomgyu, the more satisfied Yeonjun still feels. Because that means he cares, and he hasn't forgotten, and to remember means to miss. It's difficult not to bask in it.
He talks to his therapist every Thursday. Sometimes it's over a call, and some days he goes in. It's been months, and Yeonjun imagined they'd eventually run out of things to talk about. But boy, was he wrong— something new still hurts every week, and even he himself doesn't understand how that was possible. So, he lets himself be comforted, and he listens, really listens like he'd been taught to. Talking about his brother has never been difficult; the hardest part being that Yeonjun is no longer allowed to defend him like he used to. He's being taught to acknowledge how terrible it was, how it wasn't his fault, and how he should accept that no amount of love he had for his brother would've changed how he had react to him. It's still hard to wrap his head around it, because to process all of it means to look at his demons in the eye and admit that he'd been terrified of them all along, and he'd just feigned all his courage; bravado slipping one layer at a time.
Rehab. You don't have to see him. I just thought you should know. Soobin had ripped the band-aid off for him, over dinner. Still, Yeonjun cries, because he hadn't even known that was an option. He'd just believed they would both die in each other's hands, in that run-down house no one had paid taxes for in years, still under his mother's name. Soobin doesn't offer him comfort. So, he had called Beomgyu, who had understood before he'd even tried to explain. The boy had dusted the ache off his bones one whisper at a time— hyung, it turns out I don't like sushi in Japan either; hyung, the matcha here tastes better; hyung, do you miss me sometimes. Yeonjun had pretended not to hear the last sentence, talking instead about Chaeyoung's new dog, how it looked like the devil's spawn but was the most spoiled thing in the universe; otherwise, Yeonjun would've broken down again— more than anything, Gyu, more than anything under the sun.
In October, Yeonjun admits defeat. He packs his bag and asks for a leave, before anyone else can dispute it. Chaeyoung tells him to come back if he can, almost as if she believes he wouldn't. "I'm going to Japan," he'd told Soobin, standing in the kitchen in only his socks and boxers, eyes sleep-laden still. The boy had taken one look at him and nodded, "Okay." They don't say anything more about it — not over the course of the next few days, not during the drive to the airport, and not even as Soobin had waved him off. It had been too late in the night, and they'd both been exhausted to say much other than goodbyeand take care. Yeonjun's first time on a real plane had been interrupted by a KakaoTalk message, from the boy he'd left behind on land. Then, he'd cried into his hand, staring pointedly at clouds and the cityscapes below him, and he'd tried his best to pretend it isn't because of the message still open on his phone. Whatever happens, know that it's for the better.You deserve to be happy, hyung, so much. More than anyone in the world.
Yeonjun arrives close to midnight, and when he passes the gate he gets an armful of Beomgyu before he can blink. Hyung, hyung, Yeonjun hyung. Beomgyu says his name like it's the only thing he knows. Getting to hold Beomgyu again brings a sense of gratification he isn't sure he's felt any other time— like scratching an itch so deep inside him, like removing a knife from his ribs; the ache dissipates the harder Beomgyu squeezes him. In the taxi, Beomgyu holds him wherever he can get his hands on, a leg thrown over his thigh as well. He refuses to let go of Yeonjun's hand, pressing a kiss onto it at every turn, almost as though he's counting them in his head. The boy begs him to cancel his hotel booking, and takes him home.
Home is downhill — a homely looking house with a yard. There are glimmering firefly lights in the grass, and the pebbled path to the door is noisy as Beomgyu drags Yeonjun's suitcase wheels over them. Once inside, Beomgyu shows him around, every little crook and cranny, as though Yeonjun plans to stay. Beomgyu sleeps on the floor, and lets Yeonjun take his bed. They don't say much, other than pleasantries, and Yeonjun pointedly talks about the plane ride, almost hastily, before Beomgyu can ask what he's doing here. But around 3 A.M., Yeonjun is woken up by stray sniffles in the air, and he can't help it anymore — he throws the covers off, and lodges himself behind Beomgyu on the floor. Beomgyu sobs as he turns around, burying his face into Yeonjun, hyung, hyung, Yeonjun hyung. The poor boy had cried himself to sleep, and Yeonjun had watched the sun rise behind him, through the white chiffon drapes; its rays caught between the hair strands of the boy in his arms. He'd looked fleeting again, ephemeral almost — so, he'd held him tighter, lips pressed onto the top of his head as he let the exhaustion take him under.
The next day, Beomgyu had skipped work, and classes, and he'd shown Yeonjun around his backyard. "This one, is a lemon tree," he says, pointing at the most flourishing piece in the row. Yeonjun tries not the wince at the memory of the one he and Soobin had planted, and killed, still standing shamefully on their balcony back home. "It reminds me of you sometimes, hyung," the boy says, squinting up at Yeonjun even though he's in the direction of the sun. "It wasn't always like this. At one point I thought it was gonna die. And then one day, I woke up and it had sprouted new leaves." Symbolic, really, but still Yeonjun swallows his distaste for it. (Two days later, Soobin will send him pictures of new leaves on their own lemon tree.)
In the evening, Beomgyu takes him out on a real date, to a place much like the pub they had been to all those months ago. Beomgyu doesn't drive here, so he drinks, until he flushes red and pink — high on his nose bridge, his cheeks, and on the tip of his ears. He asks to kiss Yeonjun, and tries to pull away when Yeonjun does; he's everything Yeonjun remembers, and yet he's so different. On the walk home, Beomgyu teaches him how to count in Japanese.
Ichi.
Ni.
San.
Shi.
Go.
Roku.
Shichi.
Hachi.
Kyuu.
Juu.
Then, he'd pulled him into some alley, a stray cat nibbling on someone's trash a few feet away. "Hyung, please tell me I'm not the only one who's been dying inside," the boy whispers, eyes wide and glimmering even in the semi-dark alley, clutching desperately onto Yeonjun's hands.
Yeonjun smiles at the sight of him; Beomgyu has never been this honest, this genuine. He wonders what the months had done to him. "I kept dreaming of you. Sometimes I'd wear your perfume to sleep, and pretend I could come over in the morning. There's a weird man living in your apartment now, by the way." Beomgyu laughs at that, but doesn't comment on the fact that Yeonjun had gone there at all. He'd gone there, even though he knew he wouldn't find Beomgyu, and then he'd cursed at the man, for no reason other than the fact that he'd dared to open the door at all.
Hyung, hyung, Yeonjun hyung. Beomgyu's most heartfelt prayer.
It's difficult not to melt at the way he says it. Yeonjun kisses him just for the sake of it. "I'm not insane, right, hyung? If I tell you I still feel the same, despite how guilty looking at you makes me feel?"
Suddenly, the unbridled taste of betrayal in his mouth tastes less bitter— sweet, almost. Because Beomgyu had been kind, because he'd been awful and loving all the same, and Yeonjun can't hold his crimes over his head as if he didn't hand him the trigger himself. They're just different people, and Beomgyu's intentions have to matter, even though Yeonjun had spent so many months decaying in his pit of misery, convincing himself of the alternate. Filthy, filthy, filthy.
"Hyung, I need to hear you say it," Beomgyu pleads against Yeonjun's lips, breath hitting his teeth with warmth. Yeonjun's spine tingles with it.
The cruelty in his bones may have been genetic, and his anger even more so, but he has his mother's blood in him, and her penchant for devotion — he unfurls and blooms under the blinking street lamp. "I love you," he says, and he watches with bated breath as a stray tear cascades a graceful descension down the boy's cheek. "Yeah?" Beomgyu asks, as though he needs to let the feeling linger. "More than anything," Yeonjun tells him, because it's the only truth worth living in his wretched life.
Beomgyu looks ethereal like this, and a bit ephemeral still, but he's as real as every scar Yeonjun dons. He's blinking up at him with so much love, as teardrops cling to his long lashes. Hyung, hyung, Yeonjun hyung. It can only be you. A year ago, when he'd first met Beomgyu, the boy had been like a book with its pages glued shut on accident. He'd spill over, and gather himself in a haste; Yeonjun had watched him with that bone-deep ache. Beomgyu had asked to kiss him, same wide eyes, it won't have to mean anything, hyung, so Yeonjun had kissed him. And then, he'd wanted more, and more... and even more. I can't, I can't, I can't. Yeonjun's sexuality had come easy for him to accept; he'd just never looked at girls, and when he'd woke up one morning with a fully functioning reproductive part, he'd viewed it with acceptance.
For Beomgyu, it had been different. He'd made a life map at sixteen and never derailed from it. Not even when he'd first kissed a boy in high school, and he'd gone home with his heart beating out of his chest. Not even when Yeonjun had given him his first actual hard-on, simply by having his skirt lift too high on accident, and Beomgyu had ran to the bathroom and broke into tears. Not even when he'd had Yeonjun crying and cumming on his lap in a quiet parking lot, a few months back. Beomgyu doesn't know how to walk towards acceptance in the way most people do; he crashes and tumbles in his way, casualty after casualty in its wake. It got easier, the closer they got — easier for Beomgyu, harder for Yeonjun. But here they were, months and months later, still breathing into each other's face much like the first night they'd kissed. Yeonjun lets himself be held without the guilt now— without the feeling of filth on his skin, like he'd tried and failed to multiple times before. Under Beomgyu's gaze, he feels less loathsome. He feels worthy, almost, of being looked at with love. With adoration. Beomgyu's eyes glimmer all the same.
"I love you, hyung. More than anything. More than everything." Beomgyu's honesty seems new, but also familiar— like it had always been there, and Yeonjun had just never stared at him long enough to see it.
I know whatever happens to me, it's for the better.Yeonjun lets himself believe it this time.
