Archive of Our Own

I’ve pressed so
far away from
my desire that

if you asked
me what I
want I would,

accepting the harmonious
completion of the
drift, say annihilation,

probably.

--AR Ammons

*

There wasn't any levity left in his tired body but he managed to summon it one more time to do one last run through of the ending stage. Limbs in their machine state, brain shutting down in protest: the stage manager said, "I think that's it for tonight," and Yuta collapsed, panting. Underneath his face he could feel the slight pebbled texture of the gym floor. The engine that ran his body had gone empty on coal; there was no more steam, except maybe for that coming off his hot skin.

A foot nudged his side; he turned his head slightly to see Doyoung above him, face haggard. "Do you want to sleep here?" he asked, inelegant as ever. What he meant was: the van is leaving now.

So Yuta followed, body staggering from step to step. In front of him Taeyong was hunched over in a black hoodie; to his side was Johnny. They were all running on empty. Abruptly he missed Sicheng, his quiet smiles, his absurd innocent pride. No one to bother as they clambered into the van, swaying into each other, knees almost giving out once and then again. There was a time Yuta had treasured these moments, what he had imagined as silent camaraderie between them, that they were all working towards a shared goal. Now he wondered if it had disappeared or if something else had: the naivete of youth, his own misguided hope.

As if from a great distance, he heard the van door shut and then the sounds of their breaths rising and falling just out of unison. As they started off Mark said, almost as if he couldn't help it, "Riding on my van..." Yuta wondered if he knew how annoying it was. The things you couldn't say to other people: that was one of them. And especially to Mark, whose earnest nature made him both a wonderful target and one where hitting the bullseye was far too easy. The thoughts that roamed through Mark's head seemed to be so easily penned down on paper that Yuta thought maybe it was just his own jealousy; after all, what went through Yuta's own head had to be translated through a dozen different processes before he could make sense of them himself. His tendency was to feeling. Thought came only secondhand, a cheap imitation.

Beside him, as if in on the joke, Jungwoo said, "Riding on that van..." In blissful mercy no one continued it, but Yuta could make out, through the corner of his half shut eyes, Doyoung's pale, long-fingered hand patting Jungwoo's knee, and Jungwoo's head tipping onto Doyoung's shoulder. He couldn't see it, but he was sure Jungwoo had that expression on his face, the one Yuta could never name, the one that left his stomach curdling in discomfort. He let them be.

--

The room was cold when he went inside. Cold and empty, in fact. Sicheng's absence was so obvious it was like a shout in a church and Taeil, even when he was around, wasn't much of a presence the way someone like Donghyuck or Johnny could be. And right now Taeil was in Johnny and Taeyong's room anyway; Johnny had wanted to show him something and had tugged him away as soon as they'd arrived back at the dorm. But even having the room was not as appealing as it should have been, given that it was midnight already and they had to be ready for schedules by 6.

He went through his bedtime routine like the strings had been cut from his weighted limbs. When he reached the door of his room again he saw that there was a figure in front of it, one with floppy hair and the strange lanky body of a scarecrow: Jungwoo.

"Hyung. Can I stay in your room tonight?" he said. His soft voice made Yuta's skin prickle. "I don't want to..." He could see Jungwoo's hands twisting around each other; it was uncharacteristic of him to fidget. Jungwoo was currently staying in the same room as their manager, an arrangement that had never seemed to bother him before, but Yuta knew it would be rude to say no. There was an empty bed.

Unwilling to agree openly, he lifted and dropped a shoulder. Jungwoo seemed to take it as acquiescence; he stepped aside, letting Yuta open the door and push in. In the darkness only his hair and eyes gleamed; when Yuta looked back he could see just the faint outline of the curve of Jungwoo's mouth. Sitting on his own bed, he watched as Jungwoo took the bottom bunk on the opposite side: Sicheng's. From across the room they looked at each other for a short moment before a cold draft made Yuta retreat underneath his covers. He'd been borrowing one of Doyoung's electric blankets, but it made his skin dry; now he wondered if the extra treatments would be worth it if he could just feel his feet again.

In his body it was a queer ache: the sense-memory of his home. When he was young he would sneak into his parents' bed and sleep with them, leeching heat from his father until he was chided for his cold limbs. Later on, when he was older, he would come home to find everyone under the kotatsu: they sequestered themselves in the main room to avoid the rest of the cold house. When he fell asleep, it would be to the even rhythm of his sister's breath, his father's light snores. He had no such options here; there was no one to hold him anymore when he felt small and frozen, when his mind was so desolate and lonely that even the tips of his fingers were tingling with the solitude. Now that his body didn't belong to him anymore, he wondered if he even deserved it, that comfort. If he were no more than a vessel for other people's fantasies, then his desire for warmth could be no good. Maybe even a detriment, if it came at the expense of what he was built for.

He'd gotten used to those thoughts long ago except on nights like these, when the expanse of the room felt very vast and there was only the rise and fall of the breath of someone he barely knew in the bed across from him to tide him over.

And then: not only breathing. He could hear Jungwoo sit up for a moment and wondered why; even with the cold, Yuta's mind had gone dormant, drifting away, pulling him slowly into unconsciousness. Then a sharp sound aroused him: Jungwoo's feet had hit the floor. Every step sounded like a shot. A tall figure stood at his bedside, needling at him, saying in that soft voice, "Yuta hyung, I'm cold. Can I sleep with you?"

Pushing himself up--it took effort--he said, "This is a single bed." The words came out slightly garbled; he had been closer to sleep than he thought. The idea of having another warm body in the bed was very tempting, but something about Jungwoo unsettled him. Maybe it was his easy affction, his tendency to closeness.

"I share with Mark sometimes."

"Mark is smaller than me."

"Not that much. I think we could fit in together."

"You're being ridiculous," Yuta said. He could hear his tone hardening. "Go back to the bunk." But Jungwoo stood, that unsettling, almost empty gaze focused on him. "What are you even getting out of this?" The last question was almost a laugh.

Maybe Jungwoo could sense defeat in Yuta's tone; he put a knee on the bed and Yuta's body, craving warmth, moved over without his permission, making space for the usurper to settle in. Jungwoo ran hot; Yuta could feel his skin prickling in response, his body tightening and tensing at the unexpected sensation. "What are you doing?" he said. It was a stupid question.

Jungwoo didn't bother answering. Instead he asked: "Aren't you cold?" Sliding himself under Yuta's blankets, he curved into Yuta so that they were tucked up against each other, his body following the line of Yuta's exactly, his chest to Yuta's back. It was deeply unsettling, almost to the point of terror, but Yuta wasn't fearful--not of Jungwoo, anyway. The muscles in his shoulders and back tensed and released as he tried to force himself to relax into the very thing he knew he wanted, the desire to let himself go inscribing itself into every vein.

"Don't," Jungwoo said. He said everything very softly; now Yuta could even feel his breath stirring over the fine hairs at his neck. It did nothing to calm him. If his body betrayed him again--

"Hyung. Don't be scared." And with that statement Jungwoo's big hand, his soft palm, reached under Yuta's shirt. Even his extremities ran warmer than Yuta's core, and so his fingertips felt like a brand, pressing themselves with indeliblle heat into the thin skin over Yuta's ribs.

Yuta wanted to say it again, but differently this time: What do you think you're doing? But the question would be superfluous, the answer obvious, and so he shut up. The part of him that liked to watch car crashes was stirring; he felt the same fascination, the same sick confusion, the same knowledge that something was about to change in a way he would have no say in, and yet some part of him thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad this time: to let someone else have control.

His body talked for him anyway, shuddering at the first touch, moving him back into Jungwoo's solid frame. Jungwoo's hand stayed there for a long moment, tracing idle patterns into Yuta's skin; his touch left goosebumps trailing in its wake. Just as Yuta was getting used to it, Jungwoo moved again, and then his soft mouth pressed right behind Yuta's ear: not a kiss, but something like it. A mockery of the act.

It made him sick, and not just with desire. That he wanted this so badly--what had Jungwoo seen in him to know this advance would be welcomed? The thought that it might be visible not just to Jungwoo but to others too filled him with a wordless terror, the fear roiling just under his skin erupting at last, making itself known as he shivered violently in Jungwoo's arms, wrapped in this parody of a lover's embrace.

But like the famed lover, Jungwoo too held on: his hand grabbed Yuta's, intertwined their fingers, and stayed like that until he stopped shaking. "Were you cold?" he said. He wasn't whispering, but his voice was pitched very low. The timbre made the hairs on the back of Yuta's neck stand up.

Yuta let a moment pass before he said, "Yes." Both of them understood: he had not been.

He'd half expected Jungwoo to hit him with a cheesy line to lighten the mood; instead what he got was Jungwoo taking his hand, still holding Yuta's own, and moving it back where it was before.

It was hard to pinpoint but something felt familiar about the scene. The faint silver light from outside filtering through where Yuta could barely see it, his eyes trained for the darkness, the blank wall in front of him, his hands warm and dry, his body still processing the extra sensation. His feet were bruised and aching but for now the pain was forgotten as Jungwoo took their hands and pushed them down Yuta's stomach, making the muscles there jump. He could feel Jungwoo's mouth curve into a smile against his neck, and the faint indignation he felt was forgotten when their hands pushed even lower, into his pants.

And then they stopped.

He felt now that he was hard, that the heat between his thighs was his own hot blood; but he wanted Jungwoo to keep going, and he made a confused noise when the movement stalled.

"You need to do it," Jungwoo said in that same low tone. "Because..."

Yuta didn't say anything. He thought maybe if he let it be then Jungwoo would get frustrated and continue with whatever he was doing. But after two beats of silence passed, Jungwoo spoke again. "Hyung," he said. "You need to be here with me. You need to do it. For me, I need to know that you..." want it.

He wanted to pretend that he didn't understand what Jungwoo was asking, that since he'd now implicitly given himself permission to let go he no longer held responsiblity in this encounter. But Jungwoo wasn't moving, and so Yuta, dizzy with another man's touch, slid their hands down and began to stroke himself. He was wet, leaking with desire, helpless against the sensitivity that almost knocked him out. It was at once new and familiar, simultaneously thrilling and comforting. He wanted to prolong it, stay suspended in that hazy pleasure, where his body thrummed with warmth and security.

And prolong it he did: for a while, at least, the steady slide up and down, the rhythm that he had started but that Jungwoo forced him now to maintain so that once again he could lose control of his body. Even as his hand moved, his hips jerked without his permission, and he could hear his own breath, harsh and irregular in the silence. This was more recognisable to him; someone else was working him, eliciting reaction, pushing him to his limit. It was comfortingly familiar, and it felt good.

But just as soon as he was spiraling out, Jungwoo's hand slowed. Behind him he heard a noise of frustration, and he thought, in some other part of his mind, that he should have been the one making it.

"Yuta hyung." Jungwoo's voice was frustrated. "I don't want--" He stopped, clicking his tongue. "It's not good--for me--if you're not with me." His words were slow, halting. "You can't be somewhere else. I want you to feel it."

"I don't understand," Yuta said. The words were slow to come out of his mouth; once again he went through processes of translation. Not just linguistic but emotional. Wherever the misunderstanding between himself and Jungwoo lay, he wished it weren't coming up now, when his body was still trembling, high-strung with sensation. It would be so easy, now, to let himself be lost, drawn away into the loss of control that suffused his entire body, to let this become another moment where he was a machine, where pushing the right buttons elicited a reaction that he didn't have to think about anymore, a cause-effect relationship in which his agency was taken out of the picture.

Jungwoo made another impatient noise. Then, with no warning, his teeth pressed hard and sharp into the place where Yuta's shoulder met his neck, and at the same time he started moving their hands once more. The bite jolted Yuta out of his body as some sort of pained noise left his mouth; then he was in focus again and everything was sharp, clear. He was part of his own body once more, the sensation of watching someone else regulate his physical responses sliding away like so much sand through his fingers.

Jungwoo had figured out how he liked to touch himself. His hand was sliding Yuta's up and down again, steadily, and the sound, slick and dirty, seemed loud in the silence of their room. He couldn't understand how he hadn't registered it before. The pleasure built up, more intense now, and he wanted to say something but didn't know how. He thought maybe if he didn't say it that he would stay here on its precipice as Jungwoo kept him in his own mind and even that fanciful idea, of being forever at the mercy of these soft hands, made him groan aloud. Finally, the spell broken, he whispered: "Please. I want--I need you to--"

He was answered with a harsh intake of breath, and then Jungwoo twisted his hand and Yuta shook, trembled, fell apart. Jungwoo made a noise of satisfaction.

"Did it feel good?" he asked. His lips were still pressed against the hollow behind Yuta's ear, and if Yuta hadn't still been shaking he would have shuddered at the intimacy of it.

Yuta didn't say anything; he thought the answer ought to have been obvious, and even after this he didn't want to be party to Jungwoo's games. He was still coming down from the high, breath ringing in harsh pants. His body had never ached more. He'd never felt more alive. The tension and release was almost too agonising. To say that it had been good would have been an understatement.

Instead of answering, he shrugged. Jungwoo's lips curved into a smile against his neck. It was strange how that was becoming familiar to him too.

"I'm going to get--I'll clean you up," Jungwoo said. Yuta was dimly aware that he should have offered to return the favour, but for the first time in what felt like the longest winter of his life he was completely warm. Even Jungwoo bringing in the cold air by lifting the comforter could not rouse him.

He listened as Jungwoo moved about the room, and as time passed in a syrupy gold haze he felt himself drifting into sleep's waiting arms. A hand ruffled his hair, and though he lingered only on the edge of consciousness, he pushed through the mist enough to muster up a smile before his eyes closed and he set off on the long journey into dreams.

--

In the morning he woke up to Taeyong shaking his shoulder. "I let you sleep for as long as I could, but you have to get up," he said in a low voice. "We have to leave in forty-five minutes. There's breakfast in the kitchen if you want to eat."

Yuta, whose brain was still struggling to come online, only nodded. Taeyong hesitated for a moment, watching him; those big eyes, unable to hide what he was thinking at any given moment, were shining with concern. But to Yuta's immense relief, he stayed only a moment longer before exiting, leaving Yuta to stretch his aching body and hear his bones crack. Glancing over to the side, he noted that Sicheng's bed was neatly made up; he couldn't remember if Jungwoo had stayed with him last night, but he suspected it hadn't been the case. The beds really were too small to hold two, which meant it was entirely likely that what Jungwoo had roped him into last night had been premeditated. The thought filled him with a shivering anticipation that he couldn't put a finger on; from past experience he knew that if he let himself get too in his head about his personal problems he'd perform worse, and that wasn't an option at this stage. Shaking it out of himself, he went to use the shower and get ready.

Apparently Jungwoo hadn't gotten the memo. At the gym later that day, he tried to catch Yuta's eye multiple times before giving up and simply saying, "Yuta hyung, can you come with me for a second?" Everyone stared at him and he smiled cutely. "I keep getting lost on the way to the bathroom and hyung said he would show me yesterday!" It was such a stupid and flimsy excuse that Yuta half-expected someone to call him out on it, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to notice. Unable to say no, he nodded and followed Jungwoo out of the room.

The hallway outside of the gym was one of a thousand similar; it was in these hallways that he knew he'd grown into himself as an idol. The nondescript beige walls, the flickering fluorescent lights that illuminated the shine on Jungwoo's hair--they were reminiscent of his first promotions, the endless wait to get backstage, the sense-memory of hearing the members muttering lyrics under their breath or watching their shadows grow and shrink as they repeated the same dance move a thousand times. Now he was watching Jungwoo's shadow, higher up on the wall than his own, and feeling with a shock that he knew the exact warmth of that tall body curled around him.

Finally, when Jungwoo had deemed they'd traveled far enough that their voices wouldn't carry, he turned to look at Yuta. His normally placid expression had been replaced with something sharper; there was a gleam in his eye that Yuta thought could not portend anything good. His stomach curled, and for some reason his palms started sweating.

"Hyung," Jungwoo began. "About last night--"

Yuta cut him off. "I don't think there's anything to say about it." He wasn't trying to make eye contact; looking up at Jungwoo made him feel like he'd lost the other hand. Instead he adopted a casual pose, looking somewhere off into the bland endlessness of the hallway and its thousand doorways.

"We do actually have to talk about it. If you want it to continue--"

Yuta's shoulders hunched without his conscious knowledge. He was becoming defensive, he knew, adopting the posture he so easily slipped into whenever he couldn't tell what was coming. "I don't."

"Yuta hyung," Jungwoo said softly. He tilted his head to the side, and Yuta, daring to make full eye contact, saw those eyes searching his face with intensity. "That's fine too, you know. But--if--" He hesitated. "There's others like us, you know."

This took Yuta aback. "Like what?" he said. Then he understood what Jungwoo meant, why his voice wavered delicately over those words: like us. He hacked out a laugh. "I don't know what you think. But I'm not like you. That... it's not for me."

Jungwoo kept looking at him, that steady gaze leaving him bare and vulnerable. "Okay..." he said. He seemed uncertain, and even his height no longer made him look intimidating.

Yuta was reminded all of a sudden that Jungwoo was three years younger than him, barely a year debuted. He gentled his tone. "I'm not like that. It's okay."

Jungwoo shook his head. "Hyung... if you're saying--so you didn't." The words were struggling to burst out of him, and Yuta waited it out. "Last night--you didn't want it?"

Yuta stared at him for a moment. "That wasn't anything," he said finally. "It was... a release of tension, right?" And I said I wanted it. He didn't dare to say it out loud. In this bland, bright setting, during the daytime, to admit to something like that felt deeply dangerous. And he hadn't wanted Jungwoo himself, anyway, he had wanted the release of tension, the pleasure, the thrilling conclusion to the desire that Jungwoo's body next to his had sparked. Those could stay separate.

Whatever vulnerability had previously shone in Jungwoo's gaze shuttered at those words, but his face remained the same, smiling and gentle. "Sure, hyung."
Yuta looked at the long lines of his body, his perfect proportions, the fall of his hair over his forehead. The way he angled himself towards Yuta. The way Yuta himself pressed closer, as if wanting the memory of the things he never knew he could seek.

"Okay," Jungwoo said, still smiling. He started off the other way, towards the gym again, and Yuta felt a pang, a loss. He chose to ignore it, walking a little faster to keep up with Jungwoo's long strides. It was as if something had once again gotten lost in translation, but Yuta, knowing himself to be ever a foreigner, could not understand what it was.

So again: that long day, the cold gym floor, Yuta's aching body, the cameras he could not avoid even if he wanted to, the conscious and unconscious sense that he was no longer in control. His body like a machine for which other people had the instructions manual and the master key. And now this: it had not even been a question, just a statement. There are others like us.

What was its purpose? All day he caught Jungwoo looking at him through the corner of his eye. When night came they clambered once again into the van, and once again he could see Jungwoo's head leaning on Doyoung's shoulder, Doyoung's hand on his knee. Was that what Jungwoo had meant by people like us?

In his room he went through the same motions as always. Without understanding it he was on edge. In bed he scooted to the far end of the mattress, next to the wall, staring at the wall and the silver light that cast long shadows over him. He knew without knowing that he was waiting: for footsteps, a knock, a soft voice, the creak of the bedframe as a warm body pressed into him.

But the knock didn't come, and so once again he was submerged by the liquid darkness that pushed him into dreaming, where he was only himself, where his body was only his.