Archive of Our Own

As far as they regard myself I can despise all events: but I cannot cease to love you.”

- John Keates

The ninth time Hyunjin meets Changbin, he tells him his mouth is pretty.

The first time is the usual—stiff introductions in a room full of trainees who don’t want him there and immediately see him as a threat and Hyunjin barely clocks Changbin over the sea of tired, worn down boys.

The second, it’s during his first rap lesson and it goes awful. He stumbles over the simplest phrases, can hardly keep a beat and doesn’t understand how to even go about writing his own lyrics, let alone perform for someone else. Then he watches a small boy unfurl himself from the pack, yawn, scrub his hand over an angular face and open his mouth and—

Hyunjin stops breathing for a while there.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth times are all during dance practices where Hyunjin claws back some indignities from his other lessons, somehow managing to stand out with his passable talent and long limbs and watches, out of the corner of his eye as Changbin—because he knows him now; Seo Changbin, one of the golden three, Chan’s second favourite—does his best to keep up.

Seventh, they bump into each other in the bathroom after an English lesson and Hyunjin doesn’t miss the way Changbin’s eyes flick over him, gauging, assessing before he throws his paper towel in the trash and elbows his way out of the restroom without a word.

The eighth time is during another rap class, and Hyunjin is still awful at it. Changbin is, expectedly, very good. In these hours, in a stifled practice room with two dozen other trainees all clutching crumpled notepads and wearing anxious looks, Changbin seems utterly at ease, even the harshest criticisms rolling off his back like water, confidence rippling over his skin like oil. Hyunjin supposes it must be freeing, to know that you had one talent you could rely on. He does his best to meld into the background during these lessons.

The ninth time, it’s nearing somewhere around four in the morning, and Hyunjin is lying on the floor of the practice room, starfished out on the slick linoleum, staring at the clock as it ticks by. He’s got to go home, has to leave for school in two hours and he needs to go back to the dorm, to scrape as much sleep as he can out of an ever dwindling barrel, shower and then leave. His stomach rumbles in warning, but Hyunjin ignores it.

Another boy leaves three minutes later, moaning to himself about how much homework he has, and Hyunjin closes his eyes again. When he has the strength to stand up, he will.

When he opens his eyes, Changbin is sitting at his side, cross-legged. Hyunjin startles, but doesn’t move; an accomplishment given how hard his heart had thrown itself against the cage of his ribs at the sight. Changbin cocks his head, eyes running down the length of Hyunjin’s body before he meets his eyes again.

“What?” Hyunjin asks, too sharp to be respectful. He remains on the floor, splayed out, all his limbs lax despite Changbin’s presence. He doesn’t care that Changbin is technically the senior between the two of them—it’s too late to care.

Changbin doesn’t seem to be bothered by his tone. “You’re Hyunjin.” It’s not a question. Hyunjin says nothing. Changbin eyes him. “You’ve got a pretty mouth,” he says idly, and Hyunjin blinks. Allows his mind to absorb that and then sits up immediately, head spinning with the sudden movement. Fuck, he needs to eat something.

“What?” He asks, not bothering to keep the anger and irritation out of his voice. It’s four in the morning, he’s got three assignments to finish, a dance to perfect when he reaches school, a shower to take, and more vocal practice to do under a withering eye and this—this stranger has just—

“You dance well too,” Changbin says, and if he’s noticed Hyunjin’s anger mounting, he doesn’t seem to care. Hyunjin stops just short of punching him—3Racha be damned—and stares. “And you’ve got a good voice. You just need to practice projection. And you mumble too much.” Finished with his observation, Changbin looks at him in satisfaction.

It’s too late for this. Too fucking early for this. Bracing his palms against the slick floor, all Hyunjin can manage is a weak, “What the fuck?”

Changbin blinks at him. “Just an observation,” he says mildly, tucking his legs under him and rising to his feet. “You’ve got a pretty mouth—pretty everything, really—but you can be more than that. You're good. You could be better.”

And with that, as if he hadn’t just turned Hyunjin on his head and flung him out the fifth floor window, he heads out and leaves Hyunjin there, staring at the closed door for far longer than he can afford.

—

In the beginning, there isn’t much time to do anything. Not enough time to sleep, or shower for as long as he wants to, or practice as much as needs to. They’re always moving, always at some filming location or TV station, always in the van, always moving, moving, moving.

Hyunjin barely has the time to breathe, let alone wrangle whatever odd ball of feelings and facts and wants that bounces into the empty cavern of his chest, pinging alongside the walls and echoing with every bounce, every time he so much as looks at Changbin.

The thing is, Hyunjin knows himself rather well. He wishes he didn’t sometimes, wishes he could be alarmingly ignorant of all the flaws and imperfections that lie just beneath the idyllic surface of his skin. But he knows. Knows as true and deep as he knows the feeling of sweat trickling down his spine, of the cramps in his feet whenever he executes a turn wrong, knows with every nerve and capillary in body that he’s greedy. He wants, and he wants and when there’s nothing left, he wants more.

He wanted to debut, craved it like nothing else he’d ever felt before, had felt the desire etch deep into his bones with every passing week, every passing month that brought along another dreaded evaluation. Wants to be known as something more than just his face, wants to be seen as something more, something new.

Wants Changbin, always—wants to press his face into his shoulder and blindly let Changbin guide him to wherever they have to go next, wants to have Changbin’s fingers on his mouth and wants them to stay, not just to tap the swell of his lip and retreat. Selfishly, awfully, wants Changbin to only look at him, in that secret, special way that he looks at Hyunjin, with those unreadable eyes and hands that reach out before they fall to his side without touching.

He wants everything, all of it, too much, and it’s not fair. Not to Changbin and not to himself.

Regardless, they don’t have the time—Hyunjin doesn’t have the time to think about it. Time is a luxury none of them can afford. Not now.

So, for now, Hyunjin makes do with fleeting touches and one armed hugs, playing it up for the cameras and pretending like it doesn’t burn when Changbin touches him, when he runs his fingers over the shell of Hyunjin’s ear, when he stares at his mouth with that same, damnable stare.

Hyunjin acts and Hyunjin laughs it off and Hyunjin pretends none of it phases him and never lets himself think about what it would be like, even just once, to press his mouth against Changbin’s and let himself feel.

He doesn’t have the time for it.

—

For a while there, Hyunjin deals in the abstracts. He doesn’t let himself think about it beyond the occasional indulgent fantasy; all of it kept plainly on the surface, like light refracting off a shimmery lake before it can penetrate too deeply.

He imagines what it would be like to touch, to be touched, by Changbin. For the sensation to never fade, to have it happen so often and so easily that the memory is burned into his nerve endings, the spidery lines of his skin cells, so that even the cyclic shedding of his thinnest, outermost layer, couldn’t take the feeling away from him.

Just touch, though. The lightest of pressures. Just surface level. Changbin’s fingers. The chaste press of his mouth against Hyunjin’s. The sweep of his hands over Hyunjin’s arm. Easy, light things. Moments that wouldn’t be monumental in any other teenager’s life but are to him.

For a few years there, Hyunjin is satisfied with this and just this.

Then Changbin goes and gets big.

It doesn’t happen overnight, but Hyunjin doesn’t clock it at first. They’re all in the gym here and there, Chan and Minho the most, and so he doesn’t think it odd when Changbin starts joining them more often. Doesn’t really pay attention when he starts swapping out his morning coffee for protein smoothies or noodles for chicken breasts. They’re all at the behest of mercurial diets and physical evals, so it doesn’t strike him as odd when Changbin comes home later and later, forgoing precious hours of rest in favour of the gym.

Realisation strikes all at once, in their practice room, because what would be Hyunjin’s life if not constantly overseen by the four silent, judgmental walls of Studio 5-C in the JYP building?

Hyunjin glares at himself in the mirror as sweat trickles down the side of his face. The rest of them are on the floor or the couch, fumbling with their phones, taking their well-deserved break. A break Hyunjin isn’t going to let himself have. Not until he gets this right.

In the corner of his eye, from the reflection in the mirror, he can see Minho watching carefully as he picks himself up again, shoving his foot back into his sneaker where it’d slipped out. He runs through the music in his head again, mouths along to the beats as he moves; like the sea rising and falling, jumping and receding and then the turn that—

“Fuck,” Hyunjin hisses, as he misses the count and stumbles again. He’s not used to this; dance is supposed to be the one thing he’s good at. He works at it, like he does everything else, but there’s something to dancing, to hitting the right beats, to feeling the music slither over his outstretched arms that just comes naturally to him. Except now, Hyunjin is fucking it all up because he can’t execute one simple turn.

“Take a break,” Minho calls quietly from behind him, eyes sharp as he watches him. “You’ll get it.”

“Haven’t gotten it yet,” Hyunjin snaps back, raking a hand through his head and grimacing at the film left behind on his hand. He wipes his hand on his sweats. Later, he’ll apologise to Minho for snapping and Minho will regard him with the same blank countenance he bestows on everyone that isn’t Jisung and then buy him food in silent forgiveness because nothing bothers Minho, not even Hyunjin’s discourtesy. It’s a trait Hyunjin envies.

“Running yourself ragged really isn’t the answer,” comes Changbin’s gentle interjection, and Hyunjin spares him a glance in the mirror only to double take and stop short, his mouth drying out instantly.

Changbin’s pulling off his sweatshirt and tossing it to the side, adjusting his shirt over his stomach, and the swell of his arms and chest is more pronounced than it’s ever been. Has his back always been that broad? Hyunjin’s sure he would have noticed before, had that been the case. He’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring, lips parted in silent surprise but he knows it’s long enough that Minho gets up to stop the music from looping again.

“Sit down,” he orders sternly and Hyunjin, too disarmed by the sudden sight, lets himself be pulled to the couch without protest.

From then on, Hyunjin’s in a new kind of hell.

—

Their comeback approaches like a tornado; slow and steady in the distance, the clouds gathering and darkening, schedules slowly intensifying, styling sessions and dance practices worked in around intense hours of bleaching and vocal practice.

They’ve done it so many times, for so many years that Hyunjin’s used to it by now—the slow ramp up of schedules, the downtick in his sleep, watching his jawline sharpen under the pressure of a strict diet, the bones in his wrists and ankles sticking out as he slowly but determinedly slips back into a stage appropriate skin.

Changbin, on the other hand, seems to have a newfound obsession with working out, one that he sticks to diligently, come rain or shine or eighteen hour schedules that leave them all snippy and worn down, and every time Hyunjin so much as catches a glimpse of the breadth of Changbin’s shoulders, the muscles cording his arms, he feels his world spin off its axis.

It’s not efficient. They’re around each other a lot.

They’ve got too many things to worry about, too much pressure sitting squarely atop their sternums, too much expectation gilded on the back of this album for Hyunjin to be as distracted as he is. His focus is shot, the edges of his vision narrowing until all he can see is the span of Changbin’s waist, the muscle of his thighs, sturdy and thick.

They’re in a fitting session when Hyunjin, being prodded with needles as he gets measured for their newest set of stage outfits, looks up from his stylist, across the room to where Changbin is stripping his shirt off and nearly falls off the little podium.

He doesn’t understand it.

He doesn’t get it.

Hyunjin’s been around for a while. He’s seen all of his members naked, has watched more porn than he cares to admit, has had several ill planned trysts as a trainee and later an idol but this… This…

He doesn’t understand why the mere sight of Changbin’s bare chest sends him reeling, breathless, dizzy.

The rest of the session is lost in a daze as Hyunjin tries to keep his gaze to himself, tries not to fidget lest he be poked with more astray needles and at the end, only when Changbin leaves first, does he relax, shoulders slumping, his whole body aching with released tension.

Chan looks at him from the other podium with the most exasperated expression Hyunjin has ever seen him wear and says nothing.

From then on, the abstract cracks and takes with it the last of Hyunjin’s sanity. He still daydreams about Changbin’s touch but it’s compounded now, worse because now he imagines being pinned under the span of Changbin’s body, his breath roughing across the most sensitive parts of Hyunjin’s skin, as he presses firm fingers into the flesh of Hyunjin’s thighs.

They’ve got a comeback, they’ve got a job to do but all of Hyunjin’s concentration on their comeback day, backstage before their first show is focused mainly on trying not to stare shamelessly at Changbin. They’ve all pulled out all the stops, of course—Hyunjin himself in an egregiously strappy top with more skin showing than has ever before—but Changbin…

Hyunjin walks into the dressing room, sees Changbin adjusting the fit of his skin tight full sleeve top so it doesn’t ride up above the hem of his leather pants and promptly walks back out again. He traverses the entire length of the hallway and goes to hide in the bathroom for several minutes until the blood has stopped hammering in his ears and his cheeks have faded from a furious fuchsia.

Tries not to look Changbin in the eyes the whole fucking day and when he gets home, a dizzying twenty hours later, Hyunjin locks himself in his room and shoves his hand down his pants with his face shoved fully into his pillow.

The abstraction warps, bends, absorbs Hyunjin’s shaky gasps as afterimages spark behind his scrunched lids, and shatters into a million tiny little pieces.

—

When he’s younger, the attention is harder to handle. They’re brand new, all of them shiny and unweathered—with maybe the exception of Chan because he’d probably come out of the womb stressed and exhausted—and it’s… Hard. Difficult to deal with the tidal wave of curiosity, all of a sudden, the compliments and praise and longing looks slipping through Hyunjin’s fingers like muddy water as he stands half a step behind Seungmin and tries to look like he knows what he’s doing. Like he’s not a kid—like they’re all not just kids—who’d spent the last three years chasing a dream and ended up here.

Here with a camera in his face twenty hours in a day, always being watched, monitored, coveted, always having to perform, to maintain a poker face no matter if Jisung says something too loud and annoying or if Minho becomes too sharp and mean to handle at three in the morning because this—all of this—it’s just an act, an act, an act that he has to keep up because this is the price he paid for getting to sing and dance on stage, for getting to fulfil a childhood dream for—

Hyunjin does his best to hide his honesty, his reactions, but it’s hard.

Jeongin breaks down sobbing after a failed recording session and Minho retreats into himself like a prickly sea urchin, refusing to come out for anyone other than Jisung—and even that’s a tossup most days—and Chan locks himself into his studio and works and works and works as if the answer to their success lies in running himself ragged and Hyunjin—

Hyunjin takes it all on the chin: the saccharine comments by TV show hosts, the sleazy looks from random staff and celebrities in the dark corners of TV and radio stations in the lingering twilight hours, the effusive praise from fans, that bubble out at such alarming velocity, it seems impossible for it to be anything else than fake. But he takes it because hating his face isn’t allowed, wanting to be recognised for his mediocre skills rather than the features he had no control in making isn’t a line in the code that makes up Stray Kids Visual. Cringing away from compliments isn’t what an idol does, and Hyunjin—Hyunjin is determined to be the best of them all.

Oddly enough, the compliments don’t sting when they come from the members. Hyunjin thinks it’s because they know, only they know how hard he works, how much he practices after schedules, how many bruises there are on his knees and elbows, how many pain patches he’s got stuck on his neck and back and so, from them, just them, it doesn’t rankle.

Hyunjin can take Chan’s effusive praise because he knows there’s nothing but love behind it, can handle Jeongin’s shy compliments because he knows Jeongin only ever means it as a good thing. It’s only when it comes to Changbin that it falls differently, scatters over the expanse of Hyunjin’s skin, like marbles skittering over concrete and cracking against each other with the force of colliding, dying stars.

Changbin taps his mouth lightly with his forefinger in quiet appreciation and Hyunjin dreams about it for three straight nights, waking up with his shirt stuck to his chest with sweat, fingers aching from the force of gripping his own wrist to his thundering sternum, from imagining it’s Changbin’s; holding him there, keeping him against Hyunjin, pushing his hand closer until Hyunjin open his mouth to allow his fingers in.

Changbin makes jokes about kissing him on camera and Hyunjin rears away like he always does and then, later, well after the conversation has moved on and the unyielding glare of the camera lense has moved onto someone else, escapes to the nearest bathroom, fists his hands, unable to grip at himself lest he wrinkle his clothing, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Changbin compliments Hyunjin in front of TV show hosts or interviewers, freely, simply, as if it’s merely fact, as if it’s easy for him to say things like that, and it takes everything in Hyunjin to keep a neutral face, to laugh and smile, and brush it off and move on only to turn the words around and around in his mind until they go smooth like flour in a mill, white and unbleached, imprinted in the crevices of Hyunjin’s brain.

—

(Their third EP; Hyunjin behind the thick soundproof glass of their recording studio, the beginning of a new dawn slinking over the horizon, eyes gritty and bladder full from downing multiple bottles of honey water.

Changbin at the intercom. “Try one more time,” he urges. “Once more, Hyunjin-ah, you’ve almost got it.”

Hyunjin doesn’t let himself look. Stares resolutely at the wrinkled paper on the stand, marked up with notes and accents; all the things he’s doing wrong, all the places he’s fucked up and god, he’s had weeks to practice this, why is Hyunjin the only one struggling, why does this come harder for him than anyone else, why—

“Hyunjin.” Changbin’s voice seems to fill the room, taking up every square inch of free space and Hyunjin inhales it, lets it fill the gaps between his lungs and ribs, lets it balloon him up and steady him. “You’re doing good. Take a deep breath and do it one more time for me.”

Only after he’s done does Hyunjin finally allow himself to look, turn his head and glance at Changbin through the thick glass and the sight that greets him makes his breath stutter, hands freezing where they’re hanging up his headphones.

Changbin is staring and Hyunjin is used to this, knows the weight of Changbin’s gaze like he does his own body, but this… This…

Hyunjin’s mouth is dry, and his hand shakes when he turns the handle to step back into the studio. They're alone, Hyunjin has no idea where the producer is, knows Chan left an hour ago to finish working with Jeongin, and it feels important, pointed, this silence between the two of them.

Hyunjin wants to speak, wants to open his mouth and say something, anything, to fill the gap, but the words don’t come. His throat aches.

It’s Changbin who reaches out in the end, leaning across the soundboard to wrap his hand around Hyunjin’s wrist, thumb smoothing over the jut of his ulna. “You did good,” he repeats quietly. “You’re getting better every day.”

Hyunjin swallows around nothing. Desperately wants more. He doesn’t even know what he wants, but knows he wants it all: wants to finish recording as fast as Seungmin or Jisung do, wants to sleep more, wants to see Kkami and his parents, wants a break, wants to have Changbin look at him like that, like he is right now, all the goddamn time. Feels the longing unfurl from the singular point of touch and envelop his whole body, until it becomes difficult to breathe.

“Not just a pretty mouth, anymore?” Hyunjin asks and the words choke out of him, a joke that isn’t one, that falls flat on its face between their feet.

Changbin looks at him, the planes of his face shadowed by the dim lights. “You’re still as beautiful as the day I met you,” he disagrees gently, a truth that doesn’t feel so harsh like this, tempered by the dawn and their exhaustion. “But you’ve never been just anything, Hyunjin-ah.”

And Hyunjin… Hyunjin burns.)

—

The car is the only place Hyunjin allows himself to feel. Not all the time, of course, because if he started thinking about Changbin thinking about him, Hyunjin’s sure his brain would explode rather quickly, but sometimes…

It’s only because the van is a liminal space.

They’re always moving somewhere, always being shuttled off to do the next thing, always in transit, searching for the next check mark on their never ending to do list. In this space, in this hunk of metal that weaves between cars and traverses cities in the breadth of a day, Hyunjin can curl into himself, push in his headphones, close his eyes and leave any evidence of his physical existence behind. That is, until they reach their destination and he has to come back to himself again, rudely pulled back into his body like gravity making itself known to the first creature who dared to traverse on land.

He’s always felt oddly safe in the car. He wonders if part of it is the closeness. There’s nowhere to go, you see, even if you’re pressed against each other like sardines, you have to put up with the heavy weight of someone’s thigh against yours, their bony shoulder knocking into your own. Hyunjin wonders what it says about him, that even with all the forced proximity, almost always being surrounded by seven people—and often more—even after all that, he still craves more.

(Greedy.)

He likes it best when it’s dark and there are hardly any cars on the highway and there’s no content to be filmed and no more word games to be played, and Changbin—always Changbin—is beside him, reaching an arm out to rub at Hyunjin’s ear and Hyunjin, in turn, will always, always, unfurl into his touch like a sunflower seeking the sun, lean uncomfortably across the yawning gap between their seats and use the full length of his body to his advantage, to press into Changbin’s space until Changbin accommodates him, slumping lower in his seat so Hyunjin can drop his head onto his shoulder and, once Changbin’s seeking gaze has turned away, run his eyes over Changbin’s profile, the curve of his cheek, the dip of his dimple, greedily drink it all in under the cover of night and the passing streetlights above.

When Hyunjin feels particularly selfish, egregiously needy, he’ll turn his head—a weak breath shuddering out of him when Changbin’s fingers run delicately through his loose hair in response—and let his open mouth press ever so gently against the strong plane of Changbin’s bicep, feeling the muscle shift under his parted lips. An indulgence he only ever allows himself once in a blue moon.

—

Their waiting room is always loud and raucous, bursting to the brim with clothing racks, suitcases of makeup, multiple hairdryers going off at the same time almost being swallowed by whatever new skit is being played out loudly but, through it all, Hyunjin can still hear the quiet cluck of the makeup noona’s tongue as she eyes his knees.

Hyunjin gets why she looks so concerned; they’re bruised beyond concealment, the product of an achingly late night practicing the special stage he was performing today, again and again dropping onto the floor with a sickening thud that had his knees go numb somewhere around the tenth time.

“I need to get a different concealer from the car,” she says finally, hand fluttering anxiously over Hyunjin’s skin before drawing away and clucking again. “Go sit down. I’ll finish up with Felix and then cover these up before you go on.”

Hyunjin nods, thanks her, and then slides off the chair to head for the corner of the room. He’s in a pair of white knee-length shorts that, when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, do absolutely nothing to hide the myriad of ugly colours that have sprouted up on his knees in the last day.

Hyunjin winces and tears his eyes away from his reflection before he can fixate on it. He sits on the couch, curling his legs in so he doesn’t brush against Minho and Changbin doing push-ups on the mats.

“You look terrible,” Jisung pronounces, mouth full of food as he steps over Minho’s back to sit by Hyunjin, earning him a half lidded glare from the floor. “Like a couple of monsters.”

Minho snaps his teeth at Jisung’s ankle and Jisung squeaks in surprise, laughing as he tucks his legs up off the floor and squishes comfortably into Hyunjin’s side. Hyunjin lets his eyes flutter shut and leans his head against Jisung’s shoulder. He feels worn down, like the very clothes he wears are sandpaper, roughing down his edges and sanding down his very skin until his nerve endings are exposed to the abrasive air, the too sharp lights.

Jisung keeps eating, pressing a few gummies to Hyunjin’s mouth every so often that Hyunjin blindly takes. He drifts off into a muddled doze right there, knees throbbing ever so slightly and exhaustion worrying at his bones only to wake up when Jisung shifts.

“Sorry, baby,” Jisung murmurs in regret, patting Hyunjin’s thigh in apology for rousing him. “Noona is calling me.”

Hyunjin hums in acquiescence and then slides sideways when Jisung leaves, resting his head against someone’s bag, legs uncurling to stretch out on the floor. His surroundings fade into quiet, but Hyunjin’s sleep has escaped in the momentary break. He keeps his eyes shut, running the choreography in his mind only for his half-hearted concentration to shatter when someone’s hand wraps tentatively around his ankle.

Hyunjin’s lashes flutter open to see Changbin stretched out on the mat beside the couch, looking half asleep himself as he holds up a fan to his face with the other hand.

“Hyung,” Hyunjin mumbles. “Do you want to come up?” He can’t imagine the floor is that comfortable, especially with the harness Changbin is wearing that’s surely digging into his back.

Changbin shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, tapping Hyunjin’s ankle in reassurance. “You look tired.”

Hyunjin sighs and feels the air expel out of him like a sad balloon. “Slept maybe an hour.”

“I saw,” Changbin hums. His eyes are closed, fingers warm around Hyunjin’s ankle. No one is looking at them, too absorbed in their own activities and so Hyunjin takes the opportunity to stare shamelessly at Changbin; take in the swell of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, arms filling out of every square inch of the tight, full sleeve top he’s squeezed into. He looks so good, Hyunjin kind of aches at it, feels his chest go all tight and hot, feels the desire bubble up in his sternum like an unwatched pot.

“Your knees,” Changbin says, pulling Hyunjin out of his muffled thoughts.

“Hmm?”

Changbin’s hand slides up his bare leg. Hyunjin had to shave when he got back from practice late last night, eyes gritty and mourning the loss of sleep as he wondered why the stylists couldn’t have just put him in full length pants.

Hyunjin shivers at the sensation of Changbin’s palm against his bare skin. His fingers tap against the base of Hyunjin’s knee, right below the worst of the bruise.

“Do they hurt?”

Hyunjin shrugs half-heartedly. “I’m used to it.”

Changbin is looking at him with that gaze, those eyes, that stare that can strip Hyunjin down to his discrete parts, lay him out on a table and examine every gear and rivet and fibre of him with just—just that look alone.

Hyunjin wants.

He wants so badly it tears through him.

“Hyung,” he starts, voice raw, but then their makeup noona is summoning him back to the chair, a thick tube of concealer in her hand and Hyunjin startles, Changbin’s hand falling away.

“Coming, noona,” he calls and then hastily gets off the couch. Changbin’s eyes are shut when Hyunjin steps over him and Hyunjin thinks it for the best. He can’t imagine what he’d do at the sight.

—

(In between the pages of dusty, worn down, brand new sketchbooks sit hundreds of drawings of his members.

The tilt of Jeongin’s eyes when he focuses on something. The curl of Felix’s hair as he exits the shower. The specific, secret curve of Minho’s lips. Seungmin’s cheeks, strong sloping jaw. Jisung’s heart shaped smile. The smooth, strong plane of Chan’s back.

Changbin’s… everything.

Too much.

Greedy, greedy, greedy.)

—

Hyunjin comes back, and it’s different.

Of course it is; he’d have been surprised if things stayed the same—there was no room for stagnancy in the idol world.

He’s watched all of it, of course, from his parents’ house with Kkami curled in his lap, aching as he watched his members—his family—on a television screen that didn’t have room for him as well. He’d spoken practically every day to all seven of them, had been kept updated on all the petty squabbles and prank wars and whatever new song Seungmin was obsessed with and thinking about covering but..

There's no substitute, no number of Kakao chat rooms, no amount of hidden stalking on Twitter, that can make up for not being there, running alongside them and he’s taken aback when he finally, properly, starts joining in on work again, to find that things have indeed changed.

Pleasantly surprised at Minho’s slowly vanishing reluctance at being in the spotlight, at Seungmin’s flourishing confidence, at Felix’s social net widening. Jisung is who he’s always been, and Hyunjin adores him for it, in a desperately fond way; that knowledge that no matter what happens, Jisung will always be the same sitting squarely upon his sternum like a particularly strong hug.

They’re all the same really, have shifted only one or two degrees to the left, shiny and weathered by the fresh wind of a survival show and Hyunjin finds it easy, breathtakingly so, to slip back into his place among them.

It’s only Changbin—it’s always Changbin—who’s different.

At first, Hyunjin’s busy enough to not notice. It’s not like there’s much to notice, but he’s always been a little oversensitive to Changbin. Somewhere, in between it all; recording their new mixtape, shooting the music video, preparing for their new album, arbitrating the winner of the Felix vs Seungmin Prank War Summer 2021 Edition, it just slips his mind, until one day.

Hyunjin reaches over Changbin for his water bottle that's sitting on the desk on Changbin’s other side and instead of leaning down, jokingly trying to kiss the air by his hair, instead of staring at him, instead of doing any of the things he’d normally do, Changbin just freezes, tensing, breath catching in his throat loud enough for Hyunjin to hear it.

Hyunjin’s fingers wrap around the bottle and he straightens, sitting back in his seat, looking at Changbin in confusion. Changbin doesn’t meet his eyes and Hyunjin opens his mouth—to say what he doesn’t know—but Changbin cuts across him.

“So this is the song I’ve been playing around with,” he says abruptly, clicking open a new file. “I—I wanted to add your vocals to it—just for the bridge.”

Hyunjin unsticks his mind from the bewilderment and faint hurt long enough to ask, “Like Streetlight?”

The smile Changbin sends him feels like a reward, like a sinking under the spray of a hot shower after a long day and something in Hyunjin eases at it, as if the last twenty seconds had never happened.

“Yeah,” he says warmly. “Exactly like that. You up for it?”

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says disbelievingly, already forgetting about the moment of weirdness. “Of course, I am.”

Changbin laughs and clicks play.

Hyunjin notices more and more.

He knows he’s oblivious sometimes, spacey, as Felix affectionately puts it in English, but he’s never been able to be anything but achingly conscious of Changbin. He notices.

Changbin doesn’t touch him so much anymore, doesn’t try to jokingly kiss him, doesn’t even lean into Hyunjin’s space so much anymore. They’re still friends, they still talk—Hyunjin spends most of his social battery winding down in Changbin’s studio to experiment with music and toss ideas back and forth or in his room, sketching while Changbin talks about nothing and everything, but the second layer—the one hidden deep underneath muscle and flesh and blood, the one Hyunjin secretly craves, that level of proximity is gone.

Even if he knew how to address it, he doesn’t have the time. They’re weeks away from a comeback and his anxiety at being in front of an audience again after months is bubbling up again.

Hyunjin doesn’t do anxiety—not really. He gets nervous of course, has his worries and his issues but none of it really affects him the way it does the others. Once he gets on stage, all of it vanishes to make way for the sound of bass, the rumble of the music, the beat of his heart.

Except this time his feet don’t seem to be moving as lightly, his nerves are stretched thin at the thought of being under the spotlight again, at having all eyes on him.

The song ends with a thunderous crash of cymbals and Hyunjin’s knees threaten to buckle. He doesn’t let them, just stares at himself in the mirror. He stares long enough for the song to start up again—takes in the sweat dripping down his face, his bangs sticking to his cheeks, jacket having long been discarded, shoelace untied—stares and stares until the song ends again and starts up once more.

Hyunjin moves.

The song cuts off somewhere in the 2nd verse and Hyunjin freezes, looking up through dripping bangs to the intruder standing at the computer. He hadn’t heard him come in.

“Sit,” Changbin orders and as if waiting for it, as if waiting for the reprieve that his mind refused to give, Hyunjin’s body collapses right onto the floor. Changbin sighs as he turns off the computer and grabs the water Hyunjin had long finished.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move,” Changbin orders and walks back out.

Hyunjin watches his retreating figure until the door closes between them and starfishes out on the floor. He feels disgusting but his mind is quiet. The buzzing has vanished. It doesn’t matter that it’s almost five in the morning, it doesn’t matter that he’s got to be at a radio show prerecording in forty minutes, it doesn’t matter that he’s probably not going to get more than thirty minutes of sleep for the next twenty hours. None of it matters. Not when his mind is finally quiet.

“How many times did you run through it?” Changbin asks when he returns, a disapproving look on his face as he hands Hyunjin the water and watches him sit up to chug it.

Hyunjin shrugs, wiping the back of his hand roughly across his mouth. He can’t tell if he’s sweeping up water or sweat at this point. “Lost count,” he says. “Probably twenty.”

It’s probably more if he’s being honest but looking at Changbin’s face in the mirror tells him it wouldn’t be wise to admit to that.

“Why are you up?” Hyunjin asks in a faint tone of accusation.

Changbin eyes him, gaze skittering over his face before it bounces back to the floor, a thinly veiled glare that doesn’t stick. “Just came back from the gym,” he says and all the unsaid words are there. Changbin wasn’t the idiot who’d spent the last three hours practicing until his whole lower half was numb. Changbin probably got his requisite four hours of sleep and then woke up to go to the gym like a responsible adult.

“I had to practice,” Hyunjin says mulishly. Changbin isn’t demanding an answer but his silence is pointed enough to make Hyunjin twitch. He feels on edge, in a way he rarely is around Changbin, itchy and stretched out, the exhaustion rubbing against his skin in the wrong way.

“You didn’t have to do anything, actually,” Changbin points out. “You were perfect days ago. If anything—”

“I had to,” Hyunjin snaps back, suddenly bristling with it, aching with it, all of it. “Because my mind won’t shut up and I’m terrified of going on stage which hasn’t happened in years. Because I’m scared of looking myself up online and I’m scared of being on TV without the members and—” he gasps, fingers scraping uselessly against the slick floors. Changbin still won’t look at him and it curls under his breastbone like a an especially flighty bird. He feels the hurt rounding the vowels out before he can even dare to stop himself. “You won’t touch me.”

Changbin’s eyes snap to him in shock but it’s as if a wall has come crumbling down in Hyunjin’s mind and he can’t shut up.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, hyung, I have,” Hyunjin says, mouth trembling. “You don’t touch me and you barely look at me and I know I come on too strong and—”

Changbin tugs him into a hug. It’s graceless and awkward because Hyunjin’s legs are still sprawled outwards and Changbin’s sitting just far away enough to make his back ache but his arms close tightly around Hyunjin’s shoulders, flattening him to his chest and Hyunjin—

Hyunjin freezes for half a second and then scrambles forward, slamming into Changbin so hard his back hits the mirror with an audible thud but Hyunjin moves in, until he’s practically in Changbin’s lap, arms tight around him, face pressed into his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Changbin is saying hoarsely when Hyunjin’s head clears, when the flutter of wings stops rattling his heart around in its cage. “Hyunjinnie, I’m sorry, I thought it was the right thing to do. You were trying to adjust to being back and—and I just thought it was better if I stopped bothering you. Like—” he clears his throat. “Like I always did.”

“You never bothered me,” Hyunjin says fiercely, wetly, into the curve of Changbin’s neck. Changbin makes a vague noise of disagreement but it’s enough for Hyunjin to pull back. He’s not crying but his eyes are bleary enough to obscure his vision and with his bangs plastered against his cheeks, it’s hard to make out Changbin’s face.

Changbin brings a hand up to push his hair out of his face, sweep his thumb gently over his skin and his expression is gentle enough to crumble Hyunjin into his discrete atomic parts, enough to dismantle to him to the very core where, if anyone tried to look, all they would find was Changbin’s name etched into the nucleus of every single molecule.

Changbin smooths his hair back, wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt and then, when Hyunjin’s sure he can’t touch him any more than he already is, lets his fingers linger at the curve of his mouth.

“I want you to touch me,” Hyunjin whispers because it feels as if it’s time. He’s been holding it back for long enough, has lived with the razor blades under his tongue for years, threatening to cut him open and bleed the truth with it. “I always want you to touch me. I want you to look at me and kiss me and hold me—” he exhales shakily, suddenly running out of air. His lungs are too small for this—for all the words, all the confessions, all the greediness he holds for Changbin and it looks like Changbin is shattering apart with every syllable, eyes growing wider as Hyunjin keeps whispering, confessing, bleeding between them. “Hyung—hyung—I want you. Just you.”

—

Nothing really changes. Hyunjin’s sure they would have.

If a sobbing, desperate confession wasn’t enough to change things, then all the dramas he watched were quite incorrect. But the dramas don’t also have characters who spend twenty hours a day working, don’t have careers that are on the line with every risky move they make. The dramas don’t really talk about what it’s like to spend years resisting every urge and desire only to have it all come bubbling up at four am in Studio 5-C of the JYP building.

The dramas don’t tell you what to do when the object of your affections—ardent desires, nightly dreams—looks at you with warm endearment, sweeps your hair back and tells you to get some rest before your busy day without any acknowledgement of your word vomit only moments before.

At least Changbin returns to normal, and that much, Hyunjin is grateful for.

The crushing schedules of their daily lives are at least more bearable now that Changbin isn’t ignoring him anymore, now that he returns to looping an arm around Hyunjin’s waist and rubbing the shell of his ear. Now that he lets Hyunjin squirrel into his shoulder during long car rides and regards him with affection, not the weird mix of apprehension and longing he’d worn before.

They finish promotions, return to the practice rooms for a week of intense practice and language lessons and promptly head back out into the world for Japanese promotions. They’re supposed to be in Japan for two weeks, promoting their new Japanese single so they each get individual rooms, in whatever hotel—management’s silent apology for the crushing schedule continuing well after the time for a break has passed.

Promotions overseas are always a little weird; Hyunjin spends most of his interviews with a pleasantly vacant smile pasted on his face, not understanding a word being said, barely able to hear the translator in his ear, always half a sentence behind the live conversation. If they’re in America, at least he can catch half of what’s being said, at least he contribute something. But for these two weeks, Hyunjin does what he does best—sits and looks pretty and overthinks the whole fucking time.

They hold a fanmeeting for two days which saps the last dredges of energy from everyone and at midnight, their manager looks at all of them, slumped over each other in their dressing room, sweaty and coming down from an adrenaline crash and promptly moves their flight back to Korea a day later than initially planned.

“You get one day off,” he says sternly, herding them into the single massive van they’ve been using as transport all week. Jeongin trips over nothing and lands bodily in the back seat, sprawling over the row and claiming two seats for himself. No one bothers to move him. “One day—you better get some sleep tonight. If I find any of you awake, I’m confining you to the hotel until our flight and you can spend your one day watching me eat all the ramen I can handle rather than explore the city.”

None of them argue. Hyunjin’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to speak let alone battle with their manager—not that he wants to. He’s very grateful for any time off, let alone a whole day in another country to laze around and explore. He ends up in the second to last row, squished between the window and Chan who clutches his backpack to his chest and drops off within seconds, hat toppling off his head as soon as the van accelerates on the highway.

Hyunjin’s so exhausted he could cry, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He’s not sure he’d be able to get up again if he did. Instead, he stares out the foggy window at Tokyo, the traffic nonexistent at this time of night as they weave through the city. As they turn a corner, Chan’s head thuds heavily onto his shoulder and Hyunjin adjusts himself so he doesn’t strain his neck.

He doesn’t remember getting out of the van, or walking into the hotel. Doesn’t even remember getting into his room. The last thing he recalls is the pillow under his head before he passes out.

—

Most of them choose to spend their day off in the city.

“How you have the energy, I will never understand,” Jisung grumps, still half asleep, blindly shoving egg into his mouth. They’re all crowded into Chan’s room, in various stages of awareness, eating breakfast and planning their day. Hyunjin, for one, has no intention of leaving his bed. He might make an exception and move to a chair if the inspiration for painting should strike him but otherwise, he’s not moving. His whole body throbs, and his mind is just as sluggish, the coffee he’s sipping on doing nothing to help it along.

“That’s because you’re a homebody,” Jeongin teases and Jisung grunts, shoving more egg rolls into his mouth.

“I’m not leaving either,” Hyunjin announces around a piece of melon. The fruit is so sweet it makes his toes curl, and he leans forward to grab more from the bowl in front of him, the sticky juice dribbling down his wrist.

“So…” Their manager does a quick head count. “Six of you?” He looks surprised. “Channie too?”

“Why not?” Chan shrugs, looking uncharacteristically at ease. “How often are we in Japan?”

“About every six months,” Hyunjin says, but he follows it up with a tiny grin at Chan. He doesn’t want to be the one to dissuade Chan from a day off—heaven knows he needs it. Any distance from his laptop is probably a good thing.

“I’m not going,” comes Changbin’s voice. He’s the only one of them wide awake, fully showered and dressed, having gone to the gym before anyone else had even thought of being awake, chest straining attractively at the stretch of his shirt. Hyunjin allows himself one look, lingering and appreciative, and then glances away, drawing his hood over his hair with his clean hand.

Their manager accepts it without question. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll aim to leave in an hour. An hour,” he repeats pointedly at Jeongin who snickers.

“I already have my outfit picked out, hyung, don’t worry.”

Hyunjin reaches for another sticky handful of melon and across the room, meets Changbin’s eyes. He’s pushed into the corner of the bed, against the wall with an empty plate balanced on his thigh and when their eyes lock, Changbin tilts his head at Hyunjin.

Hyunjin bites into the fruit without breaking eye contact and savours the sweet, crisp flesh crunching under his teeth.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

After ravaging the last of breakfast, they all scatter to get ready and Hyunjin escapes to his room before Seungmin can convince him to come out with the rest of them. He texts his parents while anxiously biting at his thumbnail and gets a few blurry pictures of Kkami in return and with every passing moment, feels his heart rate accelerate, just a little.

An hour and a half passes and he gets a reminder from their managers not to wander outside the hotel alone.

Then, a knock comes.

Hyunjin’s heart leaps into his throat, and he hastily tucks his hair behind his ears as he scrambles off the bed to answer it.

Changbin steps into the room with a sheepish little smile. “Were you asleep?”

“No?” Hyunjin blinks, patting the top of his hair, wondering if he looks particularly shabby.

“Just wondering,” Changbin says, before adding, over his shoulder, almost shyly. “You look pretty, don’t worry.”

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says, helplessly soft as he shuts the door behind him, making sure the lock slides into place.

The morning sun is bright over the city and Hyunjin’s room is lofted high—high enough to have all the curtains drawn back, the heat and light soaking into the room, turning it warm and sultry.

Changbin fiddles with his fingers while Hyunjin sinks down at the end of his bed, tucking his leg up against his chest and playing with the loose string on the hem.

“Are you here to reject me?” Hyunjin asks before he can stop himself. He can’t look Changbin in the eyes. All the courage he’d screwed up to ask the question has disappeared in the second since. “It’s okay if you are, hyung,” he adds, softer because he’d rather die than ever hurt Changbin even if Changbin is set to do the same to him.

Changbin exhales. “Now, why would I ever do that?”

Hyunjin looks up. Changbin stares back at him.

“Why?” Changbin asks firmly, as if trying to lead Hyunjin to the solution without giving him the answer. Hyunjin was never really good at school, he’s always preferred Changbin’s method of teaching—strict and firm, but always, always, warm and encouraging under it all. “When you’re all I’ve ever wanted?”

Hyunjin stares at him. “Really?” His voice comes out shaky, disbelieving.

“It’s not like I’ve been subtle about it,” Changbin replies with a half smile that reaches into Hyunjin’s chest and knocks his heart about, slamming into the curved corners of his rib cage. “You knew—you have to have known.”

“But… But you didn’t say anything. You didn’t,” Hyunjin quails, before licking his lips. Changbin’s eyes lock onto his mouth and it takes everything in Hyunjin to say, pouting, a little ashamed. “Hyung, you didn’t kiss me.”

The silence lingers after those words like the tides slowly receding from the beach, unearthing buried objects, shells and long hidden truths from the unyielding grip of a sandy past.

“Hyunjin-ah,” Changbin says, low and sincere like he is about every goddamn thing. “If I started kissing you back then, I don’t know if I could have ever stopped.”

Hyunjin shivers inadvertently at the look on Changbin’s face and it’s all Changbin needs, apparently, to step forward and tuck Hyunjin’s hair behind his ear, to cup his jaw, fingers scraping across his chin, fire sparking over his skin in their wake. Hyunjin’s head tilts, looking up at Changbin.

“I don’t think I could have pulled away from you,” Changbin continues, softly, damning. “I would have kept kissing you, forever. I wouldn’t have been able to stop touching you.” A faint smile flickers over his face. “Imagine trying to film a radio show like that.”

“It’s been two weeks—” Hyunjin interjects, feeling the pout rising to his mouth, even though he feels elated. Like he could fly up the brink of the sunny atmosphere and leave all his worries behind. Changbin wanted him. Changbin wanted him back.

“Imagine trying to focus on an interview in a language you barely understand,” Changbin says, cutting across Hyunjin smoothly, hand sweeping across his face, knuckle bumping against the shell of his ear, grazing the tip of his nose, under his eye before finally, finally, coming to rest at the swell of his lips. Changbin gazes at him and finishes, a little breathlessly. “When all you’re thinking about is kissing the most beautiful boy in the world.”

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says—tries to say but his body moves faster than his brain can comprehend and he blows the word into smithereens before he can even finish as he reaches up and tugs Changbin into a kiss.

Four years. Four years he’s been dreaming about this. It’s probably been longer than that but Hyunjin can barely remember trainee life, can hardly recall thinking about anything but the promise of debut. Four years of waiting and fantasizing and dreaming and—and—

Hyunjin gasps raggedly, back bowing under the simplest sensation of Changbin’s lips against his own, of Changbin tilting his head to kiss him deeper, hand still delicately cradling his jaw. Hyunjin’s mouth parts and he arches back before he can think better of it, scrambling back on the bed, hands snagging in Changin’s shirt, tugging him closer. Changbin follows without hesitation, crawling over him and this time, when their lips meet, it’s open and yearning. Every swipe of Changbin’s tongue against his sends Hyunjin reeling, shuddering, legs parting to allow Changbin to sink deeper against him.

Then, all of a sudden, the pace slows and the frantic energy fades from Hyunjin, bit by bit. Four years he’s waited for this, he wants to savour every moment. He pulls back slightly, just enough that Changbin’s breath mists across his face, nose nudging against his own.

Hyunjin smiles up at Changbin, feeling something rich and warm settle into his bones, nestle among the marrow and make a home in his blood. “Hyung,” he sighs, sweeping his hand over Changbin’s face.

“Been waiting so long,” Changbin murmurs, finishing the thought for him. He nuzzles against Hyunjin before kissing him again, sweet and slow, trapping Hyunjin’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging until Hyunjin whimpers, opens his mouth and kisses him again, tongue tracing the roof of his mouth, wet and languid.

Changbin’s hand clenches around his waist, dragging the loose fabric of his hoodie up to close around his bare skin when Hyunjin kisses the side of his jaw and the sensation is so jarring, so novel, that his whole body strains at it, arcs up into it, skin jumping under his touch. He wants more, wants Changbin’s hands all over him, and his teeth sink into the delicate skin of Changbin’s neck to spur it along.

“Marks—” Changbin stutters out before it dissolves into a moan as Hyunjin’s tongue drags up the column of his throat. “Hyunjin-ah.”

He sounds wrecked, hoarse and Hyunjin’s head spins. Because of him.

“Want more,” he whispers, kissing his way up Changbin’s jaw. “Hyung, I—I want you, please.”

He feels like he’s burning and they’ve done so little—have only kissed and touched and already—already it feels like so much, like he could spark into flame and burn into ashes and be satisfied just from this alone.

Changbin’s hand slides up to unzip his hoodie and Hyunjin sits up on his elbows to rid himself of it before insistently tugging at the hem of Changbin’s shirt.

“Why do you always wear such tight clothes?” He huffs, scraping his fingers along Changbin’s skin to peel the shirt off him. “You’re driving me crazy, hyung.”

Changbin flushes a deep pink and looks away. “Stop that,” he mumbles but there’s no irritation in his voice, just a deep shyness that sends a bolt of affection through Hyunjin’s spine.

“Do you want me to tell you?” Hyunjin asks seriously, fingers dancing across the expanse of Changbin’s shoulders, dipping over his chest. He doesn’t think he could stop himself if he tried; he’s wanted to touch for so long and there’s just so much of Changbin to explore. “I can tell you, hyung, from memory, every single time you’ve driven me crazy. Every single time I’ve jerked off to the thought of your arms.” His hand dips lower. “Your chest.” Crawls over and lightly scrapes over his shoulder blades. “Your back.” His fingers press into the divot of Changbin’s chin. “Your mouth.”

Changbin, sweetly red and pink all over groans and kisses Hyunjin with a fervour that weighs him down into the mattress, practically devouring Hyunjin whole. Hyunjin lets him, gives as good as he gets, makes a wild noise in the back of his throat and wraps his legs around Changbin’s hips and somehow, somehow, flips them around, straddling Changbin’s waist as he collapses back against the bed. Changbin’s hands are everywhere, running through his hair, tucking it behind his ears, scratching down his back, clutching his ass, scraping blunt nails down his thighs as Hyunjin rocks down against him, feeling Changbin’s cock stiffen under him.

It feels deliriously good, this pleasure sparking up his spine, jettisoning him off the edge, the sensation of Changbin’s teeth grazing his teeth, the slick, wet taste of his mouth, the way his hands close around Hyunjin’s hips, holding him down in that perfect position against his cock.

“Hyung, hyung, hyung,” Hyunjin mumbles, mouth smearing against Changbin’s, chest heaving for air that just doesn’t come. “Fuck me, please, please, I’ve been waiting so long—” he nearly sobs with the ache, the want, the need to have Changbin inside him, around him, claiming him. “Please,” he gasps, dazed as he pulls back to lock eyes with Changbin, hair a curtain around their faces.

Changbin’s thumb sweeps over his mouth, cleans the spit up and then tucks his hair back with his clean hand. “You sure?” He asks. His voice trembles. His throat, decorated with the afterimages of Hyunjin’s mouth, bobs unsteadily.

“I’m sure,” Hyunjin tells him. I’ve never been more sure of anything else, he wants to say. I’ve wanted you since I first saw you, he doesn’t say. I’ve been in love with you for years, he thinks. “Are you?”

Changbin’s expression clears and a tiny smile flickers over his mouth. “I’ve wanted you for years, Hyunjin-ah,” he says, sincere and sweet and brave because he’s Hyunjin’s hyung, he’s the courageous one, the one who can say the words that have been razing Hyunjin’s mouth for half a decade, shredding his tongue to a million bloody pieces without difficulty or pause.

And Hyunjin, because the feeling isn’t imprinted into his cells yet, because he isn’t used to it yet, because he wants to, leans down and kisses him again.

—

When Changbin presses blunt fingers into him, Hyunjin trembles. Head thrown back against a bare mattress, pillows having long been lost to the floor, he heaves in aching breath after breath, trying to adjust to the sensation, to the knowledge flittering over his nerve endings, that this was Changbin, this was Changbin inside him. His nails dig into the arm Changbin has thrown over his hip to hold him down as he presses against Hyunjin’s prostate, cock weeping all over his stomach with every twitch of his fingers.

When Changbin kisses him again, lingering and gentle after he pulls his hand away, Hyunjin moans into it, loud as he pleases.

And when Changbin finally, finally, finally, presses into him, Hyunjin shudders, shakes, and falls apart, right there, in the steady, unwavering bracket of Changbin’s arms. He can’t speak even if he wants to; language has fizzled somewhere out of reach and all that remains a glaring white fuzz.

Changbin’s breath washes over him, his mouth presses against his cheek and Hyunjin whimpers, wild with want. He doesn’t know where he gets the strength—sure that Changbin’s touch itself had liquefied his spine into nothingness—but his legs wrap around Changbin, arms hold him tight as rocks against Hyunjin, every thrust, deep and slow and sending Hyunjin rocketing off this plane.

His eyes roll back in his head, nails dragging along the expanse of Changbin’s back. He can feel the shoulder blades shift under his hands, feels his hips grind up against Changbin’s stomach, cock twitching with every sporadic brush, the friction popping up his spine.

“Hyung,” he slurs, half mad from the slow pace, the way Changbin’s cock grinds into him, hitting spots Hyunjin never even knew existed. “Please.” He sobs when Changbin hauls him closer, legs bending back, practically folding him in half to push deeper into him.

“You look gorgeous,” Changbin says hoarsely, mouth against his ear. “Feel so fucking good, Hyunjin-ah.”

Hyunjin moans, tries to arch up, to fuck himself deeper, but there’s nowhere to go; he’s pinned under Changbin, at the mercy of his hands and the tortuously slow grind of his hips as he dismantles Hyunjin, flaying him apart, layer by layer, peeling him open until all that remains are the bleeding remains of Hyunjin’s heart, beating wildly in Changbin’s fist.

It’s like this, just like this, that he falls apart, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, mouth slack against Changbin’s, just breathing him in as his orgasm builds and builds, slowly, slowly, so fucking slowly, resounding through his limbs, until his whole body aches with it, until he comes, just like that, untouched and excoriated, ribboned to shreds under Changbin’s touch.

Changbin follows only seconds later, burying his groan in Hyunjin’s neck, hands tightening around his thighs, Hyunjin’s blood bubbling under his skin where his palms lay and stupidly, distantly, Hyunjin wishes there wasn’t a condom in the way so he could feel it, the way Changbin’s come would leak out of him, the way there would be an imprint left inside him that even water wouldn’t wash out.

His legs tremble, ache, when they unfold. His arms shake in sympathy when Changbin lowers himself, finally relaxing. His heart pounds, shudders, when Changbin kisses him. The afternoon sun pours through the open window and Hyunjin curls up around Changbin, wrapping his long limbs around him. Even now, even after all this, he wants to be as close to Changbin as his body will allow, wants to be pressed up against him, wants to squirrel into his chest and stay there for as long as Changbin will let him. Greedy till the end.

They lie there, content and quiet, and Hyunjin measures the time in Changbin’s heartbeats, his steady breathing, the slow drag of his fingers through his hair and watches the sun shift across the blankets, the bare dip of Changbin’s waist, the strong line of his thigh.

Then Changbin draws in a deep breath and says, in an almost contemplative tone, “I just thought of an idea for a song.”

The smile that springs to Hyunjin’s mouth is bright, easily called forth. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

Changbin’s hand sweeps over his ribs and Hyunjin reflexively inhales, relishing the way his touch sparkles over his skin as Changbin starts to speak.