Archive of Our Own

Sparkling chandeliers hang from glamorously high ceilings, casting light over gleaming floors and a stylish bar. Each table is covered with a pristine white cloth and decorated with pretty little folded napkins and a tall candle placed nicely in the center.

Everything is neat and beautifully arranged, the generous floor size shown well in the brightly lit airy room, but it can just as easily be imagined flooded in warm mood lighting too. And best of all, the stage is huge. Plenty of space for all their equipment and instruments, and still leave all the room they could want for jumping around and going crazy on stage.

“Are we sure this is our kind of place?” Jisung had asked, so skeptical and yet so naive, just barely a week ago when they’d received the request to fill in for an act that had dropped out ‘for no reason at all’. “Isn’t that a bit fancy compared to our usual gigs?”

He’d been concerned they wouldn’t find themselves in the right crowd, that this venue looked more suited to the kind of audience that prefers listening to soft jazz or a quiet piano twinkling in the background while they chat over their cocktails. Too up-class for the noise they make.

Now, having arrived on the day, Chan lets out a weary sigh next to him. He lowers his phone and the image of the room transforms in front of their eyes.

“I mean…” Chan says, that annoying pep in his voice that says he’s about to force Jisung to see the barest shimmer of a silver lining. He shrugs one shoulder. “The stage is still a pretty decent size.”

It’s hard to believe it’s the same room at first. It’s not even half as big as the picture makes it look. Chan literally pulled up the website again for them to compare when they had arrived and seen the state of it. He’d been hopelessly optimistic that they had just gotten the wrong address, but it seems like with the help of what must be a decades old photograph and someone keen on editing, even somewhere like this can be marketed to sell tickets.

On Chan’s other side, Changbin drags a finger over the surface of the bar and grimaces when it leaves a streak behind. He gags and tries to reach behind Chan to wipe it on Jisung’s sleeve.

“Ay!” Jisung leaps back. “Gross!”

Chan sighs again.

“Well, we can’t cancel just hours before a sold out show.”

“Who even bought the tickets? The spiders?” Jisung nods to the cobwebs in the nearest corner to them, fluttering lightly in a draft that somehow still finds its way in through the closed window.

Changbin looks around and jumps when he sees them, but it seems as though even the spiders have abandoned this place because the webs are all empty and as thick with dust as everything else in the place.

He shivers, sticking his tongue out and making a noise, and then mutters to the two of them, “This is worse than that place we played in our debut year that tried to pay us in coupons. You sure we can’t just…”

Chan frowns at his suggestion when he jerks his head towards the door pleadingly.

“No,” he sighs a third time, a little more aggressively, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before dropping his hand with a tight smile.

He’s a lot more pissed off than he’s willing to let on, and Jisung wouldn’t doubt that he’s going to be following this up sternly with someone responsible at a later date, but for now he’s trying his best to keep the mood light for them.

He nods as if to himself like he’s confirming something in his own head, and then claps his hands together, pretending not to notice the dust it stirs up in the air.

“Look, we’re just going to have to make do. They may have advertised the place a little, uh… well, dishonestly,” Jisung pulls a face at the understatement, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t still put on a good show with what we’ve got.”

They look around the room again, silent for a moment until Changbin pulls another face. He scratches the back of his neck with his own drumsticks, hissing through his teeth, and says, “He’s not gonna like it.”

Jisung feels the two of them exchange glances, but he’s suddenly very interested in making the nearest grime covered table wobble on it’s uneven legs. He’s soooo uninterested in talking about him.

“Mm,” Chan agrees. “He’s already in a bad mood.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, face angled away so they won’t call him out on it.

“Rock paper scissors for who goes to tell him?” Chan suggests, fist already lifted.

“I’ll go,” He offers immediately, face warming at how fast it comes out of him.

So much for playing it casual.

He doesn’t look at either of them when Chan lets out a breath of relief and Changbin snorts, smacking Jisung on the back between his shoulders so that he stumbles forwards.

“Fighting,” he cackles.

Jisung walks away without looking back at either of them, trying not to move his feet any faster than he needs to.

Once he’s outside, he glances back up at the front of the building. It’s as tall as they had expected, but they had expected that to be the height of the one room. A small horizontal slit of a window too high up to be from the room he just left says there’s another level. Unlikely it’s anything more than a store room or something though, judging by the rest of what they’ve seen.

He crosses the street to the van parked on the opposite side, the boldly sprayed on messy ‘3racha’ that they coined during their first (only semi-serious) talk of doing all this. Just the silly idea they had as friends about making a band together.

Even after adding their newest member, at his own insistence they didn’t officially change the name yet, but the tacked on little ‘no’ pointing to the space after the ‘3’ was jokingly added later after a drink or two too many to represent the change, referencing his chosen stage name.

One day they’ll have the funds to get a better van, and a nice new logo, properly painted on. One day when they actually get that name out there and start making some real money—when they won’t have to accept places like this.

He raps his knuckles on the metal door at the side of the van, waiting for a light voice to tell him it’s okay to come in before he slides it open.

Minho is sat on the metal case of one of their speakers, one foot propped on the wooden stool that’s too small to actually sit on. He takes another moment to finish what he’s doing, fingers plucking at a string on the guitar in his hands—Jisung’s guitar—creating a perfect clear note.

He’s been tuning it for him, even though he’d said he was staying behind in the van to warm up his voice.

When he lifts his head to look and meets Jisung’s stare, his eyes light up under the tips of his jet black hair where it falls over them. Even if his smile is subtle, Jisung sees it. Just because no one else thinks they can see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Their other friends don’t get Minho. Even Chan and Changbin really. Not yet. Not like Jisung does. They still act a little scared, a little unsure of how to be around him sometimes.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says softly, a tone Jisung never hears Minho even come close to using with anyone else. The greeting steals Jisung’s breath for a moment.

The way Minho looks in his leather jacket steals it for another. He has the kind of face gods would start wars over.

It should be awkward, the amount of time it takes for Jisung to remember the real reason he’s supposed to be back out here (not to ogle, he eventually reminds himself) but Minho doesn’t hurry him or get annoyed. His expression doesn’t change at all.

Jisung realizes he’s smiling back. He would swear Minho gets him too, but saying it out loud to the others would feel like admitting something.

“Hi,” he says, and he cringes at how quiet his voice suddenly goes. Shy. He forces a more neutral expression and clears his throat. “Um, so. We took a look inside.”

A little of that ice he gives to everyone else seeps into Minho’s eyes, but Jisung isn’t scared. Not the same way everyone else is.

Minho tilts his head a little, stares him down. Cat-like, Chan has called him a few times. Panther-like is probably more accurate. It sets Jisung’s heart rate a tick higher each time.

A little sharp, he asks, “What about it?”

Because he can already tell there’s something wrong. Because he gets Jisung too.

When Jisung tells him the situation, Minho stares for a few seconds longer. His jaw tenses, tongue poking his cheek in annoyance, before wordlessly getting out of the van.

*

“This is…”

“Disappointing?” Chan offers in a whisper, wincing at the force of the side-eyed scowl he gets hit with.

“Fucking disgusting,” Minho finishes with venom.

He glares around, face twisted in revulsion, and he gives them the same withering look he always does when he walks into their practice room after the three of them have had a late night producing session and not cleaned up after themselves.

Well, Jisung at least is, as always, spared from the direct beam of his anger, but he usually will quietly embrace his share of the shame anyway, in commiseration.

Minho goes to step back, making a grossed out noise at the sticky sound the floor makes when he lifts his foot. Both Chan and Changbin shoot a sideways glance at each other, exchanging worried looks. Jisung isn’t as concerned though. Minho won’t leave them.

The thing is, he hadn’t wanted to join them in the first place. He never planned to be in some stupid amateur rock band. It was them who had wanted Minho. They needed him.

The three of them—Jisung, along with Chan and Changbin—they handled their own vocals just fine before he came along, and it’s not like they couldn’t if he left. They’re more than capable. But neither of the other two wanted to be a lead singer, and Jisung, as much as he loved the gig, had found after a while that the position was too much pressure.

He loves the stage, loves the spotlight and the attention, but doing it full time had started taking a toll on him, draining the energy he had stored in that love. Music is his life, and he didn’t want to risk losing the joy he got out of this.

It was a friend of Chan’s who knew and suggested Minho for their frontman. He showed them the tapes. Some guy he went to high school with and was still in the area. Said he kept pretty resolutely to himself (probably why they’d never crossed paths before) so he’d be hard to convince.

They agreed there was just something special in his voice though, something extra.

It was Chan who begged for days and weeks first, and then Changbin next, both coming back defeated having been rejected point-blank every time, and quite frankly a little scared.

Still, they pushed Jisung to at least just give it a try.

Just try because otherwise they’re back to only three, and how many chances are they going to get in their stupid town to find someone who sounds like that.

Jisung had agreed to ask, because they were right, and because he would do anything for his band, his best friends. But then he had knocked on Minho’s door and met the man in person for the first time.

He’d seen the grainy videos of an eighteen year old Minho on a distant stage, enough to tell that he certainly had objectively handsome features, but he wasn’t prepared for the twenty-five year old Minho who answered the door.

He doesn’t think he could have gotten himself through a calm and collected effort to convince him of anything anyway, but it turned out he didn’t need to.

Minho had stood there in stony silence, eyes wide and expression frozen as he stared down a frazzled Jisung while he struggled to string together enough fully formed words to make a polite greeting. After being blasted with the sudden unexpected full force of how fucking attractive the guy actually is, he barely managed to stumble his way through who he was, never mind getting to why he was here bothering him.

The moment he paused for breath to try to remember literally anything he’d planned to say though, Minho had said, “Okay.”

“Um. O-okay?” Jisung had blinked stupidly at him, still standing in the doorway of Minho’s apartment.

“Yes,” Minho had said immediately, expression unchanging. “I’ll do it.”

He hadn’t even gotten to the part of why he was here yet. He hadn’t even gotten out more than his name and the beginnings of a nervous apology because he knows the others have already asked and been firmly rejected.

And that was it. Just like that he became a permanent fixture. He said he’d stay and Jisung believes him.

“That went surprisingly well,” Chan says, watching Minho walk away again after complaining that he won’t be able to sing if he keeps breathing in so much dust.

“What a diva,” Changbin says, chuckling.

Jisung bristles, feeling defensive on Minho’s behalf. “Well, he’s not though, is he. This place is filthy, and he wasn’t even supposed to be here today.”

Changbin raises his eyebrows at him for it, but Chan just pats him on the shoulder.

“He’s joking,” he says. “We’re grateful Minho postponed his vacation to come today.”

Jisung knows he’s just soothing him, but Minho isn’t even mad about the ‘vacation’ at all. He doesn’t care that he’s pushing a camping trip back a couple days, he just doesn’t like when plans are made last minute like this.

But he’d still said yes.

Because they’d sent Jisung to be the one to ask him. They always do now.

“What’s with the pouting?” Changbin prods him in the arm with one finger, grinning wide and then wider still when Jisung glares at him for it.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Let’s just set up.”

*

With the venue looking like an abandoned zombie apocalypse movie set, Jisung almost begins to expect that the whole thing has just been a prank. No one is going to turn up. They’re going to set up and get on stage to perform to an audience of spiderless cobwebs, three flies, a pair of vaguely erotic posters peeling from the walls, and a room full of ghosts.

People do start to turn up though, and once the lights in the room are switched from bright overheads to fluorescent strips and small spotlights, you can hardly tell the that the cleaner didn’t turn up for a day of work since the Stone Age. Every inch of the room smells like a stale brewery, but that part isn’t really outside of the norm for many places they’ve performed at.

They’ve already changed their clothes. Jisung is dressed in leather pants that he knows make his ass look good and a tight fitting, artfully torn t-shirt. Even with all the rips in his outfit, he’s starting to heat up. Too many moving bodies getting steadily drunker in the unairconditioned room.

The platforms on his boots only barely make it any easier to see over the heads milling around, so he has to stretch himself higher and do a weird little jump on his tiptoes if he wants to check on the others.

The barman plays DJ while they wait until their starting time, and Changbin flirts with the barman slash DJ while Chan mumbles to himself over the things Chan always likes to stress about before they play. Stress is like his second biggest hobby after music, so Jisung doesn’t interrupt. He’s busy enough with his own silent pre-gig anxiety breathing exercises.

He loves being on the stage, feels in his element once he’s up there, but the lead up to it can be taxing.

“Here,” a voice over his shoulder says into his ear, one hand coming to rest on Jisung’s hip while another reaches around to hold a bottle with a straw in it in front of his face. He only jumps slightly in surprise, but doesn’t even need to look around and confirm who it is before immediately melting into the touch.

“What is it?” He asks, squinting at the faint squiggly letters on the bottle. He didn’t put his contacts in, and his glasses don’t exactly give him the rockstar stagewear look.

Minho laughs quietly, the puff of breath against Jisung’s neck sending a shiver through him. He leans back into Minho’s chest, only lightly, while Minho rests his chin over Jisung’s shoulder and lifts the bottle to take a sip himself.

“Just water,” he says, and he holds it to Jisung’s lips without waiting for him to take it from him. His fingers on Jisung’s hip move up a little, finding one of the tears in the fabric, lightly brushing over Jisung’s skin. It burns like fire. “Don’t worry, I didn’t buy it from here.”

Jisung parts his lips, lets Minho feed the straw into it and doesn’t stop drinking until he pulls it away again.

“You have to sing a lot of backing and ad-libs on this set,” Minho reminds him. He squeezes a little, fingers pinching at Jisung’s waist. It makes him jolt, but not because it’s an unpleasant feeling. “Gotta keep you hydrated.”

Jisung nods along. He would no matter what Minho said.

The other guys have plenty of vocal parts too. Chan does as much backing as Jisung does, sometimes more, and Changbin has a fair few raps to get through. He doesn’t ask if Minho is making sure they stay hydrated too though. They can get their own water.

“Everything ready up there?” Minho asks.

Jisung looks up at the stage. They already have everything set up and tested, just waiting for Chan to finish his one billion and one item checklist—and the crowd to get a few drinks in them—before they can go on up there and get started.

He nods.

Minho hums and raises the water bottle back to his mouth, stare intense while he watches Jisung swallow down everything he’s given. “Good.”

Jisung doesn’t think he’s talking about the equipment.

*

Jisung has to admit, the way Minho transforms when he gets on stage makes him… a little jealous. Not because he can’t do the same. Not because he can’t put on a cocky smile and work a crowd the way Minho can—he does!—but because he’s greedy.

Whenever he sees it, he wants the audience gone. He wants to be the only person on the receiving end of it.

Now isn’t the time to let that show though. He shakes it off, tells himself to save those thoughts for later, and throws on his best winning smile. For now, while he’s on stage, he’s not Jisung, he’s J.One. And Minho isn’t Minho either, he’s Lino.

They have their rolls to play, and petty possessiveness isn’t supposed to be a part of it. If Minho can pretend he’s happy to be here and not nauseated by the state of the place, then Jisung can pretend he doesn’t feel the urge to yank him back from center stage and drag him back into the van so he can keep him all to himself. He can smile along with it while he watches him flirt with the crowd and does it just as much himself, if not more.

For all that they complained about the shit hole of a dump they’re playing in though, the feeling of performing and the enthusiasm of the crowd still draws him in. The cheers, the lights, the adrenaline pumping, the screams when he gets to show of with a guitar solo; all of it.

And through it all, Minho is there. He’s constantly coming back to Jisung’s side, stepping closer just to grin at him before moving back again, the two of them following each other over the stage and back.

He doesn’t know how much of it on Minho’s part is to put on a show (or if that even crosses his mind) but Jisung isn’t about to risk it all stopping by calling him to question.

Minho comes to him with a towel to wipe the sweat from his neck and face for him, or with water to get him to drink between songs—during songs, even—knowing that Jisung gets too into the moment to remember. Jisung will be jumping around, head swinging enough to almost send him a little dizzy, delighting in the energy, and whenever he stops and looks for Minho, he’ll find his eyes already on him while he sings.

Minho smiles more freely on stage, like he was always meant to be up there. Maybe more than any of them. Jisung catches himself staring perhaps too often, basking in the way he lights up on the stage.

Everything about him is ethereal. His voice, his face, the way he moves with the music, his hands in their fingerless gloves holding the mic, his mouth as he sings… Jisung could spend days cataloguing it all if he wasn’t a little concerned it would make him look obsessed.

Not because he isn’t, but because that would give away that he is, in fact, obsessed.

By the time he realizes he’s staring again it’s too late for Jisung to pretend he wasn’t because Minho is already staring back. He keeps singing, doesn’t falter at all in his lyrics when he turns his back on the crowd and comes closer, reaching out to tap under Jisung’s chin.

These moments feel like tiny forevers to Jisung, and then they look back ahead to the audience like nothing happened, each leaning in to their own mics. He avoids looking back at the other guys, not wanting to even know if they noticed it. Of course they would have.

It’s after the sixth song when he starts to notice a little fullness in his bladder. They haven’t yet gotten a third of the way through their set to their planned break, but it’s nothing more than a slight pressure. It’s fine. He can ignore it.

Chan stops after the next song, taking the mic with his base guitar slung over his shoulder to speak to the room. The energy is still up, but he’s so good at making sure it stays that way.

With all eyes on the bassist right now, Jisung steps back. Moves out of the light to take a breather from it.

Tucking a thumb into the top of his tight pants, he tries to subtly pull the waist of them out a little to relieve the pressure he’s starting to feel. It’s fine, not a problem yet. Just uncomfortable.

He lets go quickly when he feels hands grip him by the hips and pull him a few steps further back until they’re at least partially hidden from most of the room behind Changbin’s drums.

Minho’s thumbs push up under Jisung’s shirt where it’s risen up, no longer tucked into his pants waistband. He rests his chin on Jisung’s shoulder.

“Doing good?”

Jisung nods, resisting the crazy pull to tip his head back to rest it on Minho’s shoulder too. To sink into him. It would be too telling to do that, too much beyond Minho just giving comfort and checking in on him. He doesn’t want to push it and put him off. Show the undercurrent of clinginess just waiting to sweep him away.

“Yeah?” Minho’s lips brush the edge of his ear, only barely. He might not even notice it if he wasn’t so hyperaware of their proximity. If he just tilted his head just a bit to that side, he’d get to feel those lips more.

Minho’s fingers dig in a little when Jisung doesn’t answer.

“I—Y-yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

Minho hums. He squeezes. It’s not very rough, but the pressure around Jisung’s middle is already feeling tight. It makes him gasp in a quiet breath. Quiet enough that even from here he doubts Minho hears it against the noise of the bar, but it still makes his body stiffen all over for a second.

Minho definitely feels that.

He leans his head around a little more, trying to catch Jisung’s eyes, but Jisung will die if he looks from so close, so he keeps his eyes ahead, focused on nothing in particular.

“You sure?”

Chan is wrapping up his speech, ready for the next song.

Jisung wets his lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

Minho’s fingers grip tighter for a second, and Jisung’s eyes flutter, wishing he could just melt into it properly. He lets go again though, leaving Jisung feeling unsteady on his feet for a moment before coming back quickly with a freshly opened water bottle.

Jisung starts to shake his head, tries to refuse, but when the rim of the bottle is pressed to his mouth he drinks anyway. Tilts his head back more when Minho raises the bottle higher.

It’s right then that he lets his attention wander back to their surrounding, and he realizes with a sudden lurch in his gut how many pairs of eyes are on them.

He thinks Chan has just asked him something. He’s turned back to look at them and has that look on his face like he gets when he’s waiting for a response. Changbin has that look on his like he finds something incredibly funny, but isn’t going to share the joke.

The audience is watching him.

Jisung spills a little, the flow too fast to keep going before he has to swallow. Water drips down his chin.

“Oops,” Minho says. Loud.

Into the mic, Jisung realizes. He feels his face heat and he goes to wipe his chin with the back of his hand, searching the room for eyes on him directly. Minho stops him though, wiping it for him himself.

Really, there’s not actually that many people paying attention. He reminds himself they’re all drunk. They’re just staring ahead at the stage in general. Even if they do see, most of them don’t care or probably just think they’re goofing around. Some of them don’t even seem aware the music has stopped.

He tells himself this, but it still feels like everyone is looking at him.

After he puts the bottle down somewhere, Jisung doesn’t even see where, Minho’s hands are already back on his sides, tucking the bottom of his shirt back in for him. His fingers push it down, dipping just low enough under the waistband to pass off it off as some kind of weird fan service if anyone notices.

From behind, he wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist, tucks in the last bit at the front… and then presses his hands down flat on Jisung’s stomach. It makes him choke on a pained whimper. Swallow it down and exhale shakily before it can come out.

Don’t get hard. Do not get hard.

Minho stops and takes back his hands, walking away like he was doing nothing out of the ordinary. He moves past him to step back up to the mic, landing a quick smack against Jisung’s ass as he goes that makes his whole body jolt with the unexpected force of it.

Leaving him to scoop up the figurative bits of his collapsed mind on his own, Minho calls out an answer to Chan’s question into the mic, but Jisung doesn’t even hear it through the pounding in his ears from all the blood suddenly rushing to his face.

Chan laughs at whatever Minho says to him and then turns back to the front of the stage, but Changbin keeps staring at Jisung, something smug in his eyes that makes Jisung want to lower his head.

He doesn’t. He throws on a smile and refuses to turn and look at the drummer again, throwing himself into the next song already so the other two have to scramble to catch up.

Minho grins over his shoulder at him, and even with his face flushed red and the niggling ache in his bladder, it’s hard not to grin back twice as wide.

*

It’s forty minutes in and Jisung is struggling. He’s hurting.

He’s starting to sweat from more than just the heat and jumping around. And it’s still going to be another twenty before they can take a break. After the first hour, they’ll start their solos, taking it in turns so that each of them can take a pause to recharge.

Chan will usually always insist on doing his first so the rest of them can take their breaks earlier, but Jisung needs to pee so fucking badly right now. He’s not sure he can bare to keep performing like this. It’s like a weight he’s carrying. Like he’s all water balloon on he inside, full and aching.

Somehow the clock seems to have almost stopped moving. The song they’re doing is moving too slowly.

He’s had to stop bouncing around so much because of the pain, but Chan has the fire of performing in his veins and keeps knocking into him. Sometimes it’s on purpose, a shoulder bump where they would usually meet in the middle, but this time Jisung has to stumble away. Breathe through it and just hope no one touches him again right now.

He’s so full. So heavy. Every move is an exercise in endurance.

Instead of moving around like he normally does, he stands in place, knees subtly turned in so he can squeeze his thighs together and his lips pressed tight in concentration.

He focuses on his breathing, lets muscle memory take over the guitar.

Minho comes to him, and Jisung’s eyes dart down to the water bottle in his hand and feeling the sweat rise on his skin even more. He turns his head away when the straw is offered.

With a beaming smile and a laugh in his voice, Minho doesn’t hesitate to interrupt his own singing to ask him into the mic, “No? Don’t want it?”

Jisung can’t even speak. He feels eyes on him again.

Hoping to make the situation go away if he goes along with it, Jisung accepts the straw with his lips. He pretends to suck, but he doesn’t drink.

Minho’s head cocks to one side. His eyes narrow.

Slinging an arm over Jisung’s shoulders, he continues the song, and he pulls him to walk over the stage alongside him. Jisung feels the usual explosion of butterflies he gets when Minho gives him attention on stage like this, but it’s caged in with the swelling behind his waistband. Another explosion threatening to happen.

Jostled and dragged from his position, his control slips a little, just enough to maybe almost leak a drop and send him spiraling into panic. He fudges a note on the guitar, fingers hitting the wrong chords. No one in the crowd seems to notice or care, but Chan looks over with a small frown. He doesn’t stop playing though.

Minho doesn’t give him an inch to recover, pressing the mic in front of his mouth with a smirk on his own, their faces too close.

It’s not his lines, he’s not supposed to sing here, but Minho does this sometimes, and Jisung always goes along with it when he does. Trying to act like everything is fine and normal, he doesn’t think before he opens his mouth and tries to belt into the mic.

The muscles in his abdomen tighten, and the pressure on his bladder doubles very suddenly, and instead of hitting the note he’s supposed to, his voice wobbles. A half moan echoes into the mic that quickly turns into a rasp as it makes his throat close up in mortification.

His eyes scrunch closed, one arm coming up to hide his face as he jerks his head back from the mic. A strained whimper slips out just in time for the mic to barely catch the start of it, replaced immediately by Minho’s singing.

He doesn’t hit the notes perfectly either this time, the smile too loud in his voice.

Jisung can’t wait any more. A sharp pain has him doubling over, guitar strings forgotten entirely in favor of holding a hand over his lower stomach. A second twinge of need pulses harder than he can fight off, and he feels it coming.

He drops his hand to his crotch, gripping his dick hard like he can stop it from coming out. His face feels as swollen with heat as his bladder.

Minho sits. Squats down on his heels in front of him between lines to look up at Jisung’s face.

No, god, nonono!

The first real spurt of piss makes his whole body twitch in panic, urgently trying to squeeze tighter.

Minho is still looking at him. Chan has turned around again too, even as he continues to play his own instrument. Everyone is just watching him struggling not to make a puddle on the stage.

Please fuckfuck—

Tears spring to his eyes.

Chest shaking and breathless, he yanks the guitar strap up over his head and feels another squirt leaking into his boxers. The small amount of care he can take doing it is spent on going just slowly enough to not fling the thing down and smash it, but he doesn’t even look where he puts it before dashing from the stage.

He shoves through the throng along the wall where it’s less crowded, fist still grasping hard over his dick, begging himself to make it.

There’s a door at the back of the room. It’s the only one he’d seen while he was looking the place over earlier, so he makes a beeline straight for it, slamming it open.

He’d expected a corridor of bathrooms, maybe a staff room or something, but there’s just stairs. The bathrooms must be up there. Stupid place to put them. Stupid. But he doesn’t have time to care, trying to rush up them somehow without moving his legs apart too much.

As the door swings closed back behind him, the music muffles, soundproofing apparently the only thing they did right in this place.

It swings open again, the sound of the club floor pouring back into the stairwell for a moment before it fades away a second time. Jisung doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is that followed him.

A throbbing pain pushes him to keep moving, get to the top of the staircase, and he bites his lips together against a cry just as Minho easily catches up with him. He doesn’t even say anything, just follows along beside Jisung, watching him struggle to unbutton his stupid tight pants with trembling hands.

The first door reveals a closet. The second is locked, rattling tauntingly in it’s frame when Jisung shakes it by the handle. He has to stop then, bouncing quickly from one foot to the other for a moment before grabbing for the third door.

“There aren’t any bathrooms here,” Minho says casually when that one reveals a musty storage room piled with boxes and crates of alcohol. There’s not a drop of urgency in his voice. “I checked for some while you guys were setting up earlier.”

Jisung shakes his head, his whining wail of despair getting no more reaction than a raised eyebrow. The situation doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

“No! That can’t—” he sucks in a sharp gasp, feeling drops of warmth trickling down his leg under the leather. “Fuck I—fuck nono th-there has to be one! I can’t—”

Minho hums, glancing over his shoulder to another door. He takes Jisung by the wrist, takes his sweet time pulling him into a musty looking office, dusty with disuse and littered with rubbish and unwashed dishes.

Jisung sobs. There’s still no bathroom here either.

“Oh, angel. Does it hurt?” Minho asks, pressing up close behind him. His voice is so soft in his ear. Unhurried. He slides a hand around Jisung, putting it to his stomach again to press. It feels so inflated even that gentle touch makes Jisung whimper and panic, wracked with a full body shudder as more piss escapes him. “Does it hurt so bad?”

He steps around to face him and tucks a bit of hair behind Jisung’s ear—pointlessly, because sweat has the rest of it dripping over his face.

It falls back anyway when Jisung nods fast. “It hurts! Please, it—I can’t hold it—”

“Shhh,” Minho holds Jisung’s chin, ignoring the way he bounces frantically on his feet, both hands now clutching at his crotch. His legs aren’t able to squeeze together tight enough. Minho presses a thumb to Jisung’s bottom lip. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. Let me help you.”

Jisung’s heart leaps to his throat and then drops immediately to his stomach as Minho takes him by the arm and spins him, pushing him towards one of the walls.

“What are you—” He gasps, question vanishing as he falls towards the wall with his hands splayed out against it to catch himself. He realizes what’s going on when he feels Minho’s arms come round him again, hand at his zipper, finishing what he started on the stairs. “Y-you can’t! I can’t—not here!”

Minho’s lips brush the back of his neck, moving to his ear.

“Look,” he says, and Jisung’s head drops down to gaze at the floor.

There’s a glass there. A dusty, dirty beer glass that looks like it could have been left there months or even years ago. No telling what it once had in it now by the old dregs of dried liquid up the sides and at the bottom.

“No, please, it’s…”

“It’s what?” Minho slides a hand down into Jisung’s pants. Into his pants where he’s damp from not being able to keep his own bladder under control. “What is it, baby?”

He wraps his fingers around Jisung’s cock. He can probably feet the wet of it on his hand as he pulls it out into the cooler air.

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s too embarrassing!”

“It’s embarrassing getting help from me?”

“No! N-not that!” He squirms as if to get away, but Minho has him caged against the wall. He uses one foot to knock the inside of Jisung’s ankles to make him spread wider.

“Don’t you want to get this out?” Minho squeezes his stomach again, making Jisung try to jerk his hips back, but he can’t because Minho is too close. To solid behind him.

“Y-yes!”

Oh god no fuck—

He’s leaking piss onto Minho’s hand. Onto his fingers and his gloves.

“Then be good and let me take care of you.”

“No, please, it’s—hnnn—oh… oh god—”

Another wave of need overwhelms him, and he can’t stand it anymore. It hurts so much. He can’t stop it. Can’t hold it back. It hurts. It starts coming out. The feeling of it finally emptying, rushing though his urethra, makes him lightheaded. He clenches the muscles uselessly, trembling, wailing with humiliation as he completely loses control of his bladder.

“That’s it,” Minho tells him soothingly, one hand rubbing his hip. He moves it back to Jisung’s tummy, and presses down on it hard, ignoring the little jerk Jisung’s hips make again, involuntarily as if trying to pull away but still having nowhere to go. “Don’t fight it. Let go.”

His other hand aims Jisung’s cock at the glass between his feet. It doesn’t matter that he aims though, it comes out too fast, too hard, the flow too uneven. Or maybe he does it on purpose.

Urged by the pressure of Minho’s firm hand against his bladder, it comes out more forcefully. Stilted squirts turn to an unstoppable stream, and Jisung has no choice but to do as he’s been told.

He lets go, lets his body do what it needs to so badly. He watches his own piss leave wet streaks up the dirty walls, large drops falling with a soft patter to the wooden floor and disturbing the thick layer of dust. It gets on his shoes and he doesn’t even care.

It feels so fucking good.

His sobs turn to softer noises, deep panting breaths. He lets his eyes fall closed as he feels his body turn to jelly, his legs weak. Feels himself almost float away in his head, his world reduced to only the feeling of his bladder emptying, the sound of loud splashing blow him as the glass fills… Minho’s voice in his ear, murmuring softly that Jisung is doing so well for him.

Muted music drifts up from the lower floor, he only notices it now that he’s not busy fighting his own body. One of the others must have started their solo song to cover for Jisung running away, probably trusting Minho to take care of him and fix whatever the problem is.

He is fixing it. He is taking care of him.

The relief leaves him floaty. Hazy. Even when the stream slows and eventually comes to a stuttering stop, Jisung doesn’t make a single move to push away. Little shivers run over him as the last warm little spurts come out of his slit.

Spent, he sags. Lets himself lean forward more, arms folding against the wall so he can rest his head on them.

“All better?” Minho asks gently.

Jisung nods his head against his arms.

“Then turn around,” he tells him, “and say thank you.”

The softness in Minho’s voice makes Jisung shiver harder. He wants to stay like this for a bit longer, feeling drained in more ways than one, but Minho’s tone makes him move before he’s thought of it.

He drops a hand to put his dick away first, but he’s stopped before it can even get there, Minho already anticipating that he would try it and catching him by the wrist.

“No,” Minho says, still soft, but leaving no room for argument. His grip squeezes on Jisung’s wrist—not enough to hurt much, just a warning.

“But—”

“Aren’t I taking care you?”

Jisung freezes. Slowly, he nods again.

“Good. Then do as you’re told and turn around.”

Jisung swallows, embarrassingly loud. He pushes up from the wall slowly, limbs still a little shaky, and turns around. His eyes remain downcast, staring at his feet because he’s unable to make himself meet Minho’s gaze after all that.

Looking down maybe makes it worse though, because now he has to watch Minho take hold of his cock in his hand again, tuck it into his underwear for him like he can’t do it on his own. He slams his eyes closed, mouth pressed closed so hard that it makes his lips and chin tremble like he’s going to cry.

He sniffs as he feels Minho fastening his pants back up again for him. Tells himself it’s the dust, that he’s not actually going to cry, even while he struggles to hold it in behind his closed lids.

He feels fingertips under his chin, a gentle touch tilting his head back up. Minho doesn’t move or speak again, and Jisung realizes he’s waiting for him to open his eyes. When he does, he goes weak at the intensity of his stare, feels himself sway. He’s sure he would fall backwards right on his ass if the wall wasn’t right there to catch him.

Up close, Minho’s face is lethal. He’s perfect. He should be a global star. He should be on a real stage and billboards, a big screen, or a runway, not jamming noise music in filthy dive bars with three losers behind him.

Minho raises an eyebrow.

“Well?” He prompts.

Jisung feels like he has to reboot his brain. It takes him a moment to remember the instruction before he breathes out a tiny, “Th-thank you.”

“Good boy.”

Jisung has to press his hands to the wall at his back to stop himself from sliding down it. He feels kind of… spacey. It’s nice.

The music suddenly gets louder like someone’s opened a door. They both go still to listen; Jisung going tense even though he’s all zipped up now, Minho looking curiously at the door. Any voices possibly speaking from this side of the building get lost in the noise, until eventually it falls quiet again.

They wait a minute longer, but when they don’t hear any foot steps coming up the stairs, Minho looks back at Jisung, telling him, “You better go back down now.”

Bereft if any thoughts in his head right now, Jisung almost does without question. He takes a few steps, passing Minho and half way to the door when he realizes the other man hasn’t made a move to go with him.

He stops and turns back, seeing him still standing there.

“Aren’t you coming too?”

“You go ahead,” Minho says. “I’ll be down soon.”

Jisung frowns. “Huh? Why? Come with me.”

Minho blinks at him like he’s dumb for a moment. Which, maybe he is. He sure feels it right now. He waits for an answer though.

“I need to…” he pauses, like he’s trying to figure it out himself, then eventually finished with, “use the cup.”

“Oh,” Jisung blinks empty-headedly back at him. “It’s okay, I can wait for you to pee.”

“You’re not going to give me a little privacy to pee?”

“I’m not…” Warmth floods his face. “You just helped me to pee?”

Minho lets out a breath through his nose like Jisung is wearing on his patience, but it’s at odds with the way he clearly tries to fight against his lips tugging into a secretive smile. Like he finds something funny.

In the flattest tone Jisung has ever heard from him, not even trying to sound sincere, he says, “I’m shy. I can’t go if you’re here.”

“That’s literally such a lie,” Jisung points a finger at him—jabs him in the chest with it and feels the solid pectoral muscle underneath. Minho looks down with a cool stare at the finger poking him, and then back up at Jisung like he’s just dying to dare him to do that again.

Jisung snatches it back quickly and tries to pretend it didn’t happen. “You stand right next to me at the urinals everywhere we go even if there’s ten other empty spaces.”

The silence feels like it’s trying to tell him something, but he’s pretty sure he just spilled his brains out when he emptied his bladder. He still feels a little dopey.

“Okay,” Minho sighs. He’s really smiling wide now. “I don’t need to pee.”

Jisung is so confused. He looks from Minho to the cup and back. Then again. “You cannot seriously be saying you’re going to take a shit in—”

Minho’s smile disappears in an instant, his face twisting in disgust before he bursts out laughing, loud, almost doubling over for a second. “No! What the fuck? Of course not.”

“Well what then?”

Minho looks down, grinning to himself. He bites his lip, thinking for few seconds. “Fine.”

“Wha—” Jisung lets out a yelp of shock as Minho grabs him by the arm and spins him, pressing him back against the wall and caging him against it with his hands.

“You know, you’re a little dumb sometimes,” he leans so close that Jisung can feel the heat coming off of his body. There’s barely an inch of space between them. He puts one hand on Jisung’s shoulder, slides it slowly down his arm, and then takes his wrist at the end. “It’s cute. You’re really cute.”

Alarm bells! Warning sirens! Ricocheting around in Jisung’s brain and clanging against the few barely working neurons he has in there, screaming like panicked villagers on fire!

Minho pulls, guiding Jisung’s hand to where his cock strands against his pants, makes him feel how hard he is.

“O-oh…” Jisung hears dial-up noises in his head, but nothing is making any connection. “Oh. That’s—yep. That’s. You um. You were going to…”

He can feel tomorrow’s Jisung screaming violently at him in his own head to stop being such a huge fucking loser. He’s already been enough of an embarrassment today to haunt him for the rest of his life.

His hand, clearly disagreeing with that sentiment, cups Minho firmer though his pants, getting a feel for how big he is. He feels it twitch against his his fingers and almost chokes on his spit.

“Fuck! Yep. That’s. A-and it’s um. That’s very—” Jisung sounds so brainless even to himself right now. It’s definitely not cute anymore. He’s this close to just letting out a ‘phew, oh boy’ and collapsing to the floor in a dramatic faint. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I guess… since you can’t go on stage like that…”

Minho’s smirk stays infuriatingly strong. “No, I can’t.”

“And it—” Jisung has to wet his lips. “And it…it’s not going down?”

Minho glances down. Jisung looks too. Even with Jisung’s palm pressed flat over it and the dusty gloom of the disused office, the size of his bulge is… extremely noticeable.

Jisung chokes on a moan at the thought, swallows it back down too late to pass it off as nothing. He’s never gotten so hard so quickly in his life. There’s not a single fully formed thought in his skull and he’s out of breath over nothing.

Minho looks back up at him, and his shit-eating grin makes something primal deep inside Jisung tell him that he should want to escape. Jump out the window if he has to.

“Obviously not,” Minho says, pushing off the wall with his hand and stepping back so that Jisung’s hand falls away.

He turns to lean back against the wall next to Jisung instead, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn’t take his eyes off Jisung’s, holds his gaze hard until Jisung can’t take it anymore without falling apart and has to look away first himself.

His eyes move down from Minho’s face. From this close he can see the flush that creeps down his neck, the way it turns him a pretty red from his ears and right down his chest to where it disappears under the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

Minho’s own hand replaces Jisung’s, palming himself over his pants.

Oh god… he’s really doing it.

Jisung’s mouth goes try watching his fingers shape out the thick line of his length through the material. He traces it up to the tip, back down, releasing a quiet hiss through his teeth as he squeezes that makes Jisung’s stomach clench.

“You just gonna stay and watch or something?”

Jisung looks back up at Minho, breath punched out of him. Not a single thought in his head.

He whispers, “Can I?”

The heavy base of the next song floats up from the floorboards under their feet—a song the two of them should be there for. They stare at each other, and Jisung wonders if Minho also feels a little bad for leaving Changbin and Chan having to figure out how to carry on without them back yet. He knows it’s only a matter of time before they get too concerned not to ditch the stage to check on them.

Minho’s eyes stray down. Down Jisung’s body, back up to his lips so that Jisung’s heart leaps into his throat with hope. Back to stare into his eyes and bite down on his own grin as he says, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Jisung repeats, stupidly.

Actually, he might just spontaneously explode on the spot instead.

“Yeah,” Minho says, gasping as his hips buck forward into his hands, already hurrying to pop open the button of his pants and pull down the zipper. “You can—fuck… you can watch.”

Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh fuck.

Jisung’s brain is empty of anything besides Minho’s gasp on loop and the vague awareness that he’s probably drooling right now. He holds his breath so he won’t moan out loud when Minho pulls his dick out of his pants, not even bothering to pull them down.

He’s big. Jisung knows already because he just had his own hand on it through his clothes, but actually seeing it for himself is a whole different thing.

Minho wastes no time, gloved hand wrapping around himself and stroking fast like he’s also considering how little time they probably have before someone comes looking for them.

He looks away from Jisung once to let his head fall back against the wall with a rough sigh, but forces his lids open again. He glances down at Jisung’s lips again, eyes moving over his face like he can’t choose where to look, but never away. His chest heaves with labored breaths, body shaking with how fast his hand moves.

Jisung bites down on his lip. Being watched so intensely, stiff and leaking in his already damp pants, somehow he feels like he’s the one who’s most exposed. Like he just got caught with porn playing and isn’t able to turn it off.

His hands shake, clenching at his sides until he can’t take any more and presses one over his own crotch. The moan he lets out when he does it immediately makes Minho stop, his eyes narrowing.

He pushes off the wall again.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

“Shit—no, I’m sorry!” Jisung blurts out quickly, his hands flying back against the wall so fast that the slap of them hitting the peeling paint stings his palms. “I’m sor—”

Minho steps back in front of him and presses one finger to Jisung’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. He shakes his head.

He’s ruined it. Jisung has ruined it. His stomach sinks, the deep vibrations of the music making the writhing snakes he suddenly has in there even worse. Minho said he could watch, he never agreed to letting Jisung actually get off over it in front of him.

But Minho doesn’t walk away from him. Doesn’t call him a pervert and storm out of the dirty office. He puts his other hand to Jisung’s face too, holds it between his palms and stares down at his own thumbs rubbing over Jisung’s lips, forcing them open, pushing inside and pressing down on his tongue.

“I thought you were going to let me take care of you,” he says. “You don’t need to do anything when I’m here, understand?”

Jisung isn’t sure he does understand, but when he tries to ask he’s not able to speak clearly around Minho’s thumbs. He ends up drooling, whining in embarrassment when he feels the saliva drip out onto Minho’s fingers.

It gets worse when he tries to apologize again, only making him whine more in distress.

Minho removes his hands from Jisung’s mouth, and Jisung expects him to pull a face, to complain or tell him he’s gross, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even wipe it off before grabbing Jisung by the wrists and yanking them up over his head, pinning his arms there against the wall.

Minho leans down a little so their eyes are level, face close, and holds Jisung’s wrists in one hand so he can use the other to make Jisung look back at him.

He’s so close. So close. Jisung can feel his breath on his lips when he whispers, so quiet like it’s a secret, “You wanted to watch, so just watch.”

He nods, but still feels himself tilt forward, trying to get more. Hears himself gasping when Minho moves with him, tilting away only enough that he can’t take what he wants.

Minho’s lips smile against his, a feather light touch that makes him whine when he tries again to push into it, only for Minho to move back with a smirk like he’s enjoying Jisung’s desperation too much to give it to him.

Jisung tries to reach out to him, jerk his arm away to grab at him, only to feel the solid immovable weight of Minho’s hold against him not budge in the slightest. Minho squeezes his wrists, pressing them a little harder against the wall as if to remind him to keep them there.

“No touching.”

It isn’t a question, but Jisung can see in the way Minho gives him a look that he’s expected to respond, so he nods. That seems good enough for Minho for now—or he’s just in such a hurry that he can’t hold himself back anymore.

He moves his body back from Jisung’s, only far enough that Jisung can look down and see him without him having to let go of his wrists. The sight of his cock, thick and heavy as Minho’s hand wraps around it again, makes Jisung near drooling again. He shuts his mouth and swallows. And then swallows again.

Minho watches Jisung’s throat bob, eyes holding him under that predatory stare and making him squirm while he strokes himself, hand slow and loose. Like he’s debating whether or not to stop and pounce instead.

It makes Jisung want find out what would happen if he did. If, like a cat, he can be goaded into it—baited into baring his teeth.

He attempts again to tug his wrist out of Minho’s grip. He jerks harder this time, actually tries to free himself, figuring he can take him by surprise while he’s occupied. He fights uselessly against it though, even with his strength behind it.

Minho isn’t too far gone that he can’t laugh under his breath at his efforts, and then again at the pathetic noise that escapes Jisung’s mouth.

“What are you trying to do, gorgeous? Trying to touch yourself again?” It takes a lot to get Minho breathless. He sounds on the verge of it now.

Jisung shakes his head quickly. “Not myself. I wanna… I could…”

It gets lost. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. All he knows is that he wants.

Minho lifts his hand to tug off the glove with his teeth, turning his head to spit it out onto the floor and not caring to check that it doesn’t land in the dirty glass still holding Jisung’s piss. It only narrowly misses.

“You want to do something for me?” He asks. Jisung barely registers the question in time to nod before Minho is already holding his now bare hand under his face. “Here. Spit.”

Jisung pauses first, searching Minho’s face to be sure he’s actually being serious. There’s an urgency in his eyes that almost makes Jisung want to be difficult on purpose, test the boundary of what it would take to make Minho snap. But… maybe another time.

He makes sure there’s a lot, spits it directly into Minho’s waiting palm, watches him reach down with it and wrap his hand around his cock. He doesn’t bother to start off slow or tease himself. His hand moves fast, the wet sound of Jisung’s saliva on his skin loud in the room.

Jisung’s hips jerk forward, searching for friction in his too tight pants. He keeps his eyes fixed down on Minho’s fist flying over his cock, but still makes another attempt to twist his wrists free.

Minho doesn’t let him go, but he doesn’t stop to chastise him this time either. When Jisung looks up at his face, he finds Minho already staring, his eyes half-lidded, watching Jisung watch him.

He lets go of Jisung’s wrists, knowing he’ll keep his arms up where they were put, and drops his hand to Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung feels his lips forced apart, mouth pried open. Minho’s thumb again pressing inside between his teeth, pushed over his tongue back towards his throat. It doesn’t even get all the way before Jisung’s pathetic gag reflex kicks in, but Minho pulls it right back out, hand going to the back of his head to grab him by the hair instead.

He tips their foreheads together, not allowing Jisung to move closer when he tries to kiss him. It makes him whine, frustrated. Something that sounds like it tries to be an angry growl but comes out more petulant.

Minho only smiles again, as much as he can while panting, so close now. He shakes his head, but Jisung knows its not a rejection. He doesn’t need to say it. Though that doesn’t make it any less of a torment for Jisung to be kept from it.

His hand starts to lose rhythm, quick jerky strokes over his cock. When he pulls back from him again, stares hard and hungry, Jisung almost forgets he’s not supposed to move. His arms ache, it’s too easy to let them drop a little, to almost reach down and grab onto Minho so he can pull him closer. Try to kiss him again.

All it takes is that little drop for Minho’s eyes to flick up to it, missing nothing, and he quickly uses all the energy he has left to raise them back up, still crossed at the wrists.

Minho watches him force himself to stretch them even higher, his eyes dropping to the way he winces before fluttering closed, and he lets his head fall forward onto Jisung’s shoulder, shuddering.

Jisung looks down, watching the front of his pants get painted with cum until it’s dripping down his crotch and legs.

Minho doesn’t give himself a moment when he finishes, just lifts his head and presses a rough kiss to Jisung’s cheek. Not where he wants it, but he’ll take it. Especially when Minho immediately lowers himself to his knees after, hands holding Jisung’s hips and pressing them back against the wall.

He licks it off. Drags his tongue over the leather covering Jisung’s cock to clean away his own cum. His fingers dig in painfully hard, shoving Jisung back by the hips again when they try to buck forward for more.

Jisung is so close already. Close to coming, close to crying. He bites down on his bottom lip but it doesn’t do much to keep him quiet.

He could get off like this—from nothing but Minho licking him though layers of clothes in the dirty disused office of this filthy hole of a bar.

Minho has other plans though. He pulls back, swallowing everything loudly before reaching up to open Jisung’s pants himself for the second time tonight. Flushed red, face looking up at him as if Jisung is the one he should be in awe of, he pulls him out of his underwear.

“You can move your hands,” he says, hurriedly as if his own orgasm was just the preamble to the main event and this is what he’s really been waiting for. “Pull my hair. If you want.”

He takes Jisung’s cock into his mouth before he can respond, dragging a loud moan out of him as he feels him take him down to the hilt in one go.

Jisung’s head knocks back against the wall and his arms drop, immediately curling his fingers into Minho’s hair. He feels the head of his cock hitting the back of Minho’s throat, the tightness of him trying to too quickly adjust and then swallowing around him.

He starts to move, lips sliding back up his length slowly and sucking so that his cheeks hollow around it. Noises he can’t hold back spill out of Jisung’s mouth. He almost loses himself and slides down the wall, held up only by Minho’s hard grip pinning his hips against the plaster.

His fingers flex tighter in Minho’s hair as he takes him back in, hips trying to jerk forward again, but instead of getting mad, Minho moans around Jisung’s cock. The vibrations send pleasure shooting through him that wrings the air from his lungs.

“I’m—nhhhh fuckfuckshit—” His eyes roll, knees buckling. Minho picks up the pace, using his hands to tug Jisung’s hips as if to encourage him to move, but Jisung is convinced if he tries he’s literally fall over. “I’m not gonna last—Min… Minho!”

The door opens.

“Hey, guys, is everyth—OH GOD!”

Standing in the doorway, Chan’s face falls open in shock at them. Jisung is too far gone. He doesn’t even try to push away Minho, who either somehow didn’t hear their bandmates noisy entrance nor his scream of horror, or just literally doesn’t care enough to let it stop him.

Chan seems frozen to the spot, mouth gaping and his eyes near bulging out of their sockets like he just walked in and set his stare on medusa, not staring Jisung right in the face while he receives a life altering blowjob. Where he could literally just walk away and mind his business!

Go away!

Jisung whines high and loud while he tumbles towards his orgasm, letting go of Minho’s hair so he can throw his arms over his face to hide it.

Minho pulls off with a loud pop, stroking Jisung fast with his hand instead.

“No. Look at me,” he says. The demand is a little raspy but stern enough that Jisung obeys without even thinking. He moves his arms, folding them against the wall over his head instead, and looks only at Minho.

Minho’s eyes hold his, unblinking, and he opens his mouth, resting the tip of Jisung’s cock on his tongue while he jerks his shaft with a tight fist.

Jisung comes with an unrestrained cry, legs trembling uncontrollably. He watches it shooting across Minho’s tongue and into the back of his throat. Before he finishes, Minho closes his mouth, swallowing what he already got and continuing to jerk Jisung off onto his face. It hits his lips, his chin, ropes of white striping over his cheeks and clinging to his lashes.

Jisung’s hands drop to brace himself on Minho’s shoulders, holding on with a harsh grip that so he doesn’t fall to the floor.

Even after it ends, he keeps going. He keeps watching Jisung’s face twist and cry, cum still dripping down his own. He wraps his lips around the head, sucking the last drops out of it and not stopping when Jisung sobs pathetically from the overstimulation until he actually does start to slip down the wall a little.

Slowly, he comes to a stop and loosens his hold, but his thumb continues to rub over Jisung’s sensitive tip, grinning loosely when he sees his whole body twitching. His breathing is rough but steady, compared to the way Jisung gasps and rattles, feeling himself having fallen apart at the seems.

The strained choking noise Chan makes as he tries to speak reminds Jisung that he’s there, and hot shame boils over him.

Minho looks back over his own shoulder, not even bothering to wipe his face first, and very casually asks, “Do you need something?”

Chan makes an odd squeaking yelp like he just touched a live wire, jumping back and grabbing at the door handle, slamming it shut behind him so hard that the old wood rattles in its frame.

The room goes quiet again, but Jisung doesn’t feel any of the awkwardness he would have feared if he’d given a second of thought to the aftermath. His chest hurts with how hard his heart is thumping in it. Minho lets him catch his breath, giving him a smile far too bright and sweet for how it’s still painted with Jisung’s cum.

“Good?” Minho asks.

Good is simply not enough of a word, but Jisung can’t remember how to actually speak, so he nods his head.

Minho’s smile gets even brighter. So fucking beautiful. He tucks Jisung away, fixing all of his clothes for him before doing anything about his own state. When he picks himself up off the floor, he looks around as if realizing just now that he has nothing to clean up with.

“Oh!” Jisung jumps to do something. To start pulling off his own shirt if he has to, but Minho catches his wrists again, stopping him with a gentle touch.

“It’s fine,” he says softly. He feels around his own clothes, looking for something he can take off to use. “I’ll just—”

He stops when Jisung grabs his head in both hands. It’s impulsive, but he doesn’t pause for a second to think about it before leaning in and cleaning a streak of it off the side of Minho’s mouth with his tongue.

It only occurs to Jisung how abnormal it must be once he’s already done it, and he pulls back fast, eyes goes wide.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “That was… probably weird.”

Minho, however, beams at him.

“So weird,” he agrees, and he presses closer, taking Jisung once again by the chin. “You should get the rest for me.”

Jisung swallows. It’s Minho’s tone more than the instruction itself that has his dick twitching in his pants again. He doesn’t hesitate though, eager to do what Minho asks. He doesn’t let himself look too deeply at why Minho’s smile turns gloating, or why he likes that so much.

A shout from somewhere down the stairs makes him jump back just as he’s finishing though, a voice asking something Jisung doesn’t quite catch.

“No,” Chan calls down after it, his voice full of regret and so close behind the door that Jisung jumps a little again. “You were right.”

“THEY’RE FUCKING!?” Jisung hears Changbin’s delighted scream loud and clear this time, followed by cackling laughter that makes Minho snort quietly too.

“Come on, lets go before they come in here and drag us out themselves,” he says, but seeing his reluctance to go out there he offers a kind smile that makes Jisung’s chest ache. It doesn’t at all prepare him for how Minho then nods down at the wet wall and glass of piss nearby, adding, “Unless you want to have to explain that as well.”

Jisung is sure he turns scarlet.

“No, um. I think I’m fine with not doing that, actually,” he mumbles, watching Minho quickly swipe up his discarded glove and slip his hand into Jisung’s.

“We can probably finish off another few songs before it’s time to pack up,” Minho points out, walking backwards to urge him from the room so he can keep his eyes on Jisung a little longer.

Normally the extra time would excite him. Right now Jisung thinks he just needs to crawl into a hole sleep for three weeks, to be honest, but he still lets Minho lead him out of the dirty office and into the corridor where Chan is waiting with his head down.

His is mouth pressed in a tight line, very obviously questioning his life choices and the company he keeps.

Minho grins at him as they get there, and says, “I told you I’d call if there was a problem.”

“Yeah, I—yeah,” Chan rubs the back of his neck, unable to look either of them in the eyes. “You definitely… did say that. I mean, we took our breaks and waited, but you were gone a while so like. Just to check.”

“You know, you didn’t have to stand and watch—”

“Please, oh my god, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to… Lets, um. Can we just—?” He points down the corridor, barely waiting for an answering nod before he rushes of towards them, leaving Jisung and Minho to trail along behind him.

By the time they get to the stairs, Changbin almost runs into them as he reaches the top step, his face alight with I-told-you-so glee. He takes one look at Chan’s expression and then jabs Jisung in the shoulder with his knuckles, yelling, “Ay, you finally got some!”

“Shut up!” Jisung tries to throw a punch back, but hitting Changbin’s shoulder is like punching concrete, so he only ends up shaking his own hand in pain instead, mouth open in a silent cry.

Minho does nothing but smirk about the whole situation, until he lifts an eyebrow when Changbin looks at him with a snort.

“What?”

“You got uh…” he points at Minho’s face and then at his own cheek, close to his ear. “You got a little something…”

Minho lifts a hand to check, inspecting his fingers when they come away wet.

“Huh,” he says, only mildly surprised. He looks at Jisung. “I think you missed a spot.”

Jisung is going to die.

He rubs his shoulder where he’s pretty sure he’s already bruising because Changbin, in his euphoria at being ‘right’, seems to have forgotten his own strength.

“Hey, give me that?” Minho asks, pointing at the water bottle Changbin is carrying. When he gets hold of it he opens the lid and tilts his head back, pouring it onto his face so that it splashes down and makes both Chan and Changbin jump back.

Jisung gets splashed by it too, because he can’t jump away while he’s holding Minho’s hand, and he’d rather let Minho pour twelve entire bottles on him than let go.

Minho shakes it off, hair whipping and sending droplets flying everywhere while the other two make overlapping complaints that Jisung doesn’t even hear over the buzzing in his head from watching liquid dripping down Minho’s nose and lips before he wipes his free still gloved hand over his face to clear it.

“Thanks,” Minho says afterwards, holding his hand out to Jisung, who only now realizes Minho had passed him the water bottle to hold. He’s so out of it he didn’t even notice he was holding it.

He hands it back silently, watches him take a few deep gulps from the bottle, and wonders if he even cares right now if he gets hard over this in front of his friends.

When Minho gives it back again and tells him to drink, he does. Because he’s told. When he stops and tries to hand it back, Minho gently tells him, “no, finish the rest.”

Jisung does that too, because he’s told to, feeling Minho’s eyes hot on him. He opens his own and looks at him, stares back at Minho’s eyes while he keeps drinking until he’s dying to stop, until it’s spilling down the sides of his cheeks.

“Yeah, no, sure. That’s cool,” Changbin mumbles, ignoring the weird staring contest. “I didn’t want it back or anything.”

He finishes it, handing the empty bottle back to Changbin who gives him a flat glare, panting a little for his breath. Minho keeps his eyes on Jisung while he gasps.

“You two go in,” he tells them. “We’ll be right out.”

Changbin starts to complain about them already being gone for ages to ‘fuck around’, but Chan jumps to the chance to get out of the way, face still beat red, and he drags Changbin out along with him.

The door swings open, blaring music and voices pouring into the musty little passageway, and then muffled again when it closes behind them. It’s barely shut before Minho has Jisung pressed up against the wall. He pushes closer, not an inch of space between them, just sharing the same air while Jisung waits.

Minho finally kisses him. He cups Jisung’s face in both hands, their lips moving together, taking advantage to deepen it when Jisung has to gasp in a breath because he’s such a damn cliché he forgot to breathe.

Jisung puts his arms over Minho’s shoulders, wraps them around the back of his neck to curl his fingers into his hair and feels his heart skip when he hears a pleased sigh from him.

He could stay here all night. He could stay like this forever. Making out slowly in this dark, filthy hovel of a staircase like teenagers. Like it’s a secret, quiet besides their gasps and the wet sounds of their mouths. Like they haven’t already been caught doing worse.

Minho kisses him so well he feels weak, his legs already shaky from earlier but now his arms holding onto Minho’s shoulders are the only thing keeping him upright.

He would stay like that, if Minho didn’t pull back himself with a small, reluctant groan.

Jisung doesn’t remember his eyes closing. He forces them open with a flutter, and almost slams them shut again at the sight of Minho with red lips, messy, ears and neck blushing so hard Jisung thinks he’d feel them scorch his fingers if he touched them.

“Fuck,” Minho whispers, eyes raking over Jisung’s face like he’s something he’s about to devour, “you really are fucking gorgeous.”

“Stop!” A whine tears out of him, breaking the quiet. He tries to duck away, hide his face, but Minho holds his face. Makes him look, and then swoops in to press another kiss to his pouting lips before he can complain.

“No,” he says, beaming.

Jisung can’t argue with that. He doesn’t really want him to stop. Instead, he changes the subject, eyes dropping again to Minho’s lips.

“I thought you didn’t want to…” His voice comes out a little weird, his cheeks squished between Minho’s palms, his lips bulging out.

“Hmm? To kiss you? That’s right, I didn’t,” Minho nods. It takes a second for the casual response to register for Jisung, and Minho giggles at the way his brow crumples in confusion, but he puts him out of his misery quickly. “I didn’t want to kiss you for the first time when we were both busy thinking more about getting off. I didn’t want to kiss you for the first time so fast like it’s just a run up to something more important.”

If Jisung’s cheeks aren’t burning Minho’s hands right now then he has to be made of something impossible.

“I wanted to kiss you for the first time somewhere nicer than this, but I think—” Minho interrupts himself to drop another kiss on his lips. Just a light peck. “I think if I tried to resist you any longer I would’ve died right there on the spot.”

“That’s…” Jisung’s mouth might fall open if it wasn’t clamped between Minho’s hands. “That’s like… kinda romantic. I mean, you know. For a guy who got a boner from helping me take a piss.”

Minho smiles. He kisses him again and then tells him, “Come with me.”

Jisung blinks at him. He lifts an unsure finger towards the door. “Into…?”

“Do you like camping?”

“I love camping,” Jisung lies without missing a beat. He’s never done it, but how hard can it be?

“Good. I’m taking you with me.”

Before Jisung can question if he’s really okay with changing his plans so suddenly to invite him along, the door swings open again, Changbin’s head poking around, eyes wide and urgent.

“Okay, listen! We gotta decide right now,” he tells them. “Are we going back up there or do we have to carry Jisung out on a stretcher and pretend he died?”

Of course they go back out. When they’ve all returned in the main room, Changbin drags them through the crowd to where the barman slash DJ—having spotted them returning—is getting down from the stage. He tosses the mic to Changbin, pointing at him with a flirty smile as they switch places, and says, “You owe me that date.”

Jisung has no idea what the guy did to keep them occupied or what Changbin owes him a date for, and he doesn’t much care right now. Even though he’s kind of tired, and his legs feel like jelly, he feels a new sense of vigor as he leaps up onto the stage behind Chan.

The eyes of the crowd on him again, Jisung takes a breath and finds an easy smile already on his face.

He’s still looking flushed, he knows he is. So is Minho. No one cares though because by now there’s not a single person in the room who doesn’t look the same from jumping around and downing shots.

Changbin is still chuckling to himself whenever he looks at the pair of them. Chan is still redder than the both of them put together, but he smiles wide when they’re all up on stage together again, says something into the mic that Jisung doesn’t catch because he’s not listening. Doesn’t matter, it gets a laugh and a drunken cheer from the crowd.

A hand rests on his hip, another coming around from behind him to hand him his guitar before patting him on the ass. Minho exchanges a grin with him as he moves around from behind Jisung to the front of the stage, and they follow Chan’s lead starting the next song.

There’s a slightly noticeable scratchiness to Minho’s voice, his throat sounding a little more sore when he sings now, but Jisung is sure they’ll have plenty of time to come up with ideas for compensation while they’re sharing a tent in the next few days.