Fic: Roman Holiday [TVXQ RPS | AU]
Title: Roman Holiday
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Changmin/Yunho
Rating: NC17
Summary: Yunho takes Changmin to Rome for his birthday-and discovers that Italian really is the language of love.
Notes: Fashion designers AU. Falls somewhere between Perfect Fit and For Fashion’s Sake. A knowing wink and tip of the hat to A Fish Called Wanda.
Roman Holiday
i. Cave Canem
“Ah, Rome!”
Changmin stirs from the warmth of the heaped quilts and pushes aside a pillow. He squints at the drench of bright grey light pouring through the wide-open curtains, then sighs and sits up. Yunho is standing at the window, completely naked, greedily staring through the glass at the street below.
Except it’s not really a street. Their hotel, a former convent, is at the south end of Piazza Navona. It’s terribly romantic, with roses stuccoed onto the ceiling and plasterwork vine tendrils swagged beneath the cornice and terracotta floor tiles and antique dressers, but it’s also terribly noisy. The cobblestones on the street outside might look charming, but boy, do they amplify noise. As does the arrangement of buildings, which all seem to have been constructed with the express purpose of funnelling the sound of engines backfiring and the squeal of tyres, plus general traffic noise along with drunken shouting at four o’clock in the morning.
And when there’s a brief moment of calm, a miniscule scrap of silence, there’s a caged bird on the terrace below their window that starts singing.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
“Changminnie, we’re in Rome!” Yunho declares as if this whole thing is a surprise.
Technically it is a surprise, or at least it was when Changmin had gone home to his apartment in Milan yesterday evening and discovered Yunho sitting on the marble steps outside, drooping with jetlag and unshaven, clutching a bunch of pale pink roses that he’d dropped onto the ground when he’d launched himself into Changmin’s arms.
“What-” Changmin had managed to say before Yunho kissed him.
Ten minutes later they’d stumbled into Changmin’s apartment, where Yunho had resisted every attempt Changmin made to get him naked and into bed.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow, baby,” Yunho said, opening Changmin’s wardrobe and drawers and packing a truly random selection of garments into a weekend bag. “I’m taking you to Rome.”
“I’ve never been to Rome,” Changmin said, still stunned that his ridiculous, adorable boyfriend had flown halfway across the world for him.
“And I’ve never been to Italy.” Yunho zipped the bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Get your passport. Our flight leaves in forty-five minutes.”
A series of delays saw their plane rescheduled for three hours later. After a year of working for Versace, Changmin was accustomed to the Italian way of doing things. He simply ordered a coffee and sipped at it, sitting bolt upright in his elegant Gieves & Hawkes suit. Yunho, in ripped jeans and a fluffy jumper and a three-quarter length dark blue military-style coat with red piping at the collar, laid his head on Changmin’s shoulder and fell asleep.
He woke up enough to shamble onto the plane, and then he slept all the way to Rome. He was groggy by the time Changmin collected their luggage and steered him into a taxi, but roused himself enough to give the address of their hotel. Halfway between exasperated and amused, Changmin paid the driver, took their bags, checked them in, and put Yunho to bed.
After he’d unpacked, Changmin had taken a shower, brushed his teeth, then snuggled beneath the quilts. It was so nice to be able to hold Yunho again, even if he was out for the count and making cute little snoring noises. Even the din from the traffic on the cobbles and the echo of revellers’ voices from the street paled into insignificance as Changmin cuddled into Yunho’s warmth. Oh God, he’d missed him so much...
He’d fallen asleep not long afterwards, only to be woken by Yunho sliding possessive, arousing touches all over his body. They’d made love without words, just two bodies in the dark, gasping and moaning and plunging, slick with sweat and with the scent of musk and the taste of adoration between them. Yunho had slept again later, but Changmin had remained awake, too conscious of the noise outside and-though he’ll never admit it-desperately aware of how precious Yunho was to him.
Now he ruffles a hand through his hair and leans back against the pillows, admiring Yunho’s long, lean, gloriously naked body lit by a drizzly February sky.
“Did you gain weight?” Changmin asks, eyeing the lush expanse of Yunho’s chest with pleasure.
“Maybe a little.” Yunho gives a shy smile. “I have a tendency to comfort-eat when you’re away for really long stretches of time. The puppies have been helping me, though.” He stops, then continues quickly, “I don’t mean I’m feeding them comfort food. Not my comfort food, anyway. A few extra treats, maybe, because they miss you, too, but...”
He’s just getting himself tangled. Yunho wrinkles his nose, draws in a deep breath, and says, “I’m taking them for more walks. You know how Pucci loves his walks, and Lagerfeld is so enthusiastic, too. He’s eaten eight Frisbees recently. He thinks they’re chew toys rather than things to chase. But anyway, that’s what I mean. That’s how they’re helping me. Because Happy Daddy is more like Mopey Daddy while Grumpy Daddy is away.”
Changmin snorts. “You’re such an idiot.” He tempers this with a smile and pushes back the quilt in invitation, then pulls the covers back up, because (a) it’s surprisingly cold, and (b) he’s just been struck by a nasty thought. “What did you do with the dogs while you’re here?”
Yunho swings his arms and patters around the room, apparently oblivious to the cold. “They’re having fun at puppy camp.”
That doesn’t reassure Changmin. “Describe ‘puppy camp’ in more detail.”
The faint look of guilt on Yunho’s face is even less reassuring. “Um, they’re staying with a friend.”
Changmin narrows his gaze. Although Pucci and Lagerfeld are gross and irritating beasts that drool on the cushions, slobber over the bed linen, and chew his fabric swatches, he does quite like them. Mainly because Yunho heaps love over them, and Changmin secretly finds it all kinds of adorable. For this reason alone, he wouldn’t want the mangy curs to be shipped off to some second-rate kennels; and considering how easily Yunho makes friends, the idea that the animals are staying with someone unqualified to care for such cherished pups makes Changmin uneasy.
“Donghae?” he guesses hopefully. “Did you take those mutts down to Gwangju?”
“Er.” Yunho opens a drawer and starts sorting through their clothes. He holds up a Gwangju Skank hoodie. “Look, they finally went into production! Do you like it? I brought you one, too.”
“The dogs.” Changmin says, his heart sinking. He puts steel into his tone. “Where are the dogs?”
Yunho’s smile looks a little ragged around the corners. He places the hoodie on the side of the bed. “I got you the orange one. Mine is teal. But we can swap if you don’t like orange.”
Changmin sits up and glares. “Jung. Answer the question. Where are the dogs?”
“With Siwon.” Yunho steps back out of range and stands there, toes curling on the tiled floor and a sweet, innocent expression on his face.
“Siwon,” Changmin repeats. “Siwon has the dogs.”
“I asked Donghae first,” Yunho says, as if that makes it all right. “But he said Zhou Mi was visiting, and Zhou Mi is allergic or something, so...”
“So you asked Siwon.” Changmin’s tone is neutral. Usually he can’t even hear Siwon’s name without feeling an irrational spike of jealousy, but oddly this time it doesn’t even register.
It’s not just because he’s remembering all the times Pucci has chewed his hideously expensive handmade shoes, or all the times Lagerfeld has left smelly deposits on the kitchen floor. It’s not just the thought of Pucci moulting all over the bed or Lagerfeld dribbling on the pillows. It’s not just the thought that the dogs will do all these things and worse to Siwon’s house and possessions, although it does amuse Changmin quite a lot if he’s honest.
No, what makes it okay is the knowledge that Yunho is here-with him, for him. Changmin can’t be jealous when he’s won and when he keeps on winning.
He’ll keep that to himself, though.
With a contented smile curving his mouth, Changmin relaxes again. “Siwon has the dogs,” he says, imagining the utter havoc those stupid curs will create. “Good choice. I really can’t think of anyone more deserving.”
* * *
ii. La bella figura
Washed and shaved, Yunho scrubs up nicely, Changmin decides as they stroll around the city doing the whole tourist experience. The Roman women certainly seem appreciative, giving them both long second glances. Even a few guys stop and stare. Changmin is glad he’s wearing Armani, even if it’s from two seasons ago. He’d managed to talk Yunho out of wearing the Gwangju Skank hoodie, and instead he’s dressed in the most severe of the Posh Boy suits, a dark, sexy pinstripe that does magnificent things to Yunho’s body.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t have just dressed all urban and casual while we wandered around?” Yunho asks over their breakfast of cappuccino and biscotti.
“Positive,” Changmin says. “This is Italy. This is Rome. There might be more fashion-conscious cities today, but Romans have been practicing la bella figura for over two thousand years.”
“La bella figura,” Yunho says musingly. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a philosophy. A way of life for the Italians.” Changmin encounters it on a daily basis at Versace and he’s trying to adapt it to fit his own lifestyle and behaviour while he’s working in Milan. “It’s not just a way of dressing, of always looking one’s best-it’s the way you behave, the way you order your home or set the table or the way you cook. Everything is beautiful, everything has meaning because it’s beautiful, and even the most commonplace object becomes beautiful because of the attitude of la bella figura.”
Yunho considers this as he sips at his coffee. He licks froth from his top lip and gives Changmin a melting smile. “La bella figura describes you.”
“I... Maybe.” Ducking his head to hide a blush, Changmin can’t stop the warm glow inside him.
He always knew he was different. Going against his father’s wishes to become a fashion designer had both set him free and fenced him in at the same time. At St Martin’s, at Chanel, he’d had the space to spread his wings, only to have them clipped again when he returned home. But going on Stitched Up and meeting Yunho, having Yunho’s love and belief to bolster him-that had made him happy and secure for the first time in his life, and had led to him taking the opportunity offered by Versace.
It’s just a shame that his design work, which he does genuinely love, keeps him apart from Yunho for such long periods of time. It’s like the thing that makes him happy takes him away from the other thing that makes him happy, and Changmin wonders if the balance is being tipped unfairly. It certainly feels like it, sometimes. But not now. Now he has Yunho beside him in this haunting, ancient city, and they’re together and they’re dressed beautifully, and they are the very embodiment of la bella figura.
After breakfast they visit the Forum and the Colosseum and then cross the city to the Spanish Steps. The clouds are lowering, a wash of grey flattening the vibrant colours of the buildings, but at the same time bringing a strange new life into the monumental statues. Misted rain glistens on marble skin and slides across sightless eyes. At the top of the Spanish Steps sprawl a group of stoners smoking weed, and the leaf-sweet scent carries down to the Trevi Fountain.
They throw in the obligatory coin, then walk down the Via Condotti. Familiar names flash and glitter from boutiques and larger stores; in some windows there’s a display of a single pair of shoes on a velvet cushion, while in others mannequins pose against a bright backdrop. Yunho keeps up a running commentary on everything they see, and Changmin laughs and adds his own scathing remarks. One should never trash-talk the competition, but seriously, some of the outfits on display are absolutely hideous, and Changmin is not ashamed to say it out loud. Especially as he’s fairly sure no one on the street can understand Korean.
They head towards the Vatican and spend a while walking along the sludgy waters of the Tiber before Yunho cuts along a street and leads Changmin back into the heart of the city. Changmin is a little lost, but Yunho obviously knows where he’s going, pausing every now and then as if checking directions against a map held in his head. Usually this would be cause for alarm, but not today. Changmin is enjoying himself too much.
By a roundabout route they emerge at Largo Argentina and head towards the Capitoline, squeezing into a jumbled warren of streets that suddenly seem different to the rest of the city. Changmin looks around, curious, trying to discern what’s changed. There’s a sense of otherness here, and there’s fewer people, less traffic.
“This is the old ghetto,” Yunho says when Changmin remarks on the feeling of quiet isolation. “The Jewish quarter. Many Jews still live here, as they have done for the past five hundred years.”
He seems to be counting alleyways, then suddenly turns left. Changmin follows, cautious as they move away from the street and along a narrow passageway. The buildings seem rundown, plaster crumbling from the walls to reveal marble blocks beneath. An ancient Corinthian column holds up a Renaissance doorway. Yunho finally stops outside a heavy wooden door and presses a buzzer. A moment later, a little old man with a face resembling uncooked dough peers out. Yunho presents a card to the man, and the door opens fully to admit them.
Inside, it’s dim and shadowy and smells of tobacco. The old man vanishes somewhere. Yunho walks through an internal courtyard and into a salon that’s full of light. Painted in shades of cream and egg-yolk yellow, it’s a bright and sunny room even on a grey day. Mirrors line one wall, and there’s a large, plain black folding screen in one corner. The floor is made of polished, pitted wood that looks like generations have danced upon it.
“Remember the Estonian guy?” Yunho says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “He told me about this place. It’s super-exclusive. Signor Sirkis, the man who let us in just now, he’s the Estonian guy’s second cousin once removed or something, and he makes four outfits a year, that’s how exclusive it is.”
Changmin perks up. “He’s a tailor?”
“A very, very exclusive tailor. A couturier tailor.” Yunho shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous. “I sent your measurements in advance. It’s not usually how Signor Sirkis does things, but I explained through the Estonian guy-he kind of translated for me over the phone, it was a really weird conference call, let me tell you-I told him it was for a very special occasion and he agreed to make an exception...”
“Wait.” Changmin spins around. “You said this guy makes four suits a year. It’s February. When did you put in your order?”
Yunho bites his lip. “Fourteen months ago.”
“Fourteen...” The meaning doesn’t sink in for a moment, and then it hits Changmin all at once. “Fourteen months ago, we’d been together for five months, including the time we spent on Stitched Up,” he says, feeling wobbly. “Fourteen months ago, I’d been working for Versace for two months.”
His words fall into silence. Yunho has his shoulders hunched and he’s twisting like a dancer, his emotions openly unravelling. “I knew you were the one. I’d been waiting for you all my life and there you were, scolding me about my pineapple lumps and nagging me about a rota for washing the dishes with Sungmin and Spoon, and I never, ever expected it, Changminnie, I really didn’t, because I thought I was aiming far too high when I saw you, all legs and cheekbones and those big eyes and your hair and your beautiful, beautiful mouth, and...”
He stops. Takes a breath. “I looked at you and I knew. And when you got the job at Versace, I called the Estonian guy because I knew I was going to do this, I knew I’d bring you here and...”
The door to the salon opens and Signor Sirkis comes in carrying a suit. He hangs it from a hook on the folding screen and presents it to Changmin with a slight bow.
It’s exquisite. Dark, dark blue wool with a satin finish that suggests the sheen of a starling’s wing, a myriad of colours that move against the grain almost in an optical illusion. The cut is classic and elegant, one of those timeless styles to which Changmin always aspires with his own designs. It looks effortless, the kind of thing he could wear to any event in any season safe in the knowledge that he’ll be the best-dressed man in the room.
It’s a work of art, and it’s all for him.
Changmin stares. “Yunho,” he says. “Yunho.”
“Do you like it?” Yunho asks, still nervous. “There’s something else. A companion piece...”
Signor Sirkis leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a redingote of black serge. Fitted and styled to resemble a Regency frockcoat, it has a gloriously whimsical high-necked collar of soft, downy black feathers.
“You had a redingote when you came on Stitched Up,” Yunho says. “I loved the shape of it on you. I always wanted to make something like it, but I’m not architectural enough as a designer. Same with the suit. I can make casual and easy, but I’m not couture. I’m never going to be high-end, like my posh boy, but I wanted to give you this. I told Signor Sirkis what I had in my mind, what was in my heart, and he made magic for me. For you.”
Changmin puts a hand over his mouth. Tears sting his eyes. A hundred emotions swamp him, overwhelm him. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He wants to run around the room until he’s giddy. He wants to hold onto Yunho until he can find all the words he wants to say.
Yunho comes closer. “Is it okay?”
“It’s beautiful.” Turning to him, Changmin hooks an arm around Yunho’s neck and hides his face against Yunho’s throat. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to warm skin, feeling the jump of Yunho’s pulse. “Thank you,” Changmin whispers. “Thank you.”
Yunho nuzzles into Changmin’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Try it on. Signor Sirkis will want to make the final adjustments.”
Changmin pulls away, dabbing at his eyes. He takes the coat and the suit and goes behind the folding screen. He loves his Armani two-piece, but Signor Sirkis’ work is beyond compare. The suit is lined with silk; the redingote is lined with velvet of the finest nap. The garments are absolutely sublime. The fit is perfect.
He emerges from behind the screen and stands in the middle of the cream and yellow room, the grey February light suddenly dazzling.
Signor Sirkis studies him carefully and then nods approval.
Yunho is wide-eyed. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, Changminnie, you look...” He can’t say anything else. For possibly the first time in his life, Jung Yunho is speechless.
“How do I look?” Changmin knows what that silence means. He can see it written all over Yunho’s face, but still he wants to hear it. Not because he needs the reassurance, but because he wants to hear it from the man who mirrors his soul.
“Changmin.” Yunho gazes at him, looking utterly broken and utterly radiant. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I love you.”
Changmin dips his head and smiles and smiles.
* * *
iii. Per favore, ripeta più lentamente
Changmin wears his new suit and redingote that evening when they go out to dinner. He feels amazing, and judging from the admiring glances thrown in his direction from everyone from a traffic cop to a tramp to a politician hurrying to the Senate House, he looks pretty damn good, too.
Yunho walks alongside him, holding his hand and glowing with pride and happiness. It’s one of the things Changmin likes best about him, this ability to express himself so freely and unselfconsciously. When Yunho is sad he tries to hide it, but when he’s happy there’s no pretence and everyone is invited to smile along with him.
It makes Changmin smile, too, even though he’s still a little embarrassed that his emotions are starting to unlatch and roll around under Yunho’s influence. He still needs to maintain some decorum, after all. High-end fashion designers rarely shriek with excitement as they chase their boyfriend around the Quirinal Gardens before dragging him off into the nearest ancient ruin for a long, smouldering kiss. But then, this high-end fashion designer is on holiday and he deserves to have fun.
The restaurant is in the Campo dei Fiori neighbourhood and was also recommended by the Estonian guy. Housed in a low building that looks on the verge of collapse, inside it’s all old wooden beams across the ceiling and a stone-flagged floor and intimate lighting. There’s only four tables, and the couples at the other three tables are too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to Yunho and Changmin.
“The Estonian guy said this place serves traditional Roman food and also specialises in rustic cooking,” Yunho says as they sit down and look at the menu. “I can’t read Italian, Changminnie. Would you...?”
Pleased to be able to show off a little, Changmin paraphrases what’s on the handwritten card. “Everything is fresh today,” he says, impressed. “The menu is never the same from one day to the next. I think we should start with chickpea and bean stew-it’s a Roman speciality. I guess even ancient Romans ate it. Let’s try it.”
Yunho smiles. “When in Rome...”
“Quite.” Changmin reads through the menu again. Yunho decides on pork chops cooked with sage and stuffed with chestnuts, while Changmin orders schiacciata with girolles, garlic and rosemary. They drink a bottle of red wine and lean closer across the table, smiling at each other. The evening lingers and stretches, winding around them. Changmin doesn’t want it to end. He’s so loath to leave the restaurant that he orders dessert, a moist, crumbly polenta and apple cake, accompanied by vin santo and coffee.
He’s been speaking Italian to the waiter all night. It’s not like he’s fluent or anything, but he knows more than the average tourist. Even if some of his vocabulary consists of north Italian swearwords, he’s more than capable of holding a conversation, so when the waiter comes over with the bill and asks if they enjoyed their meal, Changmin answers with fulsome praise for the chef.
Turns out that the waiter is the chef’s nephew and he’s happy to discuss the food. Changmin holds Yunho’s hand across the table and chats away with the waiter, pleased to be able to practice his Italian. Then he realises that Yunho is restless. Not that Yunho is showing it outwardly; he’d never be that rude. He’s smiling and looking between Changmin and the waiter, and Changmin is translating what they’re saying so Yunho doesn’t feel excluded, but still-Yunho’s fingers twitch slightly in Changmin’s grasp and his smile is a tiny bit frantic.
The waiter thanks them for their interest and takes Yunho’s credit card over to the cash desk. By now Yunho is almost wriggling in his seat.
Changmin gives him a concerned look. “What is it?”
Yunho takes a deep breath. He stares at Changmin, mouth soft, eyes bright, a flush on his cheeks. He’s quivering. He looks like he’s massively turned on, but Changmin can’t understand what’s caused it.
“Yun?” he asks gently. “Are you...”
“Say it in Italian,” Yunho says in a rush. “Oh God, please.”
“Che cosa c’è che non va?”
A deep, deep shiver runs through Yunho. “Oh, baby.”
“Che cos’è questo?” Changmin tilts his head, curious and amused and wondering how best to play this to his advantage. “Do you... like me speaking Italian?”
Yunho nods frantically, his blush deepening. “Very much. Changminnie, you sound-you sound so sexy. Oh, you could do anything to me. I mean you could do anything to me anyway because you’re you and I can’t resist you, but when you speak Italian, it... it does things to me.”
Changmin smiles. “What kind of things?”
“Ohhhh. Don’t. Don’t ask me.” Yunho puts his hands to his face and looks at Changmin with big, soft eyes.
“Mi scusi,” Changmin murmurs throatily. “Comportato malissimo.”
Yunho squirms. “Changmin!”
The possibilities of this untapped kink excite Changmin, but he still can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re so silly, Jung.”
Yunho shakes his head. “You get turned on when I speak in dialect. Why is it so weird that I get hot hearing you speak foreign?”
That makes Changmin laugh. “My accent is Milanese. To the Romans, that’s... not so hot.”
“I don’t care. It’s hot to me.” Yunho heaves a long, shivering sigh and makes puppy-dog eyes. “Changminnie, would you...”
The waiter returns with Yunho’s credit card and the slip of paper for him to sign. In a flurry of thanks and smiles, they get up and make ready to leave.
“By the way,” the waiter says, “I couldn’t help but admire your suit, and also your coat. Beautiful pieces.”
“Thank you. They were a birthday gift.” Changmin smiles at Yunho.
“Ah.” The waiter beams. “Then may you wear them in good health and happiness always, and may you remember Rome fondly.”
As they leave the restaurant, Changmin leans close and says in Yunho’s ear, “I don’t care if you have any other birthday treats lined up for me. We’re going to go back to the hotel and I’m going to fuck you. Vieni?”
Yunho whimpers in response.
Changmin has a thought and stops. “Wait. Just so I know-did you arrange any other birthday treats?”
“Not for today.” Yunho smiles. “Tomorrow, yes. But tonight I hoped we could make love. Or we can just fuck. Whatever you prefer, baby.”
Desire weaves hungry, grasping tendrils through Changmin. He grabs at Yunho’s arm and hustles him along the street. “First we fuck. Then we make love. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you all around me, squeezing me... Oh, hurry, hurry.”
Yunho giggles. “I want you to speak Italian while you fuck me.”
Changmin can barely remember any vocabulary. “Si, si,” he manages. “Presto, presto.”
They make it back to the hotel in double-quick time, almost running across the terracotta tiles of the convent floor. Yunho is yanking at his tie as he sprints up the staircase. He pivots on the landing and gives Changmin a bright smile, the tie hanging loose, the top few buttons of his shirt undone.
“Take off your jacket,” Changmin says, not hurrying his ascent.
Yunho slides the jacket from his shoulders.
Changmin walks up the next few steps. “Unbutton the rest of your shirt.”
Excitement flashes in Yunho’s eyes. He hangs his jacket over the banister and unfastens the buttons, untucking the shirt and letting it ease open so Changmin can see more than a sliver of warm, bare skin.
“Take the shirt off.” Changmin advances one more step.
Yunho makes a soft, desperate sound and does as he’s told, the shirt and tie joining the jacket.
Changmin rests one hand on the slope of the banister and looks up at Yunho. They’re still in the public part of the hotel. There’s another room off to the other side of the landing, not to mention rooms above them. Anyone could walk down the stairs and see what they’re doing, and it’s this thought that pushes Changmin on.
“Take off your trousers,” he says.
Yunho gasps. “Changminnie!”
“Per piacere,” Changmin says. “Please.”
Blushing, Yunho rests his hands on the waistband of his trousers. He curls his fingers, then drops his gaze, suddenly shy, and undoes his belt. The buckle clinks. The button next, and then the zipper, the noise seemingly loud in the charged silence.
Just before Yunho can push the trousers down from his hips, Changmin taps his fingers on the banister and says, “I’ve changed my mind. Take everything off.”
Yunho’s head jerks up. He looks shocked and very, very excited. He rocks a little on his feet, his smile giving lie to his moan of protest: “Changminnie, no, don’t make me do this...”
Changmin takes one more step up the staircase. “Do it for me, baby. It’s my birthday. I get whatever I want on my birthday, isn’t that right? I got this beautiful suit and this gorgeous redingote, and I had a fabulous meal with the perfect company, and now I want my boyfriend to undress for me.”
“Anything,” Yunho says, his expression hazy with love and desire. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Changmin quirks an eyebrow. “I’m still waiting.”
“Oh!” Blushing all over again, Yunho bends down and unlaces his shoes, slips them off, unpeels his socks, then stands up straight. He bites his lip, casts uncertain glances sidelong at the door opposite and then up the stairs. He shivers a little, his sweet, lush, copper-coloured nipples going hard and tight in the chill.
Changmin clutches at the banister and stifles a groan. He wants to run up the remaining few steps and shove Yunho up against the wall. No, he wants to get them into their room so he can spread Yunho across the bed and feast on him. He loves Yunho’s chest, loves the faint little jiggle and those perky nipples, loves to bury his face against that abundance of flesh, so soft and strong at the same time.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Changmin to stand there and watch as Yunho hooks his fingers beneath his underwear and trousers and takes both items off together. It’s not quite as smooth an operation as it could be, because Yunho’s cock is half hard and he has to jump and wriggle a bit before he shimmies free of the garments, and then the clothes are in a pool around his ankles. He steps out of them and stands on the landing absolutely naked but for his shy smile.
The door opens on the floor above them.
Yunho’s smile turns into an expression of panic. Changmin bolts up the final few steps, wrestling the key from his jacket pocket. Yunho collects up his clothes and darts through the door. He drops a shoe and collides with Changmin as they both turn to pick it up. Changmin utters a deranged squawk, kicks the shoe into the room, then heaves the door shut with a thud.
Yunho hangs in his arms, giggling helplessly. “That was close.”
Changmin holds him tight and says nothing. Mainly it’s because his heart is still pounding and he can’t believe he made Yunho strip for him on the hotel stairs, but it’s also because he’s trying to regain control of the situation. He splays his hands across Yunho’s naked back and thinks oh wait, oh God, I have all the control here. He’s naked. He’s... naked.
Lust slams into him so hard he gasps. Cradling Yunho tighter, Changmin strokes one hand and then the other over the sweep of Yunho’s back, then brushes his caress down to the tiny, tight curve of Yunho’s ass before repeating the touch again and again until Yunho’s giggles have faded into soft, panting moans.
“You’re naked,” Changmin says in Yunho’s ear, feeling the shiver go through him. “You’re naked and I’m fully clothed. How does it feel against your bare skin, the rough-smoothness of the serge? And the feathers on the collar... do they tickle? Do they tickle your throat, baby?”
Yunho lifts his head and kisses Changmin, holds his face between his hands and kisses and kisses him, making greedy, frantic noises that sing through Changmin’s blood and make everything hotter and tighter.
Changmin breaks the kiss. “Take off my redingote,” he says, stepping away from the door. Yunho is breathing fast, arousal pinking across his face and down to his chest. His cock is hard, fully erect, and Changmin can’t resist touching it, just weighing the lovely heft of it in his hand before he lets go.
Yunho quivers, then rises up onto his tiptoes and, with utmost care, locates the fastening hidden within the nest of black feathers at Changmin’s throat and undoes it.
“This is so beautiful,” he says, unfastening the next leather and velvet button on the coat. “I wanted to send Signor Sirkis a photograph of you, but he said there was no need. He asked me to describe you instead. I must’ve spent an hour trying to describe everything about you. I’m not even sure the Estonian guy could translate it all that well, but... this is perfect.”
Changmin bows his head, not wanting to be overwhelmed by mushy emotion right now. He holds his arms backwards, and Yunho steps behind him and gently slides off the redingote. Still careful, he puts the coat on its hanger and into the antique wardrobe.
“My suit,” Changmin says, resting a hand on the elegant knot of his tie. “Take off my suit.”
Yunho works faster this time, unfastening buttons and easing off the jacket and then the trousers, catching up both garments before they can fall and again placing them onto hangers in the wardrobe. He does all this with a smile, even though goosebumps rise over his body and his feet leave warm ghost-prints on the cold floor tiles.
He’s still aroused, and he breathes in Changmin’s scent from the collar of the suit jacket, saying, “We should create a fragrance, baby-one that smells of you, all clean and sharp like winter in a pine forest but with that hint of warmth, like the knowledge of home,” and Changmin wants to melt into a puddle of goo but he can’t; he’s in charge and he wants to sink inside Yunho and love him all night long.
“My tie,” Changmin says, voice gone husky. “My shirt. Everything else. Make me naked like you.”
Yunho falls on him, much more careless now as he hurries to strip Changmin of his remaining clothes. Off come his shoes, his socks, his tie, his shirt, his underwear, and finally they press together, both naked, Changmin’s skin still flushed with warmth and Yunho deliciously cold against him.
“Bed,” Changmin says. “Letto.”
“Yes, yes, in Italian, tell me in Italian,” Yunho begs, towing Changmin across the room and falling back onto the soft, heaped quilts.
“I don’t know all the words I want to know,” Changmin admits, following Yunho down onto the bed and rolling around.
“I don’t care.” Yunho strokes the long sweep of Changmin’s hair from his eyes and smiles at him. “You can read the fire escape notice on the back of the door or count to one hundred, I really don’t care. Just let me hear you speak Italian.”
“Coniglio ripieno,” Changmin says, somewhat desperately. The only phrases he can remember are all dishes from the restaurants he frequents in Milan. “Dolce di mandorle, fragole con la panna...”
“Oh.” Yunho squirms, shudders, and then goes still, a look of utter rapture on his face. “Ohhhhh, Changminnie. More. Tell me more.”
“Seppia, manzo brasato, gambero di fiume,” Changmin murmurs, feeling like a fraud but also not giving that much of a fuck because the way Yunho is slow-writhing across the quilt is incredibly sexy.
“Bite me,” Yunho says, voice thick with need. “Scratch me. Take me.”
“You can bite me, too,” Changmin says on a burst of honesty. Usually he’s afraid of love-bites. Not so much the receiving as the display of them, but he wants Yunho to mark him the way he’s going to mark Yunho.
Yunho draws him closer, kissing at first, then licking, and his teeth just graze Changmin’s skin close to where shoulder and neck meet. There’s a hint of pain, a spark of pleasure, and Changmin jolts, thrusts and bucks because God, fuck, it’s driving him crazy, and it’s the care Yunho is taking with him, so gentle yet so certain; he’s being as careful as he was with the suit and the redingote, and Changmin feels as fragile and delicate and beautiful as those exquisite garments handmade just for him, and oh, oh, that’s what this is about-it’s like he was made for Yunho and Yunho was made for him, and that’s just perfect.
He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He’s going to drown in emotion. He really needs to get a grip. Changmin slides a hand down between their bodies and cups Yunho’s cock, rubs and rubs until Yunho is making little growly noises and his dick is leaking warm wetness from the swollen crown all the way down that lovely long shaft.
“Questo è per uso personale... questo pacco è fragile. Non c’è bisogno che lo incarti,” Changmin says, disengaging his brain and letting sensation take over. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, but he’s fairly certain it wouldn’t classify as dirty talk to any real Italian. “Non vi dovete muovere. Mi aspetti.”
“Changminnie.” Yunho’s eyes are wide, his expression full of joy as he spreads his legs and wraps them around Changmin’s waist. He’s impatient, holding on tight as Changmin reaches for the lube tucked inside the bedside drawer. He runs his hands all over Changmin’s body as Changmin tries to kneel up and slick them both with the slippery gel, and then Changmin throws the little bottle aside and strokes the head of his cock through the wetness and nudges it against Yunho’s hole.
Yunho pushes up, hair in his face, head turning in restless need. “Yes. Yes. Do it, baby. Please. I want you.”
Still Changmin hesitates, wanting to remember this night forever, and Yunho arches up against him, opening up to take him, and Changmin gasps as he slides inside, the long, solid weight of his dick pushing and pushing into that tight, hot, silken grip.
“Oh God,” Yunho babbles, shaking as he keeps on lifting up, as he takes more and more, “oh, Changminnie, you feel so good, so good, baby.”
Changmin doesn’t have the words. He’s panting for breath and he’s tense, every muscle in his body held tight, and it feels like freedom when he lets go, when he surrenders to instinct and rocks into Yunho, drawing back, driving in, and Yunho gets his arms and legs around Changmin and clings tight, showers him with kisses all over his shoulders and throat and face.
“E’ buono questo?” Changmin asks, even though it’s beyond obvious that yes, this is very, very good.
“More,” Yunho begs. “More Italian. Please, please.”
Changmin struggles to recall words, any words, in any order. His memory keeps on fading in and out, presenting him with phrases he uses at work: Posso mandarlo per corriere? and Voglio far stirare questi vestiti, and he blurts them out, sees Yunho’s eyes close and his head go back and his breathing get all hot and fractured.
It’s such a glorious sight that Changmin responds, dick swelling, thrusts getting harder, hips jerking faster. He grabs at Yunho’s wrists and pins him down, fixes his gaze on Yunho’s mouth, on the sheen of sweat at the base of his throat, at the sexy little jiggle of his chest as Changmin pounds into him. God, yes, those beautiful ripe nipples-Changmin wants, he wants so bad, and he flattens himself over Yunho and mouths at his nipples, catches one between his lips and sucks hard, then when Yunho groans and shoves against him, Changmin uses his teeth.
“Bite me,” Yunho gasps, and Changmin does. He bites and licks and bites again, feeling every action roll through them both. Yunho’s skin is hot, skimmed with sweat and tasting of spice and musk, and the scent of sex surrounds them, strong and complex, a layering of desire.
“Tela,” Changmin says, lifting his head only long enough to transfer his full attention to the other nipple. He lets go of one of Yunho’s wrists and claws his hand into the soft plumpness of Yunho’s chest, feeling the brush of the stiff, saliva-slicked nipple beneath his palm.
“Pelliccia. Maglione. Cuoio,” Changmin growls, fastening his teeth around the other nipple and biting down as he scratches Yunho’s chest.
“Oh God,” Yunho wails, “Changminnie, Changminnie, oh-”
“Lino,” Changmin snarls, fucking into him harder and harder and feeling Yunho go over. His orgasm is slow and stumbling at first, and then Yunho’s hips churn and he goes wild, shaking and crying out, and then he shoots between them, sticky warm heat spreading over their bellies and up to their chests. Changmin plunges into him again, conscious of the way Yunho tightens around him, and it’s bright and breathtaking and Changmin can feel his climax gathering.
“Merletto, seta, camoscio.” The words come thick and fast now, a litany of fabrics, and he keeps coming back to his favourites, to the ones he wants to dress Yunho in, fur and silk and velvet. “Oh baby,” Changmin says, almost sobbing with the need to come, “seta, pelliccia, oh Yun, oh-oh velluto, oh velluto, seta, Yunho-”
He breaks like a dam bursting, silenced by the force of his orgasm, gasping and shuddering through his open mouth, and he jerks and jerks inside Yunho, filling him up with hot, wet seed over and over.
“Yunho,” he breathes, slumping on top of him, burying his face against Yunho’s neck, licking at the sweet taste of sweat from his skin, “Yunho, I fucking love you.”
And Yunho holds him close and ruffles his hair and whispers back, “Ti amo.”
* * *
iv. Occhio d’amore
The next day, Yunho wakes Changmin early and-though it’s no longer his birthday-takes him out to breakfast in Trastevere. They walk through mist-shrouded streets already teeming with traffic and noise and cross the river near the Isola Tiberina. There’s a small, family-run restaurant in the Piazza Santa Maria that’s been open since dawn, and the first catch of the day is served up for breakfast.
Changmin tucks into tiny grilled fish and scrambled eggs and venison sausages and whatever else they bring to the table, and it’s so good he even foregoes his usual dainty cappuccino in favour of thick, strong espresso, and a lot of it.
“Don’t tell me, the Estonian guy recommended this place, too,” he says around a mouthful of brioche and apricot preserve.
“Nope.” Yunho grins. “I looked it up on the internet.”
Afterwards, they take a very leisurely stroll along the Tiber towards Vatican City and spend the rest of the morning in St Peter’s and the Vatican Museum. Changmin looks at everything with a detached interest. He tries hard to be genuinely enthused by what he’s seeing and feels bad that he’s not moved by the experience, but by the time they make it out of the Sistine Chapel, Changmin has a headache and he’s feeling weirdly depressed.
Yunho notices. Outside in the huge, arcing embrace of St Peter’s Square, they stand beneath the grey sky and Yunho looks at him, silent and understanding.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Changmin says at last, and that’s such a patently stupid statement that he stamps his foot and huffs out a sigh and scrubs both hands through his hair.
“It’s because I’m leaving tomorrow,” Yunho says.
“It’s because you’re leaving tomorrow,” Changmin says at the same time.
They laugh, but their amusement soon fades. There’s a lump the size of an iceberg in Changmin’s chest. It’s stopping him from saying anything else, but he keeps on trying. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t, either.” Yunho comes closer, his eyes warm and so soft. “I hate it when we’re apart, but it won’t be forever. You’ll be home soon, and the puppies will jump all over you and you’ll nag me to put things away and you’ll turn your nose up at the next season of Stitched Up because-this is top secret, classified gossip, by the way-Siwon has been asked to take part, and-”
“Siwon!” Changmin splutters, torn between horror and laughter. “What does he know about designing and making clothes?”
Yunho holds up his hands. “Nevertheless, they’ve invited him onto the show and he’s going to do it.”
“A very good reason for me to stay in Italy,” Changmin retorts.
“I’ll make sure I record every episode for you.” Yunho takes Changmin’s hand and pulls him towards Ponte St Angelo. They walk, still holding hands, and Yunho says, “It’s important that you’re here. What you’re doing at Versace... you couldn’t do it in Korea. Not to the same level of international success. I think that’s important right now, and if you decide that one day it isn’t, then we’ll think of something else.”
Changmin stops. “What do you mean?”
Yunho comes back to him, smiling. “I mean that one day I’d like you and me to have our own line.”
“Are you serious?” Changmin doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding quite like that. He’s just surprised. Very surprised. And, if truth be told, he’s actually quite excited by the idea.
“Totally serious.” Yunho slips an arm around him and tucks a hand into the back pocket of Changmin’s jeans. “I know it’s too soon right now. I’m barely out of my Evisu contract and I’m absolutely rushed off my feet with the work for Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy, plus Spoon really wants me to help him with his waterproof festival wear, so I’m kind of super-busy for the next wee while, but...” He breaks off, sighing.
“But one day you want us to design together,” Changmin says, feeling wobbly and emotional all over again. “You and me.”
“I already have the label name,” Yunho says. “HoMin pour Homme.”
“MinHo pour Homme,” Changmin corrects. “That sounds better.”
Yunho laughs. “If you say so.”
“I do say so.” Much more cheerful now at this bright prospect in his future, Changmin starts walking again. Yunho squeaks and disengages his hand from Changmin’s back pocket, and they giggle stupidly and squash together and kiss.
It starts raining, the blank grey cloud lowering to dust the city with lacy scraps of fog. Hand in hand, they hurry across the bridge and back into the heart of Rome, Yunho leading the way through streets that are beginning to look familiar after only a couple of days’ acquaintance.
They stop for an ice cream, a double scoop of pinola and pistachio for Yunho, while Changmin picks stracciatella and raspberry ripple.
“Jung, it’s raining, why are we eating ice cream?” Changmin asks, his orange Gwangju Skank hoodie dewed wet over his shoulders and down his chest.
Yunho, his hair draggling damp in his eyes, flicks it back, smiles brilliantly, and says, “Because we’re in Rome.”
The rain is pouring down now, beating a heavy tattoo on the striped awning above them. Yunho eats his ice cream and surveys the drenched neighbourhood, moving to one side when a moped goes past, splashing water from the overflowing gutters.
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Changmin says hopefully. He’s had a nice idea involving the remainder of his ice cream melting over Yunho’s warm, naked back, but if he wants the fantasy to become a reality they’ll have to go right this instant, because otherwise the ice cream is just too delicious and he’ll have eaten it all.
“There’s just one more place I want us to see,” Yunho says. He scrapes out the little plastic tub of the last of his ice cream and then tosses the carton into the nearby bin. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me there, and then we’ll spend the rest of the day in bed. How about that?”
“Sounds perfect.” Changmin shovels the rest of the raspberry ripple into his mouth, making a mental note to come back this way for more ice cream en route to bed.
They dash out from beneath the awning and splash through the puddles that have formed across the cobblestones. Hurrying down an alleyway, they emerge onto a deceptively wide, sloping piazza. An obelisk surmounts a small fountain in front of a circular building with a long portico of eight columns.
Changmin knows what this is. “The Pantheon,” he says, taking Yunho’s hand as they make a final dash through a fresh cloudburst.
“Yes.” Yunho leads him inside to the stark yet oddly beautiful interior.
It’s not the individual altars and burial monuments that catch Changmin’s attention, garish and gilt-laden though they are; it’s the domed roof, honeycombed and monumental and completely unsupported, with its open oculus staring up at the sky. He wonders if he could mimic that honeycomb design and create a ballgown out of the manipulated fabric. It’s worth a try.
Green patches of lichen crawl from one side of the oculus. The honeycomb is stained dark with water where it’s rained in, and the marble floor beneath the unblinking wide eye is slippery-shiny with spray from high above. A custodian has erected a velvet-roped barrier to stop tourists walking over the wet marble, but the wind is changing direction all the time and the rain drifts in to other parts of the Pantheon floor.
Yunho comes to a halt beneath the oculus, careless of the spray of rain. “This place is round. That’s why it’s important.”
Changmin laughs. “It’s important because it’s a temple to all the gods and it became a church, so it’s still fulfilling its purpose, and also because the dome is a triumph of structural engineering.”
“Yes,” Yunho says, nodding, “but the most important thing is because it’s round. And because it has a hole in the roof so Heaven can look in.”
“You’re so silly,” Changmin says.
Yunho takes both of Changmin’s hands and squeezes them, then tips back his head to look up. He smiles at the grey sky and the honeycombed dome, and then he looks back at Changmin and the smile grows warmer and sweeter.
“This,” Yunho says, turning them in a careful, dancing circle over the wet marble, “this is like my love for you. It goes around and around. It goes on forever. It’s eternal.”
Changmin catches Yunho around the waist and pulls him close. He knows he should revert to type and shrug off that gorgeous, imbecilic, heartstopping, romantic declaration; he should glower and make a snarky comment, but he can’t. Not when he knows Yunho is telling the truth. Not when he feels exactly the same way.
Yunho nestles closer, whispers, “Oh, Changminnie,” and then they’re kissing.
There’s no need for words. There’s no need for anything at all, and the rain drifts down from the oculus, and it’s all just perfect.
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Changmin/Yunho
Rating: NC17
Summary: Yunho takes Changmin to Rome for his birthday-and discovers that Italian really is the language of love.
Notes: Fashion designers AU. Falls somewhere between Perfect Fit and For Fashion’s Sake. A knowing wink and tip of the hat to A Fish Called Wanda.
Roman Holiday
i. Cave Canem
“Ah, Rome!”
Changmin stirs from the warmth of the heaped quilts and pushes aside a pillow. He squints at the drench of bright grey light pouring through the wide-open curtains, then sighs and sits up. Yunho is standing at the window, completely naked, greedily staring through the glass at the street below.
Except it’s not really a street. Their hotel, a former convent, is at the south end of Piazza Navona. It’s terribly romantic, with roses stuccoed onto the ceiling and plasterwork vine tendrils swagged beneath the cornice and terracotta floor tiles and antique dressers, but it’s also terribly noisy. The cobblestones on the street outside might look charming, but boy, do they amplify noise. As does the arrangement of buildings, which all seem to have been constructed with the express purpose of funnelling the sound of engines backfiring and the squeal of tyres, plus general traffic noise along with drunken shouting at four o’clock in the morning.
And when there’s a brief moment of calm, a miniscule scrap of silence, there’s a caged bird on the terrace below their window that starts singing.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
“Changminnie, we’re in Rome!” Yunho declares as if this whole thing is a surprise.
Technically it is a surprise, or at least it was when Changmin had gone home to his apartment in Milan yesterday evening and discovered Yunho sitting on the marble steps outside, drooping with jetlag and unshaven, clutching a bunch of pale pink roses that he’d dropped onto the ground when he’d launched himself into Changmin’s arms.
“What-” Changmin had managed to say before Yunho kissed him.
Ten minutes later they’d stumbled into Changmin’s apartment, where Yunho had resisted every attempt Changmin made to get him naked and into bed.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow, baby,” Yunho said, opening Changmin’s wardrobe and drawers and packing a truly random selection of garments into a weekend bag. “I’m taking you to Rome.”
“I’ve never been to Rome,” Changmin said, still stunned that his ridiculous, adorable boyfriend had flown halfway across the world for him.
“And I’ve never been to Italy.” Yunho zipped the bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Get your passport. Our flight leaves in forty-five minutes.”
A series of delays saw their plane rescheduled for three hours later. After a year of working for Versace, Changmin was accustomed to the Italian way of doing things. He simply ordered a coffee and sipped at it, sitting bolt upright in his elegant Gieves & Hawkes suit. Yunho, in ripped jeans and a fluffy jumper and a three-quarter length dark blue military-style coat with red piping at the collar, laid his head on Changmin’s shoulder and fell asleep.
He woke up enough to shamble onto the plane, and then he slept all the way to Rome. He was groggy by the time Changmin collected their luggage and steered him into a taxi, but roused himself enough to give the address of their hotel. Halfway between exasperated and amused, Changmin paid the driver, took their bags, checked them in, and put Yunho to bed.
After he’d unpacked, Changmin had taken a shower, brushed his teeth, then snuggled beneath the quilts. It was so nice to be able to hold Yunho again, even if he was out for the count and making cute little snoring noises. Even the din from the traffic on the cobbles and the echo of revellers’ voices from the street paled into insignificance as Changmin cuddled into Yunho’s warmth. Oh God, he’d missed him so much...
He’d fallen asleep not long afterwards, only to be woken by Yunho sliding possessive, arousing touches all over his body. They’d made love without words, just two bodies in the dark, gasping and moaning and plunging, slick with sweat and with the scent of musk and the taste of adoration between them. Yunho had slept again later, but Changmin had remained awake, too conscious of the noise outside and-though he’ll never admit it-desperately aware of how precious Yunho was to him.
Now he ruffles a hand through his hair and leans back against the pillows, admiring Yunho’s long, lean, gloriously naked body lit by a drizzly February sky.
“Did you gain weight?” Changmin asks, eyeing the lush expanse of Yunho’s chest with pleasure.
“Maybe a little.” Yunho gives a shy smile. “I have a tendency to comfort-eat when you’re away for really long stretches of time. The puppies have been helping me, though.” He stops, then continues quickly, “I don’t mean I’m feeding them comfort food. Not my comfort food, anyway. A few extra treats, maybe, because they miss you, too, but...”
He’s just getting himself tangled. Yunho wrinkles his nose, draws in a deep breath, and says, “I’m taking them for more walks. You know how Pucci loves his walks, and Lagerfeld is so enthusiastic, too. He’s eaten eight Frisbees recently. He thinks they’re chew toys rather than things to chase. But anyway, that’s what I mean. That’s how they’re helping me. Because Happy Daddy is more like Mopey Daddy while Grumpy Daddy is away.”
Changmin snorts. “You’re such an idiot.” He tempers this with a smile and pushes back the quilt in invitation, then pulls the covers back up, because (a) it’s surprisingly cold, and (b) he’s just been struck by a nasty thought. “What did you do with the dogs while you’re here?”
Yunho swings his arms and patters around the room, apparently oblivious to the cold. “They’re having fun at puppy camp.”
That doesn’t reassure Changmin. “Describe ‘puppy camp’ in more detail.”
The faint look of guilt on Yunho’s face is even less reassuring. “Um, they’re staying with a friend.”
Changmin narrows his gaze. Although Pucci and Lagerfeld are gross and irritating beasts that drool on the cushions, slobber over the bed linen, and chew his fabric swatches, he does quite like them. Mainly because Yunho heaps love over them, and Changmin secretly finds it all kinds of adorable. For this reason alone, he wouldn’t want the mangy curs to be shipped off to some second-rate kennels; and considering how easily Yunho makes friends, the idea that the animals are staying with someone unqualified to care for such cherished pups makes Changmin uneasy.
“Donghae?” he guesses hopefully. “Did you take those mutts down to Gwangju?”
“Er.” Yunho opens a drawer and starts sorting through their clothes. He holds up a Gwangju Skank hoodie. “Look, they finally went into production! Do you like it? I brought you one, too.”
“The dogs.” Changmin says, his heart sinking. He puts steel into his tone. “Where are the dogs?”
Yunho’s smile looks a little ragged around the corners. He places the hoodie on the side of the bed. “I got you the orange one. Mine is teal. But we can swap if you don’t like orange.”
Changmin sits up and glares. “Jung. Answer the question. Where are the dogs?”
“With Siwon.” Yunho steps back out of range and stands there, toes curling on the tiled floor and a sweet, innocent expression on his face.
“Siwon,” Changmin repeats. “Siwon has the dogs.”
“I asked Donghae first,” Yunho says, as if that makes it all right. “But he said Zhou Mi was visiting, and Zhou Mi is allergic or something, so...”
“So you asked Siwon.” Changmin’s tone is neutral. Usually he can’t even hear Siwon’s name without feeling an irrational spike of jealousy, but oddly this time it doesn’t even register.
It’s not just because he’s remembering all the times Pucci has chewed his hideously expensive handmade shoes, or all the times Lagerfeld has left smelly deposits on the kitchen floor. It’s not just the thought of Pucci moulting all over the bed or Lagerfeld dribbling on the pillows. It’s not just the thought that the dogs will do all these things and worse to Siwon’s house and possessions, although it does amuse Changmin quite a lot if he’s honest.
No, what makes it okay is the knowledge that Yunho is here-with him, for him. Changmin can’t be jealous when he’s won and when he keeps on winning.
He’ll keep that to himself, though.
With a contented smile curving his mouth, Changmin relaxes again. “Siwon has the dogs,” he says, imagining the utter havoc those stupid curs will create. “Good choice. I really can’t think of anyone more deserving.”
* * *
ii. La bella figura
Washed and shaved, Yunho scrubs up nicely, Changmin decides as they stroll around the city doing the whole tourist experience. The Roman women certainly seem appreciative, giving them both long second glances. Even a few guys stop and stare. Changmin is glad he’s wearing Armani, even if it’s from two seasons ago. He’d managed to talk Yunho out of wearing the Gwangju Skank hoodie, and instead he’s dressed in the most severe of the Posh Boy suits, a dark, sexy pinstripe that does magnificent things to Yunho’s body.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t have just dressed all urban and casual while we wandered around?” Yunho asks over their breakfast of cappuccino and biscotti.
“Positive,” Changmin says. “This is Italy. This is Rome. There might be more fashion-conscious cities today, but Romans have been practicing la bella figura for over two thousand years.”
“La bella figura,” Yunho says musingly. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a philosophy. A way of life for the Italians.” Changmin encounters it on a daily basis at Versace and he’s trying to adapt it to fit his own lifestyle and behaviour while he’s working in Milan. “It’s not just a way of dressing, of always looking one’s best-it’s the way you behave, the way you order your home or set the table or the way you cook. Everything is beautiful, everything has meaning because it’s beautiful, and even the most commonplace object becomes beautiful because of the attitude of la bella figura.”
Yunho considers this as he sips at his coffee. He licks froth from his top lip and gives Changmin a melting smile. “La bella figura describes you.”
“I... Maybe.” Ducking his head to hide a blush, Changmin can’t stop the warm glow inside him.
He always knew he was different. Going against his father’s wishes to become a fashion designer had both set him free and fenced him in at the same time. At St Martin’s, at Chanel, he’d had the space to spread his wings, only to have them clipped again when he returned home. But going on Stitched Up and meeting Yunho, having Yunho’s love and belief to bolster him-that had made him happy and secure for the first time in his life, and had led to him taking the opportunity offered by Versace.
It’s just a shame that his design work, which he does genuinely love, keeps him apart from Yunho for such long periods of time. It’s like the thing that makes him happy takes him away from the other thing that makes him happy, and Changmin wonders if the balance is being tipped unfairly. It certainly feels like it, sometimes. But not now. Now he has Yunho beside him in this haunting, ancient city, and they’re together and they’re dressed beautifully, and they are the very embodiment of la bella figura.
After breakfast they visit the Forum and the Colosseum and then cross the city to the Spanish Steps. The clouds are lowering, a wash of grey flattening the vibrant colours of the buildings, but at the same time bringing a strange new life into the monumental statues. Misted rain glistens on marble skin and slides across sightless eyes. At the top of the Spanish Steps sprawl a group of stoners smoking weed, and the leaf-sweet scent carries down to the Trevi Fountain.
They throw in the obligatory coin, then walk down the Via Condotti. Familiar names flash and glitter from boutiques and larger stores; in some windows there’s a display of a single pair of shoes on a velvet cushion, while in others mannequins pose against a bright backdrop. Yunho keeps up a running commentary on everything they see, and Changmin laughs and adds his own scathing remarks. One should never trash-talk the competition, but seriously, some of the outfits on display are absolutely hideous, and Changmin is not ashamed to say it out loud. Especially as he’s fairly sure no one on the street can understand Korean.
They head towards the Vatican and spend a while walking along the sludgy waters of the Tiber before Yunho cuts along a street and leads Changmin back into the heart of the city. Changmin is a little lost, but Yunho obviously knows where he’s going, pausing every now and then as if checking directions against a map held in his head. Usually this would be cause for alarm, but not today. Changmin is enjoying himself too much.
By a roundabout route they emerge at Largo Argentina and head towards the Capitoline, squeezing into a jumbled warren of streets that suddenly seem different to the rest of the city. Changmin looks around, curious, trying to discern what’s changed. There’s a sense of otherness here, and there’s fewer people, less traffic.
“This is the old ghetto,” Yunho says when Changmin remarks on the feeling of quiet isolation. “The Jewish quarter. Many Jews still live here, as they have done for the past five hundred years.”
He seems to be counting alleyways, then suddenly turns left. Changmin follows, cautious as they move away from the street and along a narrow passageway. The buildings seem rundown, plaster crumbling from the walls to reveal marble blocks beneath. An ancient Corinthian column holds up a Renaissance doorway. Yunho finally stops outside a heavy wooden door and presses a buzzer. A moment later, a little old man with a face resembling uncooked dough peers out. Yunho presents a card to the man, and the door opens fully to admit them.
Inside, it’s dim and shadowy and smells of tobacco. The old man vanishes somewhere. Yunho walks through an internal courtyard and into a salon that’s full of light. Painted in shades of cream and egg-yolk yellow, it’s a bright and sunny room even on a grey day. Mirrors line one wall, and there’s a large, plain black folding screen in one corner. The floor is made of polished, pitted wood that looks like generations have danced upon it.
“Remember the Estonian guy?” Yunho says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “He told me about this place. It’s super-exclusive. Signor Sirkis, the man who let us in just now, he’s the Estonian guy’s second cousin once removed or something, and he makes four outfits a year, that’s how exclusive it is.”
Changmin perks up. “He’s a tailor?”
“A very, very exclusive tailor. A couturier tailor.” Yunho shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous. “I sent your measurements in advance. It’s not usually how Signor Sirkis does things, but I explained through the Estonian guy-he kind of translated for me over the phone, it was a really weird conference call, let me tell you-I told him it was for a very special occasion and he agreed to make an exception...”
“Wait.” Changmin spins around. “You said this guy makes four suits a year. It’s February. When did you put in your order?”
Yunho bites his lip. “Fourteen months ago.”
“Fourteen...” The meaning doesn’t sink in for a moment, and then it hits Changmin all at once. “Fourteen months ago, we’d been together for five months, including the time we spent on Stitched Up,” he says, feeling wobbly. “Fourteen months ago, I’d been working for Versace for two months.”
His words fall into silence. Yunho has his shoulders hunched and he’s twisting like a dancer, his emotions openly unravelling. “I knew you were the one. I’d been waiting for you all my life and there you were, scolding me about my pineapple lumps and nagging me about a rota for washing the dishes with Sungmin and Spoon, and I never, ever expected it, Changminnie, I really didn’t, because I thought I was aiming far too high when I saw you, all legs and cheekbones and those big eyes and your hair and your beautiful, beautiful mouth, and...”
He stops. Takes a breath. “I looked at you and I knew. And when you got the job at Versace, I called the Estonian guy because I knew I was going to do this, I knew I’d bring you here and...”
The door to the salon opens and Signor Sirkis comes in carrying a suit. He hangs it from a hook on the folding screen and presents it to Changmin with a slight bow.
It’s exquisite. Dark, dark blue wool with a satin finish that suggests the sheen of a starling’s wing, a myriad of colours that move against the grain almost in an optical illusion. The cut is classic and elegant, one of those timeless styles to which Changmin always aspires with his own designs. It looks effortless, the kind of thing he could wear to any event in any season safe in the knowledge that he’ll be the best-dressed man in the room.
It’s a work of art, and it’s all for him.
Changmin stares. “Yunho,” he says. “Yunho.”
“Do you like it?” Yunho asks, still nervous. “There’s something else. A companion piece...”
Signor Sirkis leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a redingote of black serge. Fitted and styled to resemble a Regency frockcoat, it has a gloriously whimsical high-necked collar of soft, downy black feathers.
“You had a redingote when you came on Stitched Up,” Yunho says. “I loved the shape of it on you. I always wanted to make something like it, but I’m not architectural enough as a designer. Same with the suit. I can make casual and easy, but I’m not couture. I’m never going to be high-end, like my posh boy, but I wanted to give you this. I told Signor Sirkis what I had in my mind, what was in my heart, and he made magic for me. For you.”
Changmin puts a hand over his mouth. Tears sting his eyes. A hundred emotions swamp him, overwhelm him. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He wants to run around the room until he’s giddy. He wants to hold onto Yunho until he can find all the words he wants to say.
Yunho comes closer. “Is it okay?”
“It’s beautiful.” Turning to him, Changmin hooks an arm around Yunho’s neck and hides his face against Yunho’s throat. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to warm skin, feeling the jump of Yunho’s pulse. “Thank you,” Changmin whispers. “Thank you.”
Yunho nuzzles into Changmin’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Try it on. Signor Sirkis will want to make the final adjustments.”
Changmin pulls away, dabbing at his eyes. He takes the coat and the suit and goes behind the folding screen. He loves his Armani two-piece, but Signor Sirkis’ work is beyond compare. The suit is lined with silk; the redingote is lined with velvet of the finest nap. The garments are absolutely sublime. The fit is perfect.
He emerges from behind the screen and stands in the middle of the cream and yellow room, the grey February light suddenly dazzling.
Signor Sirkis studies him carefully and then nods approval.
Yunho is wide-eyed. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, Changminnie, you look...” He can’t say anything else. For possibly the first time in his life, Jung Yunho is speechless.
“How do I look?” Changmin knows what that silence means. He can see it written all over Yunho’s face, but still he wants to hear it. Not because he needs the reassurance, but because he wants to hear it from the man who mirrors his soul.
“Changmin.” Yunho gazes at him, looking utterly broken and utterly radiant. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I love you.”
Changmin dips his head and smiles and smiles.
* * *
iii. Per favore, ripeta più lentamente
Changmin wears his new suit and redingote that evening when they go out to dinner. He feels amazing, and judging from the admiring glances thrown in his direction from everyone from a traffic cop to a tramp to a politician hurrying to the Senate House, he looks pretty damn good, too.
Yunho walks alongside him, holding his hand and glowing with pride and happiness. It’s one of the things Changmin likes best about him, this ability to express himself so freely and unselfconsciously. When Yunho is sad he tries to hide it, but when he’s happy there’s no pretence and everyone is invited to smile along with him.
It makes Changmin smile, too, even though he’s still a little embarrassed that his emotions are starting to unlatch and roll around under Yunho’s influence. He still needs to maintain some decorum, after all. High-end fashion designers rarely shriek with excitement as they chase their boyfriend around the Quirinal Gardens before dragging him off into the nearest ancient ruin for a long, smouldering kiss. But then, this high-end fashion designer is on holiday and he deserves to have fun.
The restaurant is in the Campo dei Fiori neighbourhood and was also recommended by the Estonian guy. Housed in a low building that looks on the verge of collapse, inside it’s all old wooden beams across the ceiling and a stone-flagged floor and intimate lighting. There’s only four tables, and the couples at the other three tables are too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to Yunho and Changmin.
“The Estonian guy said this place serves traditional Roman food and also specialises in rustic cooking,” Yunho says as they sit down and look at the menu. “I can’t read Italian, Changminnie. Would you...?”
Pleased to be able to show off a little, Changmin paraphrases what’s on the handwritten card. “Everything is fresh today,” he says, impressed. “The menu is never the same from one day to the next. I think we should start with chickpea and bean stew-it’s a Roman speciality. I guess even ancient Romans ate it. Let’s try it.”
Yunho smiles. “When in Rome...”
“Quite.” Changmin reads through the menu again. Yunho decides on pork chops cooked with sage and stuffed with chestnuts, while Changmin orders schiacciata with girolles, garlic and rosemary. They drink a bottle of red wine and lean closer across the table, smiling at each other. The evening lingers and stretches, winding around them. Changmin doesn’t want it to end. He’s so loath to leave the restaurant that he orders dessert, a moist, crumbly polenta and apple cake, accompanied by vin santo and coffee.
He’s been speaking Italian to the waiter all night. It’s not like he’s fluent or anything, but he knows more than the average tourist. Even if some of his vocabulary consists of north Italian swearwords, he’s more than capable of holding a conversation, so when the waiter comes over with the bill and asks if they enjoyed their meal, Changmin answers with fulsome praise for the chef.
Turns out that the waiter is the chef’s nephew and he’s happy to discuss the food. Changmin holds Yunho’s hand across the table and chats away with the waiter, pleased to be able to practice his Italian. Then he realises that Yunho is restless. Not that Yunho is showing it outwardly; he’d never be that rude. He’s smiling and looking between Changmin and the waiter, and Changmin is translating what they’re saying so Yunho doesn’t feel excluded, but still-Yunho’s fingers twitch slightly in Changmin’s grasp and his smile is a tiny bit frantic.
The waiter thanks them for their interest and takes Yunho’s credit card over to the cash desk. By now Yunho is almost wriggling in his seat.
Changmin gives him a concerned look. “What is it?”
Yunho takes a deep breath. He stares at Changmin, mouth soft, eyes bright, a flush on his cheeks. He’s quivering. He looks like he’s massively turned on, but Changmin can’t understand what’s caused it.
“Yun?” he asks gently. “Are you...”
“Say it in Italian,” Yunho says in a rush. “Oh God, please.”
“Che cosa c’è che non va?”
A deep, deep shiver runs through Yunho. “Oh, baby.”
“Che cos’è questo?” Changmin tilts his head, curious and amused and wondering how best to play this to his advantage. “Do you... like me speaking Italian?”
Yunho nods frantically, his blush deepening. “Very much. Changminnie, you sound-you sound so sexy. Oh, you could do anything to me. I mean you could do anything to me anyway because you’re you and I can’t resist you, but when you speak Italian, it... it does things to me.”
Changmin smiles. “What kind of things?”
“Ohhhh. Don’t. Don’t ask me.” Yunho puts his hands to his face and looks at Changmin with big, soft eyes.
“Mi scusi,” Changmin murmurs throatily. “Comportato malissimo.”
Yunho squirms. “Changmin!”
The possibilities of this untapped kink excite Changmin, but he still can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re so silly, Jung.”
Yunho shakes his head. “You get turned on when I speak in dialect. Why is it so weird that I get hot hearing you speak foreign?”
That makes Changmin laugh. “My accent is Milanese. To the Romans, that’s... not so hot.”
“I don’t care. It’s hot to me.” Yunho heaves a long, shivering sigh and makes puppy-dog eyes. “Changminnie, would you...”
The waiter returns with Yunho’s credit card and the slip of paper for him to sign. In a flurry of thanks and smiles, they get up and make ready to leave.
“By the way,” the waiter says, “I couldn’t help but admire your suit, and also your coat. Beautiful pieces.”
“Thank you. They were a birthday gift.” Changmin smiles at Yunho.
“Ah.” The waiter beams. “Then may you wear them in good health and happiness always, and may you remember Rome fondly.”
As they leave the restaurant, Changmin leans close and says in Yunho’s ear, “I don’t care if you have any other birthday treats lined up for me. We’re going to go back to the hotel and I’m going to fuck you. Vieni?”
Yunho whimpers in response.
Changmin has a thought and stops. “Wait. Just so I know-did you arrange any other birthday treats?”
“Not for today.” Yunho smiles. “Tomorrow, yes. But tonight I hoped we could make love. Or we can just fuck. Whatever you prefer, baby.”
Desire weaves hungry, grasping tendrils through Changmin. He grabs at Yunho’s arm and hustles him along the street. “First we fuck. Then we make love. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you all around me, squeezing me... Oh, hurry, hurry.”
Yunho giggles. “I want you to speak Italian while you fuck me.”
Changmin can barely remember any vocabulary. “Si, si,” he manages. “Presto, presto.”
They make it back to the hotel in double-quick time, almost running across the terracotta tiles of the convent floor. Yunho is yanking at his tie as he sprints up the staircase. He pivots on the landing and gives Changmin a bright smile, the tie hanging loose, the top few buttons of his shirt undone.
“Take off your jacket,” Changmin says, not hurrying his ascent.
Yunho slides the jacket from his shoulders.
Changmin walks up the next few steps. “Unbutton the rest of your shirt.”
Excitement flashes in Yunho’s eyes. He hangs his jacket over the banister and unfastens the buttons, untucking the shirt and letting it ease open so Changmin can see more than a sliver of warm, bare skin.
“Take the shirt off.” Changmin advances one more step.
Yunho makes a soft, desperate sound and does as he’s told, the shirt and tie joining the jacket.
Changmin rests one hand on the slope of the banister and looks up at Yunho. They’re still in the public part of the hotel. There’s another room off to the other side of the landing, not to mention rooms above them. Anyone could walk down the stairs and see what they’re doing, and it’s this thought that pushes Changmin on.
“Take off your trousers,” he says.
Yunho gasps. “Changminnie!”
“Per piacere,” Changmin says. “Please.”
Blushing, Yunho rests his hands on the waistband of his trousers. He curls his fingers, then drops his gaze, suddenly shy, and undoes his belt. The buckle clinks. The button next, and then the zipper, the noise seemingly loud in the charged silence.
Just before Yunho can push the trousers down from his hips, Changmin taps his fingers on the banister and says, “I’ve changed my mind. Take everything off.”
Yunho’s head jerks up. He looks shocked and very, very excited. He rocks a little on his feet, his smile giving lie to his moan of protest: “Changminnie, no, don’t make me do this...”
Changmin takes one more step up the staircase. “Do it for me, baby. It’s my birthday. I get whatever I want on my birthday, isn’t that right? I got this beautiful suit and this gorgeous redingote, and I had a fabulous meal with the perfect company, and now I want my boyfriend to undress for me.”
“Anything,” Yunho says, his expression hazy with love and desire. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Changmin quirks an eyebrow. “I’m still waiting.”
“Oh!” Blushing all over again, Yunho bends down and unlaces his shoes, slips them off, unpeels his socks, then stands up straight. He bites his lip, casts uncertain glances sidelong at the door opposite and then up the stairs. He shivers a little, his sweet, lush, copper-coloured nipples going hard and tight in the chill.
Changmin clutches at the banister and stifles a groan. He wants to run up the remaining few steps and shove Yunho up against the wall. No, he wants to get them into their room so he can spread Yunho across the bed and feast on him. He loves Yunho’s chest, loves the faint little jiggle and those perky nipples, loves to bury his face against that abundance of flesh, so soft and strong at the same time.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Changmin to stand there and watch as Yunho hooks his fingers beneath his underwear and trousers and takes both items off together. It’s not quite as smooth an operation as it could be, because Yunho’s cock is half hard and he has to jump and wriggle a bit before he shimmies free of the garments, and then the clothes are in a pool around his ankles. He steps out of them and stands on the landing absolutely naked but for his shy smile.
The door opens on the floor above them.
Yunho’s smile turns into an expression of panic. Changmin bolts up the final few steps, wrestling the key from his jacket pocket. Yunho collects up his clothes and darts through the door. He drops a shoe and collides with Changmin as they both turn to pick it up. Changmin utters a deranged squawk, kicks the shoe into the room, then heaves the door shut with a thud.
Yunho hangs in his arms, giggling helplessly. “That was close.”
Changmin holds him tight and says nothing. Mainly it’s because his heart is still pounding and he can’t believe he made Yunho strip for him on the hotel stairs, but it’s also because he’s trying to regain control of the situation. He splays his hands across Yunho’s naked back and thinks oh wait, oh God, I have all the control here. He’s naked. He’s... naked.
Lust slams into him so hard he gasps. Cradling Yunho tighter, Changmin strokes one hand and then the other over the sweep of Yunho’s back, then brushes his caress down to the tiny, tight curve of Yunho’s ass before repeating the touch again and again until Yunho’s giggles have faded into soft, panting moans.
“You’re naked,” Changmin says in Yunho’s ear, feeling the shiver go through him. “You’re naked and I’m fully clothed. How does it feel against your bare skin, the rough-smoothness of the serge? And the feathers on the collar... do they tickle? Do they tickle your throat, baby?”
Yunho lifts his head and kisses Changmin, holds his face between his hands and kisses and kisses him, making greedy, frantic noises that sing through Changmin’s blood and make everything hotter and tighter.
Changmin breaks the kiss. “Take off my redingote,” he says, stepping away from the door. Yunho is breathing fast, arousal pinking across his face and down to his chest. His cock is hard, fully erect, and Changmin can’t resist touching it, just weighing the lovely heft of it in his hand before he lets go.
Yunho quivers, then rises up onto his tiptoes and, with utmost care, locates the fastening hidden within the nest of black feathers at Changmin’s throat and undoes it.
“This is so beautiful,” he says, unfastening the next leather and velvet button on the coat. “I wanted to send Signor Sirkis a photograph of you, but he said there was no need. He asked me to describe you instead. I must’ve spent an hour trying to describe everything about you. I’m not even sure the Estonian guy could translate it all that well, but... this is perfect.”
Changmin bows his head, not wanting to be overwhelmed by mushy emotion right now. He holds his arms backwards, and Yunho steps behind him and gently slides off the redingote. Still careful, he puts the coat on its hanger and into the antique wardrobe.
“My suit,” Changmin says, resting a hand on the elegant knot of his tie. “Take off my suit.”
Yunho works faster this time, unfastening buttons and easing off the jacket and then the trousers, catching up both garments before they can fall and again placing them onto hangers in the wardrobe. He does all this with a smile, even though goosebumps rise over his body and his feet leave warm ghost-prints on the cold floor tiles.
He’s still aroused, and he breathes in Changmin’s scent from the collar of the suit jacket, saying, “We should create a fragrance, baby-one that smells of you, all clean and sharp like winter in a pine forest but with that hint of warmth, like the knowledge of home,” and Changmin wants to melt into a puddle of goo but he can’t; he’s in charge and he wants to sink inside Yunho and love him all night long.
“My tie,” Changmin says, voice gone husky. “My shirt. Everything else. Make me naked like you.”
Yunho falls on him, much more careless now as he hurries to strip Changmin of his remaining clothes. Off come his shoes, his socks, his tie, his shirt, his underwear, and finally they press together, both naked, Changmin’s skin still flushed with warmth and Yunho deliciously cold against him.
“Bed,” Changmin says. “Letto.”
“Yes, yes, in Italian, tell me in Italian,” Yunho begs, towing Changmin across the room and falling back onto the soft, heaped quilts.
“I don’t know all the words I want to know,” Changmin admits, following Yunho down onto the bed and rolling around.
“I don’t care.” Yunho strokes the long sweep of Changmin’s hair from his eyes and smiles at him. “You can read the fire escape notice on the back of the door or count to one hundred, I really don’t care. Just let me hear you speak Italian.”
“Coniglio ripieno,” Changmin says, somewhat desperately. The only phrases he can remember are all dishes from the restaurants he frequents in Milan. “Dolce di mandorle, fragole con la panna...”
“Oh.” Yunho squirms, shudders, and then goes still, a look of utter rapture on his face. “Ohhhhh, Changminnie. More. Tell me more.”
“Seppia, manzo brasato, gambero di fiume,” Changmin murmurs, feeling like a fraud but also not giving that much of a fuck because the way Yunho is slow-writhing across the quilt is incredibly sexy.
“Bite me,” Yunho says, voice thick with need. “Scratch me. Take me.”
“You can bite me, too,” Changmin says on a burst of honesty. Usually he’s afraid of love-bites. Not so much the receiving as the display of them, but he wants Yunho to mark him the way he’s going to mark Yunho.
Yunho draws him closer, kissing at first, then licking, and his teeth just graze Changmin’s skin close to where shoulder and neck meet. There’s a hint of pain, a spark of pleasure, and Changmin jolts, thrusts and bucks because God, fuck, it’s driving him crazy, and it’s the care Yunho is taking with him, so gentle yet so certain; he’s being as careful as he was with the suit and the redingote, and Changmin feels as fragile and delicate and beautiful as those exquisite garments handmade just for him, and oh, oh, that’s what this is about-it’s like he was made for Yunho and Yunho was made for him, and that’s just perfect.
He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He’s going to drown in emotion. He really needs to get a grip. Changmin slides a hand down between their bodies and cups Yunho’s cock, rubs and rubs until Yunho is making little growly noises and his dick is leaking warm wetness from the swollen crown all the way down that lovely long shaft.
“Questo è per uso personale... questo pacco è fragile. Non c’è bisogno che lo incarti,” Changmin says, disengaging his brain and letting sensation take over. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, but he’s fairly certain it wouldn’t classify as dirty talk to any real Italian. “Non vi dovete muovere. Mi aspetti.”
“Changminnie.” Yunho’s eyes are wide, his expression full of joy as he spreads his legs and wraps them around Changmin’s waist. He’s impatient, holding on tight as Changmin reaches for the lube tucked inside the bedside drawer. He runs his hands all over Changmin’s body as Changmin tries to kneel up and slick them both with the slippery gel, and then Changmin throws the little bottle aside and strokes the head of his cock through the wetness and nudges it against Yunho’s hole.
Yunho pushes up, hair in his face, head turning in restless need. “Yes. Yes. Do it, baby. Please. I want you.”
Still Changmin hesitates, wanting to remember this night forever, and Yunho arches up against him, opening up to take him, and Changmin gasps as he slides inside, the long, solid weight of his dick pushing and pushing into that tight, hot, silken grip.
“Oh God,” Yunho babbles, shaking as he keeps on lifting up, as he takes more and more, “oh, Changminnie, you feel so good, so good, baby.”
Changmin doesn’t have the words. He’s panting for breath and he’s tense, every muscle in his body held tight, and it feels like freedom when he lets go, when he surrenders to instinct and rocks into Yunho, drawing back, driving in, and Yunho gets his arms and legs around Changmin and clings tight, showers him with kisses all over his shoulders and throat and face.
“E’ buono questo?” Changmin asks, even though it’s beyond obvious that yes, this is very, very good.
“More,” Yunho begs. “More Italian. Please, please.”
Changmin struggles to recall words, any words, in any order. His memory keeps on fading in and out, presenting him with phrases he uses at work: Posso mandarlo per corriere? and Voglio far stirare questi vestiti, and he blurts them out, sees Yunho’s eyes close and his head go back and his breathing get all hot and fractured.
It’s such a glorious sight that Changmin responds, dick swelling, thrusts getting harder, hips jerking faster. He grabs at Yunho’s wrists and pins him down, fixes his gaze on Yunho’s mouth, on the sheen of sweat at the base of his throat, at the sexy little jiggle of his chest as Changmin pounds into him. God, yes, those beautiful ripe nipples-Changmin wants, he wants so bad, and he flattens himself over Yunho and mouths at his nipples, catches one between his lips and sucks hard, then when Yunho groans and shoves against him, Changmin uses his teeth.
“Bite me,” Yunho gasps, and Changmin does. He bites and licks and bites again, feeling every action roll through them both. Yunho’s skin is hot, skimmed with sweat and tasting of spice and musk, and the scent of sex surrounds them, strong and complex, a layering of desire.
“Tela,” Changmin says, lifting his head only long enough to transfer his full attention to the other nipple. He lets go of one of Yunho’s wrists and claws his hand into the soft plumpness of Yunho’s chest, feeling the brush of the stiff, saliva-slicked nipple beneath his palm.
“Pelliccia. Maglione. Cuoio,” Changmin growls, fastening his teeth around the other nipple and biting down as he scratches Yunho’s chest.
“Oh God,” Yunho wails, “Changminnie, Changminnie, oh-”
“Lino,” Changmin snarls, fucking into him harder and harder and feeling Yunho go over. His orgasm is slow and stumbling at first, and then Yunho’s hips churn and he goes wild, shaking and crying out, and then he shoots between them, sticky warm heat spreading over their bellies and up to their chests. Changmin plunges into him again, conscious of the way Yunho tightens around him, and it’s bright and breathtaking and Changmin can feel his climax gathering.
“Merletto, seta, camoscio.” The words come thick and fast now, a litany of fabrics, and he keeps coming back to his favourites, to the ones he wants to dress Yunho in, fur and silk and velvet. “Oh baby,” Changmin says, almost sobbing with the need to come, “seta, pelliccia, oh Yun, oh-oh velluto, oh velluto, seta, Yunho-”
He breaks like a dam bursting, silenced by the force of his orgasm, gasping and shuddering through his open mouth, and he jerks and jerks inside Yunho, filling him up with hot, wet seed over and over.
“Yunho,” he breathes, slumping on top of him, burying his face against Yunho’s neck, licking at the sweet taste of sweat from his skin, “Yunho, I fucking love you.”
And Yunho holds him close and ruffles his hair and whispers back, “Ti amo.”
* * *
iv. Occhio d’amore
The next day, Yunho wakes Changmin early and-though it’s no longer his birthday-takes him out to breakfast in Trastevere. They walk through mist-shrouded streets already teeming with traffic and noise and cross the river near the Isola Tiberina. There’s a small, family-run restaurant in the Piazza Santa Maria that’s been open since dawn, and the first catch of the day is served up for breakfast.
Changmin tucks into tiny grilled fish and scrambled eggs and venison sausages and whatever else they bring to the table, and it’s so good he even foregoes his usual dainty cappuccino in favour of thick, strong espresso, and a lot of it.
“Don’t tell me, the Estonian guy recommended this place, too,” he says around a mouthful of brioche and apricot preserve.
“Nope.” Yunho grins. “I looked it up on the internet.”
Afterwards, they take a very leisurely stroll along the Tiber towards Vatican City and spend the rest of the morning in St Peter’s and the Vatican Museum. Changmin looks at everything with a detached interest. He tries hard to be genuinely enthused by what he’s seeing and feels bad that he’s not moved by the experience, but by the time they make it out of the Sistine Chapel, Changmin has a headache and he’s feeling weirdly depressed.
Yunho notices. Outside in the huge, arcing embrace of St Peter’s Square, they stand beneath the grey sky and Yunho looks at him, silent and understanding.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Changmin says at last, and that’s such a patently stupid statement that he stamps his foot and huffs out a sigh and scrubs both hands through his hair.
“It’s because I’m leaving tomorrow,” Yunho says.
“It’s because you’re leaving tomorrow,” Changmin says at the same time.
They laugh, but their amusement soon fades. There’s a lump the size of an iceberg in Changmin’s chest. It’s stopping him from saying anything else, but he keeps on trying. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t, either.” Yunho comes closer, his eyes warm and so soft. “I hate it when we’re apart, but it won’t be forever. You’ll be home soon, and the puppies will jump all over you and you’ll nag me to put things away and you’ll turn your nose up at the next season of Stitched Up because-this is top secret, classified gossip, by the way-Siwon has been asked to take part, and-”
“Siwon!” Changmin splutters, torn between horror and laughter. “What does he know about designing and making clothes?”
Yunho holds up his hands. “Nevertheless, they’ve invited him onto the show and he’s going to do it.”
“A very good reason for me to stay in Italy,” Changmin retorts.
“I’ll make sure I record every episode for you.” Yunho takes Changmin’s hand and pulls him towards Ponte St Angelo. They walk, still holding hands, and Yunho says, “It’s important that you’re here. What you’re doing at Versace... you couldn’t do it in Korea. Not to the same level of international success. I think that’s important right now, and if you decide that one day it isn’t, then we’ll think of something else.”
Changmin stops. “What do you mean?”
Yunho comes back to him, smiling. “I mean that one day I’d like you and me to have our own line.”
“Are you serious?” Changmin doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding quite like that. He’s just surprised. Very surprised. And, if truth be told, he’s actually quite excited by the idea.
“Totally serious.” Yunho slips an arm around him and tucks a hand into the back pocket of Changmin’s jeans. “I know it’s too soon right now. I’m barely out of my Evisu contract and I’m absolutely rushed off my feet with the work for Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy, plus Spoon really wants me to help him with his waterproof festival wear, so I’m kind of super-busy for the next wee while, but...” He breaks off, sighing.
“But one day you want us to design together,” Changmin says, feeling wobbly and emotional all over again. “You and me.”
“I already have the label name,” Yunho says. “HoMin pour Homme.”
“MinHo pour Homme,” Changmin corrects. “That sounds better.”
Yunho laughs. “If you say so.”
“I do say so.” Much more cheerful now at this bright prospect in his future, Changmin starts walking again. Yunho squeaks and disengages his hand from Changmin’s back pocket, and they giggle stupidly and squash together and kiss.
It starts raining, the blank grey cloud lowering to dust the city with lacy scraps of fog. Hand in hand, they hurry across the bridge and back into the heart of Rome, Yunho leading the way through streets that are beginning to look familiar after only a couple of days’ acquaintance.
They stop for an ice cream, a double scoop of pinola and pistachio for Yunho, while Changmin picks stracciatella and raspberry ripple.
“Jung, it’s raining, why are we eating ice cream?” Changmin asks, his orange Gwangju Skank hoodie dewed wet over his shoulders and down his chest.
Yunho, his hair draggling damp in his eyes, flicks it back, smiles brilliantly, and says, “Because we’re in Rome.”
The rain is pouring down now, beating a heavy tattoo on the striped awning above them. Yunho eats his ice cream and surveys the drenched neighbourhood, moving to one side when a moped goes past, splashing water from the overflowing gutters.
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Changmin says hopefully. He’s had a nice idea involving the remainder of his ice cream melting over Yunho’s warm, naked back, but if he wants the fantasy to become a reality they’ll have to go right this instant, because otherwise the ice cream is just too delicious and he’ll have eaten it all.
“There’s just one more place I want us to see,” Yunho says. He scrapes out the little plastic tub of the last of his ice cream and then tosses the carton into the nearby bin. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me there, and then we’ll spend the rest of the day in bed. How about that?”
“Sounds perfect.” Changmin shovels the rest of the raspberry ripple into his mouth, making a mental note to come back this way for more ice cream en route to bed.
They dash out from beneath the awning and splash through the puddles that have formed across the cobblestones. Hurrying down an alleyway, they emerge onto a deceptively wide, sloping piazza. An obelisk surmounts a small fountain in front of a circular building with a long portico of eight columns.
Changmin knows what this is. “The Pantheon,” he says, taking Yunho’s hand as they make a final dash through a fresh cloudburst.
“Yes.” Yunho leads him inside to the stark yet oddly beautiful interior.
It’s not the individual altars and burial monuments that catch Changmin’s attention, garish and gilt-laden though they are; it’s the domed roof, honeycombed and monumental and completely unsupported, with its open oculus staring up at the sky. He wonders if he could mimic that honeycomb design and create a ballgown out of the manipulated fabric. It’s worth a try.
Green patches of lichen crawl from one side of the oculus. The honeycomb is stained dark with water where it’s rained in, and the marble floor beneath the unblinking wide eye is slippery-shiny with spray from high above. A custodian has erected a velvet-roped barrier to stop tourists walking over the wet marble, but the wind is changing direction all the time and the rain drifts in to other parts of the Pantheon floor.
Yunho comes to a halt beneath the oculus, careless of the spray of rain. “This place is round. That’s why it’s important.”
Changmin laughs. “It’s important because it’s a temple to all the gods and it became a church, so it’s still fulfilling its purpose, and also because the dome is a triumph of structural engineering.”
“Yes,” Yunho says, nodding, “but the most important thing is because it’s round. And because it has a hole in the roof so Heaven can look in.”
“You’re so silly,” Changmin says.
Yunho takes both of Changmin’s hands and squeezes them, then tips back his head to look up. He smiles at the grey sky and the honeycombed dome, and then he looks back at Changmin and the smile grows warmer and sweeter.
“This,” Yunho says, turning them in a careful, dancing circle over the wet marble, “this is like my love for you. It goes around and around. It goes on forever. It’s eternal.”
Changmin catches Yunho around the waist and pulls him close. He knows he should revert to type and shrug off that gorgeous, imbecilic, heartstopping, romantic declaration; he should glower and make a snarky comment, but he can’t. Not when he knows Yunho is telling the truth. Not when he feels exactly the same way.
Yunho nestles closer, whispers, “Oh, Changminnie,” and then they’re kissing.
There’s no need for words. There’s no need for anything at all, and the rain drifts down from the oculus, and it’s all just perfect.