Mould; (4/5); for EVERYONE

[perfectingart]

Later that night, he collects Kyeongsu, Zitao and Chanyeol in his house as they watch horror movies, all in a bundle on his couch.

Surprisingly, is it Zitao who cries out of pure fear, whilst Kyeongsu cannot be fazed at all, throwing snarky remarks every few seconds. Baekhyeon has become desensitized to the bloodshed, maybe because having such things on TV is common practice at Jongin’s place. Chanyeol is on middle ground, making no sound and no expression, but his hand grips tightly on Baekhyeon whenever the morbidity escalades.

The lengthened tension building up on the screen is cut when one of the phones on the table lights up with a message. It is a string of hearts, kisses, water droplets. They all stare at the device until it dawns on them that it is not Chanyeol’s phone. It is Kyeongsu’s, who blushes and makes to sink into the couch. They turn to him, gawking.

Chanyeol starts it, by throwing himself at Kyeongsu, smothering him. Baekhyeon adds himself to the mix, raising his voice in teasing him along with Chanyeol. Kyeongsu fights them, asks them to shut up, but never once does he deny anything. Zitao just stands there, tear tracks on his cheeks, arms poised awkwardly as he contemplates whether he shall do his job and rescue Baekhyeon from Kyeongsu’s headlock or not. He is not on duty today after all.

This fiasco leaves at least a bruise on all of them. They are not unpleasant- like the scratches earned while learning to ride a bike.

It is early when they break up; Kyeongsu has a practice session and a girlfriend to satisfy. Chanyeol has a wife to cuddle with. She has threatened to file for divorce if she does not get her quota per day.

As Kyeongsu fiddles with his shoelaces, his attention pivots away from the strings and he looks at Baekhyeon. He is wearing a pair of little jeans and one of Chanyeol’s hoodies from a decade ago, its expanse gobbling him. Kyeongsu’s scrutiny sharpens. He is the only one who could slice him open with his eyes alone.

“Make sure you eat,” he says, sounding like anything but what he intended to voice. “You’re a waiter. At least steal the leftovers.”

Too late, Baekhyeon just retorts, “Ew.”

He is back in Bucheon, back to Jongin before the sun can set for the third time. His gladness, fretting fondly in his irises, is obvious, presented fully for Baekhyeon to see, and to feel welcomed, missed.

Faced with this, with that vague but strong eagerness, Baekhyeon blurts all of a sudden a possibility that has been gnawing at him. “I’ll teach you, if you want.” He coughs. He does not even notice that that mild pain is his default now. He notices it only on early mornings, when his eyes cannot even open, before the ache comes back to him.

Jongin frowns, does not ask to clarify, does not ask why, but he smiles. “You just wanna brag,” he says.
“But I want to brag about you.”

They both waste an entire evening on the internet, looking up pianos. Jongin thought it would be a keyboard, one of these shabby things with a buzzy sound. But it is not even a baby grand, but a full sized grand. Jongin brings out a tape measure from God knows where and measures the space in the living room, writing the numbers directly on the floor, directly on the wall.

He gapes at the prices though. So many digits. Baekhyeon just swats him. There was a time when that mattered.

Not anymore.

Baekhyeon finishes the order.

Jongin does not treat him any different.

Instead, there will be moments when he will plant his head in Baekhyeon’s lap and make him play with his hair, bliss cloaking his features. The scent of his locks is one Baekhyeon himself picked, and it will cling to his fingers for days.

He does not mutter about fake worlds anymore. In lieu, he talks about Baekhyeon’s passport again, asking this and that.

When the sun is low in the sky, the rumble of cars outside intensifying, maybe Baekhyeon will see something deeper than mere fascination in Jongin’s eyes, something hotter, softer. A yearning, adulation.

Baekhyeon thinks he may be seeing things. The side effects of his pills are many.

When the piano comes, he is surprised at the excitement he feels. The people that came to bring it stop barking like they did on the phone when they see who is opening the door.

Jongin and Baekhyeon watch quietly as it is assembled. It takes a long while, and they are both hungry and tired from having been on their feet all along, surveying the procedure. But Jongin does not go into the kitchen; instead he skips forward, leaning to press on the white keys. He jumps at the sound, as if he does not expect it to make one. It is completely off tune. Baekhyeon will rectify that himself.

Jongin twirls to sit on the bench, fingers poised clumsily over the keys. His pants are fluffy and linty and his tank top is tight and small for he never bothers checking the size before buying. Baekhyeon just stares at him, the elegant slope of his back, a harmonious curve, the length of his fingers, wrist slim, and he wonders if he ever had looked as elegant as Jongin. Then he just unceremoniously drops his fists on the keys like a mad man, and he bursts out laughing.

“I always wanted to try this!” Then he just jams his fists some more, notes shrill in the air.

Baekhyeon erupts into cackles too, because this was also the first thing he did when he first laid hands on a piano.

It takes him six hours to tune it, hammers and pins everywhere, and his ears feel exhausted.

Jongin comes from his shift with too many cake slices and they just have dinner with that.

“That was terribly responsible of us,” Baekhyeon muses. Jongin looks at him with a raised eyebrow, all impish, a smudge of cream and one of chocolate syrup on each side of his mouth. Baekhyeon stares, wants, then he turns back to his slice.

Soon, tiny potted plants and Jongin’s stacks of books begin residing underneath the piano. One of the feet already has scratch marks on it from Monggu. Jongin had stuck a Band-Aid over the injured lacquer, looking all guilty when Baekhyeon catches sight of it, whilst he cradles Monggu protectively to his chest.

Before the start of the first lesson, Baekhyeon swallows his fistful of pills in front of Jongin- he does not react- then he comes over with the pot of tea and sets it on the piano, along with two little cups. Baekhyeon explains some music theory basics. The solfeggio, ups and downs, plain, and Jongin frowns, either from not understanding, or from too much concentration.

Baekhyeon still considers he did quite well if he manages to play a twenty second melody with the right rhythm, even if it takes two hours to get him there.

Jongin seems so proud, so bloody proud, playing that short thing again and again, faster and faster until it loses its cadence. Then his face falls. “You should never play that when I’m around,” he demands.

Baekhyeon giggles, downing the leftover tea in the cup, leering at the dark ring left around the pale cup as it sits and offers no reply.

The din of practice stretches over months, at random times when Jongin is awake enough and not writing, when they are free from the café, when the mood strikes. Baekhyeon records everything, every little session, to track Jongin’s progress.

More than anything, it seems that it is he who cannot play for hours on end anymore. In fifteen minutes, he is sated, glad to give up the keyboard to Jongin.

Perchance it is because he sees no need to get lost in music, no need to run away from anything, because Jongin will be getting out of the shower, wet and sparkly as he listens to Baekhyeon, eyebrows determined. “That was amazing,” he will say. This is enough. Baekhyeon does not need to strive for more.

Jongin’s fingers are still not coordinated, and he gets lost way too fast. But he manages to hold a mini mini concert, a repertoire of five songs, and at the end, Baekhyeon gifts him a bundle of askew tissue roses, just him and Monggu in the audience.

After Jongin learns a song, Baekhyeon is to never play it in front of him.

They get complaints. They are phrased cautiously, as if it is not a disturbance per se, but more like a pleasant noise appearing at the wrong time. And so, both Jongin and Baekhyeon coerce a bunch of coupons from Junmyeon and knock from door to door one floor above and one floor below and give them out to their neighbours, apologizing for the commotion. One of them demands an autograph on the coupon, and Jongin smacks Baekhyeon’s hand away, stepping forward and scrawling his name on the piece of paper. “Because I’ve been the one serenading this whole building,” he explains elatedly.

The neighbour cackles along.

Baekhyeon does not notice Jongin standing in his doorway. He is too busy guffawing his ass off at an episode of Running Man. He does not know for how long Jongin stares at him, probably for too long given that he is not even stretching.

He pads over when Baekhyeon beholds him questioningly. He lifts Baekhyeon’s head on his thigh and starts running his hand through his hair. Baekhyeon stills at the contact- it has never been like this, Baekhyeon being the pampered one- but then he relaxes, wills his heart to stay quiet. It has been a long while since anyone has done this to him.

Then there is a moment when Baekhyeon twitches, his legs coming into himself, a gasp spilling over his lips as the eruption of burning spasms scours inside. Jongin’s hand comes over it, over the tight fist, and creeps a few digits into it. Baekhyeon squeezes at them, finding comfort in knowing that he is not alone, that there is someone to hold onto.

“Please tell me when it hurts,” Jongin says. It is the first time he brings back that moment.

Baekhyeon wants to nod, but he knows that he never finds his words when moments like these come. It is another few stabs before it subsides, diffuses, and Baekhyeon can breathe again.

“It’s already passed,” says Baekhyeon. Then something funny happens on the screen and Baekhyeon does not think about it anymore. He does not let go of Jongin’s hand.

For Baekhyeon’s thirty first birthday, Jongin comes to Seoul with him. It takes less than an hour on the motorcycle, Baekhyeon getting daring with the acceleration because he can feel the waves of euphoria emanating from Jongin at each divergence. His arms around Baekhyeon’s waist are tight, secure, palms splayed comfortably.

He bounces on his feet once he dismounts, trying to settle. Sweat is smeared above his upper lip, framing his tremulous grin in sparkles. His verve never abates, even if Baekhyeon has already lost count of how many times he has done this. Without exception, he will be a soggy wreck of revelry, buoyant and gorgeous.

Baekhyeon hunts his pockets for that limp hair tie he had stolen from Taeyeon, red and with a plastic strawberry charm to it, and messily knots his hair atop his head. On anyone else, this would look atrocious, but Jongin assures him, with quite the gusto, that he looks like a hippie aristocrat. Which is supposedly a good thing, for Jongin takes the helmet away from him and puts it away, and says “Let’s go, my lord,” with a bow and an arm outstretched to guide him.

“That’s the wrong restaurant, Jongin. This way.”

“No appreciation for your servant, tsk tsk.”

They are the first there, and the place is completely empty, for it is reserved just for them. The place is exactly the same with only the pictures on the walls getting thicker and thicker. Mrs. Park fawns over him, of course, coming running to take him in her short arms as soon as he steps inside.

Jongin just wanders off to stare at everything until Chanyeol and Tiffany burst through the door. She is dressed in sneakers and loose jeans and a very comfy tee. Nobody would think that she is the CEO of some big shot company that she is.

Mrs. Park does not let go of Baekhyeon even as the couple beelines to receive love from Mrs. Park as well. She swats Chanyeol away. “I get to see you nearly every day.”

Chanyeol wipes a fake tear.

Baekhyeon remembers that he let Mrs. Park braid his hair when he was young, for Yura never allowed it, nor Chanyeol, but he gladly did. Now she offers to do it again, because Baekhyeon has enogh hair to do so.

So Mrs. Park sits behind him doing the work while Tiffany and Jongin super bond with one another. Chanyeol and Baekhyeon stare at them with unadulterated jealousy until they decorously begin pouring each other soju shots, throwing them up on an empty stomach. Jongin and Tiffany are so animated in their discussion that they start shouting at each other. They are both kind of squealing, a million pop culture references spewing out from their mouths, rapid fire. Mrs. Park unscrupulously coos at them.

Baekhyeon and Chanyeol clink another round.

The meal is hearty when it comes. Again, Tiffany and Jongin are too giddy to touch any of the food. That is until Chanyeol cannot take it anymore and spoons something into her mouth to shut her up. Then he tries to smooth it over by making a kissy face. Baekhyeon practically sees her falling for Chanyeol all over again.

“You didn’t stand a single damn chance,” Baekhyeon says to Jongin. Jongin shrugs, good naturedly, and begins pilfering goods off the plates. He cannot find his glass, so he takes Baekhyeon’s.

It is not his birthday really, that will be on a Tuesday, but there is no other time to do this other than now. They attempt to sing him happy birthday. Baekhyeon refuses- his sensitive ears will curdle from the sound, but they do it anyway, including the Parks until Baekhyeon shatters in a puddle of winces.

Jongin actually drinks soju, little sip by little sip from Baekhyeon’s glass, searching each time to wash the taste off. He just steals things off Baekhyeon’s plate, which he does not even know what it is for he was already drunk by the time the food had arrived. Right now there is a buzzed Jongin next to him and a clingy Tiffany all over Chanyeol.
Soon, or maybe late, Zitao comes too.

Given that Baekhyeon is inebriated too, off meds for it, his mouth still sweet from the cake, he clings to the newcomer, to Zitao instead of maybe leaning too much into Jongin. He might do stuff he will regret later, like kiss the living daylight out of him, given he has no filter whatsoever now, and Jongin kind of has dressed up and his shirt fits him so well, and his hair is combed away from his face, up into a mess that is weighted by some wax that smells like the ocean and tsunamis and Baekhyeon never wanted to lick someone so much in his entire life.

“My Knight,” he says, and just about falls into Zitao. He is caught in an amazingly strong hold, of course, and Baekhyeon just rests there, translating the nonsense Chanyeol is sprouting to him. He makes up most of the stuff; it is not like he understands it himself. Tiffany has dozed off, sprawled on the benches of a booth, pillows under her neck. Chanyeol stares at her all star-struck; even with saliva dripping from her mouth into her hair that is crusting up.

Jongin is suddenly bent over him, but focusing on Zitao, trying to get him to drink. He employs a million methods, but Zitao will not budge. All he does is arrange Baekhyeon’s limbs away from Jongin because he is unstable on his feet and he seems terribly prone to falling into Baekhyeon, dead weight, and suffocating his client.

This is when a yawning Mrs. Park throws them out of the restaurant and into their respective beds.

Outside, it is nearly three am, and Chanyeol comes forward and plants the wettest, biggest kiss in the middle of Baekhyeon’s forehead. “I love you,” he says in English, a smudge of doenjang at the corner of his mouth, smiling his crazy, adorable smile. His eyes are too drunk to pick up the motion, so just one curves and the other remaining limp. Tiffany stumbles into him, and comes in front of Baekhyeon and tugs at his little braided top knot and screams “Happy Birthday!” in his face, leaving Baekhyeon utterly surprised at her lungpower. Then they are already stumbling in the opposite direction, ands thrown in the air and waving.

“I love you too!” Baekhyeon hollers after them, feeble but not less true, then he promptly bends down to throw up.

“Oh my fucking God, this place is huge,” Jongin exclaims after Baekhyeon turns on the lights. He cannot coordinate himself, so he turns on all of them. It probably looks like the top of the building is on fire.

Jongin gasps, once more, and then Baekhyeon feels the vibration of him running on liquefied legs through the floorboards. He gapes at the piano. It is a lot different from the one they have in Bucheon- somehow, it is bigger, and a part of its components are made out of crystal. It is blinding in the abundance of light.

“We didn’t have the lesson today,” Jongin says, gracelessly dropping himself onto the bench. He sways for a bit, winded. Baekhyeon contemplates him and nearly falls backwards from the gust of happiness he gets at seeing Jongin’s excited smile combined with the jump of alcohol in his bloodstream. Zitao is behind to catch him, a calm Sir being whispered in his ear, and then he is being manhandled in one of the armchairs near the centre of the main room. Baekhyeon sinks into the leather. He has always liked these, it really feels like he is dissolving into them and he has no bones and no inhibitions.

He watches Jongin move his greasy fingers all over the keyboard. If it was anyone else he would be irked, but it is Jongin, so he finds it positively endearing. Zitao puts a glass of water in his hand, so cold that he shrieks, a high burst that holds for a second. Baekhyeon is drunk, mush-minded, but still has enough collectedness to say, “You have one too, Zitao.”

Baekhyeon does try his best to conduct a lesson. It does not really work; his tongue keeps tumbling into random giggles. He does not even know what to give him anymore, so he just dictates a Debussy something, because it is a thing that can come to his mind without much effort. Thirty notes later, Jongin is transitioning into something foreign- “This Debussy dude must be a dramatic douche,” Jongin mutters- and Baekhyeon is confused, but he can at least distinguish that Jongin is failing in his effort.

Baekhyeon tries to lift himself on his own from the puddle he has become. Then he whines and lifts his hand to hook onto Zitao. He is not any softer than a goddamn wall. He climbs to his feet and lugs himself to the piano, sitting his ass next to Jongin’s. He plays the song Jongin tried to.

“I did it better than you,” Jongin says, and he breathes into Baekhyeon’s face, all stingy and close. Baekhyeon saw his tongue hitting his teeth with each consonant.

“That’s because I do not know this song. I was just weeding out your mess,” he slurs, mopey.

“No way.” His fist drops on the keys and Baekhyeon winces. “No fucking way you do not know the Pororo theme song.”

“But I uh…I know Brahms instead? And Brahms is better than Pororo?”

“No fucking way.”

Baekhyeon groans. “You insult Debussy, go ahead, he’s a looser, but Brahms is my bro, bloody hell, Jongin.” He parts his fingers and jabs at Jongin, sinking the tips through his ribs and his tummy and his chest and Jongin squeals, making to defend himself until he just about falls off the bench.

Zitao catches him.

“Traitor,” Baekhyeon seethes to his bodyguard.

“Hey, wanna fight? Heard you’re a mega warrior of some kind. Let’s duel,” Jongin mumbles into Zitao’s stomach. He lifts, wavers, and looks up at Zitao all luscious and puppy eyed. He tugs the sleeve of his shirt and flexes, muscles swelling. Baekhyeon can hear Jongin’s teeth scraping together from the effort.

Zitao just stares at him, straightens him in a position that he cannot fall from, and lifts the sleeve of his shirt and flexes too. The material would have torn had he not removed it.

Jongin’s eyes bug out. “Yeah okay, no thank you, I have three children to provide for. Please don’t hurt me.” He lifts his palms on either side of his face, advocating peace.

The amazing thing that happens is that Zitao bursts into peals of laughter and his eyes crinkle and it is a sound so high and so tuneful. Baekhyeon gapes, because this is the first time he has seen the man laugh. All these years, the most he has gotten were a few shy chuckles hidden behind his hand ending with a cleared throat and an I’m sorry, sir.

“Jongin!” he exclaims, ploughing into him and taking him down into the cushions of the couch. “You’re awesome!”

“What,” he grunts from under Baekhyeon, “What did I do?” He does not wiggle at all, relenting.

Zitao’s laughter subsides to short chuckles. Baekhyeon looks up at him, lean and toned and yeah, Baekhyeon thinks he would have gone a bit hetero if he had a bodyguard who didn’t look like this.

“Just being you,” Baekhyeon finally answers, sliding off him. Jongin yawns, cheek smutched on the leather. This is why he does not move, he is half asleep already. He yawns again, and now Baekhyeon catches it too and does it repeatedly until his jaw just about dislodges.

“We look stupid,” he says. Then he licks his lips and gets up, and bumbles around.

“This place is huge. I can’t believe you would come to live in my matchbox when you have this, but holy shit why is it so huge? I think I’m lost, someone send the special forces- Ah- Oh, found it!” then a hop, and a pleased groan. Jongin has just fallen into his bed.

“You can crash here,” he tells Zitao as he picks himself up and goes after Jongin.

Baekhyeon stumbles there, seeing only the light getting in from the living, Jongin among the plain, fluffy white on his bed, wiggling like a kitten. “C’mmere, hyeong,” he mumbles, and Baekhyeon finds himself walking without hesitation, toeing his socks off and tripping in the process, but then he is crashing into fluff next to Jongin, warm and serene.

“Hyeong?” he hears, spoken into a pillow after a while.

“Mm? Do not say happy birthday. It’s not today.”

“No no.”

“Then?”

A rustle, then the words come clean, dew on Baekhyeon’s face. “I’m really happy right now.”

“Me too,” Baekhyeon manages before going unconscious.

Baekhyeon is dressed plainly, his face covered by a mask, his hair down. Some people still follow him around, update the tabloids.

The woman across from him does indeed wear a beautiful red skirt, lips just as red, her ponytail swishing behind her with each motion of her head as she reads over the documents in front of her. Baekhyeon takes her in with deliberation, and he thinks, maybe he could have loved sooner if only he was normal, if only his preference followed biological rationale.

She recites every item listed there, all his terrains, cars, accounts, buildings, stocks, intellectual proprieties, the rights to his whole music collection. He has a few people to distribute this to, a portion of each for everyone.
At the end, after everything is settled and she can wipe a bit of the professional veneer off, she asks, “How come you want to do your will so early?” She smiles, to placate the noisiness, and the edges of her lips dip into maroon.

“Just in case,” Baekhyeon replies. He takes it as a good thing- his deterioration is not visible. Then he picks up a piece of rice cake from the little plate next to his cup, and finds that he cannot swallow, for a burn soars up his oesophagus and pools into his mouth.

Jongin is nowhere to be found when he comes back. He was still asleep when Baekhyeon left.

Zitao comes from the kitchen, holding a paper square. “Sir,” he says, handing it to him.

I went shopping! Baekhyeon reads the scratch. It is such a Jongin thing to do, to leave a note on paper rather than a text. He does not know why he puts it in his pocket, considers it something precious.

Kyeongsu is out of the country, but at twelve on the dot he receives an oh, you just got older hahaha, sucks to be you His inbox and his social media accounts are bursting too.

Jongin is sneaking up on him, jumping in his face with a “Happy birthday, hyeong!!” and holding up a present. Tickets to four stand up comedies, all in the same night.

Baekhyeon looks at the offering, already imagining how sore his abdominals will be after such a marathon. “I might not survive this,” he says, grinning, taking the items.

“It’s incredibly hard to pick a present for rich people. You better like it,” Jongin utters, lordly.

Baekhyeon’s toe pokes through the hole in his sock. They are Jongin’s. They got mixed up in the washing machine. “I am filthy rich. Thank you for reminding me.”

That morning, when Baekhyeon’s tummy is indeed sore from all the laughing and they are incredibly hungover, he calls his mom and asks her to come help them fix the mess of haejangguk they were attempting. There are splinters of bones all over the kitchen. Two obliterated heads of cabbage.

She comes in a heartbeat, hugging him at the doorstep while she stamps kisses all over his face. Baekhyeon begins whining, trying to pull away, but his mother is having none of this. “Shush, I made this face; I have every right to love it.” She proceeds to hug him again, to wish him a happy birthday. She does not hesitate to take Jongin in her embrace too, who has been watching them fondly from the corner. “Wow, you’re gorgeous,” she says, unabashed, looking him up and down. Well, Baekhyeon must have taken after someone. Then she regards her son. “Careful with him, he’ll steal all your ladies.”

“Thanks, mom,” he sighs.

“You could’ve ordered,” she says with a laugh as she enters the kitchen, taking in the disaster.

Jongin and Baekhyeon look at each other, then, “We’re not that low,” they say in unison.

“What is this supposed to be?” Jongin asks.

It takes Baekhyeon a while to discern from where in the house his voice is coming. He finds him on the second try.

“Oh, that’s-” Baekhyeon’s words die in his throat. Jongin has a lollipop in his mouth, blue, his hair in a tiny ponytail at the crest of his head. He is staring at the painting Wu Yifan left on his wall.

Jongin takes the lollipop out of his mouth. He frowns. “You were saying? I really can’t tell.”

That’s me, Baekhyeon wanted to say.

Maybe it was, before, but now Baekhyeon feels truly happy, feels that there is more to him than his illness.

“I have no idea either actually.”

Jongin closes in, finger tracing lightly a thick stroke of paint. “It kinda looks like mould.” His nail scratches the layer. The dent springs back once the pressure is gone. “Anyway, time to go,” he suddenly says, lifting. He thrusts his lollipop into Baekhyeon’s mouth. “This is good stuff.”

Then he is winking and taking Baekhyeon by his elbow towards the door.

He catches Jongin staring at him as he plays, intimate, gaze more than focused, passed over into the realm of hazy. His fingers are moving, but his gaze pins on Baekhyeon, dense.

Then at nights, either after a piano lesson or a combat one, Baekhyeon come to him, at first fearful, abashed, but now with confidence, with playfulness drumming the syringe on the vial.

Jongin will drop whatever it is that he is doing and approach him, lay him down on the bed, the couch, the table, lift Baekhyeon’s shirt and tickle him just a bit, just until Baekhyeon lets out a giggle. The smell of alcohol will wing in the air; will feel cold on his skin. Jongin’s smile in the sepia glow, and finally the sting, infinitesimal compared to the strife inside him, and it is assuring, to know that relief is to come. Jongin will tap the area a few times, sometimes will blow over it, and then he will be gone, but not far. Never far.

A month later and Baekhyeon is in the kitchen, drinking some tea, when Jongin bursts through the door. He is sucked on the neck, lips puffy. He is so beautiful, a brume to him, a changed Jongin, like the Kai he aims to be through his writing.

The situation is oddly familiar, but now Baekhyeon cannot help but wonder if he is pretty enough for Jongin, if he is worthy of being in his eyes.

“How’s the hole in my chest?” Jongin asks, and he is twitchy, different, slightly wild. His shoe flies into the wall, leaving an imprint next to the old one.

He actually opens his shirt, button by button, until it reveals a strip of smooth skin along his middle. Then he comes over, with hesitance, and determination, hand going through the gelled mess that is his hair, strands softened at the tips. Baekhyeon searches him for signs of inebriation, for something to tell him that he is not entirely focused, but then the same hands come gently and land on his shoulders. Then higher, fitting over his nape and along his jaw. Baekhyeon is in his arms, and tucks him right under his chin, one hand dropping to his hip. “Just you now,” he replies himself, and he is being held so tight that Baekhyeon is sorry for being so frail, for being nothing but an already broken glass doll that’s barely held together by cheap glue. “No more hole. Just you.”

He is slightly panting, and Baekhyeon actually hears the beating of his heart, something jumpy, insistent. The smell of his is sweat mixes with cologne and Baekhyeon’s shower gel because he does not bother buying for himself anymore.

“Do you even know what you’re talking about?” He inquires there.

Jongin moves a bit, bending, so his head fits in the juncture of Baekhyeon’s. His palms run down his torso until they wind around his waist, warm and strong, just like he holds onto him on the motorcycle, seeking, needing safety. He breathes there and it is Baekhyeon the one shuddering. “You just feel so good. Everything about you just-.” Baekhyeon’s arms are limp by his sides, and now it would be easy to grab. “Baekhyeon,” and it is a first that Jongin addresses him by his name.

“I’m sorry,” Baekhyeon says, because this is all he keeps thinking about, all that loops in his mind, and he cannot afford to regret unsaid things anymore. He does not know what he is apologising for. Maybe for making Jongin feel this way, when there is no time for that sentiment to culminate. Maybe it is for something else entirely. For himself.

Jongin stays there, just as warm, until he freezes, the locking of his arms turning cold without even moving. He backs away, still touching Baekhyeon, and he is wearing a smile, his lips at it without his will. “Better than silence. Because silence means no.”

“I’m a bit more mannered than a cake,” Baekhyeon says, and it cracks halfway. He smiles too, just his mouth following Jongin’s.

He lets go of him, lingering slides, and then pads into his room. The door closes.

There are things to think about, but that just seems so exhausting at the moment.

So Baekhyeon just rings up Chanyeol, and coerces him into playing DotA with him. There is not a game Chanyeol is good at, but Baekhyeon lets him win, believably so. Then he gets sleepy, and no matter how much he tries to play badly, it cannot get to Chanyeol’s level.

“I’m useless,” Chanyeol mutters. He takes it as a personal offence to be so bad at this.

“Indeed, my ego can only take so much fluffing.”

Chanyeol groans, a defeated little rumble that carries along with the static. “I have no retort to that.”

“I’ll allow you to go to sleep now then,” he offers, shuffling. He handles the tangled comforter from under him, rolling it and hopping his feet over the mound. Stretching out feels good to his bawling insides.

“Was I any good in taking your mind off the matter? Whatever that is.”

Chanyeol just knows, and Baekhyeon feels the fuzziness of belonging. “You were pretty good.”

“I’ll stay more if- ” The high note of a raising yawn and the rush of air afterward severs his words.

Baekhyeon chuckles. “Get your ass to bed, Chanyeol. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Baekhyeon cannot sleep, for his mind keeps screaming that this was not part of the plan. Like his sickness, Jongin was not part of the plan.

The next morning the door is open, like it should be. Mild tension arises between them. Perchance, Jongin chooses to forget about it, perchance he did not know what he was saying. It is not awkward, just a bit more tender, a skirting to their proximity.

They are on the couch, a few days later, and Jongin is snuggles too close, side to side with him, finally breaking the last remains unease, they watch some western supernatural series. It is nice to have him there- he has missed it. Baekhyeon basks into it.

“Is it because I’m sick?” he asks in a weird lull in the story. Jongin’s hand twitches a bit on his knee, a soft cupping. Baekhyeon wants to take the hand, because right now it hurts, but he is afraid of putting it next to Jongin’s, to see how much of the bone is poking through the skin now. “What if I was not?” He dares to look at Jongin’s lips, the cluster of mini pimples at the corners, and the deep cherry from the dry lines cutting through them.

“You think it’s pity.” Jongin says, and it is slightly accusatory, aggravated even. Baekhyeon’s face twists, and a grimace adorns Jongin’s visage. “I just see you. That disease is not part of what I see, is not part of what I can’t stop thinking about.” Then it is Jongin who actually takes his hand, pretty and warm and soft now, because he is using the same creams Baekhyeon does. “You didn’t push me away last night.”

This time, it is hopeful, a blinking and then the fear, the possibility of being rejected again. Baekhyeon does not know how obvious he has been, how much of his heart he has shown Jongin already, but Jongin is nothing if not perceptive. He is a brave man.

“Why must you be so wise?” Baekhyeon asks. He lifts his thigh, so they are not touching anywhere anymore, and also takes his hand away.

The tragedy of the movie comes to an end in front of his eyes, and it is so numb now, everything.

Baekhyeon has swallows his pills and has Jongin give him a shot before they both go to the café.

It is busier day than usual, the winds are getting cold, and people seek refuge indoors.

Today, Baekhyeon is working the tables. Jongin is behind the counter, making a bit of a show of his drink mixing. Baekhyeon steals looks at him with every chance he gets.

There is no prelude, just the hit of a fever out of nowhere, eyes rolling in his head, foot one in front of the other until they both just give out on him and he tumbles to the floor along with the tray.

He ends up in the hospital, pierced full of needles. At fault is his medication, rather than a sudden worsening of the cancer, the nurse informs him. It is another nurse, terribly young, and Baekhyeon’s first words are to discourage her from telling anyone what is wrong with him.

On the news, he appears. “A fallen angel,” Baekhyeon repeats the lines on the screen. They do not know what is wrong, but there are pictures and some shaky videos of him in the café, then as he is taken by the ambulance. He wants to shout, but his breathing is weak. “Who pushed me over the rim of heaven though?” he mutters instead. In reply, his heart monitor grants him another beat. How generous.

He keeps looking at the reportage, and he keeps muttering, and he thinks, all these words are things Jongin would say in a much more interesting fashion.

He gets his phone back from the nurse. There are texts from Jongin that mention nothing about the incident. In place, there are a few pictures of some figurines he has made out of fondant in the back of the kitchen. Baekhyeon replies with stickers and salivating bears. Jongin will be at peace with such a reply.

Then there is one from Kyeongsu too. You had one job, and that was to keep yourself alive. Baekhyeon can already imagine his angry brows gathering.

Replying to his mother and father is hard, draining, something about tiredness and the beginning of a cold, the medicine for it.

Nothing from Chanyeol. Baekhyeon sends one. Don’t u miss Bucheon a little?

The doctor berates Baekhyeon with questions. Why is he refusing hospitalization, when his state is so bad, the brimming end of stage two, why has he not started the real treatment?

He is almost angry, his tone grave, earnest, his face direly wrought.

“The treatment,” Baekhyeon snaps, because he has drilled this into his mind, “Is a billion surgeries. I’d be living in the operation room.” He has seen them. Tiny growths all over his viscera, clumped, some of them like soap bubbles, others gathered like grapes. They are everywhere, rebellious pieces of himself that suck on all the life. He thinks of how they will need to be scraped off with a knife, dissected like a vanilla pod, except he will be left a bleeding mess, marinating in the rotten scents of spoilage. Everything inside of him will have to be replaced- he will become a puzzle made out of tens of cadavers.

“It’s so beautiful outside these days,” Baekhyeon continues when the doctor’s face wrings. “And I’ve got a pupil to tend to.”

Chanyeol arrives with Zitao in tow. Baekhyeon begins unbuttoning the issued clothes the moment the two giants come in sight. He does not meet his eyes as he just grabs the big paper bag in his hold. He takes the garments out- Chanyeol has always known his exact measurements, and turns to Zitao

He only wears this expression when Baekhyeon is in absolute harm, vigilant and hard, pupils fluttering, too attentive. “Rip these for me?” Baekhyeon asks, gesturing to the tags left on the clothes. Zitao nods, no yes sir, and he just takes them, robotically, and rips them with ease. “I still don’t know how you do this,” he mutters. The tags were bind with ropes and thick plastic, and he did not even blink.

While he dresses, Chanyeol disappears. As he bends to tie his shoes, he sees Chanyeol in a corner, talking to the doctor.

Zitao has the keys of the car, so they walk out without Chanyeol. Zitao shelters him from the few reporters waiting for him outside, screaming questions, the roar of shutters deafening.

They wait for him there. On the way, he gives the directions to Zitao rather than have the GPS talk. He feels like hearing his voice. Chanyeol remains quiet in the back.

When they are in front of the building and Baekhyeon gets out of the car, slower, for the tightness on his insides cuts through. He opens Chanyeol’s door.

Chanyeol looks at him in disappointment. Baekhyeon touches his face, like that one time when he was twenty, wanted to try love, and Chanyeol would not stop grinning at him. He had closed in, ready to play, lips puckered. Chanyeol had turned away.

Now it is the same kind of disappointment- at himself, at the unfairness of this all, at all the pain he can do nothing about.

“I’ll stay,” he says, so determined. “I don’t trust you living only with this kid.”

Kid. Baekhyeon winces with his own disappointment.

“He’s twenty-six. Where was I at twenty-six? Do you remember?”

He had had his first world tour, and it took half a year. The president himself has sent him a distinction afterwards. Two albums and an orchestra of seventy people all for himself. He had done a bunch of CFs, his face all over the billboards.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol finally admits, expression softening under Baekhyeon’s fingers. “I barely got to see you then.”

“He’s not a kid.” The hand drops. His skin is the slightest bit rough, and his clothes are not ironed.

Chanyeol nods, not entirely convinced. “At least stop working at the café?”

At this, Baekhyeon laughs. “Then what should I do? Keep pickling at home? I like it there. I get to see people; get to hear what they are up to. And I get at least three Aeris per day to keep my ego inflated.”

Chanyeol mouth moves, his lips rubbing together, and he just takes Baekhyeon up by the middle and lifts him off the ground, spinning him around a few times. He groans then, trying to clear up, and then he puts Baekhyeon down, eyes bunching from his smile. “Don’t neglect me though. You haven’t rambled about everything to me these days. Bucheon has plenty of pebbles for me to hear about.”

“Are you jealous of the pebbles now?” Baekhyeon scoffs.

“Of course.”

Baekhyeon waves to Zitao, who is still in the car, and he lets Chanyeol spin him one more time before he disappears into the building, carrying with him the pleasant giddiness Chanyeol had given him.

“Have you done your homework?” Baekhyeon hollers from the door, all grins, and Jongin, who is sprawled on the floor, startles and drops the book he is holding on his face. He bolts immediately to the piano bench, straightening.

“I was doing it,” he lies, and his profile relies the dimple on his face as he smiles.

As Baekhyeon washes off the smell of the hospital, he hears the better and better coordination of Jongin’s playing. When he is done, a bit of water still dripping from his hair, he walks back in the living room and listens to Jongin, correcting here and there. His mistakes are lessening considerably.

After the last note, Jongin squints at him, as if awakened, the first time they meet gazes, look at each other since two days ago when he collapsed. He looks lower and mutters, “These are my pants.”

Baekhyeon stares at himself in shock, but Jongin has already sprung from the bench and is coming for him.

He runs Baekhyeon around the house to get them back, and Baekhyeon cannot even run properly for these are indeed too long. He keeps stepping on the hems as tries to outrun Jongin’s long strides. His legs are shorter, and there is some sedative residue in his bloodstream, so the chase ends soon with him toppling on the side of his bed, at the very edge, as Jongin nearly falls on top of him. He manages to hold himself on one arm before he crushes Baekhyeon.

His face is close, eyes scrunched and his lips tugged down, full and pink. He has a palm on Baekhyeon’s hip, thumb under the elastic of the band, lifting, and then Baekhyeon wiggles away, still giggling and knocking onto Jongin’s supporting arm, who then falls onto him. He lips brush by Baekhyeon’s cheek, the bottom one twisting, so the faintest trail of moisture is left there. In a beat, he is rolling on the other side of Baekhyeon.

“Keep them,” Jongin sighs in the end. They just look at the ceiling, breathing hard until it evens out and nothing else can be heard. Then. “Missed you.”

Baekhyeon does not even think of holding his tongue. “Missed you, too.”

Jongin chuckles and rolls one more time, but the bed is smaller than his own so he miscalculates and just falls with a thud to the floor. “I intended to do that,” comes the groan, and then they remain like this, giggling at nothing until a stomach grumbles.

At home, Sehun comes and goes a few times. He seems like a ghost more often, his footfalls so quiet. He leaves boxes of tea for Jongin on the counter; this is the only clue he has of Sehun coming over.

Baekhyeon keeps working, keeps going to the café, but only behind the cash register. Waitering is too demanding on the body, but his mouth works just fine. Ringing people up is easy.

They walk home together, pleased by the evening air, or they take the motorcycle and round the city a few times, then come home abuzz, Jongin with too much enthusiasm and fight over who gets the piano.

On the days Jongin finishes a chapter, Baekhyeon throws a concert just for him. His fingers slip, mess up as the fog of the dosage of painkillers takes over.

Yet Jongin still pretends to throw roses at him, and clap like there is no tomorrow.

Jongin has to listen to Baekhyeon talk to his parents, pretend to be okay, tell how well he has eaten, how nice it is to live in a small home, live like a mere mortal for once. He makes faces in front of Baekhyeon, incredibly silly, so a bit of merriment will transfer into Baekhyeon’s voice and over the phone to his parents.

Under the blankets, Baekhyeon’s arms snake around his stomach. There are butterflies here, hopping from tumour to tumour, like a bustling meadow in an abandoned heaven.

Baekhyeon cannot sleep. He has been in the bathroom for hours looking at himself in the white glow of the neon. His hair is an overgrown mess, purple under his slightly sunken eyes. His skin has a yellow tinge, dark tawny in the declivity of his cheeks, pooling thickly in the folds of his lids. The shadow of stubble is irregular, patchy, a rim of grey around his face.

He hears footsteps, short and many, and then Jongin is in the doorway, dazed, his legs held together as he hinges at the hips. He is very close to peeing his pants, Baekhyeon deduces blandly.

Baekhyeon looks back in the mirror. A part of Jongin fits in the frame. He lifts his hair, twisting it atop of his head, so all the crisp edges are visible. Just the shell of him. “I’m not pretty anymore,” he grins then, skin unwillingly lagging along, tiny cute teeth peeking over thinned lips. “Right, Jongin?”

He watches the squeeze of Jongin’s face. For a fraction, it resembles pain, grime resurfacing like scum, gruesome over his usual radiance.

“No,” Jongin simply says, clasping him within his gaze, gentle but searing.

Baekhyeon cannot see anything besides Jongin’s chest then, cannot feel anything beside the pressing dandle of his fingers on either side of him as he hugs him so tight- as tight as the day Baekhyeon started dying, while repeating in his ear that “No, Baekhyeon, you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”- and it feels too much like living this time around.

Baekhyeon still relishes in the stench of gasoline, still climbs his motorcycle at least every other day. It is past the point of him wondering what if he is hit, if he lets himself get wrapped around a tree, if he drives off a cliff. It will be sooner, less painful to go like this. It will make the news; it will be spectacular, gather less pity, but will still sell. They will say Baekhyeon changed, became a wrongdoer; that he gave up on music, gave up on himself. Then they will say they will never forget him, and actually forget him three months later, when the next celebrity has a dating scandal. For going out like that will never have enough of a bang, will never have his name spoken by the incoming generations.

Now Baekhyeon speeds across the street with only one thing in mind: to get Jongin that brand of cup ramen he keeps whining for. Nothing else besides this, no alternative endings, no alternative agonies, just a yearning to see Jongin satisfied.

Jongin manages to play the song that made him famous, a thing Baekhyeon slaved over for nearly half a decade. It is not perfect, but Jongin is so amazed at what he accomplishes that his face goes blank.
He desperately searches for Baekhyeon reaction, approval, anything, and the only thing Baekhyeon thinks will ever suffice is kissing him. There is no need for any other catalyst, for something grander to finally break him and take what he has been longing for for so long.

So he just goes for it, fitting his lips against Jongin’s, brief and close-mouthed, and it is nothing if not amazing. Just from this, from tasting the plushness of them he feels relief, bliss washing over him. He will be content with this, for the short rest of his life. He will.

Baekhyeon wants to pull away, just to see Jongin’s reaction-likely disgust, for maybe he really has no idea what he was talking about that night- but he cannot, because it is Jongin the one who moans after the touch is broken, something high and glorious as he yanks Baekhyeon back in. Baekhyeon just takes everything he is given, Jongin’s curiosity too, pushing at him until he is pressed over the keys and panting into his mouth. Greediness consumes him- he wants this joy to spill over, so he sucks on everything he can get, and he is sorry, so sorry for not being up to standard, to not being enough, and on the brink of being gone. Jongin clutches at him like he wants him too, like he cannot even live without Baekhyeon’s touch, legs parted and tight around Baekhyeon, his mouth so insistent, encompassing, searching for whatever warmth is left within him.

They part, for a moment, and this is an imagery he has seen before, a debauched Jongin, but never a wrecked Jongin, pliant and molten and revived. “Is this when the credits roll?” Jongin asks, and as his lips move, he cannot seem to stop following Baekhyeon’s mouth, for the question to be kissed into him too.

It is such a weird question, and then there is a steeling to Jongin’s eyes, under the heavy lidding. More than anything, he is protecting himself. Maybe Baekhyeon has come across as slightly evasive. “No. I want you.”

Jongin’s smile turns timid, and it is so full from Baekhyeon. He pulls a bit away, cheeks glowing. The movement presses a few keys too, loud and ugly. “Since when?”

“Smug fucker,” Baekhyeon just breathes. His hand does not fall from Jongin’s hair, and he tugs, Jongin’s chin lifting. “The first day I saw you. I wanted you from that day.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth ticks. “It was one of the most miserable days of my life. And I still managed to charm you?”

Baekhyeon does not reply, his hand just tightens, then smooths over his nape, and he has touched Jongin like this before, but now he can actually delve into it, can revel into the deep meaning of it. Jongin chuckles, perhaps from the tickles, or from the mild rumble of Baekhyeon’s chest in response. “This means you’ve bottled up a lot of frustration.”

His hands brace on his hips, right above the waistband, his palms cupping the protrusion of his hip bones.

“It would’ve helped if you closed that damn door some times.” He pushes into the hold, colliding with the inside of his thighs, the warm plush along them. He could just sink and now Jongin will allow it, will let him be his and this thought alone is dizzying.

“Ah,” Jongin just says, and his lids drop again, maybe too sultry, maybe a fluttering of pleasure as their crotches align, slide together. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Then Jongin is all over his mouth again, keen and just too energetic, a mess of too many desires, and Baekhyeon is pretty sure he has never kissed anyone like this, wanted them so much that he thinks he will crash and burn the moment these lips part away from his.

Baekhyeon has known what loving Jongin feels like for a long while- a season of each has passed, a celebration of each. He has had all this time to imagine what it would be like if it was reciprocated, has fantasized about being the object of Jongin’s affection, his reason for felicity.

What he could not imagine was being someone Jongin could lean on. He could not imagine himself promising Jongin that he will be there when he will need him, that he will be stronger than him.

When his reverie took this turn, he told himself that this is not a possibility, that Jongin would never, could never see him like that- no need to dwell into it.

Now, Baekhyeon does his best to not regret anything, not look back, for he is already suffocating enough as it is.

He expects Jongin to change his mind any time-to push him away now that he knows what touching Baekhyeon feels like, now that the novelty wore off.

But he does not.

In the morning, he wakes to Jongin having a bare leg thrown over his thighs, an arm over his chest. Jongin comes to consciousness slowly, his fingers crawling up Baekhyeon’s neck and rubbing soft circles there until Baekhyeon turns to face him. He is puffy, as usual, and Baekhyeon grins.

“Come closer,” Jongin says, husky and commanding. “Haven’t felt you today. Needa feel you.”

He babbles nonsense, not roused enough for more courtesy. Baekhyeon is amazed every time by the way Jongin asks for him, how he is the first thing to come to his mind, a primary need that manifests itself before his senses are functioning.

“That sounds a little creepy,” Baekhyeon mutters, but he is dragging closer, just as needy.

“Mhm,” he hums, affirmative, snatching Baekhyeon for himself. “I’m definitely creepy. Can’t stop thinking about you. That’s creepy as fuck.”

Baekhyeon likes the smell of Jongin’s skin when it is clean and without any traces of cologne and aftershave. He noses into it, comfortably nestling in the bent of Jongin’s body around him.

“I’m creepy too, then,” he says. Jongin twitches from the tickle of his breath over his neck. He sees the ruins of a hickey somewhere there.

Jongin adjusts his position, so he is nuzzling into Baekhyeon’s neck too. He is sensitive there, extremely so.

“We’re two of a kind then,” he whispers and sinks his teeth into the skin.

Baekhyeon accidentally knees him in the stomach. Then he has to spend the whole day making it up to him by having his mouth available for ravishing whenever Jongin feels like it.

Baekhyeon takes a picture of his pout and sends it to Chanyeol. The red of them is glaring, their puffiness too. Baekhyeon licks over them, and they are smooth, exfoliated.

Chanyeol sends a round-eyed emoticon and a string of question marks.

Baekhyeon laughs, the phone nearly slipping out of his grip. It is not from hilarity, but from sheer delight. He makes to type a reply when he feels drops falling on his shoulder and Jongin’s presence behind him. He plucks the phone away from Baekhyeon, and typed in a reply. He seems terribly pleased with himself once he hands it back.

The toll of happiness says the text. Baekhyeon is torn between snorting and melting. He does neither, merely turning to Jongin in quest for an explanation, but he gets distracted because-

“Are you wearing just a towel?” It is one of these tiny ones meant for anything but being tied around some splendid hips.

“Oh, you’re staring. It means it’s working. I am seducing you. You’re totally seduced. Look how damn seduced you are,” Jongin says, confidence faltering with each word. His palm encloses on the messy knot of his towel, and then he pivots on his heels and begins walking to his room, swaying his butt all the while.

Baekhyeon continues staring, obviously.

Jongin did that, he sends to Chanyeol. He has not stopped typing in a string of question marks every few minutes for the past hour. Baekhyeon is sure he has not stopped at the picture of his lips.

….with his fist?

….with his mouth answers Baekhyeon.

OMG

I know!!

OMG!!!

Baekhyeon starts laughing, bouncy and vibrant, turning around in his bed.

“That sounds great,” comes the shout from the other room, and Baekhyeon falls off the mattress straightaway, too blinded by his own peals.

Jongin has no story to write now, but he needs to create, to nourish his god complex, so he attempts to compose something. Baekhyeon shows his support by not saying a thing. His urge to correct Jongin is eating his soul.
But after Jongin presents the melody to him, something sounding as sarcastic as he is, Baekhyeon showers him with compliments and bouts of applause. Jongin smiles, entirely convinced and so proud. He knows how hard it is for Baekhyeon to lie when it comes to such things.

“Now,” Jongin begins, “I’ve been conditioned that whenever I play something right, I get a hot make out session on the piano.”

“I am the one at fault for this, aren’t I?” Baekhyeon says drily. He is not moving.

Jongin parts his legs, and he is wearing these little red shorts, and they ride up- and okay, Baekhyeon gives in.

Baekhyeon finds out what loving Jongin feels like, how to dwell into it, and have him available, have him be fixture of giggles.

He cannot contain all this happiness within himself- so much space is already taken by the cancer- so he sends pictures to Kyeongsu and Chanyeol and even Sehun of him and Jongin in various states of complete sappiness, over and over again, until all of them stop responding altogether.

When they see each other naked for the first time, Baekhyeon instantly blurts, “You’re fucking gorgeous,” like this is the only thought he can formulate in the presence of the gloriousness presented before him.

“You’re fucking gorgeous too.” Baekhyeon finally looks at his face, and he is- he is gaping. “Twirl for me,” he continues, somehow managing to say it without closing his mouth.

Baekhyeon does, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from Jongin, and shuffling his feet on the parquet. He has only turned a few degrees before Jongin groans and comes for him. “My whole body is jealous of my eyes right now. Lemme touch you.”

“Since when are you into guys?” Baekhyeon breathes, too surprised at the deftness Jongin roams him with. It may be the wrong time for this conversation, but Baekhyeon has to know.

“I’m not,” Jongin hums, and the patch of skin from his mouth melts back into the rest, reddened. “I’m into you. And you just happen to be a guy.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Baekhyeon feels Jongin’s smirk gliding under his navel, then his nose sliding lower, the tip of it grazing along Baekhyeon’s length where it pushes against the fabric of his underwear. It is made out of a sheer material, the texture rough and kindling.

Jongin’s mouth fits over the head, the moisture of hotness of it imbuing right through the barrier. Baekhyeon mewls before he is realizing, oversensitive. “This you mean?” Jongin says, breath still there but eyes up at Baekhyeon, his glance eaten raw by lust. “No. It doesn’t bother me the least.”

His fingers drag along Baekhyeon, up until his palm encases the shaft and his nails tickle the skin above the waistband. He tugs swiftly, Baekhyeon not even noticing the motion, before a kiss is being placed at the ridge of the corona, fleshy lips parting to encompass it. Baekhyeon seeks to fist his hands into something.

“Even if I’m not, please pretend I’m doing this right,” Jongin continues, and his focus oscillates from Baekhyeon’s face to his cock like he cannot decide which one he cannot get enough of. “I’ll do my damnedest.” His promise sinks into a caress along the head, tongue following the crawl of his lower lip before he lets it slide in, sucking, consuming.

Baekhyeon moans, crystalline, something way beyond bodily pleasure.

this story is continued.

part v