(no subject)
█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 1 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (WARNING: This chapter contains Adult Content)
█ genre: drama - romance
█ summary:
A touch here - a glance there. Secrets. The threads that join us to the people we love are brittle and tangled, but the knotted web we unravel to find the end of our string often lead us in unexpected places.
✫ ··· author's note:
This fic is my first ever attempt at something rather like smut. I wouldn't say it's descriptive, but it's... Sort of obvious what's going down.
Inspired by this song. Don't judge me. ; __ ; lol
In his head, he has always known how this will end. It was never destined to be a fairytale. There was never going to be fanfare or fireworks, and he was never going to get through it with his emotions unscathed. For years he's convinced himself that he is okay with it; that he is fine with just being near him, stealing glances or letting touches linger just a moment longer than necessary; that when the time comes, and his illusions and delusions are shattered by the inevitable, he will be prepared enough to pick himself up and move on.
He's a right fucking idiot.
As it is, Kim Kibum has no idea what he is doing. He knows he is back at the dorms, but he can't remember leaving the practise room, and how he has managed to find his way there in the encroaching cold typical of the last days of October, clad in little more than a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt is beyond even rational understanding. Logically he should've been shivering with the cold, or at least been able to feel the burn the chill in the air had no doubt left on his skin, but he does neither; there is a detached sort of numbness to him that he can neither fathom, nor explain.
He is also at a loss to explain why, rather than being as hasty and as desperate as he feels, that he is being so outwardly calm and deliberate as he strides past the door to their bedroom - he can hear muffled music coming from what he assumes is a laptop from the other side - and goes instead to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Not yet.
Turning to stare at himself in the mirror, he tries to be shocked at how static his expression is, but comes up short. Almost mechanically, he runs warm water from the sink over his hands, and snatches a facecloth from the stack of fresh linens behind the door. He soaks it and scrubs at his face with it, mopping up the sweat and dirt that had accumulated during choreography practise. He hadn't been at his best - his chest is still sore if he stretches too far, the muscles not entirely forgiving of their recent injuries - but he had still managed to make himself sticky with exertion, and that is the last thing he wants to be at this moment. He pulls off his shirt, leaving it in a heap beside the bathtub, and mops at his chest and shoulders. When he figures he's done - that it will have to do - he pulls his favourite lotion from the basket beside the sink and massages a dime-sized dollop into his face. He brushes his teeth thoroughly, making a point of scrubbing the surface of his tongue. Borrowing Taemin's brush, he smooths the waves out of his hair - he would prefer to straighten it again, but it somehow feels unnecessary, so he decides against it. Finished with his handywork, he looks at himself in the mirror again, picking out every detail of his face and weighing it against his expectations. Not perfect - not exactly as he imagined he'd look - but at least he doesn't look a mess. He rolls his shoulders, tilts his neck left and right, then gives his reflection a long, searching look. He isn't sure what he is expecting to find staring back at him, but with a small nod to himself, he lets himself back out into the hall.
He pauses at the door to the bedroom the five of them share. Behind it, music he can't name mutters on, oblivious to the shitstorm that is swirling in the atmosphere on the other side of the door. For the first time since he left the practise room, he takes a deep breath, holds it in a moment, then exhales it slowly and steeles himself for what he is about to do. It has ramifications - deep, lasting, and painful - but somewhere along the line the Almighty Key has made up his mind, and he is unable and unwilling to change it.
No more playing possum. No more stolen sideways looks. No more pussyfooting around the issues. There is no time left for playing games and make-believing that everything is normal, or that the feelings he has locked in his chest are brotherly or in any other way platonic in nature. This is his last chance, and he is going to take it. Onew, Minho and Taemin were still rehearsing their new choreography, and were due at the recording studio after that for more vocal tests. Key had been meant to be with them, but he had opted out, using the convenience of his lingering injury as an excuse to bow out early to rest. He had felt eyes on his back as he left, too warm not to be suspicious, but he hadn't turned around to find the source - that was no better than admitting it, screaming it aloud in the streets of Seoul for everyone to hear. Now, standing on one side of an invisible line, he's about to breach the separation between what he could and couldn't have, throw caution to the wind, and for once - just once - have a taste of what he really wanted. What he had wanted all along.
He puts his hand on the knob, hesitates once, then turns it and swings the door open.
Jonghyun is laying on Taemin's bed - they have swapped temporarily, since Jonghyun is less than able to climb into his own - propped up on a few pillows he has no doubt stolen from the other four bunks, with his laptop balanced on his thighs. The only light in the room comes from the glow of the monitor, and the small reading lamp clipped to the frame of the bunk above his head. The cast on his injured foot - overly precautionary, and a little melodramatic all things considered - is balanced carefully on the edge of the mattress, where it is firmest. He had been humming along with the music, but stops and looks up when he hears Key come in. He looks understandably confused, but smiles at him anyhow. “Playing hooky?”
“Yeah,” Key responds, heading over to his part of the closet and pulling out a fresh shirt for himself. He makes a point of taking his time in his selection - he knows instinctively that Jonghyun is staring at him. He chooses a loose scoop-necked tank top and tugs it over his head, making absolutely sure to curve his back just so as he raises his arms over his head; he lets the material bunch and pool on his hips, requiring him to shake it free and flash one last moment of skin before the fabric settles against his torso.
The room is quiet, and Key is suddenly aware that the tension is becoming tangible. Jonghyun must have been expecting something - he wasn't a complete idiot, and he definitely wasn't completely blind. It was like a school yard dare; who would be the first to break the silence. The first to acknowledge the need to speak. The first to break. Key lets it draw out, and knows he will hold out over Jonghyun. Unlike Key, Jonghyun is uncomfortable with too much silence, and they both know he'd never let it drag on.
They know each other so well. Too well. Not well enough.
“Was your chest bothering you again?”
Checkmate.
“A bit,” offers Key, moving as if he were going to his own bed to rest, but not sitting just yet, “Nothing too bad, but I didn't want to strain it. What about your foot?”
“Nothing to report,” Jonghyun motions to the ridiculous, boot-like cast, “This stupid cast is starting to bother me more than my ankle is. It feels weird.”
“Mm.”
More silence. Key waits, pretending to study the leather bangle around his left wrist as if it is the most interesting thing in the room. It's beginning to grow awkward between them, but it's essential that it does. He wants it to be palpable. He needs it that way. Across from him, he hears Jonghyun shift on the bed so he can put his laptop down on the floor beside him. Here it comes; this is it. Batter up.
“Key - ”
In a flash Key is on him, straddling his hips and pinning him in place not with his body, but with the implications of his posture, his position, and the emotion he finally lets shine through his face. Jonghyun's unfinished sentence hangs in the air, but he makes no effort to finish it, choosing instead to watch as Key struggles to keep himself in check as he hovers over him.
“Don't,” He says firmly, the waver he feared from his voice nearly non-existent as he speaks, “Just - don't.” The two of them lock eyes, and hold each other's gazes. Key searches Jonghyun's for something - anything - that he can get his bearings from. A glimpse of something catches his attention: a flash of softness to his eyes that is both foreign and familiar for all the right and wrong reasons. It is then that he is absolutely certain that he can ask, and that Jonghyun will offer it to him without the hesitation that would break Key's resolve. Relief floods him and he can feel again, and the heat of the man beneath him spreads across his thighs like a furnace. He gives in, leans over Jonghyun and buries his face in the space between his neck and his collarbone, and he fits there just so, like his face was designed with this very spot in mind.
“Please,” he pleads with the flesh of Jonghyun's neck, still grasping the lines that keep the floodgates to his tears closed and secure, though his grip is weakening with each passing heartbeat. His voice is strained, hoarse, and he balls his hands to fists in the fabric of Jonghyun's ratty old sweatshirt. “Please, Jjong. I need this.”
There is a moment of terror when he is certain he has failed - that everything is ruined, and he'll have nothing to show for the shattered fragments of his heart. He sobs only once, but refuses to allow his tears to fall as Jonghyun's arms circle around him, drawing him closer, and warm, slightly chapped lips are suddenly on the skin behind his ear. The voice in his ear is low and rumbling, slightly uncertain, and leaves goosebumps across the back of his neck.
“Okay.”
··· ✫ ···
There is no fanfare, no fireworks to speak of; but there is heat. A euphoric, scorching warmth as they move in tandem, that builds as they do. Their mouths crash against each other like waves at sea in a storm, violent and beautiful and terrifying. Clothes lay scattered around the room like shrapnel, discarded with a vicious haste that neither of them can claim sole ownership of. Jonghyun tries to be gentle, but Key doesn't want romance - the very thought of it rips at his already battle-scarred heart, and he can't bear the thought of the emotion behind kind hands. He takes control, setting the standard for what he wants, and demanding it without mercy. Jonghyun cries out in shock and pleasure when Key's teeth find the meat of his shoulder and claim it for his own.
Just for tonight.
The breath from their mouths mingles and swells from the space between them, swaying strands of sweat-stringed hair into their eyes. The hands on Key's hips grip hard enough to bruise as they assist the rise and fall of their rhythm, and he prays that they do. Though blunted, Key's nails carve red-rimmed trenches in Jonghyun's chest and abdomen, blending in with the scattered half-moon bite marks and the spidery red welts of hickeys that already decorate the skin there, and for a moment he wonders if he can write his name with the welts - mark him forever, just a part of him. He doesn't dwell on the thought as Jonghyun moans his name beneath him and bucks upwards as Key moves down, and his vision prickles with spots of white at the sensation. He throws his head back, bracing himself against Jonghyun's chest with one hand, and with the base of the bunk above them with the other. His head has knocked against the wooden frame multiple times now with varying degrees of force, but neither of them has the will, nor the desire to adjust their positions. Instead, Key settles for
(hardermorepleasedon'tstopIloveyou)
a quiet, drawn-out moan; allows himself the freedom to groan Jonghyun's name, and bask in the feeling of him tensing beneath him at the sound.
It has always been unspoken between them - all fleeting and aching - but as the pressure between them builds to a cusp they are finally audible, a torrent of names and sounds and gibberish, as if the wall is finally down now, and everything is finally laid bare. It isn't, really, and they know this without having to discuss it; the wall will always be there. It has to be, and they will come to terms with it one day. But not now. For right now, there is only skin and sweat and each other, and it is so perfectly flawed that it is heartbreaking.
When the older man orgasms, the fingers on his hips slip higher to curl into the soft flesh of his waist, grabbing and pulling and holding on for dear life, and the combination of the sweet sting of the strength of his grip and the sudden heat inside of him sends Key over the edge, and he joins him in release. He flops spinelessly to Jonghyun's chest, shuddering as he continues to move slowly inside of him. Both of them are suddenly aware that once the act is through, they will have come to an impasse, and that nothing will ever be the same between them again. They cling to the afterglow for as long as they can, but nothing lasts forever, and their time is ending - it ended the moment it began.
As their breathing grows shallow and their heartbeats slow to throbbing, they rebuild their wall in the darkness, using the remnants of their haggard friendship as the mortar. It is stronger now, but they are weaker for it. The flaw in the foundation will always be there, buried in indirect kisses and feather-light touches, and it will crack and split as time goes on. Here and now, though, as Key rises from the bed on unsteady legs and slowly makes his way to the bathroom for a shower, they exchange no words, no touches, and no kisses. What remains in the space between them as the too-hot water assaults Key's back and shoulders is an undeniable, unshakable sense that tonight should never have happened, and the unspoken agreement that they would act as if it never did.
In the tiled safety of the dorm bathroom, Key finally allows himself to cry.
··· ✫ ···
When he rolls awake in the morning, the bedroom is empty. Swinging himself from the bunk above Minho's unmade bed and grimacing at the stiffness in his hips, Key glances at the clock and sighs. Dragging himself to the kitchen, he realizes the house is nearly empty, save for himself and Minho. The tallest of them stands at the sink, washing that morning's dishes with a weightless grace that makes Key feel rather bitter. He settles himself gingerly at the table and folds his arms over the surface, dropping his head into the space they make. He hears Minho's footsteps, and the clinking of china, but doesn't raise his head immediately. When he does, there is fresh coffee and a plate of toast in front of him, and Minho is once again at the sink, his back to the table.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, overlooking the toast in favour of the brew. Minho says nothing. Key sips at the beverage, humming softly as the warmth spreads outwards from his stomach. He lets his eyes slide closed, and when he opens them again Minho is in the chair across from him, his expression unreadable.
“Taemin and Onew are recording a radio broadcast,” he offers, unprompted, “And Jonghyun is at the SM office, giving his press statement.”
“Oh,” Key says weakly, swirling his coffee. The weight of the night before is starting to settle on his shoulders, and it is heavier than he was expecting, but he simply braces himself against it and tries to act normally. “I sort of assumed he'd given one already.”
“Guess not.”
The two of them sit in silence for a while; Key with his coffee and, when he realizes Key isn't going to eat it, Minho with a piece of cold toast. Key has never been as comfortable around Minho as he is with the other three members, but they're the closest in terms of age, so maybe that was to be expected. This morning, however, seems different. There is a strange aura around Minho, a sort of soothing, calming energy that Key finds an awkward solace in, like the warmth and familiarity of an old blanket. He finds himself unable to rationalize this, but figures it's the least of his worries at the moment, and allows the feeling to wash over him without reservation.
Still, the expression on Minho's face is unnerving to Key. He can't tell if he's just looking at him, or if he's looking for something specific that Key is privy to. He shifts under the scrutiny, and manages not to wince as he adjusts the way he's sitting.
“What?” He asks, more snappy than he intended. Minho's expression doesn't change. It makes Key squirm.
“Nothing,” he answers, breaking the crusts off of the last piece of toast, “I'm just not blind, you know.”
Key tenses, and mentally curses his own reaction. “I'd hope not. What are you talking about?” Minho gestures to Key's face, and he automatically raises his hand to his cheek.
“Your eyes are swollen.”
This time his curse is not confined to his thoughts as he rubs at his eyes.
“Don't do that,” says Minho, his voice level, “You'll just make it worse.” Key scowls at him half-heartedly, and Minho shakes his head at him in return. He takes his plate to the sink and returns with a damp wash cloth, which he hands to Key. It's soft and cool in his hands, and he immediately leans his head back and drapes it over his eyes, cooing in relief as the stinging he hadn't even noticed was there dissipates. He hears a deep chuckle, and kicks a leg out in hopes of finding Minho's shin. He kicks the table leg instead, and squawks in surprise. More laughter.
No questions. No judgements. No pressure. Just coffee, and a cool cloth for his eyes.
“I had no idea. No clue. He didn't ever say anything about - about her,” Key says, pressing the cloth closer to his face. He isn't necessarily talking to Minho - just talking, before it all comes out the wrong way later.
“No one knew,” he hears Minho say, “We were all in the dark about it.”
“Yeah.” Key's voice cracks as he speaks. He's thankful for the cloth even more now, as tears well and burn in his eyes. It soaks them up immediately, not letting them fall, and he is able to quell them quickly.
He hears the chair scrape across the floor, and then there is a weight on his shoulder. A hand. It is there, it lingers, and then it's gone. Key thinks Minho has left the kitchen, so he is startled when he hears his voice beside him.
“You love him.”
“...Yeah.”
His voice is soft. It's easy to admit now - too easy. The weight is suddenly back in full force, and it crushes his chest like a vice. He finds it hard to breathe, but Minho's hand is back on his shoulder again, and that makes it easier.
They stay that way as Key loses to his tears, sobbing as quietly as he can into the washcloth. When he has cried himself dry Minho refills his coffee mug, plucks the cloth from his hands and runs it under cold water. He hands it back, and sits across from him. Key wants to smile, to say something, but he can't. He wants to be alone, but he won't tell Minho that, because he knows that if he were alone he would probably start crying again, and that's the last thing he wants to do.
They sit in silence. Key sniffs, but he has finished with his tears for now. No questions. No judgements. No pressure. Just coffee, and a cool cloth for his eyes.
“Deal with this your own way, Kibum, but remember; around me, at least, you don't have to pretend to be okay.”
And Minho.
✫ ··· Chapter Two
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (WARNING: This chapter contains Adult Content)
█ genre: drama - romance
█ summary:
A touch here - a glance there. Secrets. The threads that join us to the people we love are brittle and tangled, but the knotted web we unravel to find the end of our string often lead us in unexpected places.
✫ ··· author's note:
This fic is my first ever attempt at something rather like smut. I wouldn't say it's descriptive, but it's... Sort of obvious what's going down.
Inspired by this song. Don't judge me. ; __ ; lol
In his head, he has always known how this will end. It was never destined to be a fairytale. There was never going to be fanfare or fireworks, and he was never going to get through it with his emotions unscathed. For years he's convinced himself that he is okay with it; that he is fine with just being near him, stealing glances or letting touches linger just a moment longer than necessary; that when the time comes, and his illusions and delusions are shattered by the inevitable, he will be prepared enough to pick himself up and move on.
He's a right fucking idiot.
As it is, Kim Kibum has no idea what he is doing. He knows he is back at the dorms, but he can't remember leaving the practise room, and how he has managed to find his way there in the encroaching cold typical of the last days of October, clad in little more than a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt is beyond even rational understanding. Logically he should've been shivering with the cold, or at least been able to feel the burn the chill in the air had no doubt left on his skin, but he does neither; there is a detached sort of numbness to him that he can neither fathom, nor explain.
He is also at a loss to explain why, rather than being as hasty and as desperate as he feels, that he is being so outwardly calm and deliberate as he strides past the door to their bedroom - he can hear muffled music coming from what he assumes is a laptop from the other side - and goes instead to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Not yet.
Turning to stare at himself in the mirror, he tries to be shocked at how static his expression is, but comes up short. Almost mechanically, he runs warm water from the sink over his hands, and snatches a facecloth from the stack of fresh linens behind the door. He soaks it and scrubs at his face with it, mopping up the sweat and dirt that had accumulated during choreography practise. He hadn't been at his best - his chest is still sore if he stretches too far, the muscles not entirely forgiving of their recent injuries - but he had still managed to make himself sticky with exertion, and that is the last thing he wants to be at this moment. He pulls off his shirt, leaving it in a heap beside the bathtub, and mops at his chest and shoulders. When he figures he's done - that it will have to do - he pulls his favourite lotion from the basket beside the sink and massages a dime-sized dollop into his face. He brushes his teeth thoroughly, making a point of scrubbing the surface of his tongue. Borrowing Taemin's brush, he smooths the waves out of his hair - he would prefer to straighten it again, but it somehow feels unnecessary, so he decides against it. Finished with his handywork, he looks at himself in the mirror again, picking out every detail of his face and weighing it against his expectations. Not perfect - not exactly as he imagined he'd look - but at least he doesn't look a mess. He rolls his shoulders, tilts his neck left and right, then gives his reflection a long, searching look. He isn't sure what he is expecting to find staring back at him, but with a small nod to himself, he lets himself back out into the hall.
He pauses at the door to the bedroom the five of them share. Behind it, music he can't name mutters on, oblivious to the shitstorm that is swirling in the atmosphere on the other side of the door. For the first time since he left the practise room, he takes a deep breath, holds it in a moment, then exhales it slowly and steeles himself for what he is about to do. It has ramifications - deep, lasting, and painful - but somewhere along the line the Almighty Key has made up his mind, and he is unable and unwilling to change it.
No more playing possum. No more stolen sideways looks. No more pussyfooting around the issues. There is no time left for playing games and make-believing that everything is normal, or that the feelings he has locked in his chest are brotherly or in any other way platonic in nature. This is his last chance, and he is going to take it. Onew, Minho and Taemin were still rehearsing their new choreography, and were due at the recording studio after that for more vocal tests. Key had been meant to be with them, but he had opted out, using the convenience of his lingering injury as an excuse to bow out early to rest. He had felt eyes on his back as he left, too warm not to be suspicious, but he hadn't turned around to find the source - that was no better than admitting it, screaming it aloud in the streets of Seoul for everyone to hear. Now, standing on one side of an invisible line, he's about to breach the separation between what he could and couldn't have, throw caution to the wind, and for once - just once - have a taste of what he really wanted. What he had wanted all along.
He puts his hand on the knob, hesitates once, then turns it and swings the door open.
Jonghyun is laying on Taemin's bed - they have swapped temporarily, since Jonghyun is less than able to climb into his own - propped up on a few pillows he has no doubt stolen from the other four bunks, with his laptop balanced on his thighs. The only light in the room comes from the glow of the monitor, and the small reading lamp clipped to the frame of the bunk above his head. The cast on his injured foot - overly precautionary, and a little melodramatic all things considered - is balanced carefully on the edge of the mattress, where it is firmest. He had been humming along with the music, but stops and looks up when he hears Key come in. He looks understandably confused, but smiles at him anyhow. “Playing hooky?”
“Yeah,” Key responds, heading over to his part of the closet and pulling out a fresh shirt for himself. He makes a point of taking his time in his selection - he knows instinctively that Jonghyun is staring at him. He chooses a loose scoop-necked tank top and tugs it over his head, making absolutely sure to curve his back just so as he raises his arms over his head; he lets the material bunch and pool on his hips, requiring him to shake it free and flash one last moment of skin before the fabric settles against his torso.
The room is quiet, and Key is suddenly aware that the tension is becoming tangible. Jonghyun must have been expecting something - he wasn't a complete idiot, and he definitely wasn't completely blind. It was like a school yard dare; who would be the first to break the silence. The first to acknowledge the need to speak. The first to break. Key lets it draw out, and knows he will hold out over Jonghyun. Unlike Key, Jonghyun is uncomfortable with too much silence, and they both know he'd never let it drag on.
They know each other so well. Too well. Not well enough.
“Was your chest bothering you again?”
Checkmate.
“A bit,” offers Key, moving as if he were going to his own bed to rest, but not sitting just yet, “Nothing too bad, but I didn't want to strain it. What about your foot?”
“Nothing to report,” Jonghyun motions to the ridiculous, boot-like cast, “This stupid cast is starting to bother me more than my ankle is. It feels weird.”
“Mm.”
More silence. Key waits, pretending to study the leather bangle around his left wrist as if it is the most interesting thing in the room. It's beginning to grow awkward between them, but it's essential that it does. He wants it to be palpable. He needs it that way. Across from him, he hears Jonghyun shift on the bed so he can put his laptop down on the floor beside him. Here it comes; this is it. Batter up.
“Key - ”
In a flash Key is on him, straddling his hips and pinning him in place not with his body, but with the implications of his posture, his position, and the emotion he finally lets shine through his face. Jonghyun's unfinished sentence hangs in the air, but he makes no effort to finish it, choosing instead to watch as Key struggles to keep himself in check as he hovers over him.
“Don't,” He says firmly, the waver he feared from his voice nearly non-existent as he speaks, “Just - don't.” The two of them lock eyes, and hold each other's gazes. Key searches Jonghyun's for something - anything - that he can get his bearings from. A glimpse of something catches his attention: a flash of softness to his eyes that is both foreign and familiar for all the right and wrong reasons. It is then that he is absolutely certain that he can ask, and that Jonghyun will offer it to him without the hesitation that would break Key's resolve. Relief floods him and he can feel again, and the heat of the man beneath him spreads across his thighs like a furnace. He gives in, leans over Jonghyun and buries his face in the space between his neck and his collarbone, and he fits there just so, like his face was designed with this very spot in mind.
“Please,” he pleads with the flesh of Jonghyun's neck, still grasping the lines that keep the floodgates to his tears closed and secure, though his grip is weakening with each passing heartbeat. His voice is strained, hoarse, and he balls his hands to fists in the fabric of Jonghyun's ratty old sweatshirt. “Please, Jjong. I need this.”
There is a moment of terror when he is certain he has failed - that everything is ruined, and he'll have nothing to show for the shattered fragments of his heart. He sobs only once, but refuses to allow his tears to fall as Jonghyun's arms circle around him, drawing him closer, and warm, slightly chapped lips are suddenly on the skin behind his ear. The voice in his ear is low and rumbling, slightly uncertain, and leaves goosebumps across the back of his neck.
“Okay.”
··· ✫ ···
There is no fanfare, no fireworks to speak of; but there is heat. A euphoric, scorching warmth as they move in tandem, that builds as they do. Their mouths crash against each other like waves at sea in a storm, violent and beautiful and terrifying. Clothes lay scattered around the room like shrapnel, discarded with a vicious haste that neither of them can claim sole ownership of. Jonghyun tries to be gentle, but Key doesn't want romance - the very thought of it rips at his already battle-scarred heart, and he can't bear the thought of the emotion behind kind hands. He takes control, setting the standard for what he wants, and demanding it without mercy. Jonghyun cries out in shock and pleasure when Key's teeth find the meat of his shoulder and claim it for his own.
Just for tonight.
The breath from their mouths mingles and swells from the space between them, swaying strands of sweat-stringed hair into their eyes. The hands on Key's hips grip hard enough to bruise as they assist the rise and fall of their rhythm, and he prays that they do. Though blunted, Key's nails carve red-rimmed trenches in Jonghyun's chest and abdomen, blending in with the scattered half-moon bite marks and the spidery red welts of hickeys that already decorate the skin there, and for a moment he wonders if he can write his name with the welts - mark him forever, just a part of him. He doesn't dwell on the thought as Jonghyun moans his name beneath him and bucks upwards as Key moves down, and his vision prickles with spots of white at the sensation. He throws his head back, bracing himself against Jonghyun's chest with one hand, and with the base of the bunk above them with the other. His head has knocked against the wooden frame multiple times now with varying degrees of force, but neither of them has the will, nor the desire to adjust their positions. Instead, Key settles for
(hardermorepleasedon'tstopIloveyou)
a quiet, drawn-out moan; allows himself the freedom to groan Jonghyun's name, and bask in the feeling of him tensing beneath him at the sound.
It has always been unspoken between them - all fleeting and aching - but as the pressure between them builds to a cusp they are finally audible, a torrent of names and sounds and gibberish, as if the wall is finally down now, and everything is finally laid bare. It isn't, really, and they know this without having to discuss it; the wall will always be there. It has to be, and they will come to terms with it one day. But not now. For right now, there is only skin and sweat and each other, and it is so perfectly flawed that it is heartbreaking.
When the older man orgasms, the fingers on his hips slip higher to curl into the soft flesh of his waist, grabbing and pulling and holding on for dear life, and the combination of the sweet sting of the strength of his grip and the sudden heat inside of him sends Key over the edge, and he joins him in release. He flops spinelessly to Jonghyun's chest, shuddering as he continues to move slowly inside of him. Both of them are suddenly aware that once the act is through, they will have come to an impasse, and that nothing will ever be the same between them again. They cling to the afterglow for as long as they can, but nothing lasts forever, and their time is ending - it ended the moment it began.
As their breathing grows shallow and their heartbeats slow to throbbing, they rebuild their wall in the darkness, using the remnants of their haggard friendship as the mortar. It is stronger now, but they are weaker for it. The flaw in the foundation will always be there, buried in indirect kisses and feather-light touches, and it will crack and split as time goes on. Here and now, though, as Key rises from the bed on unsteady legs and slowly makes his way to the bathroom for a shower, they exchange no words, no touches, and no kisses. What remains in the space between them as the too-hot water assaults Key's back and shoulders is an undeniable, unshakable sense that tonight should never have happened, and the unspoken agreement that they would act as if it never did.
In the tiled safety of the dorm bathroom, Key finally allows himself to cry.
··· ✫ ···
When he rolls awake in the morning, the bedroom is empty. Swinging himself from the bunk above Minho's unmade bed and grimacing at the stiffness in his hips, Key glances at the clock and sighs. Dragging himself to the kitchen, he realizes the house is nearly empty, save for himself and Minho. The tallest of them stands at the sink, washing that morning's dishes with a weightless grace that makes Key feel rather bitter. He settles himself gingerly at the table and folds his arms over the surface, dropping his head into the space they make. He hears Minho's footsteps, and the clinking of china, but doesn't raise his head immediately. When he does, there is fresh coffee and a plate of toast in front of him, and Minho is once again at the sink, his back to the table.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, overlooking the toast in favour of the brew. Minho says nothing. Key sips at the beverage, humming softly as the warmth spreads outwards from his stomach. He lets his eyes slide closed, and when he opens them again Minho is in the chair across from him, his expression unreadable.
“Taemin and Onew are recording a radio broadcast,” he offers, unprompted, “And Jonghyun is at the SM office, giving his press statement.”
“Oh,” Key says weakly, swirling his coffee. The weight of the night before is starting to settle on his shoulders, and it is heavier than he was expecting, but he simply braces himself against it and tries to act normally. “I sort of assumed he'd given one already.”
“Guess not.”
The two of them sit in silence for a while; Key with his coffee and, when he realizes Key isn't going to eat it, Minho with a piece of cold toast. Key has never been as comfortable around Minho as he is with the other three members, but they're the closest in terms of age, so maybe that was to be expected. This morning, however, seems different. There is a strange aura around Minho, a sort of soothing, calming energy that Key finds an awkward solace in, like the warmth and familiarity of an old blanket. He finds himself unable to rationalize this, but figures it's the least of his worries at the moment, and allows the feeling to wash over him without reservation.
Still, the expression on Minho's face is unnerving to Key. He can't tell if he's just looking at him, or if he's looking for something specific that Key is privy to. He shifts under the scrutiny, and manages not to wince as he adjusts the way he's sitting.
“What?” He asks, more snappy than he intended. Minho's expression doesn't change. It makes Key squirm.
“Nothing,” he answers, breaking the crusts off of the last piece of toast, “I'm just not blind, you know.”
Key tenses, and mentally curses his own reaction. “I'd hope not. What are you talking about?” Minho gestures to Key's face, and he automatically raises his hand to his cheek.
“Your eyes are swollen.”
This time his curse is not confined to his thoughts as he rubs at his eyes.
“Don't do that,” says Minho, his voice level, “You'll just make it worse.” Key scowls at him half-heartedly, and Minho shakes his head at him in return. He takes his plate to the sink and returns with a damp wash cloth, which he hands to Key. It's soft and cool in his hands, and he immediately leans his head back and drapes it over his eyes, cooing in relief as the stinging he hadn't even noticed was there dissipates. He hears a deep chuckle, and kicks a leg out in hopes of finding Minho's shin. He kicks the table leg instead, and squawks in surprise. More laughter.
No questions. No judgements. No pressure. Just coffee, and a cool cloth for his eyes.
“I had no idea. No clue. He didn't ever say anything about - about her,” Key says, pressing the cloth closer to his face. He isn't necessarily talking to Minho - just talking, before it all comes out the wrong way later.
“No one knew,” he hears Minho say, “We were all in the dark about it.”
“Yeah.” Key's voice cracks as he speaks. He's thankful for the cloth even more now, as tears well and burn in his eyes. It soaks them up immediately, not letting them fall, and he is able to quell them quickly.
He hears the chair scrape across the floor, and then there is a weight on his shoulder. A hand. It is there, it lingers, and then it's gone. Key thinks Minho has left the kitchen, so he is startled when he hears his voice beside him.
“You love him.”
“...Yeah.”
His voice is soft. It's easy to admit now - too easy. The weight is suddenly back in full force, and it crushes his chest like a vice. He finds it hard to breathe, but Minho's hand is back on his shoulder again, and that makes it easier.
They stay that way as Key loses to his tears, sobbing as quietly as he can into the washcloth. When he has cried himself dry Minho refills his coffee mug, plucks the cloth from his hands and runs it under cold water. He hands it back, and sits across from him. Key wants to smile, to say something, but he can't. He wants to be alone, but he won't tell Minho that, because he knows that if he were alone he would probably start crying again, and that's the last thing he wants to do.
They sit in silence. Key sniffs, but he has finished with his tears for now. No questions. No judgements. No pressure. Just coffee, and a cool cloth for his eyes.
“Deal with this your own way, Kibum, but remember; around me, at least, you don't have to pretend to be okay.”
And Minho.
✫ ··· Chapter Two