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█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 5 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated NC-17 - WARNING: Adult Content)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
✫ ··· author's note: This chapter took a long time to come out. Damn you, writer's block. It's a little longer than I was intending, and I'm not certain I got everything in I wanted to, even with the extra length. Hopefully, you still enjoy it.
The smell of pancakes fills the dormitory, thick and clinging, invasive, like the perfume aisle at a department store. The kitchen is an absolute wreck; bowls and fruit and globs of batter mar the counters and floors, scattered like demented confectioner's confetti across every surface of the narrow space. There are smudges of flour on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose - he can feel them - but he won't allow himself to wipe them from his face. At the moment, Key can't bring himself to care about any of it. Instead he prods the edges of a cake in the frying pan before him, testing to see if it's ready to flip, and hums to himself over the sizzle.
He's been awake for ages even though he only managed a few hours of sleep, none of which were particularly restful. It simply is not possible for him to sleep after the dream he had, so he does the next best thing - cooks. The small table behind him is so heavily laden with stacks of different-flavoured pancakes that the wood beneath is almost completely obscured by plates. They've finally run out of eggs, but by now he's made dozens upon dozens of pancakes; he is a man possessed.
Drowning in batter is better than thinking right now.
“Kibum-ah?” Groans a sleepy voice, cracking slightly. Key looks over his shoulder briefly, but returns to the pan immediately, trying not to curse as a few fragments of the dream that woke him flicker in the back of his mind.
“Morning, Minho.” He sing-songs, finally flipping the cake he's been poking at, “Help yourself. I hope you're hungry.”
Minho is silent for a moment before Key hears him shuffle to the drain board beside the sink and pull out a plate for himself. Key stacks the final set of pancakes, this one apple cinnamon, on the table in the last possible spot. As he looks up, he finally notices the way Minho is looking at him - unfocused with the clinging grogginess of sleep, but obviously searching.
“This is...” The taller of them thinks a moment, trying to choose his words carefully, as Key sets his expression to one of friendly neutrality, “This is impressive, but... Why did you make so many?”
“I was having fun,” Key offers, spearing a pancake with a fork and tearing a chunk of it off with his fingers, “So I got a little carried away. We can just freeze what we don't eat, and have the rest whenever we want.” He pops the piece in his mouth, clicking his teeth shut with a final little snap, and offers Minho a sheepish smile.
Even in his muddled state, Minho can see the guilt hidden in the curves of Key's mouth. He tries not to let it bother him.
If only he understood.
··· ✫ ···
A whimper - quiet, docile, higher than the normal pitch of his voice - leaks through parted lips, fattened and florid from the force of their kisses. The other man has a penchant for Key's mouth; endlessly traces the curve of the upper and swell of the lower with his tongue as if to memorize the shape of his lips, the way they taste, the softness of the flesh. Calloused hands leave pools of heat wherever they brush against his skin, until every last curve and valley is afire under careful, teasing fingertips. The drag of a thumb across his nipple has him keening harshly, head thrown back as far as his neck will allow to accommodate the sudden arch of his back. Chapped lips worship the hollow of his throat. At the barest scrape of teeth Key's hands jerk violently, wanting nothing more than the feel of his lover's skin beneath his nails; he keens, nearly sobs, as they do little more than increase the pressure against his wrists.
His heart is a jack-hammer in his chest. Key swears he can feel blood sloshing against the walls of his arteries each time the thrum of his heartbeat cascades it through his veins, gasoline to fuel the fire building in his belly. “Please!” His voice is ripped from the back of his throat as blunted fingernails leave stinging love letters across his lower back, “Fuck, I need - let me touch you!”
“Isn't this what you wanted?” Key jumps as he feels the words against his ear, leaning as best he can in their direction, praying for contact. He is rewarded with empty space.
“It is,” he whimpers, trying to think around the hand rolling the meat of his backside between dexterous fingers, muddling his logic, “Oh, God, it is, but -”
“No.” The word rumbles like thunder, dark and distant in his ears. There is a contrast of feelings as a gentle, lingering kiss is pressed near his temple, just under the soft fabric of the blindfold; at the same time, the hand kneading the cheek of his ass shifts inward, and a long finger teases the skin between. Hissing in anticipation, Key buries a canine so deeply into his lower lip that he breaks a layer of skin. A frustrated whine sneaks from his mouth. It is a wordless plea for more; more contact, more pain, more pleasure; more anything. “I know how much you need to be in control, but what I don't think you realize is,” Key feels a grin against his skin then. The baby-fine hairs across his body stand on end as the next words change their angle, lips brushing against the silver bead fastened through the conch of his ear. “I love it when you yield to me.”
Without warning the stray digit pushes inside him, past the natural resistance to the intrusion. Key's hips buck upwards involuntarily, but his body has nowhere to go, held firmly in place by a second hand pressed into the flesh above his hip. His weight falls back down again, forcing him to take in even more than before. Under the blindfold his eyes are wide as he gasps for air, managing just enough to let out a high, stuttering cry:
“Ah, f-fuck, Minho!”
Key swallows a scream and sits upright with his limbs rigid, fingers splayed. The bedroom is dark, quiet except for the rhythmic, muted snores of Onew from across the room, and a handful of nonsense sleep-mutterings from Taemin in the bunk below him. He's holding his breath, partly to keep from swearing, but mostly to keep his heartbeat from clawing it's way up his throat. Cautiously, he dares to exhale, and the staccato hammer of the blood in his ears stays contained within his chest.
He allows himself to relax. The sheet on his bed is tangled around his feet; he frees them with a sour look and straightens his comforter, blatantly ignoring the discomfort of his unacknowledged arousal. Instead he fluffs his pillows and lays back down, lacing his fingers over his chest and taking slow, controlled breaths, willing the damned thing away. Springs creak in the darkness as Taemin tosses in his sleep, murmuring about nothing, and Key can't quell the brief flare of shame he feels.
This is really the last thing he needs.
··· ✫ ···
Key attempts to pin the blame for his increasingly frequent, incredibly awkward dreams on loneliness. Doggedly sidestepping his feelings for so long, trying to keep everything from crumbling around him, only to have things spiral out of control anyhow is a heavy blow to his unbalanced state of mind. He is exhausted, mentally and emotionally, and exhaustion can make a person's mind do funny things. Funny things like fabricate elaborate, incredibly realistic sex dreams about the only person who's been keeping him sane for the last four months.
The first one is just a replay of the kiss Minho had stolen the day before. Innocent enough, considering the turmoil it had caused in Key. He brushes it off, determined not to let the unexpected confession, nor a dream about it ruin their growing friendship. It was only a kiss, after all.
The second dream throws that notion out of the window completely. It starts off as just another view of their brief lip-lock. Somehow, though, the Key in this dream is far more certain about how to react; rather than allow Minho to pull away, the hands that had framed the boy's face so slackly in reality instead hold him fast, drawing him closer. Dream-Key aligns their mouths just right, encouraging more, offering it without hesitation. It isn't until he pulls Minho on top of him that the actual Key jerks back into wakefulness, thoroughly mortified and half hard in the darkness of the dorm.
It becomes more and more difficult to disregard these dreams as they get more and more inventive, straying from fictionalized recollections and becoming fantasies in and of themselves. As they discuss the very real possibility of their Japanese debut, Key realizes that his imagination is beginning to run wild even in the daytime. He continually catches himself absently admiring the curve of Minho's back under his shirts; the way his jeans cling tightly to the soft flesh of his thighs; the tensing and relaxation of the tendons of his jaw as he speaks; analysing each individual part of the man with an unwarranted hunger to feel his hands there, taste the salt of sweat on Minho's skin. Each time he shakes himself, gives his cheeks a sharp smack, and if anyone asks he says he is just tired. Technically, it's true - he spends more time in the evenings trying to banish the ache in his groin through sheer force of will than actually sleeping, as of late, and it is taking its toll.
At this point, he's really not sure what makes him feel worse; the fact that he's having these sorts of thoughts about Minho, or that he's still too hung up on Jonghyun to understand why he's having them in the first place. He is so confused by the zig-zag of his own emotions that he can't even be certain he is taking Minho's feelings into account. Is he thinking of him this way because he is unable to have what he really wants, or is it because he is slowly becoming capable of returning his affections? Or is there no reason for it, just another variable to add to the growing list of Ways for Life to Fuck Over Kim Kibum?
It feels like betrayal, objectifying Minho when he is still hopelessly tangled in his own feelings for someone else; as if Minho were something Key could use. The very idea disgusts him, but he's beginning to think that just maybe, without meaning to, he's been using him the entire time; it makes him feel horrendous.
Tangled or not, Key makes a decision; he has to talk to Minho about this and soon, before he tears himself apart looking for answers he doesn't have.
··· ✫ ···
For the second time, a plain white door draws a thin line and Key has to make the decision to toe across it, or stay safely in familiar territory. This door is the only thing keeping him from yet another deviation from the path of pretend, where everything is perfect even when it isn't; it keeps the way things truly are trapped on the other side, and opening it means acknowledging that things are not okay. That maybe they never were, and he was too scared, too cowardly to admit that he was buckling under the weight of them.
He had been a coward. Past tense. There is no more room for fear and he is tired of being confused, won't allow himself to wallow any longer. If there is one thing he is certain of, it is that Minho will listen; Minho will let him speak, even if what he says makes less than zero sense to his own ears; Minho will understand, even if Key doesn't.
The problem now is this accursed door. Key stares at it as if it is the most intimidating thing he has ever seen in his life. His heart is steady and slow in his chest, but each beat is heavy and deafeningly loud. Sweat makes his palms cold, clammy, and he grinds them into the fabric of his shirt in defiance. The inside of his cheek is split raw with worrying, though it has mercifully stopped bleeding. The last time he opens a door with this amount of apprehension, he creates a rift between himself and his closest friend - driven it between them like a railway spike, all blunt force and heedless warning - that he has yet to mend. Perhaps he never will. But this time will be different. It has to be.
Taking a deep breath, he lays his hand on the knob, but does not turn it. This time, he tells himself, opening a door will keep a new rift from forming; it will allow him to bridge the gap before it opens, and he will salvage this friendship before he has a chance to ruin it. When he opens the door it won't be to pretend, and it won't be to take - it will be to give Minho the truth, and let him do what he wishes with it. He's tired of lying, to himself and to everyone. It's high time he tried to be honest.
Screwing his eyes shut he gives the knob a violent twist, urging his feet forward before they can find the energy to bolt back to his own room. He can hear music playing - something a little too hip-hop for his tastes - but he won't let his eyes open until the door clicks shut behind him. Pressed against it, Key finally searches out Minho's form in the room. “Min - ?”
Cutting himself off, he laughs humourlessly at his own good fortune when he is greeted by a rather surprised-looking Jonghyun, and no one else. “Sorry,” he says dryly, avoiding Jonghyun's eyes as he turns to leave, “I was looking for - ”
“For Minho.”
Key stops, the door ajar in his hands. Jonghyun's voice is level, but there is an intensity to it - a razor's edge inside the velvet - that makes Key bristle. Calmly, he pushes the door gently back to it's frame, and rounds on Jonghyun with a falsely sweet smile.
“Yes,” he says pleasantly, the tone obviously put-on, “For Minho.” Jonghyun stares at him darkly. Key's reaction is bait - they both know it - but the growl Jonghyun offers takes it intentionally. Key scoffs at the sound of it. He crosses his arms, allows his hips to tilt at a jaunty angle, and gives him a mildly sardonic grin. “Oh really?”
“I didn't say anything.” Snaps Jonghyun, giving Key only his back.
“You didn't have to,” the taller of them bites back, dropping his smile, “I still heard you - loud and clear.”
They stay that way, with Key burning a hole through the back of Jonghyun's shirt with his eyes. It is only for a few seconds, but the air between them is thick and clotted, so time drags endlessly through it and makes it seem like hours before either of them speaks. Key is thrown temporarily off guard when Jonghyun sighs, shoulders sagging and spine curling, like holding himself upright is an exhausting effort.
“What are we doing?” His voice is imploring, but weak; it cracks, but still he refuses to look Key in the eye. Instead, he grips the top of the dresser he leans on, pressing the pads of his fingers flat against the surface. “What is this?”
Silence falls between them. In the corner, Key's features soften, if only slightly, as he considers his answer. What little confidence he has falters in the wake of his haphazard thoughts, and the wrenching of his heart in his chest. “If I knew,” he offers, his voice hushed, “Then it never would've gotten this bad.”
“Key...”
At the sound of his name, so small to his own ears, Key stiffens. Slowly, Jonghyun straightens his back, and turns to face him. The look he wears is careworn and downtrodden; it hits Key like a fist, and his hands fall to his sides as his combative posture melts away completely at the sight. Jonghyun moves towards him, taking his deflation as a sign of welcome; before Key can react he is being pressed from all sides as strong arms wrap around him, the smell of Jonghyun's aftershave in his nose as he buries his face in the soft skin of Key's shoulder. “Key, I miss you.”
Key's heartbeat stills momentarily. He knows that Jonghyun can hear the sudden stutter in his chest, knows how the older man will interpret the traitorous contraction, and the very idea of it has him torn almost perfectly in half. In this moment, it is impossible for him to decide - does he want this? He needs more than this and less than what he has, all at once, to make a decision. As usual his heart is a throbbing contradiction; it leaves him stranded in a sea of his own feelings, treading water and waiting, just waiting, until exhaustion drags him under.
He swallows. Quietly, barely audible, he asks, “You miss me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Jonghyun unravels his arms, and takes Key by the shoulders. Drawing back, he offers Key a smile, hesitant and barely there against the crease of his lips. Key's eyes flick to the gesture, analysing it, searching for an answer in the lines at the corners of Jonghyun's mouth. He doesn't register the way Jonghyun's eyes change, darkening just slightly, as he realizes where Key is looking. Months ago, the clouding of Jonghyun's eyes would send static to Key's belly, crackling and warm and magnetic; he used to pray for it, used to hinge his every movement and mannerism on the briefest overcast across his irises, but now he doesn't even remember to look for it, forgets that it is there entirely. It should be sad, how much he has forgotten; but he doesn't notice the absence, so how can he mourn the loss?
What it is now is dangerous, and the lack of conjunction between them starts to grow palpable as Key watches Jonghyun's lips grow closer. Key finds that odd - he hasn't moved, so why should the distance he views them at change? How curious. His brain is struggling to caution him against the inevitable, but the chaos in his mind holds it back. There is no warning, nothing, and it leaves him completely unprepared when Jonghyun's mouth is suddenly soft and full against his own.
All he can think is that it's wrong. So wrong.
They're so out of synch now that it shatters what little of his broken heart Key has managed to rebuild, scattering the pieces too far for him to find them all, dooming it to never truly be whole again. It's as if they're standing at opposite ends of the same plane with the wind whipping through the empty chasm between them, mocking as it howls it's harsh laugher in the valley they have carved through their own friendship. Somewhere, between the sheets of Jonghyun's bed and now, they have lost one another. Key is suddenly angry, angrier than he has ever been, and his rage spills from him in the form of tears, burning and brimming in his eyes. There was a time when all they would need to do was look at one another to know that they were thinking the same thing, and now Key can't even find Jonghyun in the body against his. His friend - his best friend - is gone, and the person kissing him feels like a stranger on his lips. It's unfair, and he has had more than enough.
From somewhere unused and unseen inside of him, Key draws an immeasurable amount of strength, presses the palms of his hands against Jonghyun's chest, and pushes. The force of it sends Jonghyun crashing to the ground, his face a perfect portrait of shock and surprise, but the reaction does little more than flame the fury coiled in Key's chest.
“Enough of this!” he all but screams, hands balled to fists at his sides, “I've had enough, I can't do this any more! You can't just do whatever you want, Jjong; you can't just kiss me because you feel like it and then run off to Sekyung like nothing happened. You waltz into my life like you belong there, and I wanted you to, I wanted you to belong with me so badly, did you know that? No matter how cool I acted or how aloof I tried to be you could see through it, you could reach through it and find me like you weren't even trying, like I was never trying to hide in the first place. I loved you, Jjong!” He can't stop the tears as they pour down his face, but no matter how his voice cracks, he isn't sad - he can't be anything but livid. Jonghyun stares at him, dumbfounded but unable to react. “I loved you so, so much, and you kept - you kept making me hope that - I thought maybe you loved me, too.
“But then Sekyung was there, and I didn't see it, or maybe I did and I just didn't want to. Regardless of that, you didn't even have the decency to tell me, or mention her, or tell me how you felt at all! Nothing changed, Jjong, nothing; not the way you touched me, or the way you said my name, or the way you leaned on me when you were trying to get your way with something. How was I supposed to know if you didn't act any differently? So when I found out, I thought you must not have known how I felt about you, even though I lit up like it was fucking Christmas every time you looked at me.
“That's when I came back.” Key takes a few deep, calming breaths, and when he continues his voice is soft, but strained. Jonghyun stands, finally, but doesn't approach him - knows it's in his best interests not to. “I tried to practise, but I felt numb, I felt - I felt so stupid, Jjong. I didn't really know what I felt at the time, but I know now I was heartbroken. You've made me feel it so many times since then, I know the feeling too well by now for it to have been anything else. I came back, and you were stuck here with that asinine cast on your foot, and I knew it. I knew exactly what I was doing when I begged you to sleep with me, but I didn't know what it would do to us, or I never would have done it. I thought it was like a goodbye, you know? Something I could give you to remember me by, something I could remember you with, but it ruined everything. I just loved you more, and then you went to her like it meant absolutely nothing to you.”
“You meant everything to me, Key,” Jonghyun insists, inching closer to the other boy, “You still do. I was scared that I could feel that way for you - so I ran, and I hurt you. I know that.”
“No, you don't!” Feelings his knees begin to shake, Key sobs hard enough to make his chest ache, leaning against the wall to keep from toppling over, “You don't know anything! You trying to talk to me before we left for Japan was proof of that; it showed just how little you considered me at all. This whole time I've been putting on a show for the entire world, pretending nothing has changed, playing at the same me I used to be, but I'm not that Kibum any more; I'm worn and I'm broken, and I'm just so tired of everything. I would've been gone a long time ago, I would've just quit, but I kept going. The only reason I stayed is - ”
“Minho?”
Key freezes at the mention of the name, wide-eyed. Is that what he was going to say? Is Minho the only reason he had stayed? The gears in his brain work overtime, attempting to come up with an answer, but he is too consumed with loathing - both for himself, and for Jonghyun - to be successful.
“It doesn't matter,” he spits, glaring, “But you need to get this - this stick out of your ass about Minho. He's my friend, Jjong, and yes, he's important to me, so you need to get over yourself and accept that. He's not going anywhere, no matter how many times you hit him. And yes, I know you hit him - ”
“He swung at me first - ”
“I don't care, Jjong, I really don't! Minho is strong, but he's no fighter - I don't know what you said to make him hit you, but when I found him, he...” Key trails off, his own words bringing unbidden memories to the forefront of his mind. Of Minho's mouth, soft and warm and desperate, and the pain on his face as he tears himself away; of the dream from the night before last, in which that same mouth worships every inch of his skin until Minho's name is the only word he knows. Key feels his face grow hot.
“What?” Jonghyun asks. His voice is low, and the edge is back. The way he's looking at Key is a strange mix of restrained anger, frustration, and barely contained envy. “What did he do when you found him, Key?”
Key's glare returns. “Absolutely nothing. Not that it would be any business of yours if something had happened, either. This is exactly what I'm talking about, Jjong; you're angry all of a sudden, for no reason at all, and you're directing all of your hate at Minho. Are you that eager for someone else to blame? Minho's never given you any reason to be so venomous.”
“He has,” Jonghyun's words come out in a growl, torn from his chest, “He's hiding something from you, Kibum, and I know you're not blind to it. He's dangerous.”
“He isn't hiding a damn thing from me.” Key says confidently, though his mind can't help but add it's silent two cents: Not any more, at least. “And, compared to you? He's harmless.”
“Key - ”
“Save it,” Snaps Key, his tone low and final as he turns around, “We're done here.”
“The hell we are!” Jonghyun leaps forward, pinning his arm against the door before Key can open it. With his other hand he grabs at Key's upper arm, using it to force him to turn so they're face-to-face again. “Key, please listen to me. I love - ”
The sound of Key's palm connecting with the flesh of Jonghyun's cheek is sharp, loud and harsh with the force of the blow. His cheek reddens almost instantly, the sting of it dull in the shadow of Key's tortured expression. Key's eyes are shimmering with fresh new tears; they are wide, but his eyebrows are scrunched above the bridge of his nose, as if in anger. His mouth is what gives his true emotions away, turned down into the most heart-wrenching, open-mouthed frown Jonghyun has ever see grace his pretty face. The combination of his features is enough to make Jonghyun see that whatever love Key held for him in the past, even if it still clings to the walls of his heart, has been ripped from his chest by Jonghyun himself. He has ruined everything.
“You can say the words, Jjong,” Key says softly, his voice wavering, but not breaking, “But you don't really mean them. And you never will.”
··· ✫ ···
Minho is unlacing his running shoes in the front hallway when Key nearly bowls him over. He manages to keep them both upright, steadying Key by putting both of his hands on the other boy's waist. For a split second he is incredibly embarrassed by their position, but he gets a quick look at his face before Key's hands obscure it, and the feeling dies instantly. It is splotchy and red, cheeks slicked and shiny with tears.
“Kibum-ah,” he breathes, trying to duck down to Key's level, “What on Earth - ?”
“Please,” Key sobs. It feels like a fist around Minho's heart, the way the sad, small sound escapes him, not at all like his boisterous self. “Please don't follow me.”
Before Minho can answer Key pushes himself out of Minho's arms, yanks the dormitory door open and bolts out of it. Minho calls after him, but Key slips into the stairwell without so much as a backwards glance. Looking down at his shoes, Minho shoves the untied laces in beside his ankles and makes to follow him, but is halted by a voice behind him.
“He asked you not to.”
Wheeling around, Minho pins Jonghyun with a murderous stare, and the reason for Key's outpouring of misery is suddenly apparent. He doesn't care that Jonghyun's words lack spark, or that his posture is beaten and bent. When he responds, he pulls the tone he uses from the deepest part of himself, one he tries his best to forget about in front of the cameras. Here and now, he doesn't want to hide his anger - he wants to use it.
“Fuck you.”
Jonghyun doesn't respond, but Minho isn't waiting for one; he turns and follows Key's path down the hallway, leaving Jonghyun staring at the door of their dorms. He stays that way for nearly half an hour, his heart screaming for him to follow, but knowing full well that he is the last person that Key wants to see right now. Feeling barbarically desolate, he does the only thing he can think of; he pulls his coat from the closet, tucks his feet into a pair of his boots, and sends Sekyung a text message.
I need to see you. Are you busy?
The moment he sends it, he is overwhelmed by self-revulsion; the urge to run back to the dorm, pull Key's clothing from his dresser and bury himself in it, sobbing because it smells just like Key does, is so powerful he nearly allows it to overtake him.
It passes. His phone chimes brightly as he waits for the elevator, wishing every kind of hell on his warped reflection in the polished metal doors.
✫ ··· chapter six
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated NC-17 - WARNING: Adult Content)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
✫ ··· author's note: This chapter took a long time to come out. Damn you, writer's block. It's a little longer than I was intending, and I'm not certain I got everything in I wanted to, even with the extra length. Hopefully, you still enjoy it.
The smell of pancakes fills the dormitory, thick and clinging, invasive, like the perfume aisle at a department store. The kitchen is an absolute wreck; bowls and fruit and globs of batter mar the counters and floors, scattered like demented confectioner's confetti across every surface of the narrow space. There are smudges of flour on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose - he can feel them - but he won't allow himself to wipe them from his face. At the moment, Key can't bring himself to care about any of it. Instead he prods the edges of a cake in the frying pan before him, testing to see if it's ready to flip, and hums to himself over the sizzle.
He's been awake for ages even though he only managed a few hours of sleep, none of which were particularly restful. It simply is not possible for him to sleep after the dream he had, so he does the next best thing - cooks. The small table behind him is so heavily laden with stacks of different-flavoured pancakes that the wood beneath is almost completely obscured by plates. They've finally run out of eggs, but by now he's made dozens upon dozens of pancakes; he is a man possessed.
Drowning in batter is better than thinking right now.
“Kibum-ah?” Groans a sleepy voice, cracking slightly. Key looks over his shoulder briefly, but returns to the pan immediately, trying not to curse as a few fragments of the dream that woke him flicker in the back of his mind.
“Morning, Minho.” He sing-songs, finally flipping the cake he's been poking at, “Help yourself. I hope you're hungry.”
Minho is silent for a moment before Key hears him shuffle to the drain board beside the sink and pull out a plate for himself. Key stacks the final set of pancakes, this one apple cinnamon, on the table in the last possible spot. As he looks up, he finally notices the way Minho is looking at him - unfocused with the clinging grogginess of sleep, but obviously searching.
“This is...” The taller of them thinks a moment, trying to choose his words carefully, as Key sets his expression to one of friendly neutrality, “This is impressive, but... Why did you make so many?”
“I was having fun,” Key offers, spearing a pancake with a fork and tearing a chunk of it off with his fingers, “So I got a little carried away. We can just freeze what we don't eat, and have the rest whenever we want.” He pops the piece in his mouth, clicking his teeth shut with a final little snap, and offers Minho a sheepish smile.
Even in his muddled state, Minho can see the guilt hidden in the curves of Key's mouth. He tries not to let it bother him.
If only he understood.
··· ✫ ···
A whimper - quiet, docile, higher than the normal pitch of his voice - leaks through parted lips, fattened and florid from the force of their kisses. The other man has a penchant for Key's mouth; endlessly traces the curve of the upper and swell of the lower with his tongue as if to memorize the shape of his lips, the way they taste, the softness of the flesh. Calloused hands leave pools of heat wherever they brush against his skin, until every last curve and valley is afire under careful, teasing fingertips. The drag of a thumb across his nipple has him keening harshly, head thrown back as far as his neck will allow to accommodate the sudden arch of his back. Chapped lips worship the hollow of his throat. At the barest scrape of teeth Key's hands jerk violently, wanting nothing more than the feel of his lover's skin beneath his nails; he keens, nearly sobs, as they do little more than increase the pressure against his wrists.
His heart is a jack-hammer in his chest. Key swears he can feel blood sloshing against the walls of his arteries each time the thrum of his heartbeat cascades it through his veins, gasoline to fuel the fire building in his belly. “Please!” His voice is ripped from the back of his throat as blunted fingernails leave stinging love letters across his lower back, “Fuck, I need - let me touch you!”
“Isn't this what you wanted?” Key jumps as he feels the words against his ear, leaning as best he can in their direction, praying for contact. He is rewarded with empty space.
“It is,” he whimpers, trying to think around the hand rolling the meat of his backside between dexterous fingers, muddling his logic, “Oh, God, it is, but -”
“No.” The word rumbles like thunder, dark and distant in his ears. There is a contrast of feelings as a gentle, lingering kiss is pressed near his temple, just under the soft fabric of the blindfold; at the same time, the hand kneading the cheek of his ass shifts inward, and a long finger teases the skin between. Hissing in anticipation, Key buries a canine so deeply into his lower lip that he breaks a layer of skin. A frustrated whine sneaks from his mouth. It is a wordless plea for more; more contact, more pain, more pleasure; more anything. “I know how much you need to be in control, but what I don't think you realize is,” Key feels a grin against his skin then. The baby-fine hairs across his body stand on end as the next words change their angle, lips brushing against the silver bead fastened through the conch of his ear. “I love it when you yield to me.”
Without warning the stray digit pushes inside him, past the natural resistance to the intrusion. Key's hips buck upwards involuntarily, but his body has nowhere to go, held firmly in place by a second hand pressed into the flesh above his hip. His weight falls back down again, forcing him to take in even more than before. Under the blindfold his eyes are wide as he gasps for air, managing just enough to let out a high, stuttering cry:
“Ah, f-fuck, Minho!”
Key swallows a scream and sits upright with his limbs rigid, fingers splayed. The bedroom is dark, quiet except for the rhythmic, muted snores of Onew from across the room, and a handful of nonsense sleep-mutterings from Taemin in the bunk below him. He's holding his breath, partly to keep from swearing, but mostly to keep his heartbeat from clawing it's way up his throat. Cautiously, he dares to exhale, and the staccato hammer of the blood in his ears stays contained within his chest.
He allows himself to relax. The sheet on his bed is tangled around his feet; he frees them with a sour look and straightens his comforter, blatantly ignoring the discomfort of his unacknowledged arousal. Instead he fluffs his pillows and lays back down, lacing his fingers over his chest and taking slow, controlled breaths, willing the damned thing away. Springs creak in the darkness as Taemin tosses in his sleep, murmuring about nothing, and Key can't quell the brief flare of shame he feels.
This is really the last thing he needs.
··· ✫ ···
Key attempts to pin the blame for his increasingly frequent, incredibly awkward dreams on loneliness. Doggedly sidestepping his feelings for so long, trying to keep everything from crumbling around him, only to have things spiral out of control anyhow is a heavy blow to his unbalanced state of mind. He is exhausted, mentally and emotionally, and exhaustion can make a person's mind do funny things. Funny things like fabricate elaborate, incredibly realistic sex dreams about the only person who's been keeping him sane for the last four months.
The first one is just a replay of the kiss Minho had stolen the day before. Innocent enough, considering the turmoil it had caused in Key. He brushes it off, determined not to let the unexpected confession, nor a dream about it ruin their growing friendship. It was only a kiss, after all.
The second dream throws that notion out of the window completely. It starts off as just another view of their brief lip-lock. Somehow, though, the Key in this dream is far more certain about how to react; rather than allow Minho to pull away, the hands that had framed the boy's face so slackly in reality instead hold him fast, drawing him closer. Dream-Key aligns their mouths just right, encouraging more, offering it without hesitation. It isn't until he pulls Minho on top of him that the actual Key jerks back into wakefulness, thoroughly mortified and half hard in the darkness of the dorm.
It becomes more and more difficult to disregard these dreams as they get more and more inventive, straying from fictionalized recollections and becoming fantasies in and of themselves. As they discuss the very real possibility of their Japanese debut, Key realizes that his imagination is beginning to run wild even in the daytime. He continually catches himself absently admiring the curve of Minho's back under his shirts; the way his jeans cling tightly to the soft flesh of his thighs; the tensing and relaxation of the tendons of his jaw as he speaks; analysing each individual part of the man with an unwarranted hunger to feel his hands there, taste the salt of sweat on Minho's skin. Each time he shakes himself, gives his cheeks a sharp smack, and if anyone asks he says he is just tired. Technically, it's true - he spends more time in the evenings trying to banish the ache in his groin through sheer force of will than actually sleeping, as of late, and it is taking its toll.
At this point, he's really not sure what makes him feel worse; the fact that he's having these sorts of thoughts about Minho, or that he's still too hung up on Jonghyun to understand why he's having them in the first place. He is so confused by the zig-zag of his own emotions that he can't even be certain he is taking Minho's feelings into account. Is he thinking of him this way because he is unable to have what he really wants, or is it because he is slowly becoming capable of returning his affections? Or is there no reason for it, just another variable to add to the growing list of Ways for Life to Fuck Over Kim Kibum?
It feels like betrayal, objectifying Minho when he is still hopelessly tangled in his own feelings for someone else; as if Minho were something Key could use. The very idea disgusts him, but he's beginning to think that just maybe, without meaning to, he's been using him the entire time; it makes him feel horrendous.
Tangled or not, Key makes a decision; he has to talk to Minho about this and soon, before he tears himself apart looking for answers he doesn't have.
··· ✫ ···
For the second time, a plain white door draws a thin line and Key has to make the decision to toe across it, or stay safely in familiar territory. This door is the only thing keeping him from yet another deviation from the path of pretend, where everything is perfect even when it isn't; it keeps the way things truly are trapped on the other side, and opening it means acknowledging that things are not okay. That maybe they never were, and he was too scared, too cowardly to admit that he was buckling under the weight of them.
He had been a coward. Past tense. There is no more room for fear and he is tired of being confused, won't allow himself to wallow any longer. If there is one thing he is certain of, it is that Minho will listen; Minho will let him speak, even if what he says makes less than zero sense to his own ears; Minho will understand, even if Key doesn't.
The problem now is this accursed door. Key stares at it as if it is the most intimidating thing he has ever seen in his life. His heart is steady and slow in his chest, but each beat is heavy and deafeningly loud. Sweat makes his palms cold, clammy, and he grinds them into the fabric of his shirt in defiance. The inside of his cheek is split raw with worrying, though it has mercifully stopped bleeding. The last time he opens a door with this amount of apprehension, he creates a rift between himself and his closest friend - driven it between them like a railway spike, all blunt force and heedless warning - that he has yet to mend. Perhaps he never will. But this time will be different. It has to be.
Taking a deep breath, he lays his hand on the knob, but does not turn it. This time, he tells himself, opening a door will keep a new rift from forming; it will allow him to bridge the gap before it opens, and he will salvage this friendship before he has a chance to ruin it. When he opens the door it won't be to pretend, and it won't be to take - it will be to give Minho the truth, and let him do what he wishes with it. He's tired of lying, to himself and to everyone. It's high time he tried to be honest.
Screwing his eyes shut he gives the knob a violent twist, urging his feet forward before they can find the energy to bolt back to his own room. He can hear music playing - something a little too hip-hop for his tastes - but he won't let his eyes open until the door clicks shut behind him. Pressed against it, Key finally searches out Minho's form in the room. “Min - ?”
Cutting himself off, he laughs humourlessly at his own good fortune when he is greeted by a rather surprised-looking Jonghyun, and no one else. “Sorry,” he says dryly, avoiding Jonghyun's eyes as he turns to leave, “I was looking for - ”
“For Minho.”
Key stops, the door ajar in his hands. Jonghyun's voice is level, but there is an intensity to it - a razor's edge inside the velvet - that makes Key bristle. Calmly, he pushes the door gently back to it's frame, and rounds on Jonghyun with a falsely sweet smile.
“Yes,” he says pleasantly, the tone obviously put-on, “For Minho.” Jonghyun stares at him darkly. Key's reaction is bait - they both know it - but the growl Jonghyun offers takes it intentionally. Key scoffs at the sound of it. He crosses his arms, allows his hips to tilt at a jaunty angle, and gives him a mildly sardonic grin. “Oh really?”
“I didn't say anything.” Snaps Jonghyun, giving Key only his back.
“You didn't have to,” the taller of them bites back, dropping his smile, “I still heard you - loud and clear.”
They stay that way, with Key burning a hole through the back of Jonghyun's shirt with his eyes. It is only for a few seconds, but the air between them is thick and clotted, so time drags endlessly through it and makes it seem like hours before either of them speaks. Key is thrown temporarily off guard when Jonghyun sighs, shoulders sagging and spine curling, like holding himself upright is an exhausting effort.
“What are we doing?” His voice is imploring, but weak; it cracks, but still he refuses to look Key in the eye. Instead, he grips the top of the dresser he leans on, pressing the pads of his fingers flat against the surface. “What is this?”
Silence falls between them. In the corner, Key's features soften, if only slightly, as he considers his answer. What little confidence he has falters in the wake of his haphazard thoughts, and the wrenching of his heart in his chest. “If I knew,” he offers, his voice hushed, “Then it never would've gotten this bad.”
“Key...”
At the sound of his name, so small to his own ears, Key stiffens. Slowly, Jonghyun straightens his back, and turns to face him. The look he wears is careworn and downtrodden; it hits Key like a fist, and his hands fall to his sides as his combative posture melts away completely at the sight. Jonghyun moves towards him, taking his deflation as a sign of welcome; before Key can react he is being pressed from all sides as strong arms wrap around him, the smell of Jonghyun's aftershave in his nose as he buries his face in the soft skin of Key's shoulder. “Key, I miss you.”
Key's heartbeat stills momentarily. He knows that Jonghyun can hear the sudden stutter in his chest, knows how the older man will interpret the traitorous contraction, and the very idea of it has him torn almost perfectly in half. In this moment, it is impossible for him to decide - does he want this? He needs more than this and less than what he has, all at once, to make a decision. As usual his heart is a throbbing contradiction; it leaves him stranded in a sea of his own feelings, treading water and waiting, just waiting, until exhaustion drags him under.
He swallows. Quietly, barely audible, he asks, “You miss me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Jonghyun unravels his arms, and takes Key by the shoulders. Drawing back, he offers Key a smile, hesitant and barely there against the crease of his lips. Key's eyes flick to the gesture, analysing it, searching for an answer in the lines at the corners of Jonghyun's mouth. He doesn't register the way Jonghyun's eyes change, darkening just slightly, as he realizes where Key is looking. Months ago, the clouding of Jonghyun's eyes would send static to Key's belly, crackling and warm and magnetic; he used to pray for it, used to hinge his every movement and mannerism on the briefest overcast across his irises, but now he doesn't even remember to look for it, forgets that it is there entirely. It should be sad, how much he has forgotten; but he doesn't notice the absence, so how can he mourn the loss?
What it is now is dangerous, and the lack of conjunction between them starts to grow palpable as Key watches Jonghyun's lips grow closer. Key finds that odd - he hasn't moved, so why should the distance he views them at change? How curious. His brain is struggling to caution him against the inevitable, but the chaos in his mind holds it back. There is no warning, nothing, and it leaves him completely unprepared when Jonghyun's mouth is suddenly soft and full against his own.
All he can think is that it's wrong. So wrong.
They're so out of synch now that it shatters what little of his broken heart Key has managed to rebuild, scattering the pieces too far for him to find them all, dooming it to never truly be whole again. It's as if they're standing at opposite ends of the same plane with the wind whipping through the empty chasm between them, mocking as it howls it's harsh laugher in the valley they have carved through their own friendship. Somewhere, between the sheets of Jonghyun's bed and now, they have lost one another. Key is suddenly angry, angrier than he has ever been, and his rage spills from him in the form of tears, burning and brimming in his eyes. There was a time when all they would need to do was look at one another to know that they were thinking the same thing, and now Key can't even find Jonghyun in the body against his. His friend - his best friend - is gone, and the person kissing him feels like a stranger on his lips. It's unfair, and he has had more than enough.
From somewhere unused and unseen inside of him, Key draws an immeasurable amount of strength, presses the palms of his hands against Jonghyun's chest, and pushes. The force of it sends Jonghyun crashing to the ground, his face a perfect portrait of shock and surprise, but the reaction does little more than flame the fury coiled in Key's chest.
“Enough of this!” he all but screams, hands balled to fists at his sides, “I've had enough, I can't do this any more! You can't just do whatever you want, Jjong; you can't just kiss me because you feel like it and then run off to Sekyung like nothing happened. You waltz into my life like you belong there, and I wanted you to, I wanted you to belong with me so badly, did you know that? No matter how cool I acted or how aloof I tried to be you could see through it, you could reach through it and find me like you weren't even trying, like I was never trying to hide in the first place. I loved you, Jjong!” He can't stop the tears as they pour down his face, but no matter how his voice cracks, he isn't sad - he can't be anything but livid. Jonghyun stares at him, dumbfounded but unable to react. “I loved you so, so much, and you kept - you kept making me hope that - I thought maybe you loved me, too.
“But then Sekyung was there, and I didn't see it, or maybe I did and I just didn't want to. Regardless of that, you didn't even have the decency to tell me, or mention her, or tell me how you felt at all! Nothing changed, Jjong, nothing; not the way you touched me, or the way you said my name, or the way you leaned on me when you were trying to get your way with something. How was I supposed to know if you didn't act any differently? So when I found out, I thought you must not have known how I felt about you, even though I lit up like it was fucking Christmas every time you looked at me.
“That's when I came back.” Key takes a few deep, calming breaths, and when he continues his voice is soft, but strained. Jonghyun stands, finally, but doesn't approach him - knows it's in his best interests not to. “I tried to practise, but I felt numb, I felt - I felt so stupid, Jjong. I didn't really know what I felt at the time, but I know now I was heartbroken. You've made me feel it so many times since then, I know the feeling too well by now for it to have been anything else. I came back, and you were stuck here with that asinine cast on your foot, and I knew it. I knew exactly what I was doing when I begged you to sleep with me, but I didn't know what it would do to us, or I never would have done it. I thought it was like a goodbye, you know? Something I could give you to remember me by, something I could remember you with, but it ruined everything. I just loved you more, and then you went to her like it meant absolutely nothing to you.”
“You meant everything to me, Key,” Jonghyun insists, inching closer to the other boy, “You still do. I was scared that I could feel that way for you - so I ran, and I hurt you. I know that.”
“No, you don't!” Feelings his knees begin to shake, Key sobs hard enough to make his chest ache, leaning against the wall to keep from toppling over, “You don't know anything! You trying to talk to me before we left for Japan was proof of that; it showed just how little you considered me at all. This whole time I've been putting on a show for the entire world, pretending nothing has changed, playing at the same me I used to be, but I'm not that Kibum any more; I'm worn and I'm broken, and I'm just so tired of everything. I would've been gone a long time ago, I would've just quit, but I kept going. The only reason I stayed is - ”
“Minho?”
Key freezes at the mention of the name, wide-eyed. Is that what he was going to say? Is Minho the only reason he had stayed? The gears in his brain work overtime, attempting to come up with an answer, but he is too consumed with loathing - both for himself, and for Jonghyun - to be successful.
“It doesn't matter,” he spits, glaring, “But you need to get this - this stick out of your ass about Minho. He's my friend, Jjong, and yes, he's important to me, so you need to get over yourself and accept that. He's not going anywhere, no matter how many times you hit him. And yes, I know you hit him - ”
“He swung at me first - ”
“I don't care, Jjong, I really don't! Minho is strong, but he's no fighter - I don't know what you said to make him hit you, but when I found him, he...” Key trails off, his own words bringing unbidden memories to the forefront of his mind. Of Minho's mouth, soft and warm and desperate, and the pain on his face as he tears himself away; of the dream from the night before last, in which that same mouth worships every inch of his skin until Minho's name is the only word he knows. Key feels his face grow hot.
“What?” Jonghyun asks. His voice is low, and the edge is back. The way he's looking at Key is a strange mix of restrained anger, frustration, and barely contained envy. “What did he do when you found him, Key?”
Key's glare returns. “Absolutely nothing. Not that it would be any business of yours if something had happened, either. This is exactly what I'm talking about, Jjong; you're angry all of a sudden, for no reason at all, and you're directing all of your hate at Minho. Are you that eager for someone else to blame? Minho's never given you any reason to be so venomous.”
“He has,” Jonghyun's words come out in a growl, torn from his chest, “He's hiding something from you, Kibum, and I know you're not blind to it. He's dangerous.”
“He isn't hiding a damn thing from me.” Key says confidently, though his mind can't help but add it's silent two cents: Not any more, at least. “And, compared to you? He's harmless.”
“Key - ”
“Save it,” Snaps Key, his tone low and final as he turns around, “We're done here.”
“The hell we are!” Jonghyun leaps forward, pinning his arm against the door before Key can open it. With his other hand he grabs at Key's upper arm, using it to force him to turn so they're face-to-face again. “Key, please listen to me. I love - ”
The sound of Key's palm connecting with the flesh of Jonghyun's cheek is sharp, loud and harsh with the force of the blow. His cheek reddens almost instantly, the sting of it dull in the shadow of Key's tortured expression. Key's eyes are shimmering with fresh new tears; they are wide, but his eyebrows are scrunched above the bridge of his nose, as if in anger. His mouth is what gives his true emotions away, turned down into the most heart-wrenching, open-mouthed frown Jonghyun has ever see grace his pretty face. The combination of his features is enough to make Jonghyun see that whatever love Key held for him in the past, even if it still clings to the walls of his heart, has been ripped from his chest by Jonghyun himself. He has ruined everything.
“You can say the words, Jjong,” Key says softly, his voice wavering, but not breaking, “But you don't really mean them. And you never will.”
··· ✫ ···
Minho is unlacing his running shoes in the front hallway when Key nearly bowls him over. He manages to keep them both upright, steadying Key by putting both of his hands on the other boy's waist. For a split second he is incredibly embarrassed by their position, but he gets a quick look at his face before Key's hands obscure it, and the feeling dies instantly. It is splotchy and red, cheeks slicked and shiny with tears.
“Kibum-ah,” he breathes, trying to duck down to Key's level, “What on Earth - ?”
“Please,” Key sobs. It feels like a fist around Minho's heart, the way the sad, small sound escapes him, not at all like his boisterous self. “Please don't follow me.”
Before Minho can answer Key pushes himself out of Minho's arms, yanks the dormitory door open and bolts out of it. Minho calls after him, but Key slips into the stairwell without so much as a backwards glance. Looking down at his shoes, Minho shoves the untied laces in beside his ankles and makes to follow him, but is halted by a voice behind him.
“He asked you not to.”
Wheeling around, Minho pins Jonghyun with a murderous stare, and the reason for Key's outpouring of misery is suddenly apparent. He doesn't care that Jonghyun's words lack spark, or that his posture is beaten and bent. When he responds, he pulls the tone he uses from the deepest part of himself, one he tries his best to forget about in front of the cameras. Here and now, he doesn't want to hide his anger - he wants to use it.
“Fuck you.”
Jonghyun doesn't respond, but Minho isn't waiting for one; he turns and follows Key's path down the hallway, leaving Jonghyun staring at the door of their dorms. He stays that way for nearly half an hour, his heart screaming for him to follow, but knowing full well that he is the last person that Key wants to see right now. Feeling barbarically desolate, he does the only thing he can think of; he pulls his coat from the closet, tucks his feet into a pair of his boots, and sends Sekyung a text message.
I need to see you. Are you busy?
The moment he sends it, he is overwhelmed by self-revulsion; the urge to run back to the dorm, pull Key's clothing from his dresser and bury himself in it, sobbing because it smells just like Key does, is so powerful he nearly allows it to overtake him.
It passes. His phone chimes brightly as he waits for the elevator, wishing every kind of hell on his warped reflection in the polished metal doors.
✫ ··· chapter six