Fic: Facets, Chapter 6
Title: Facets, Chapter 6
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yunho, Junsu/Changmin, slight Yoochun/Changmin and Yoochun/Junsu
Rating: R-ish
Summary: AU fic! Yunho struggles with his feelings for Jaejoong, and wakes up in an alternate reality where he...also meets Jaejoong. Except this Jaejoong is quite different from the one he knows. Also involves secrets and grappling with the truth
I'm sorry that I'm not able to reply to each of your comments, but thank you so much for staying with me this far, all the same! I'm trying to speed things up a bit but everything insists on moving so slowly, so I'm trying my best to make each chapter longer, and yes <3 thank you, once again, for all the positive feedback!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
There is lazy warmth and soft morning light all around when he opens his eyes, and Yunho feels more relaxed than he has in days, almost indolent. More half asleep than awake, it takes him a while to realize he’s moved, somehow, in the night, and now has an arm full of blonde Korean boy. His first instinct is to withdraw, only he’s sure any sudden movement would wake Youngwoong up, and to be perfectly honest he isn’t sure he really wants to move, in any case. He hadn’t realized he’d missed the comfort of such human contact, until now. Early mornings, the gremlin in his head cackles, the only time you stop wallowing in self-denial. Shut up, Yunho replies savagely; heaves a sigh when the voice mercifully retreats.
Yunho can feel the steady rise and fall of Youngwoong’s side under his arm, thinks he can catch a faint hint of his shampoo. Youngwoong smells clean, simple; oddly different from Jaejoong and his array of sweet citrus shampoos and bath washes. Jaejoong. Yunho lifts himself up slightly on one elbow to gaze down at the other boy’s sleeping profile. So very, very much like Jaejoong. And yet so very, very different, for so many reasons. If he’d woken up pressed up against Jaejoong’s back he’d probably have woken everyone else by falling out of bed in his haste to get away. Jaejoong… Jaejoong is off limits, he knows that. Jaejoong is his best friend, his band mate, while Youngwoong… Youngwoong is none of these things. Youngwoong, he tells himself sternly, is also not Jaejoong. As if all his mannerisms weren’t enough to confirm that.
None of these things seem to make a clear enough impression on him, though, when Youngwoong stirs, stretches slightly, wakes up. Open, unguarded, gaze still unfocused from sleep, hair slightly tousled; so very, very much like Jaejoong that for a moment the distinction blurs and Yunho isn’t sure who he’s looking down at, Youngwoong or Jaejoong, and it doesn’t really matter, does it? They’re almost the same, he thinks, before the guards come up, almost the same-
He says the only thing that comes to mind, the only thing that seems even remotely appropriate.
“Good morning.”
---
This morning Changmin can feel the gulf between them, the chasm gaping wider and deeper with every passing minute. He knows he can bridge it, reach out with words, with small touches, with smiles, but he isn’t sure he should anymore.
This morning there are no tears, only Xiah’s pale, pale skin and wide, wide eyes. They reach Changmin’s office in silence, and Micky is there when they enter, coolly implacable. Changmin doesn’t meet his eyes, chooses to search in his briefcase for Xiah’s papers instead. Micky nods, eyes roving over the clauses when he hands the papers over.
“This is fine. I’ll transfer the amount over to you later this morning.”
Changmin nods, tight-lipped, watches as Xiah bows, stiffly, formally, for the last time.
“Thank you for your care this whole time, sir.”
Changmin’s throat is dry and he has to swallow before he can come out with the words. “Thank you for your service.”
They leave, Xiah following at Micky’s heels, head down, hands clutching a small duffel bag with all his worldly possessions in it tight to his chest. Changmin exhales only when the door closes, only realizes then that he’s forgotten to breathe.
The room is too bright, the air too thin; the only reason for the way his breath is short and painful in his lungs, the way it feels as if iron bands have been wrapped around his chest, tight, tight, tight; squeezing. His hands fumble until he opens the drawer, until he draws out the small, clear bottle, until he unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of alcohol fills his senses, clears his head.
No drinking in the mornings be damned.
---
“Have you eaten?”
Xiah jerks, almost stumbles a step. “No, sir.” Which is not technically the truth. He had eaten, a whole, hearty breakfast of rice and soup, only to heave it all up barely an hour later, though he doesn’t think his new master would appreciate being told the details of that process.
“Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast.” Micky’s smile is light, easy, and Xiah blinks before inclining his head slightly and following.
He isn’t sure which emotion is dominant, in the roiling mass of them in the pit of his belly. He’s outraged, he knows, furious even if has no right to be, hurt enough to feel as if he’s been cut to the bone (though he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that), annoyed that he’ll have to adjust to the habits and preferences of a new master, and afraid, terrified, because not all masters are the same, not all employers are as tolerant or as kind to their staff as Changmin is. Was. And then there is loss, a wide, gaping hole in his centre that he isn’t sure how to fill, to seal up, and of course he can’t, even if he knew how. A job, he knows, only a job, and it’s never been clearer than now, never been clearer than when Changmin told him he was to be sold.
“Don’t look so grim. I may not be Changmin, but I’m not a slave driver.” Micky laughs at Xiah’s stricken look, as Xiah bobs awkwardly. “I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t implying-”
“Tch. There’s no need to apologise for something like that.” If anything Micky’s smile gets brighter and Xiah wonders if he’s ever caused anyone to go blind from it. “So. Korean food, or what?”
---
For a moment Youngwoong can’t quite remember where he is.
He wonders if this is the result of another mindless, drunken tryst, except his head isn’t pounding, he can’t taste anything awful on his tongue, and they usually leave after they’re done.
Also, none of them would ever look half as good as this one does by the cold light of day.
“Good morning”, he says, and oh, Youngwoong registers hazily, polite and gorgeous, wonderful.
It doesn’t matter, he decides abruptly. The man’s robe is half undone, open enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, toned chest, and the fabric is soft underneath Youngwoong’s fingers when he reaches up to pull the man’s lips down to meet his.
“Good morning, yourself”, he mouths against skin, closes his eyes and leans into it.
---
“Well?”
Xiah wipes his mouth carefully with a napkin before setting it down on his empty plate. “Very good, sir”, and it really was, despite him being slightly unnerved at first by Micky watching him eat. Nobody’s ever watched him eat before, or told him jokes and funny anecdotes over food. Despite it all he can feel himself relaxing and warming up to the other man. It’s strange, he muses. Quite unlike what he’d thought Micky would be like. For one, he hadn’t even attempted to touch him yet. Perhaps, he thinks, it might not be too bad without Changmin, after all, then winces at the sharp heave his stomach gives. No, don’t think about Changmin, not yet. Much too soon for that.
Micky frowns when Xiah’s lips compress, when his face turns a tad whiter. “Are you okay?”
Xiah swallows with an effort. “Yes. Yes, sir, I’m fine.”
“Oh, good.” Micky leans back then, crosses his arms. “You get the day off.”
“W- what?”
“Yes, just drop me back off at the office first. And then you can take the car. I’ll call you later in the evening when I want to be picked up.”
Xiah, to put it simply, is floored. He doesn’t remember his last day off. He doesn’t remember ever having a day off.
Why are you being so nice to me?, he doesn’t say. Instead he bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you, sir.”
“Okay, then, let’s go.” Micky pushes back his chair, stands. “I need to be back at the office now. There are certain…people I need to speak too.”
Xiah hears the pause, sees the way Micky’s expression flickers, but it isn’t his place, so he doesn’t ask.
---
Yunho is aware, in the dim way of the heavily intoxicated and the very ill, that this isn’t quite right.
Damn right it isn’t! A corner of his brain is screeching, while the other voice, that evil, cackling horror, begins to shriek encouragement at him, though Yunho is really much to distracted to pay them any heed.
It’s nice, he thinks, soft, soft lips against his own. It’s been much too long since he’s been kissed, he muses, since he’s felt long fingers tangled in his dark hair, since he’s tasted anything quite this sweet and elusive, and it draws him, reels him in, causes him to press in further in search of more. Much too long, he thinks, apart from yesterday with Youngwoong, anyway, but that doesn’t really count-
Wait.
The other boy makes a soft sound of protest in the back of his throat when Yunho pulls away, when Yunho stares down at him in horrified fascination.
It’s Jaejoong’s face he sees under him, Jaejoong flushed with more than the heat, eyes wide and dark and depthless, and he recognizes that expression, that spark. It’s the same look Jaejoong gets after a good show, after he nails that high note, when there is alcohol and adrenaline warring in his veins. Except, oh god, this isn’t Jaejoong, but goddamnit, damn it all to hell, the way he wants this, the way he wants to launch himself on the other boy and kiss him senseless-
“Oh.” Youngwoong blinks, and suddenly he looks more alert, more focused. “It’s you. I thought- I mean, I-”
It’s as if someone’s doused him in cold water and redirected all the blood back to his head. Yunho can barely keep himself from swaying as he stands, backs away.
“I, uh, I’ll just go wash up now-”
He winces when he slams the bathroom door behind him just a little too hard. At the rate he’s going, he reflects bitterly, he might as well start barricading himself in the damned place from now on.
---
“God, Min, what’s wrong with you?”
Changmin doesn’t even bother to look up. Not that he thinks he could, in any case. His head feels like it’s been filled with lead, and he’s quite sure the ceiling isn’t supposed to undulate like that.
“Oh.” He slurs, when the face looms over him. “It’s you.” There are certain unflattering terms he’d have loved to use on Micky, except he can’t quite seem to remember any of them at the moment.
Micky makes a sound of disgust. “You can’t be serious.”
Changmin grunts and turns over, burying his face in the soft fabric of the couch. “Go ‘way.”
“Stop behaving like a goddamned kid!”
Changmin turns back around to snarl at him, the effect somewhat ruined by an errant hiccup. “What, should I beat your brains out, then?”
Micky laughs, though it sounds much too indulgent and affectionate even to his ears, and he makes to snap at the other man’s fingers when he reaches to pull him up into a sitting position, which just makes Micky laugh even harder. “Oh, Changmin. You do know how delusional you sound, don’t you?”
“Leave…me…alone!” Changmin attempts to push Micky’s hands off, but the other man just grips his arms tighter.
“Come on. You’re in no fit state to stay here. If someone sees you they’ll just think we’re all drunkards over at Jungtech. Let’s get you home.”
“Xiah…” Changmin waves a hand vaguely as he allows Micky to pull him up and start hauling him in the general direction of the door. “He’ll…drive me.”
“But, Changmin”, Micky’s voice is quiet, even, “you sold him to me. Remember?”
“Oh.” Changmin stops in his tracks. He does remember, faintly, though he’s quite sure he doesn’t want to. Suddenly he hates Micky for reminding him, hates the fact that it won’t be Xiah who’ll drive him home, but Micky, and he whirls around to face the other man, swaying slightly on the spot.
“You-” He begins, but then the world spins, and his knees are caving under him, and Changmin expects to fall, anticipates the impact; is sorely thwarted when strong arms catch him instead, when he falls against Micky’s chest, head coming to loll on the man’s shoulder.
“I…hate you.” He manages to say, before everything goes dark.
---
Xiah stops by the river, because there isn’t anywhere else to go that he knows of.
He relishes the feel of the wind in his hair as he walks, breathes in the scent of the water, of the city, of exhaust and the greasy scent of fried food from the makeshift food stands not too far away. Even on a weekday afternoon there are people by the river, a family, a few couples, loners like himself. He stops on a bench in sight of the car and sits, stares out over the water.
He thinks he can see ships in the distance, and wonders what it’s like to be on a ship. Xiah wonders about lots of things; wonders if this is what it’s like to be free, if freedom means days off and endless hours left to himself; wonders why it feels so much like futile aimlessness.
It would be nice to have a book to read, he thinks. Changmin had always encouraged him to read, even if he’d always struggled with his heavy tomes and their abstract concepts pertaining to space and time and endless, endless possibilities. He remembers stopping by the river once, not so long ago, at Changmin’s request; remembers standing next to him as Changmin leaned on the railing, eyes gazing up and out over the wide expanse of water; remembers the long shadows the setting sun had painted, the sound of laughter about them, the feel of Changmin’s arm about his waist. Nice, isn’t it? Changmin had asked, and he’d agreed, even if he hadn’t been referring to the view.
Change and more change, abrupt, sudden, unexpected, jarring; but Xiah is used to change. They all are, in their line of work, where they are all easily replaced, woefully expendable. His fault, his knows, for getting too attached, too comfortable, for being too foolish. No one to blame but himself, really.
There are no tears this time and Xiah is glad. He thinks of steel, cold and irresolute and above all strong, dauntless; resolutely pushes away the memory of a laugh, a smile, the feel of soft skin under his cheek.
---
When Yunho finally brings himself to venture out of the bathroom Youngwoong is immaculate, hair combed, robe adjusted, utterly composed. The bed is neatly made, the curtains are drawn back, and Yunho is stunned to find that there’s even breakfast waiting for him on a tray.
Yunho manages to swallow most of his food, even if most of it tastes dry as ash in his mouth. Damnit, now he can’t even look at the boy anymore. “Um. There wouldn’t happen to be more juice, would there?”
Youngwoong bows smoothly. “Certainly. Just a moment.”
Yunho waits until Youngwoong is safely out of the room before scrabbling on the nightstand for his cell and searching rapidly until he finds the right number. He waits, foot tapping impatiently, while the phone jangles a merry tune in his ear, and is on the verge of screaming in frustration when he hears a click and then a voice.
“Hello?”
“Changmin! Oh, god, listen, have you found anything-”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up a bit. This isn’t Changmin. Can I take a message?”
Yunho frowns. “Yooc- I mean, is that you, Micky?”
“Oh! Oh, hello, Mr. Jung, didn’t recognize your voice there. Changmin is…sort of incapacitated at the moment. But I can always relay a message for you.”
“N- No, it’s fine. Just get him to call me back as soon as you can, will you?”
“Sure. Though I can’t promise it’ll be soon. Be seeing you, Mr. Jung!”
Yunho glares balefully at the sleek contraption in his hand when Micky hangs up. So much for that plan, then.
Well then. What now?
---
Micky groans as he hangs up and deposits Changmin on the large bed. “Damnit, how much do you weigh?”
Changmin grunts in reply and rolls over, and Micky sighs, starts pulling off his shoes. “You owe me one”, he mutters threateningly, but Changmin doesn’t even deign to answer, and doesn’t stir when Micky starts tugging on his jeans. “Ugh. Roll over, you slob.” He pushes insistently on Changmin’s shoulder until the other boy complies, then moves up to position himself just above Changmin’s hips so he can attempt to work on Changmin’s shirt. Micky is too busy wondering just how he’s supposed to get the sleeves off -roll him over again, maybe, except that sounds like too much work by far- to notice when Changmin takes a decidedly firm grip on his belt loops and flips them over.
He’s never thought of it this way before, but right now being straddled by an exceedingly drunk younger colleague is decidedly higher up on Micky’s list of most undignified positions to be in than it ever used to be. Micky growls when Changmin smirks down at him.
“I…win.” He grins, wide, crooked, and it would be endearing on that boyish face if Micky weren’t half as annoyed as he is. God, the boy shouldn’t even be allowed access to alcohol.
“Stop playing, Changmin, and get off.”
“Who says-” Changmin giggles slightly, hiccups again, “- that I’m playing?”
“Ugh.” Micky scowls, attempts to buck upwards, and finds that Changmin is a lot stronger than he looks, even in this state. “You are so dead tomorrow. Now get. Off!”
Micky only starts realizing that he is quite possibly in very deep trouble when Changmin starts shrugging off his shirt and leans down close enough for Micky to smell the alcohol on his breath, for Changmin to nip, hard, at his earlobe, to run an exploratory tongue over the silver stud there.
Changmin’s breath is hot by his cheek, and Micky can’t quite suppress the shiver that starts from the base of his spine and surges upwards like liquid fire.
“Make me.”
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yunho, Junsu/Changmin, slight Yoochun/Changmin and Yoochun/Junsu
Rating: R-ish
Summary: AU fic! Yunho struggles with his feelings for Jaejoong, and wakes up in an alternate reality where he...also meets Jaejoong. Except this Jaejoong is quite different from the one he knows. Also involves secrets and grappling with the truth
I'm sorry that I'm not able to reply to each of your comments, but thank you so much for staying with me this far, all the same! I'm trying to speed things up a bit but everything insists on moving so slowly, so I'm trying my best to make each chapter longer, and yes <3 thank you, once again, for all the positive feedback!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
There is lazy warmth and soft morning light all around when he opens his eyes, and Yunho feels more relaxed than he has in days, almost indolent. More half asleep than awake, it takes him a while to realize he’s moved, somehow, in the night, and now has an arm full of blonde Korean boy. His first instinct is to withdraw, only he’s sure any sudden movement would wake Youngwoong up, and to be perfectly honest he isn’t sure he really wants to move, in any case. He hadn’t realized he’d missed the comfort of such human contact, until now. Early mornings, the gremlin in his head cackles, the only time you stop wallowing in self-denial. Shut up, Yunho replies savagely; heaves a sigh when the voice mercifully retreats.
Yunho can feel the steady rise and fall of Youngwoong’s side under his arm, thinks he can catch a faint hint of his shampoo. Youngwoong smells clean, simple; oddly different from Jaejoong and his array of sweet citrus shampoos and bath washes. Jaejoong. Yunho lifts himself up slightly on one elbow to gaze down at the other boy’s sleeping profile. So very, very much like Jaejoong. And yet so very, very different, for so many reasons. If he’d woken up pressed up against Jaejoong’s back he’d probably have woken everyone else by falling out of bed in his haste to get away. Jaejoong… Jaejoong is off limits, he knows that. Jaejoong is his best friend, his band mate, while Youngwoong… Youngwoong is none of these things. Youngwoong, he tells himself sternly, is also not Jaejoong. As if all his mannerisms weren’t enough to confirm that.
None of these things seem to make a clear enough impression on him, though, when Youngwoong stirs, stretches slightly, wakes up. Open, unguarded, gaze still unfocused from sleep, hair slightly tousled; so very, very much like Jaejoong that for a moment the distinction blurs and Yunho isn’t sure who he’s looking down at, Youngwoong or Jaejoong, and it doesn’t really matter, does it? They’re almost the same, he thinks, before the guards come up, almost the same-
He says the only thing that comes to mind, the only thing that seems even remotely appropriate.
“Good morning.”
---
This morning Changmin can feel the gulf between them, the chasm gaping wider and deeper with every passing minute. He knows he can bridge it, reach out with words, with small touches, with smiles, but he isn’t sure he should anymore.
This morning there are no tears, only Xiah’s pale, pale skin and wide, wide eyes. They reach Changmin’s office in silence, and Micky is there when they enter, coolly implacable. Changmin doesn’t meet his eyes, chooses to search in his briefcase for Xiah’s papers instead. Micky nods, eyes roving over the clauses when he hands the papers over.
“This is fine. I’ll transfer the amount over to you later this morning.”
Changmin nods, tight-lipped, watches as Xiah bows, stiffly, formally, for the last time.
“Thank you for your care this whole time, sir.”
Changmin’s throat is dry and he has to swallow before he can come out with the words. “Thank you for your service.”
They leave, Xiah following at Micky’s heels, head down, hands clutching a small duffel bag with all his worldly possessions in it tight to his chest. Changmin exhales only when the door closes, only realizes then that he’s forgotten to breathe.
The room is too bright, the air too thin; the only reason for the way his breath is short and painful in his lungs, the way it feels as if iron bands have been wrapped around his chest, tight, tight, tight; squeezing. His hands fumble until he opens the drawer, until he draws out the small, clear bottle, until he unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of alcohol fills his senses, clears his head.
No drinking in the mornings be damned.
---
“Have you eaten?”
Xiah jerks, almost stumbles a step. “No, sir.” Which is not technically the truth. He had eaten, a whole, hearty breakfast of rice and soup, only to heave it all up barely an hour later, though he doesn’t think his new master would appreciate being told the details of that process.
“Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast.” Micky’s smile is light, easy, and Xiah blinks before inclining his head slightly and following.
He isn’t sure which emotion is dominant, in the roiling mass of them in the pit of his belly. He’s outraged, he knows, furious even if has no right to be, hurt enough to feel as if he’s been cut to the bone (though he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that), annoyed that he’ll have to adjust to the habits and preferences of a new master, and afraid, terrified, because not all masters are the same, not all employers are as tolerant or as kind to their staff as Changmin is. Was. And then there is loss, a wide, gaping hole in his centre that he isn’t sure how to fill, to seal up, and of course he can’t, even if he knew how. A job, he knows, only a job, and it’s never been clearer than now, never been clearer than when Changmin told him he was to be sold.
“Don’t look so grim. I may not be Changmin, but I’m not a slave driver.” Micky laughs at Xiah’s stricken look, as Xiah bobs awkwardly. “I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t implying-”
“Tch. There’s no need to apologise for something like that.” If anything Micky’s smile gets brighter and Xiah wonders if he’s ever caused anyone to go blind from it. “So. Korean food, or what?”
---
For a moment Youngwoong can’t quite remember where he is.
He wonders if this is the result of another mindless, drunken tryst, except his head isn’t pounding, he can’t taste anything awful on his tongue, and they usually leave after they’re done.
Also, none of them would ever look half as good as this one does by the cold light of day.
“Good morning”, he says, and oh, Youngwoong registers hazily, polite and gorgeous, wonderful.
It doesn’t matter, he decides abruptly. The man’s robe is half undone, open enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, toned chest, and the fabric is soft underneath Youngwoong’s fingers when he reaches up to pull the man’s lips down to meet his.
“Good morning, yourself”, he mouths against skin, closes his eyes and leans into it.
---
“Well?”
Xiah wipes his mouth carefully with a napkin before setting it down on his empty plate. “Very good, sir”, and it really was, despite him being slightly unnerved at first by Micky watching him eat. Nobody’s ever watched him eat before, or told him jokes and funny anecdotes over food. Despite it all he can feel himself relaxing and warming up to the other man. It’s strange, he muses. Quite unlike what he’d thought Micky would be like. For one, he hadn’t even attempted to touch him yet. Perhaps, he thinks, it might not be too bad without Changmin, after all, then winces at the sharp heave his stomach gives. No, don’t think about Changmin, not yet. Much too soon for that.
Micky frowns when Xiah’s lips compress, when his face turns a tad whiter. “Are you okay?”
Xiah swallows with an effort. “Yes. Yes, sir, I’m fine.”
“Oh, good.” Micky leans back then, crosses his arms. “You get the day off.”
“W- what?”
“Yes, just drop me back off at the office first. And then you can take the car. I’ll call you later in the evening when I want to be picked up.”
Xiah, to put it simply, is floored. He doesn’t remember his last day off. He doesn’t remember ever having a day off.
Why are you being so nice to me?, he doesn’t say. Instead he bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you, sir.”
“Okay, then, let’s go.” Micky pushes back his chair, stands. “I need to be back at the office now. There are certain…people I need to speak too.”
Xiah hears the pause, sees the way Micky’s expression flickers, but it isn’t his place, so he doesn’t ask.
---
Yunho is aware, in the dim way of the heavily intoxicated and the very ill, that this isn’t quite right.
Damn right it isn’t! A corner of his brain is screeching, while the other voice, that evil, cackling horror, begins to shriek encouragement at him, though Yunho is really much to distracted to pay them any heed.
It’s nice, he thinks, soft, soft lips against his own. It’s been much too long since he’s been kissed, he muses, since he’s felt long fingers tangled in his dark hair, since he’s tasted anything quite this sweet and elusive, and it draws him, reels him in, causes him to press in further in search of more. Much too long, he thinks, apart from yesterday with Youngwoong, anyway, but that doesn’t really count-
Wait.
The other boy makes a soft sound of protest in the back of his throat when Yunho pulls away, when Yunho stares down at him in horrified fascination.
It’s Jaejoong’s face he sees under him, Jaejoong flushed with more than the heat, eyes wide and dark and depthless, and he recognizes that expression, that spark. It’s the same look Jaejoong gets after a good show, after he nails that high note, when there is alcohol and adrenaline warring in his veins. Except, oh god, this isn’t Jaejoong, but goddamnit, damn it all to hell, the way he wants this, the way he wants to launch himself on the other boy and kiss him senseless-
“Oh.” Youngwoong blinks, and suddenly he looks more alert, more focused. “It’s you. I thought- I mean, I-”
It’s as if someone’s doused him in cold water and redirected all the blood back to his head. Yunho can barely keep himself from swaying as he stands, backs away.
“I, uh, I’ll just go wash up now-”
He winces when he slams the bathroom door behind him just a little too hard. At the rate he’s going, he reflects bitterly, he might as well start barricading himself in the damned place from now on.
---
“God, Min, what’s wrong with you?”
Changmin doesn’t even bother to look up. Not that he thinks he could, in any case. His head feels like it’s been filled with lead, and he’s quite sure the ceiling isn’t supposed to undulate like that.
“Oh.” He slurs, when the face looms over him. “It’s you.” There are certain unflattering terms he’d have loved to use on Micky, except he can’t quite seem to remember any of them at the moment.
Micky makes a sound of disgust. “You can’t be serious.”
Changmin grunts and turns over, burying his face in the soft fabric of the couch. “Go ‘way.”
“Stop behaving like a goddamned kid!”
Changmin turns back around to snarl at him, the effect somewhat ruined by an errant hiccup. “What, should I beat your brains out, then?”
Micky laughs, though it sounds much too indulgent and affectionate even to his ears, and he makes to snap at the other man’s fingers when he reaches to pull him up into a sitting position, which just makes Micky laugh even harder. “Oh, Changmin. You do know how delusional you sound, don’t you?”
“Leave…me…alone!” Changmin attempts to push Micky’s hands off, but the other man just grips his arms tighter.
“Come on. You’re in no fit state to stay here. If someone sees you they’ll just think we’re all drunkards over at Jungtech. Let’s get you home.”
“Xiah…” Changmin waves a hand vaguely as he allows Micky to pull him up and start hauling him in the general direction of the door. “He’ll…drive me.”
“But, Changmin”, Micky’s voice is quiet, even, “you sold him to me. Remember?”
“Oh.” Changmin stops in his tracks. He does remember, faintly, though he’s quite sure he doesn’t want to. Suddenly he hates Micky for reminding him, hates the fact that it won’t be Xiah who’ll drive him home, but Micky, and he whirls around to face the other man, swaying slightly on the spot.
“You-” He begins, but then the world spins, and his knees are caving under him, and Changmin expects to fall, anticipates the impact; is sorely thwarted when strong arms catch him instead, when he falls against Micky’s chest, head coming to loll on the man’s shoulder.
“I…hate you.” He manages to say, before everything goes dark.
---
Xiah stops by the river, because there isn’t anywhere else to go that he knows of.
He relishes the feel of the wind in his hair as he walks, breathes in the scent of the water, of the city, of exhaust and the greasy scent of fried food from the makeshift food stands not too far away. Even on a weekday afternoon there are people by the river, a family, a few couples, loners like himself. He stops on a bench in sight of the car and sits, stares out over the water.
He thinks he can see ships in the distance, and wonders what it’s like to be on a ship. Xiah wonders about lots of things; wonders if this is what it’s like to be free, if freedom means days off and endless hours left to himself; wonders why it feels so much like futile aimlessness.
It would be nice to have a book to read, he thinks. Changmin had always encouraged him to read, even if he’d always struggled with his heavy tomes and their abstract concepts pertaining to space and time and endless, endless possibilities. He remembers stopping by the river once, not so long ago, at Changmin’s request; remembers standing next to him as Changmin leaned on the railing, eyes gazing up and out over the wide expanse of water; remembers the long shadows the setting sun had painted, the sound of laughter about them, the feel of Changmin’s arm about his waist. Nice, isn’t it? Changmin had asked, and he’d agreed, even if he hadn’t been referring to the view.
Change and more change, abrupt, sudden, unexpected, jarring; but Xiah is used to change. They all are, in their line of work, where they are all easily replaced, woefully expendable. His fault, his knows, for getting too attached, too comfortable, for being too foolish. No one to blame but himself, really.
There are no tears this time and Xiah is glad. He thinks of steel, cold and irresolute and above all strong, dauntless; resolutely pushes away the memory of a laugh, a smile, the feel of soft skin under his cheek.
---
When Yunho finally brings himself to venture out of the bathroom Youngwoong is immaculate, hair combed, robe adjusted, utterly composed. The bed is neatly made, the curtains are drawn back, and Yunho is stunned to find that there’s even breakfast waiting for him on a tray.
Yunho manages to swallow most of his food, even if most of it tastes dry as ash in his mouth. Damnit, now he can’t even look at the boy anymore. “Um. There wouldn’t happen to be more juice, would there?”
Youngwoong bows smoothly. “Certainly. Just a moment.”
Yunho waits until Youngwoong is safely out of the room before scrabbling on the nightstand for his cell and searching rapidly until he finds the right number. He waits, foot tapping impatiently, while the phone jangles a merry tune in his ear, and is on the verge of screaming in frustration when he hears a click and then a voice.
“Hello?”
“Changmin! Oh, god, listen, have you found anything-”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up a bit. This isn’t Changmin. Can I take a message?”
Yunho frowns. “Yooc- I mean, is that you, Micky?”
“Oh! Oh, hello, Mr. Jung, didn’t recognize your voice there. Changmin is…sort of incapacitated at the moment. But I can always relay a message for you.”
“N- No, it’s fine. Just get him to call me back as soon as you can, will you?”
“Sure. Though I can’t promise it’ll be soon. Be seeing you, Mr. Jung!”
Yunho glares balefully at the sleek contraption in his hand when Micky hangs up. So much for that plan, then.
Well then. What now?
---
Micky groans as he hangs up and deposits Changmin on the large bed. “Damnit, how much do you weigh?”
Changmin grunts in reply and rolls over, and Micky sighs, starts pulling off his shoes. “You owe me one”, he mutters threateningly, but Changmin doesn’t even deign to answer, and doesn’t stir when Micky starts tugging on his jeans. “Ugh. Roll over, you slob.” He pushes insistently on Changmin’s shoulder until the other boy complies, then moves up to position himself just above Changmin’s hips so he can attempt to work on Changmin’s shirt. Micky is too busy wondering just how he’s supposed to get the sleeves off -roll him over again, maybe, except that sounds like too much work by far- to notice when Changmin takes a decidedly firm grip on his belt loops and flips them over.
He’s never thought of it this way before, but right now being straddled by an exceedingly drunk younger colleague is decidedly higher up on Micky’s list of most undignified positions to be in than it ever used to be. Micky growls when Changmin smirks down at him.
“I…win.” He grins, wide, crooked, and it would be endearing on that boyish face if Micky weren’t half as annoyed as he is. God, the boy shouldn’t even be allowed access to alcohol.
“Stop playing, Changmin, and get off.”
“Who says-” Changmin giggles slightly, hiccups again, “- that I’m playing?”
“Ugh.” Micky scowls, attempts to buck upwards, and finds that Changmin is a lot stronger than he looks, even in this state. “You are so dead tomorrow. Now get. Off!”
Micky only starts realizing that he is quite possibly in very deep trouble when Changmin starts shrugging off his shirt and leans down close enough for Micky to smell the alcohol on his breath, for Changmin to nip, hard, at his earlobe, to run an exploratory tongue over the silver stud there.
Changmin’s breath is hot by his cheek, and Micky can’t quite suppress the shiver that starts from the base of his spine and surges upwards like liquid fire.
“Make me.”