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Yeosang knows he’s hurt Wooyoung’s feelings the moment he shifted away--a few millimeters of space is all it takes to wound him. Yeosang can taste the heaviness in the air even as they continue to ham it up in front of the camera, pretending that the visible shift is playful. Wooyoung continues to encroach in his space, infuriating and gorgeous pout in place. Yeosang responds as fans will expect, continuing to try to take his selfie--now their selfie--as the behind-the-scenes crew films in their obtrusive, non-obtrusive way. Yeosang plays the part beautifully--reticent but not, just another part of the Wooyoung and Yeosang dynamic.
Once they’re done, the oppressive eye of cameras drifting in search of more content, Yeosang escapes the post-show chaos, fleeing to a small, unused dressing room he’d stumbled into by accident earlier on a hunt for a quiet space to collect himself before their performance.
He has four blissful seconds to try to collect himself, to tamp down the slow roil in his belly that simmers whenever Wooyoung comes so near, lips close enough to his skin for the warmth to send shockwaves through his touch-starved body. Whenever Wooyoung wraps his arms around him, hands flat o“Tell me you want me to move,” Wooyoung says. Yeosang can’t afford the consequences of his desire, but he’s only human.n his belly or hips or ass as if Yeosang’s body is his, Yeosang’s longing, that confused wanting he’s burdened himself with for years, wants that with traitorous intensity.
Over the years, Yeosang has become as practiced at ignoring his desire as he has the crushing weight of how utterly unrequited it is. Maybe the opportunity to have Wooyoung could have existed at some point; if it had, Yeosang is sure the timing would never have been right. What right did he have to love and lust when he’d been too young to understand what it meant to want another man? When he’d existed on a knife’s edge of predebut uncertainty? He’d chased his dream all the way to KQ, even though it meant leaving Wooyoung behind. It had hurt, terribly, but for a space of time he’d experienced the absence of the object of his desire, unobtainable and beautiful and frustrating and hilarious. He’d missed Wooyoung, but at least Wooyoung hadn’t haunted him daily. Perhaps he’d once had a chance, but too much time had passed, too much had happened. He’d stranded himself on an island of his own making. Not that the knowledge made it easy to unlearn that wanting; it just meant he’d had a lot of practice in repressing himself.
Even becoming a professional at pretending not to be disastrously in love and lust, four seconds is not nearly enough to pull himself together. When Wooyoung stomps in, brows furrowed, the corners of his lips downturned, Yeosang can only swallow his guilt and try for a neutral, untouchable affect.
“Sang-ah,” Wooyoung says. Yeosang hates how Wooyoung’s whining is both reproachful and discerning.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yeosoang forces a breathy laugh, “I’m just overtired. Instinct.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words slip. Fuck.
“Since when is being disgusted by me an instinct?”
“What?” Yeosang, backed into a literal and metaphorical corner, is startled into honesty, facade slipping. “I’m not disgusted by you--how coul--”
“You’re always pulling away these days,” Wooyoung complains.
“No,” Yeosang says, damning his own weakness. Fuck, this room is small--Wooyoung is so close, the air so tight. That traitorous weakness makes his palms, his lips, his belly, tingle. Temptation taunts him. He could reach out easily and pull Wooyoung to him. Instead, he presses against the wall at his back, flattens his hands against the cool plaster.
Wooyoung comes closer, much too close. It’s such a Wooyoung thing to do, to test someone’s limits so loudly in order to prove a point. Yeosang forces himself still, unwilling to prove Wooyoung right. Besides, right now Wooyoung’s feelings are hurt; once he’s calmer he’ll admit that he knows better. Yesoang just needs to wait this out. Unfortunately, Wooyoung isn’t calm yet; neither of them are. Of course Wooyoung, fucking demon, presses his luck, shuffling a little closer, taunting Yeosang to move or push him away and prove his point. Only the tiniest space burns between them. Against his better sense, Yeosang looks up into Wooyoung's eyes. Only they aren’t on Yeosang’s. They’re on his lips.
“Young-ah,” he says. Why? Why is he warning him? Wooyoung bites his lip.
“Tell me you want me to move,” Wooyoung says. Yeosang can’t afford the consequences of his desire, but he’s only human. Wooyoung’s lips are still shiny, a remnant of his stage makeup or a post-show touch-up for the cameras. Yeosang wants to bite. The silence stretches like taffy. Yeosang licks his lips before he can stop himself. “Oh, my god. You don’t,” Wooyoung says, breathless shock weakening his voice. “You don’t want me to move away.”
It’s not a question. Yeosang just about faints, cursing how the smallest movement is as good as a confession when the audience is the person who knows him best. With one small moment, he’s laid himself bare and now, Wooyoung knows. When he meets Wooyoung’s gaze, he’s helpless. Wooyoung’s waist is small, firm and warm in Yeosang’s hands. When Wooyoung kisses him, it’s a shock, it’s the most and least expected outcome of their friendship.
Wooyoung comes into the kiss gentle but unhesitating; a shockwave, hot and then cold, flashes through Yeosang. In the span of a breath, a shocked inhale and a slow, melting exhale, the kiss goes from soft to starved. That roiling need in his stomach is a pot boiled over; Yeosang finally, finally bites then sucks Wooyoung’s lower lip into his mouth. Wooyoung’s hands are in his hair, then holding the hinge of his jaw to angle the kiss with confidence. They’re running over Yeosang’s chest, tracing the outline of the abs he’s worked so hard for. Yeosang is defenseless, kissing Wooyoung with naked intensity while wondering, vaguely, if getting so hard so fast, should embarrass him.
He’s so lost in it, lips tingling, cock harder than it should be considering it’s just a kiss, he almost misses the quiet snick of the door opening. Neither of them misses the louder thunk as it’s closed hastily. Wooyoung stiffens but doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move when Yeosang’s hands tighten around his waist in warning. Over Wooyoung’s shoulder there’s no way to miss the shock painted over San’s face.
“Oh, god.” Yeosang whispers, somewhere between a plea, an apology, and supplication. San huffs. Wooyoung’s limbs loosen instantly; it’s not hard to tell when San’s in any room, honestly. His presence is larger than his deceptively small (albeit stunning) body. Plus, he always smells delicious. He and Wooyoung have existed in each other’s pockets for years; of course he knows San by the smallest exhale.
“San, god, I’m so sor-” Yeosang gasps again, hard, when Wooyoung opts to bite his neck rather than pull away. Yeosang’s body would probably embarrass him if he weren’t absolutely numb--the bad kind of numb--from the fear of being caught. For the shame of allowing himself to take what isn’t his. Wooyoung bites a kiss under his ear; Yeosang fights to stay upright. San doesn’t move, eyes never leaving Yeosang’s, and oh, good, there’s a new emotion: panic.
“San-ah,” Wooyoung purrs. Honestly, there’s no other word to describe the smug, assured manner of speaking only Wooyoung has. Yeosang tries, fruitlessly, to push Wooyoung away. San steps closer. Fear knocks at Yeosang’s ribs with his heartbeat. San’s hands wrap around Wooyoung’s waist possessively. They are hot on top of Yeosang’s. He doesn’t push them away.
“Woo-” Yeosang gasps; Wooyoung is doing clever, wicked things to his neck, up near his ear. It’s toe-curling good; he fights to keep his eyes open. “I’m sorry,” he manages, eyes on San. At first, San doesn’t respond, not by looks or words. Instead, he tilts his head against Wooyoung’s and smiles.
“Is he sweet?”
Wooyoung stops his ministrations--Yeosang is so confused he can hardly mourn the loss--to press his cheek to San’s.
“So sweet.”
“What--” Yeosang swallows. Wooyoung’s right hand is still buried in Yeosang’s hair. The other grips San’s, and by proxy, Yeosang’s, where it’s squeezing his hip.
“Why are you sorry?” Wooyoung asks, all mischief and amusement.
“Aren’t you two…I mean-” Yeosang starts. Everyone knows about the two of them. It’s the most open secret that’s really not a secret.
“We are,” San says. Yeosang’s stomach drops so steeply he feels sick. He knew, he knows and still he let himself get swept up in a delicious, if forbidden and wrong moment. Only…it doesn’t feel all that wrong right now. Wooyoung isn’t scared, apologetic or even remotely worried. San’s smile is in his eyes, amusement at odds with the sweet, precious smile their fans are so accustomed to. Yeosang wants, desperately, to submit to it.
“Sang-ah,” Wooyoung says, lips just a breath from his. “Do you want this?”
Yeosang, stripped by desire, is startled into honesty. “Yes.”
“Then we want it,” San says. Yeosang isn’t given a moment to contemplate that--the we--before Wooyoung’s lips are back on his. Wooyoung isn’t afraid, so Yeosang gives up on being afraid. Caution is on the wind without conscious thought. Everything is Wooyoung’s lips, the warmth of his tongue sliding against Yeosang’s. The delicious thrill of having his hair pulled, of the cold-hot shivers that wreck him when Wooyoung turns his attention back to Yeosang’s earlobes. It’s been literal years since anyone has touched Yeosang. All of the wiring is the same--from his lips to his neck straight to his cock. He’s desperately, dangerously turned on. Against his hip, Wooyoung’s cock is hard. Yeosang thinks he might die if he doesn’t get his hands or lips on it.
“Wooyoung.” Yeosang gasps, musters every ounce of will to push Wooyoung away. There’s no room, not with the way San sandwiches him between the two of them.
“Isn’t he pretty like this?” Wooyoung says against San’s cheek.
“Stunning,” San says, eyes boring into Yeosang’s. He’s assessing something; Yeosang is struck by the desire to give him the right answer without even knowing the question. When he cups Yeosang’s cheek something dark thrills through him. There’s no mistaking the possessive touch. He thumbs Yeosang’s kiss-swollen lips; Yeosang barely keeps a helpless whimper in. “Do you want this?”
Well. None of this was on the bingo card of his life. Perhaps in the very vague fantasy life he has worked so hard to ignore, he’s considered some:
Kissing Wooyoung.
Kissing Wooyoung with an audience. Fucking Wooyoung with an audience.
Kissing San.
Allowing San to bend Yeosang to his will, to render him a puddle of desire.
But not these:
Knowing, suddenly, intimately that he’s not just desired by one of the men he’s been in love with for years, but by two. The thrilling thickness in the air that signals a complete change in dynamic wasn’t in those fantasies: both of them at once, and Yeosang helplessly at their mercy.
He resists the urge to suck San’s thumb into his mouth. San’s thumb presses into his lower lip; coaxing a truth from him.
“Yes,” he confesses. San’s smile is a little wicked and completely in control. Yeosang allows himself an indulgence, licking the pad of his thumb with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck,” Wooyoung says, breathless and thready.
“You’re desperate,” San says. Yeosang isn’t clear if he’s addressing Wooyoung or himself. It doesn’t matter, not when San presses into Wooyoung deliberately. Awkwardly, deliciously, Wooyoung’s body rubs against Yeosang’s. Their cocks aren’t aligned, there’s no proper angle here and yet Yeosang is so hard up, so nakedly desperate it doesn’t matter--he’s on edge, and the moan that’s startled out of him is perhaps the most honest he’s been in years.
“Oh, jagi,” San says, all sympathy and condescension. Yesoang never knew how much he’d like that; feeling helpless and at the mercy of someone else. Wooyoung clearly loves it, if the throbbing twitch of his cock against Yeosang is any indicator. “Young-ah, touch him.”
Wooyoung spares him a glance, waits a beat; Yeosang knows he’s seeking permission. Yeosang nods slightly, closes his eyes and groans when Wooyoung presses the flat of his palm over his erection. He digs the heel of his hand against him. Yeosang is on his toes, grinding into the touch. He can’t breathe, his muscles tremble uncontrollably. If the combined weight of their bodies weren’t trapping him, he would surely be on the floor.
“Are you gonna come?” Wooyoung asks. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
Yeosang sees no reason to be embarrassed: they know hasn’t had sex in years.
“You can come,” San says; he’s never come on command, but it’s a close thing.
“Kiss, please,” Yeosang whimpers. San leans over Wooyoung’s shoulder, lips ghosting over Yeosang’s mouth. Yeosang licks at them, then lets the pleasure of San’s mouth sweep him up. Warmth is pooling in his belly, everything pulling taught, orgasm just under the surface of his skin.
“Him,” he says, fighting to open his eyes. Wooyoung huffs, the smallest laugh-laced exhale, turning his head toward San. They kiss like knowing, confidently finding each other. Their lips are clockwork precision, the fruit of years of practice. They’re nothing rote, though: they kiss like they’ve too have been starved, messy and hard. They kiss and Yeosang comes instantly, the pressure of Wooyoung’s hand on his cock tightening just the tiniest bit, wringing even more pleasure from an orgasm wrecking him with almost worrying intensity.
“Fuck.” Wooyoung’s familiar whine hardly registers. “I missed it!”
“He’s so beautiful when he comes,” San says. “Shoulda kept your eyes open.”
“Fuck you, you know I can’t keep my eyes open when I kiss.”
“Wha-” Yeosang tries to shake himself present. San’s hands have migrated to his waist, thumbs under his shirt, so, so warm against his skin. An echo of pleasure coalesces at the touch. Yeosang is startled by the sudden knowledge that he’s suddenly got a teenage refractory period. Given just a few minutes he’ll surely be hard again.
“We can do this again, right?” Wooyoung asks. Yeosang isn’t clear who he’s speaking to. “I want to see.”
“Yeosang,” San prompts. Oh. Okay, his turn to speak.
“Again?”
“If you want,” San says. That commanding tone is gone, the sweet, weird boy Yeosang knows so well back in place. Wooyoung is still hard against his hip. Yeosang’s clothes are disgusting, pants a wet sticky mess; he could care less. There’s a gift at his doorstep, the reciprocal desire he never imagined his for the taking. Clearly, fuck-addled Yeosang has no inhibitions or common sense.