Work Text:
Minhyuk is sprawled on the bed when Jaehyo comes out of the shower, drowning in a fluffy hotel bathrobe with another towel wrapped around his head. He hasn't bothered putting his clothes on, but at least he's wearing underwear. "You're gonna catch a cold if you don't turn the air conditioner off, idiot," Jaehyo says, gingerly padding across the room in thin slippers and draping the bathrobe carefully over the desk chair.
"My hair is dry." Minhyuk doesn't even put his phone down. Jaehyo scoffs and unwraps the towel from around his head, running his fingers through his hair. It's really too cold to stand in nothing but underwear, but he never wears clothes to sleep, and he likes the cold on his face while his body stays warm. He pulls the blanket back and curls up into a ball under it until he's comfortable, then stretches out, grabbing his phone and unplugging the charger once he notices it's almost fully charged. SNS doesn't have much to offer him, so he opens his phone camera instead.
"Ah, the lighting," he mumbles out loud. It's good. He likes it immensely, he decides.
Minhyuk looks over and huffs out something resembling a laugh. "Vain pretty boy," he teases.
Jaehyo shoots him a look. "It's for SNS," he says at first. "The fans. Get out of the shot." And then, when the comeback actually forms in his mind: "You're jealous because you're ugly in photos you don't take on your own."
Minhyuk sneers at him, but lets him take selcas in peace. He doesn't bother moving, though, staying in place; it takes a lot of shifting to get the angle he wants in the lighting he wants, but Jaehyo manages. He doesn't have anything better to do. After a few minutes, though, Minhyuk sets his phone on his drawer and pulls the blanket up to slide into the warmth. Jaehyo hisses at his cold feet touching his calves, turning his head to admonish him, but he's closer than Jaehyo had expected; his eyes are dark in this light, with Jaehyo's shadow falling over his face so they can't catch the warmth of the lamp. He turns his head back, lips pressed together, but Minhyuk slides down lower and crowds into his space.
"Asshole," Minhyuk says. His image on the camera screen grins. His skin is a little chilled, but his breath warms Jaehyo's ears. "Hogging all the warmth for yourself."
"You're dry."
"Yeah, still."
"This is my side of the bed."
It’s a king-sized bed. That’s definitely something to note, seeing as bandmates don’t generally share king-sized beds in expensive hotels. But they’d rolled their suitcases into this room, plugged in their phone chargers into the sockets on either side of the bed, right above the drawers, and sprawled out on the soft mattress, one by one (Minhyuk showered first), upper bodies angled away from each other but with their feet close together.
Bandmates — two men — don't sleep on the same bed. They're not used to it. They don't usually glance at each other and weigh in on a question they're both too proud to ask twenty-nine days out of thirty.
"Your hair is wet," Minhyuk complains in lieu of answering. "It's cold."
"Move back, then." His voice lacks any real heat. Jaehyo isn't a stranger to Minhyuk's affections; he's acquainted well enough to know Minhyuk wants something. Minhyuk's mouth twists, and he sprawls out right next to him, tucking the blanket underneath his armpit. He reaches out to lift Jaehyo's hand higher, fingers wrapping around his wrist, and when he drops his arm he lets it rest on him. Like this, the tan curve of his arm is damning, molding to Jaehyo's body over the thick blanket. The contrast dims the preview on his phone screen, and Jaehyo adjusts the angle again, absently noting Minhyuk's lashes; the shade of his skin, distorted a little by the phone brightness; the way his dimple winks at him when he looks towards the camera and presses his lips together the way he likes to, to make himself look handsome.
"Take a picture," Minhyuk says in his ear. His voice is soft. "Come on."
"It'll be ugly if you're in the frame," Jaehyo whines, lowering his hand. Doesn't lock his phone, though. He knows Minhyuk is going to reach out for it and steal it. He does.
“It’s already ugly with you in the frame,” Minhyuk says. Jaehyo shoves him away, tutting, but he just sidles back like a leech, holding Jaehyo’s phone up and dimpling at the camera.
“I was going to post it,” Jaehyo says, snatching half-heartedly for his phone. Minhyuk pushes at his shoulder; it’s a good thing he’s prepared for the shove. “Now you’ve ruined it. Don’t drop my phone!”
“Don’t post that one, then.”
“Hold my fucking phone properly!”
“Fine,” Minhyuk snaps, but his lips curving upwards give him away. He’s angled so the light catches on the rim of his dimple, a golden glow before the skin dents. His smile widens, and his dimple deepens, and Jaehyo’s breath inexplicably catches out of something other than irritation.
He takes another picture, head leaning towards Jaehyo’s shoulder but not quite touching. He’s scooched down a bit on the bed, so all that can be seen of Jaehyo is a startled smile in the upper right corner. Jaehyo tussles with him to delete it, complaining loudly, and manages to wrestle the phone from him for long enough to do it himself. He survives Minhyuk nagging at him to let him do it again, his voice thick with laughter, but ultimately falls when he murmurs Jaehyo’s own passcode to him with this infuriatingly smug voice.
"Why do you know that?"
"I'm observant." Minhyuk's smile is disgusting. The blanket is pooled around their waists, now. The air is cold. Jaehyo pulls it back up.
“If you want to take selcas, do it with your own phone,” he gripes, then smiles prettily for the camera.
"When you do that," Minhyuk says. "When you smile like that and your cheeks..."
"What?"
He doesn't continue. Jaehyo laughs to break the silence, a little confused and a little nervous, when it becomes clear that he isn't going to.
Observant as Minhyuk claims to be (and is), it's not really like him to make his observations known when cameras aren't rolling and they need to find something to talk about. Jaehyo can count on one hand the amount of times Minhyuk has really, truly laid his cards out on the table for everyone to see. This isn't really — it's not a big deal or anything, Minhyuk speaking out of turn. It's not really anything but a casual remark, and Jaehyo shouldn't be overthinking it; he wouldn't if it had been Jiho, Kyung, Yukwon. Maybe he'd have thought about it if it had been Taeil saying something like that, but — come on. That's Taeil.
"Don't make it weird."
Minhyuk pinches him. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Jaehyo says. "It's just. Weird."
"What's weird?" He sounds confused, now, but this smile is spreading across his lips, like he's getting it. Like Jaehyo is an open book, or something. He hates it.
"Nothing." He locks his phone. It's too hot, suddenly. He wants to go and take another shower, lock the doors down, but that makes no sense; he smells of the same shampoo Minhyuk does, the same soap. Hotel toiletries, no matter the chain, all smell the same, with occasional variations of lavender or lemon. This one was lavender. Minhyuk hasn't used the body wash.
"You're making it weird," Minhyuk says.
"Drop it. Never mind." Jaehyo shoves him. "Get off, I'm done taking selcas."
Minhyuk pinches him again. He pinches back, almost childishly. “Turn off the air conditioner. It’s cold.”
“Too comfortable,” Minhyuk says. “You should have dried your hair before. The hairdryer was right there.”
Jaehyo frowns. “I didn’t see it.”
“It was in the second drawer.”
He hadn’t even checked in the drawers; he’d simply showered and towelled himself off and collapsed into bed. “Whatever.” Then, after a pause: “Why did you need to dry your hair anyway? You barely have any left.”
“Fuck off,” Minhyuk says dryly, tugging on a lock of Jaehyo's hair. “It looks good.”
He turns his head, and Minhyuk is so close. Their noses nudge together first; Jaehyo holds his breath, drops his gaze. Minhyuk reaches up, up, and thumbs at his cheekbone. "Eyelash," he explains, but his voice is so quiet that Jaehyo has to strain himself to hear it, even with their proximity.
Then Minhyuk angles his head so their noses don't bump, and they're kissing. There is no biting prelude; his fingers slide down the column of Jaehyo's neck, coming to rest at the hollow cup of his clavicle, all without the edge of fingernails against skin. Jaehyo waits for something more heated, but Minhyuk seems content with the glide of their lips, wetting Jaehyo's chapped ones with his tongue but never licking past the seam of them into his mouth. The rhythm is addictive. Jaehyo finds it hard to pull back until Minhyuk tugs at his shoulder in a wordless demand for him to turn onto his side.
“Are we really doing this,” he says, “now?”
“You wanna stop?” Minhyuk doesn't sound accusing at all. He doesn't sound anything, really. His tone is mild, like he’s only asking if Jaehyo wants the shower first. Jaehyo doesn't want to stop, though, doesn't even want to stop kissing him. When he leans in for it, Minhyuk turns his head and repeats his question.
“No, I'm fine. I was just asking.” It’s just kissing so far. Just kissing with the underlying, painfully intimate feeling of being almost naked, of being barefaced. They're only wearing their underwear, the outlines of their bodies aligning and curving to fit around each other like puzzle pieces falling home, but they’re just kissing. Jaehyo knows what he should be feeling: warm, that Minhyuk is being so careful with him, but he only feels a slight annoyance. Minhyuk doesn't need to patronize him. He can take whatever Minhyuk can throw at him and give it back even better, and it's not— he doesn't need the pity or the care or anything like that. He can handle himself. Minhyuk should know that, too.
Minhyuk noses a line up the back of his neck. It's a welcome distraction; his lips find all of Jaehyo’s sensitive spots easily, lingering on the one just behind his ear. The weight of Minhyuk’s arms is suddenly crushing, pinning Jaehyo down even though he is so much stronger, and not for the first time Jaehyo thinks he needs to catch his breath after all, but Minhyuk’s warmth is comfortable and his pulse is sharp under the pad of his thumb.
It pleases him to know he's not the only one affected. It evens the playing field a bit, especially because Minhyuk only gets mouthy in the heat of things. Visual cues are harder to pick up.
Suddenly, Jaehyo wants to see the both of them from the eyes of an outsider: what does this look like, two friends-enemies-bandmates rubbing against each other on a hotel bed, protected by a vague outline of rules and definitions that shift and curl like smoke in his mind?
He feels the hum of Minhyuk's incredulous laugh, the curve of his smile against him when he reaches out for his phone and holds it up. The camera adjusts to the contrast between them, Minhyuk's dark hair and dark skin against Jaehyo's, and the too-blinding white of the blanket thrown over their bodies. Jaehyo looks stricken in the camera, all wide eyes and flushed ears. Is this what he looks like, whenever Minhyuk catches him off guard?
Minhyuk's brow is furrowed. He looks young and inquisitive when he's not wearing any makeup even despite the faint dark circles, staring not at the phone but down at the side of Jaehyo's face with his lips pursed and his brow furrowed, as if he's trying to figure him out. That's stupid of him, really: there's nothing to figure out. Jaehyo isn't complex; he's not a puzzle, nothing to be solved. He's just Jaehyo, simple and honest. Maybe Minhyuk's thinking about what they are, like him, or maybe he's thinking about how they used to be, sharp and rough around the edges and a little too abrasive to be healthy, and wondering when it all smoothed out into this.
This isn't really smooth. It's better than the fist fights and the sullen silences. Jaehyo doesn't remember how it started, but it must have come to a head like most of their arguments do, now: Minhyuk challenging, and Jaehyo falling into his trap and letting go for once. No one else can rile him up quite the same way, and he wonders why. Maybe it's the fact that they're both the same age. Equals, really. Jaehyo feels responsible for the younger ones, and he's always too respectful of Taeil. Doesn't talk back, when anyone raises their voice at him. That's the gist of it, then, isn't it? Sweet Jaehyo, orange-Hyo, easy to snap at and easier still to make up with. He doesn't mind, but... it builds up.
He can remember what happened, though, the first time. Just well enough to know the slightly different shape of Minhyuk's nose and the wet redness of his mouth. Somewhere along the line, just a few weeks before debut, they fought and kissed and fucked each other's fists. Months later, they did it again. They never talk about it. For some reason, they kept fucking even after they stopped being so annoyed by each other all the time. Maybe it's just convenient, when no one else is around to fill in. Sometimes, Jaehyo thinks they've stopped, and is content to let it lie. Then Minhyuk bears down on him with suggestive eyes and hands, not quite in the same way he kisses Jaehyo's neck for the cameras and glazes his smile around the edges to soften the challenge. Jaehyo has too many daily-Minhyuk expressions filed away to compare to the ones he wears in these moods; he still doesn't know what they're doing, still hasn't asked. Doesn't think he will.
It's not complicated, what they have: fucking, hatefucking, stress relief, bruises printed in the shape of Minhyuk's mouth on Jaehyo's shoulders that never stay long enough for Jaehyo to memorize the way they ache, Minhyuk's voice in his ear saying things like, I wanna see you fucked full of me and, show me what you want to do to me, you fucking coward and, why don't you shut me up for once?
The good thing about it is that they get to vent without letting it affect their relationship outside of the arrangement. They still text each other throughout the day, even though Minhyuk never returns his calls and sometimes replies late. They still meet up for coffee or a meal whenever they can, complaining about everything under the sun and each other, just the two of them, ankles brushing under the table. Minhyuk patronizes Jaehyo because he knows it pisses him off, and Jaehyo snipes at him dismissively in return while stealing sips of his drink. There is a clear line, he thinks, between them like that and them now.
Jaehyo's reading too much into things again. He sets his phone carefully on the bedside table. Closes his eyes, focuses on the thickness of Minhyuk against his skin, the warmth of his hands.
"Look at me," Minhyuk murmurs, and presses his nose against the curve of Jaehyo's neck, kisses the soft spot behind his ear. Jaehyo's skin prickles, or tingles, or one of the two. "Open your eyes."
"As if anyone can look at someone with closed eyes," Jaehyo says, but he turns his head to look at Minhyuk all the same. There's something about him that makes him stop and pay attention, especially when his voice lowers like that. This is too soft for Jaehyo's liking. He hopes his flat tone familiarizes Minhyuk with what they're supposed to be like. Instead, Minhyuk leans into him for a lazy kiss, and another, and another, until Jaehyo's lips feel numb. Everything that felt like it was too loud: the harsh sound of their breathing; the rustle of the blanket covering both of them up; the wet sounds their lips make every time they part; it all fades into the background like white noise.
Minhyuk’s hand traces a path from the soft curve of Jaehyo’s throat down to his chest, and there it lingers, fingers fitting where the valleys of his ribcage would be, where they were years ago under Minhyuk’s clumsier hands, the first time. “We have to get up early,” Jaehyo says, but his voice is breathier. The hand on his chest ghosts lower, over his navel to the crease of his hip and thigh. He’s leaning into Minhyuk before he knows it, arm bent at an awkward angle so he can hold the back of Minhyuk’s head and keep him close. His heart thuds, and he can feel it fighting against his ribs. This could go either way.
“Do I tire you out?” Minhyuk flirts, and slips his hand under the waistband of his underwear, and oh, that’s where it’s going to go. He cups him at first, grinding the heel of his palm into him, warm and insistent. It feels good, like it always does: enough to make Jaehyo lose his train of thought until it dissipates into nothing. He is never sure of what to say, doesn’t know what to do when Minhyuk is flirty, or smooth, or articulate. Doesn’t know how to handle it.
“You wish you could,” he says, a bit quickly to make up for the time he lost, but it comes out so defensive. “I’m just thinking about our schedules.”
"Wake up early in the morning, then." Minhyuk twists his wrist, and with the lack of proper lube there's too much friction crashing into Jaehyo all at once. He gasps, quietly, and leans back against Minhyuk and his endless warmth. He can feel Minhyuk’s semi through his briefs, too, against his back. The air is chilly, but the blanket lying tangled around their legs and the heat of Minhyuk's body against his back; his broad hand around his cock, sliding up and down like an afterthought; his breaths washing over the back of his neck, minty from the toothpaste he insisted on bringing instead of living off hotel supplies: these counter the cold.
"You wake me up early."
"I'm not your maid," Minhyuk says, except in a way, he kind of is. Sure, the idea of Minhyuk wearing a skirt with a little frilly headband and walking around dusting things that are perfectly clean is amusing enough (considering that in any context, that would be the only kind of 'maid' anyone would associate with him), but it's not like he doesn't pick up after Jaehyo sometimes. Even now, he’s pushing Jaehyo’s underwear down to his knees to expose him fully, coaxing him into lifting his hips to help. Minhyuk has been doing little things for him ever since they stopped trying to claw each other's eyes out back when they were still trainees, like getting him water as a peace offering after a gruelling practice. Or wiping his sweat from his neck and forehead when Jaehyo complains that he's too tired to do it himself. Or writing down a list of things Jaehyo should pack whenever they travel, only to end up packing half of his things for him anyway. Or cleaning their room up, cutting snide remarks at him for his dirtiness and his posture and how he hasn't showered since yesterday. Or remembering whatever diet he’s on at the time and steering him to someplace suitable whenever they get the chance to eat out together.
Maybe he's just grasping at straws, really. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure some of those things aren't in the job description. He can't find a word to describe what Minhyuk is; he forgets a lot of things when Minhyuk strokes him like that, almost close to the way he likes. Tease. He stops him with a hand to his wrist so he can kick his underwear the rest of the way off, tugging at Minhyuk’s waistband as well in a wordless command to take them off, too.
"You're not my anything."
"Hey." Minhyuk falls into him again, jerks his hand a little tighter this time, and Jaehyo's mouth automatically falls open in a gasp, wet and startled. "I'm your same-age friend."
"Minhyuk-hyung," Jaehyo teases, just to try it out. Minhyuk doesn't answer, but his pace stutters a bit. It almost makes him think he's said something wrong, but then Minhyuk reaches over him to yank the bedside drawer open and fish his wallet out. He rummages around in it, then curses under his breath.
"I'm out of condoms," he explains.
"How can you forget condoms?"
"I didn't forget them!" Minhyuk always looks like a kicked puppy when he's upset. "I still have a packet of lube."
"One of the others had KY," Jaehyo guesses, a little flatly. Minhyuk looks like he's going to correct him, so he hurriedly continues: "Whatever. You're not, we're not — if you don't have a condom, we're not fucking."
"You didn't bring any?"
Jaehyo coughs a bit. "Yeah, well. I didn't think I'd... I forgot to buy more."
The expected wheedling doesn't come. It would have ruined the mood, anyway; Jaehyo's a little bit grateful, but still embarrassed about his slip up. He knows Minhyuk has more sex than he does, and they never said they’d be exclusive, and that’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just that they’re out, and on tight schedules, and he can’t help but wonder when Minhyuk found the time to use his up when he only finds enough to spend time with Jaehyo like this every few weeks. Sometimes months. It’s irregular, but always long enough for him to lose his footing. It’s a stupid thing to wonder about, really. He doesn’t think he has this sort of arrangement with anyone else (in the group; he doesn’t know about outside it). He doesn’t think anyone can really fill in for him, in the end, even if he does have other people to go to. Jaehyo’s simple, but he’s himself, and Minhyuk — Minhyuk says his name, like he wants nothing more than him, under the trees of whatever park they’re walking around at night — in the winters, when they’re all bundled up and sniping at each other over the tiniest things, laughing about it, the material of their gloves catching when their hands brush with each aimless step forward — when their face masks hide their expressions and Jaehyo has to look a little harder at the minute changes in Minhyuk’s eyes, the set of his brows, to gauge him. And when they’re warming their hands on a hot drink, or their bodies in the crush of the dance floor, fuelled by alcohol that Minhyuk steals from under Jaehyo’s nose and makes him pay for because they’re the same age, and you always choose paper, his hand strong and steadying on the small of his back, pulling him in close so their hips slot together first, then their smiles.
"We can still do something," Minhyuk ventures. "We don't have to go the whole way..."
“What do you want to do?” Jaehyo asks, turning on his side so he’s facing Minhyuk and bringing his hand up to his face, tracing the line of his jaw. His hair is really horribly cut. He can’t wait until it grows out. “Do you want a handjob or something?”
Minhyuk shakes his head, pressing his body into him, infinitely close, but Jaehyo’s too busy chasing his lips to really listen to what he says; they can frot, or give each other quick handjobs, and that’s okay with him. The competition brings back the mood; Minhyuk does this clever thing with his tongue that wipes all thoughts from Jaehyo's mind. He's still talking in between kisses, little bitten-off phrases that aren’t even full sentences, but Jaehyo isn't even paying attention, tugging at his shoulders to try and coax him on top of himself. Minhyuk drops the wallet on the bed, and it falls into the dip of the mattress at Jaehyo's side.
“Get the lube,” he says between wet kisses, stroking down Jaehyo’s body to his hips, his navel, finally wrapping his fingers around his dick and pumping him, not nearly fast or tight enough to feel good but enough to tease. Jaehyo snaps something about him being too handsy, or not being handsy enough, something between, and pulls back just enough to find Minhyuk’s cock and stroke it until it’s heavy in his hold. Their wrists bump with each clumsy stroke. His fingertips are calloused from guitar-playing but his palms are soft, and once Minhyuk’s moaning into the crook of his neck when he passes the fleshy part of his palm over his cockhead so it smears wet onto their skin, he pushes Minhyuk’s hand away and fits his fingers around both of them, the best he can, cramped and frantic. Their foreheads are pressed together. Minhyuk keeps drawing him into biting, sharp-edged kisses, both of his hands in Jaehyo’s damp hair, like he wants Jaehyo’s pace to waver.
It’s too much friction. He says so, too. Minhyuk gets the idea and feels around for his wallet himself. He detaches for long enough to find the packet of lube, setting the wallet on his bedside drawer before tearing it open and squeezing the jelly out onto his palm.
Jaehyo feels so much younger — like a teenager, rolling around on the bed. Minhyuk slicks himself up, twisting his wrist around his cockhead, and then visibly pauses. “Wanna try something,” he says, spreading Jaehyo’s thighs with wet fingers on his kneecap, ever-careful. He smears cold lube onto the inside of his thighs; his palms are chilly from Jaehyo’s hair, too. “I want to fuck your thighs.”
He rubs at his thighs until it’s warmer, and his fingertips slide higher and higher each time, searching for heat. Jaehyo reaches for his hands, then, gathering the wetness he can from the gaps between Minhyuk’s fingers and spreading it over his own dick. Then Minhyuk is laying back, stretching himself out so he takes up as much space as he can with his compact body. “Jaehyo-ah,” he says in a way that’s almost sweet, pulling him on top of himself, then down into another kiss. "Come here," he slurs against Jaehyo's mouth, spreading his legs so he can settle in between them, even though he's already there. His fingers are bruising-tight on his hips. "Want you."
"Stop talking for one minute," Jaehyo says, but his voice is hanging on the tail end of a gasp, needing and wanton, and he's shuddering when Minhyuk fucks up and slides his cock against him, against his stomach. They're both pressed together chest to hip, slotting into place so easily. He imagines Minhyuk's heart and how it might thud, curving his hand around the pulse point on his neck just to feel it flutter against the pad of his finger. Minhyuk huffs out a laugh against his jaw. His breath tickles Jaehyo's hair, curtaining over his eyes, and Minhyuk slides his hands up the tall length of Jaehyo's body just to hold it back.
"Don't take that tone with hyung," he reminds Jaehyo, and something wet-hot-electric speeds his heartbeat up until he's dizzy. Hyung, yeah, okay. "Get up for a second. Tell me if it hurts, if you can’t—"
Minhyuk slides down lower until Jaehyo's curved over him, supporting himself on his hands on either side of Minhyuk's head. Jaehyo's cock drags against his stomach, and he shifts his weight so he can reach down and pin it against his stomach; if he grinds the heel of his palm against the underside just a bit, Minhyuk doesn't have to know. He gets it, suddenly, when Minhyuk forces his thighs together and tells him to cross his ankles, and then it's a matter of balance and holding himself up when Minhyuk pushes into the wet crevice between his thighs and starts moving in little fucks of his hips. Straight to business.
"What porno did you steal this from?"
"I watched it a while ago. Wanted to try it ever since."
"With me?" Jaehyo asks, raising his brows. "When am I ever your first choice?"
Minhyuk's mouth twists. "You're soft," he says, squeezing Jaehyo's ass. His voice is strained already, Jaehyo notices smugly.
"Yukwon didn't let you, did he."
"I didn't ask him."
It's not nearly enough friction and not even close to where he needs it, but Jaehyo still stumbles when Minhyuk starts fucking up into him. He catches himself with his hand before he can crush Minhyuk, but the dancer doesn't even seem to notice. He's planted his feet on the bed so he can do it properly, putting all of himself into the movement, and Jaehyo, fuck, he can feel him grinding into him, can feel the thickness of him. It's like a drawn out tease, all of Minhyuk's heat so close, and his body so pliant and small.
"Shit," Minhyuk groans, tipping his head back and licking his lips. His hair mats to his forehead. "I wanna have you like this all the time, I can't wait to have you like this back at home— I'll make it so good, make a mess of you—"
The dorm hasn't been his home for a while. Jaehyo has to fight not to scoff, but presses his lips together and lowers himself so he can grind his cock down into Minhyuk's stomach whenever he thrusts upward. That's the only range of movement he's allowed in this position. It's not nice: it's filthy and dirty and a little too slow-burning, for how frantic it is, to really overwhelm him. They're fucking without actually fucking. It's more like a dance. Or a tease, a promise that falls short but is more than good enough while it lasts. He slides his thighs together, just a little bit, when Minhyuk's hips roll back, and smiles at the dumbstruck look on Minhyuk's face: nose scrunched, mouth falling open.
"Yeah," Jaehyo says quietly. "Yeah—"
"Do it again," Minhyuk says desperately, kissing at Jaehyo's collarbones, at the line of his throat. His nails are pinpricks on Jaehyo's skin, dragged down the dips of his body until it stings. He's saying other things, all variations of what he says to everyone else: promises and confessions and everything in between, but he's moaning Jaehyo's name, too. That's what he picks out.
"Are you like this with everyone," Jaehyo asks, stuttering before he can stop himself.
Minhyuk tugs his hair to pull his head back, and like this — now that he has the space to admire him — he's something else. He's not moving anymore; Jaehyo, supporting himself on one hand, reaches the other hand between them to stroke himself, eyes scrunching closed as he gives himself the tight, wet drag he needs; Minhyuk's hips rise up helplessly, so Jaehyo's knuckles brush against the wetness pooling on his abdomen.
It's his pre, slicking Minhyuk's skin up. "We should keep the sheets clean."
"Who cares about the sheets?" The crack of Minhyuk's hand on his ass is surprising but not altogether unexpected; he jerks out of shock rather than any pain. Seconds after, Minhyuk rubs at the place he slapped; right at the curve, almost where Jaehyo's ass meets his thighs; it burns. His fingertips leave brands on his skin that he wants to scrub off in the shower. They slide over his skin, dip between his cheeks, find his hole.
"They'll know," Jaehyo reminds. Minhyuk hisses through his teeth and bites down on his shoulder, which is all his mouth can reach of him.
"They'll think one of us brought someone here." Another smack. Jaehyo exhaling through his nose, steadying himself with both hands again. Minhyuk's hand leaving his ass to join the other, holding Jaehyo's thighs together. He's going to leave marks. "You like it messy. You like me messing you up."
"I don't," Jaehyo starts. He hates it when Minhyuk gets mouthy; he never knows what to say, how to answer him properly. It throws him off-course. "I like it..."
"Come on, baby. Fucking me was never enough for you. You might like it slow and romantic with others, but not with me." He pauses, as if to gauge Jaehyo's expression. He found what he was looking for, apparently, because his dimple shows when he continues, in that cautiously suggestive manner he has. "With me, you want it rough. You want hyung to fuck you until you're crying."
"You're not my hyung," Jaehyo says, because he's slow, and his mind isn't really working when Minhyuk's talking to him like this, his mouth close enough to brush against the line of his neck, almost kissing the vulnerable skin there. Then his playful nips bleed into biting like he wants to ruin his skin to vivid red, and, yeah, that's familiar. He pulls Minhyuk's hair, even though the angle is horrible — is rewarded with a mark sucked onto his collarbone.
"But you're trembling," Minhyuk observes, sounding much too smug about it; Jaehyo threads his fingers into his hair, ignoring the way his skin catches uncomfortably against the sheets, and curls them viciously to shut him up. Minhyuk gasps, but looks like he's about to start talking again, so he shushes him, too, licking into his mouth and stealing the words from his tongue. Sweat sticks their skin together; it's not altogether pleasant, especially when he can't see anything but the glossy darkness of Minhyuk's eyes. He can feel him losing his rhythm, though, and his voice shakes and cracks when he moans. It almost makes up for it. He bites Minhyuk's lower lip, hard, until his mouth tastes coppery, but Minhyuk bites back so they share the taste.
He doesn't notice Minhyuk's close until he shoves at his chest, pushing him back so he can kneel between Minhyuk's thighs. "Shit," he hisses, closing his eyes and fucking into his fist. His cock is pink and shiny with the lube, and his pre slicks up his hand. It's so messy. Jaehyo bites his lip, gathering up the lube still smeared over the inside of his thighs with clumsy fingers so he can curl them around himself, too. "Shit, shit, shit—"
He should say something — it would be better than just sitting back and watching. He swallows down and tries, stuttering through a dry throat, "come for me—" and Minhyuk opens his eyes to look at him. "I want to see you," he continues. "Minhyukkie, please. Need to see you, hyung."
It slips out before he can think about it. Even though it's an accident, he doesn't take it back. Just watches Minhyuk come all over his hand and squeeze the last drops out so they trickle down his fingers onto his abdomen, wet and messy and sticky. He rides it out looking straight at Jaehyo. His gaze is like phantom hands gliding along his body, as if committing the awkwardness of Jaehyo's outline to memory.
Jaehyo's fingers lock up and falter when Minhyuk pushes himself lazily onto his elbows and reaches out, beckoning him close. "Come here," he says when Jaehyo doesn't follow, wetting his lips. He sounds as wrecked as he looks. Jaehyo's helpless, feels a little too strung out, like he's too big for his body and is bursting at the seams. Minhyuk kisses him and traces at the jut of his vertebrae with slick fingers. Swallows his complaint into his mouth. Coaxes him into lying down, propped up against the pillows by his side and wrestling his hand away to stroke him himself.
At first, the touch is good, exactly what he needs. Minhyuk's hand is slick with his own come, but it's not too wet. "Come on," Jaehyo says, "faster, faster—"
He doesn't go faster, not even when Jaehyo sits up to paw at him. He hates it, feeling vulnerable like this with Minhyuk, of all people. All the soft parts of him — his throat, his belly — are on display. He's so spread out, sticky all over.
"Ask nicely," Minhyuk says, one hand on his shoulder to keep him down. He would be easy to flip over; he's lean and light, not at all like Yukwon's solidity. Jaehyo stays down. "Ask hyung to come."
"Fuck you," he snaps, "Go faster." And then, because he knows how stubborn Minhyuk can get, "please."
Minhyuk twists his wrist on the downstroke, merciless. "Halfway there. Come on, Jaehyo-ah. Say 'please, hyung, may I come?' You didn't have a problem with saying it earlier."
"It was on accident."
"You know how you end up doing the things you actually want to do on accident?"
Jaehyo bares his teeth. Minhyuk leans in close and murmurs to him, persuading. He's still breathing hard and he's mumbling some of his words, but he's still so intense in the aftermath. Jaehyo doesn't know how he does it. It's not fair. He’s put-together and in his depth and asking so much of him. "Say it one more time for me. I want to hear you call me hyung. Let me take care of you, Jaehyo. I want to see you."
He wants to grab Minhyuk's wrist, but he doesn't want — he doesn't want to be sharp when they're like this. Not venting, not focused on an impersonal end. "Hyung." It leaves his lips like a weight dissolving into the air. "Hyung, let me come."
It's not quite there, but Minhyuk doesn't wait for him. "Fuck," he says quietly, ducking his head, as if he thinks it'll keep Jaehyo from noticing the way his face contorts even though his hair isn't long enough to hide it anymore. He leans down to kiss him, speeding up so he's stroking him exactly the way he likes it, palming at the head every time he slides his hand up. It's just the right amount of friction to offset the too-wet glide from the lube, just enough of skin catching on skin, and it's good, it's good, it's perfect. "Come on. Tell me what you want. You want hyung's mouth?"
"Yes," Jaehyo breathes, nodding frantically, because fuck it all if Minhyuk's offering him his mouth. He can count the amount of times he's actually offered to suck him off on one hand, and knows for a fact that he's the only one Minhyuk restrains himself around. This opportunity doesn't present itself often.
"Ask me. Tell me you need it."
"I need your mouth," he says, in that voice he knows Minhyuk likes, soft and pleading. "Suck me off, Minhyukkie, please. Hyung, I'm so close, please help me."
“Tell me you need me.”
That’s too much, and Jaehyo chokes on the words before they can claw out of him, but Minhyuk is expectant. He sounds so confident that Jaehyo will give in that it rubs something inside him wrong. Jaehyo’s not as far gone as to not pay attention to the connotations of saying it, of admitting defeat in this two-step power play. Despite it, the words still fall to the tip of Jaehyo’s tongue, like a confession; he’s good at following orders, but this is Minhyuk. Maybe it isn’t even that serious — maybe this isn’t because of the competition with each other, and Jaehyo’s reading it all wrong. Maybe Minhyuk is as self-centered as to demand praise from all of his partners. “You’re so arrogant,” Jaehyo grits out, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to avoid seeing how Minhyuk’s expression changes. He can imagine it: brows furrowed, jaw set with annoyance, big eyes narrowed. It feels like his limbs are too long for him, too awkward, and they’re too exposed to Minhyuk’s gaze.
Minhyuk exhales slowly. For a second Jaehyo wonders if he had ruined it. Then he curves over Jaehyo and fits his mouth over his cockhead, lapping up the slick with his tongue in short, broad strokes. Nothing is more awkward than hearing yourself make noise in bed, Jaehyo thinks, but with Minhyuk working away at him and pushing himself down, it's hard to keep quiet. He can't hear himself after a while through the bloodrush in his ears. It's intense in the good way, an ebb and flow that pushes and pulls at the tension in his muscles until the ball coiled in his gut tightens and then unwinds slowly, slowly, melting into his bones until they're heavy. Minhyuk doesn't pull off of him when he comes; he swallows around him. The feeling crashes into the afterglow so it spiderwebs out, too-hot-too-intense. Jaehyo chokes on the whimpers that fight their way out of his lungs, legs closing and hands frantic when they push Minhyuk off.
The cold that sets into his skin comes in trickles; they never turned the air conditioner off. He feels the ache in his knees, first, and the stiffness of his fingers, and then the rest. The lube drying on his thighs, the cold air on the wet patches of skin. The sting of his bitten lips, bitten skin, the scratches running down his body. Minhyuk's weight on the bed, dipping the mattress beside Jaehyo, and the heat his body radiates when he shuffles closer. The weight of his own bones, anchored uselessly on the king-sized mattress. His hair sticking to his forehead and the side of his face, brushed away by careful fingers. The sound of his breathing, two beats off from the other set in the room.
It's not fair, in the end, that Minhyuk knows his body so well.
After he's caught his breath, Jaehyo sits up to pull the blanket over himself. Minhyuk kicks at it to push it away from Jaehyo's reach before he can grab it, though. "At least clean up before you do that."
"It's cold. And I'm clean enough! We already ruined the sheets."
"There are tissues in the bathroom." For all Minhyuk nags, he doesn't make an effort to move either. He's sprawled out shamelessly, an artful smear of rose-gold against the bed; the flush hasn't quite faded from his skin. His cock lies against the crease of his hip and thigh, glossy with lube. He looks debauched.
"I don't want to get up," Jaehyo admits, making himself comfortable and curling up for warmth.
Minhyuk's expression softens. "Fine," he says, making a show of stretching and getting up reluctantly. Jaehyo makes a face at him before he disappears into the attached bathroom. He leaves the door open, and the sound of running water that rings out after a moment is too loud in the ensuing silence. Everything is always too loud after the sex winds down. Like the world had muted itself, and now it's unpausing, and everything’s just a bit louder and faster in its haste to make up for lost time. There are no ticking clocks in this room. Jaehyo can hear the sounds of the city bustling over the rush in his ears, even now at this late hour. He picks up his phone and mechanically posts one of the pictures he’d taken, thumb hovering uncertainly over the screen when he opens the camera roll and selects the rest to delete.
Minhyuk comes back just as he's contemplating turning over and going back to sleep, holding a wad of tissues in his hand. Jaehyo can't help but smile at the amount. "That many?"
"Since you're not washing up," Minhyuk says pointedly, as if he has taken another shower instead of just washing his hands and wiping the cum off his body. Surprisingly, he wipes Jaehyo clean, too, and throws the used tissues into the trashcan under the desk they've piled their clothes on already. You don't have to, Jaehyo thinks, but doesn't say; it's a small gesture, after all. Tiny.
In the morning, they'll pretend like this never happened; they'll shower and get dressed and walk out of the hotel room with the same uneasy ease they've had for years. The morning sun will drip its light into the dimple of Minhyuk's handsome smile, and Jaehyo will think of rubbing it into his skin with his thumb in the lingering softness. He doesn't think he's allowed to do that, though — not quite, even though they're friends. Bandmates that are comfortable sharing a bed in a foreign hotel, pressed up against each other and breathing in each other's air. Thinking about it until the imprint of Minhyuk's lips fades from his will have to do; he has been waiting for an opportunity to find out what he's allowed to do and what he isn't for years. He’s still waiting.
He’s still waiting.
Minhyuk's hand fits over the curve of his waist when he turns on his side. He clicks the lamp on his side of the bed off, and falls asleep in seconds.