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He brings Chan closer to his body. The lingering scent of the muscular perfume makes its way to his nose, scratching his insides with the yearning of his adoration for the man that holds his waist firm by his calloused palms.
He opens his mouth.
“Hyung,” he wants to turn his head away and look around but he cannot find himself to continue doing so. Not when the person that he likes seeing raw is looking at him like he isn’t who he is supposed to be. “You can’t be doing this.”
And he tells the truth.
He tells the truth that no one bothered speaking about when all of this started. He tells the truth that is always there but is not acknowledged. They can’t be doing this. They can’t be seen doing this.
“I?” Chan’s hold on him tightens.
He likes it this way.
He likes the way Chan tries to stop himself from owning each and every piece of him. He likes the way Chan looks at him like he owns the world, when he doesn’t. He knows that he doesn’t. Not like this; not like he can. He likes the way Chan laughs bitterly with the scabs on his lips getting drier, with his teeth visibly grinding, and with his lips pursing. He likes the way Chan looks at him, sees him, and calls him not for who he is supposed to be, but who he really is.
“Min, you know that I can.” Chan eventually follows and he finds himself closing his eyes to that.
The statement gnaws his insides, like butterflies clung to his stomach, creating a havoc that makes him nauseous. The statement sets in between the crevices of his brain, marking him over and over again of the fact that he cannot find himself easily accepting.
It isn’t like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It isn’t like he is all unsure of what is happening.
Because he is.
He always has been.
There are no lights that transpire in the room. No windows, no curtains, nothing. And somehow, he finds himself searching for Chan in the darkness that seems to be the brightest to both of them. Chan places himself in between his thighs with palms running down the bareness of his skin. Nails draw on him, making him feel more than the crumples of the sheets, the mound of the pillows, and the cold running freely in the air.
He feels more than his erratic heartbeats, more than his pounding head, and more than his wringing chest. He feels Chan. All of Chan.
“It shouldn’t be like this.” He speaks with fervor. He knows he does. The way Chan reacts to his words makes him realize that he does. He does speak with fervor, with the hidden intention, with the underlying truth above all.
Because it should be like this.
It should be like that.
That as in Chan pushing his face towards the crook of his neck, breathing in his flesh, fanning his eyelashes over his skin. That as in his arms wrapping around the expanse of Chan’s skin. That as in him letting Chan pepper him with kisses, like he doesn’t always push Chan away, because having Chan like this inside the four corners of the room where their secret starts to burn alive, is more than enough than seeing Chan look at him, but never away.
It should be like this—them acting like they love each other while they’re not lovers.
“Min,” Chan calls out to him like a pledge, with a sense of being that he holds dear to his heart telling him that Chan is there, that Chan has always been there. “Why can’t you just let me love you?”
And though he wants to answer, he cannot bring himself to.
What is he going to say after all?
“Why can’t you just let me see you, Minho?”
What is he going to say when Chan starts pressing his lips down his chest while Chan’s one hand works on the knots of his sweatpants and the other starts to ghost over the perk of his nipples? What is he going to say when Chan latches his mouth, leaves trails of wetness on his skin, and lightly bites him, leaving him gasping?
What more?
“Because I am not Minho, hyung, and you know that—” He whispers and wishes Chan does not hear him.
But Chan does. He kind of always does. “You are Minho.”
He finds himself wanting for more. He finds himself pushing his hips to touch Chan in every aspect of his body. He finds himself aching to be with Chan.
Maybe closing his eyes will stop him from seeing the truth that builds up in Chan’s eyes. He doesn’t need adoration, he doesn’t need love, he doesn’t need all this—he’s fine as he is.
He is Lee Know, isn’t he?
He is fine.
Until he isn’t.
He opens his eyes.
Chan places his fingers on the insides of his thighs. Mewl sounds ruptures from his chest as he pulls his thighs in further with Chan’s head in between.
He knows what will happen. He has done this, nights through days, all in and out. They have done this.
“Hyung, please,” he voices out, unsure of what kind of pleases he is asking for. “You can’t.”
And maybe that is what is wrong with him.
He knows for himself that Chan can, but only he, stops it from happening.
“I love you, Minho. I really do. And I don’t care if you don’t love me back, but I feel that you do.”
He sometimes applauds the way the darkness holds their secrets like they are a part of them. There is too much that he cannot speak and too little that he is able to. There is too much that he wants to do but too little that he does for Chan. There is too much to bury, to be left unseen, hidden, away from everyone, but never the way he searches for the face of the man that he loves the most.
He pulls Chan to his face and allows himself to drown.
Everybody knows his name—Lee Know of Stray Kids.
But Lee Know isn’t his name.
Lee Know isn’t the reality that he holds for himself every time he sees himself feeling himself and feeling Chan. Lee Know isn’t always righteous, isn’t always truthful to his words, and has a verdict in each and everything that he does. Lee Know doesn’t always know what he’s doing, isn’t always sure the way other members think of him to be. Lee Know will not allow Chan to tug his lips and suck on it, but Minho will.
He lets himself be let loose and gives Chan what he deserves. All of him.
Chan presses his thumb on the slit of his cock, running the precum that filled on top around. He rolls his head back when Chan pumps him dry—the pain and pleasure kicking in, holding him by the throat, unable to speak. He knows Chan is looking at him, raking him like he is naked though he completely isn’t.
The air causes shivers to run down his spine but more so when Chan pushes his hip and takes him in.
The feeling is so unlike the way he always imagines it to be. The feeling is more warmth, more slick, more Chan, like it isn’t just lust, it isn’t just the sex, it isn’t just the pleasure of that significant short time. The feeling is just Chan, his love, and all the grime in it. The feeling is just him being Minho and Chan being Christopher.
He likes it.
He undeniably likes it.
Chan hollows his cheeks and sucks on him more. With Chan’s breath that staggers and that hitches, he clings to the sheet of the bed, stopping himself from twisting and turning.
He likes it.
He undeniably likes it because what makes him Minho is also what makes Chan, Christopher.
“I knew I would love you from the very day I looked at you.” He tries his hardest to not cry at the statement he simply spills.
But it doesn’t matter any longer.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, Minho will always be for Chan.
Chan continues to push himself down and take all of him.