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Being stuck thousands of feet above the ground on a twelve-hour flight with Liu Yangyang is usually dreadful. Like right now.
“Oh please, you want him,” Guanheng quips at him as they prepare the trolley for the flight’s dinner. Dejun continues stacking the plastic containers inside the meal compartment and schemes a detailed plan in his head to accidentally lock Guanheng up in the tiny lavatory at the end of the aircraft for the remainder of their flight. “You do. You two are always whispering, smoothing each other’s ties and hair, and– and you laugh at whatever the hell comes out of his mouth.”
Dejun glares in his direction and pushes the trolley narrowly to crush Guanheng’s foot under the tiny wheels. He glares back. “Whatever, you caught me smiling at him, so what? You’re always on my ass to smile more, why are you so serious, smile at the passengers, Dejun.”
He ignores Guanheng’s laugh in the background and takes a quick glance at the plane’s aisle to make sure people are seated before serving dinner. At the end of the cabin, Yangyang helps an old lady take her luggage down from the overhead bin. Dejun watches him speak to the lady and immediately knows that she’s charmed by him, and as if on cue, she laughs and thanks him for his help. Yangyang smiles back, his signature, oh, it’s my pleasure, press the cabin crew button if you need any more of my assistance, and he bows.
When he turns completely, he locks eyes with Dejun and after a second too long, Yangyang flashes him a grin.
“—Dejun, you’re not even listening to me, are you?”
“What.”
Torture. Hell on Earth. Flights with Yangyang are dread- fucking -full because even when they are separated to help a passenger with their luggage or help a family find their seats, their eyes always find each other from across the plane. They always hold their gazes for longer than remotely necessary—like a competition Dejun’s not willing to lose, like now —and Yangyang smiles at him like he’s well aware he’s got the upper hand. And if the whole situation really was a silly game, Dejun believes Yangyang would cheat his way to victory.
But it’s fine. Dejun can totally get his shit under control. He’s not losing his composure because a pair of Libras are insufferable little demons tonight. He’s not losing to whatever kind of challenge Yangyang comes up with right now. He’s got everything under control. Everything is in line, in check, in order even—
“Don’t do that thing with your mouth, Dejun,” Yangyang says, standing a few steps in front of him now, and Dejun is so tense and deep in thought that he jumps about a foot in the air.
“What. What thing?” Dejun looks at Yangyang and immediately regrets asking. “Actually–don’t, don’t tell me what to do. You’re on the way. I’m trying to work. It’s–it’s dinner time. Guanheng ,” he calls out and Yangyang raises both arms inoffensively to walk past him on the aisle. Guanheng looks at them like he can feel the tension in the air and Dejun tries standing straight; it’s really gonna be the Libras of all people who end up ruining Dejun’s day.
Dejun glowers at Guanheng as he helps him push the trolley, preparing plastic cups, and before something can slip from his quick mouth, he raises a finger. “Just. Don’t even .”
Dejun appreciates Yangyang, generally speaking. He’s a good person and has proven to be a decent flight attendant when he's not eyeing him up and down and instead helps first-timers with their seat belts. He’s also situationally funny and he’s got a fuller upper lip that distracts Dejun when Yangyang speaks; and very objectively speaking, he’s got a body under the white button-up that drives him mad.
Which is why he’s so fucking frustrated with him. (“ You’re fascinated by him, Dejun,” Even Kun had pestered him about it a long time ago. It was after Yangyang’s second local flight and Dejun had cringed outwardly. Of course he wasn't fascinated by him. He had literally thought Yangyang was annoying back then. “Dejun, you’re literally obsessed with him.” )
He knew Liu Yangyang was going to be a little shit from the moment he walked into the flight attendant's room. He always wore stupid expensive shoes during his training, and Dejun was always meeting his gaze without meaning to. Even then, he'd been like a magnet. Dejun was already flying on local and a few international flights at the time and Yangyang was just starting his coaching with Kun as his mentor. But it was only a few months of training and Yangyang was ready for the real thing.
The first time Yangyang was on duty with him—his first flight ever—Dejun had to double-take. It was the first time Yangyang wore something other than an oversized, obscure-branded hoodie and had a uniform with golden threading hugging his lean body. Blue suit and tie, ashy-blonde colored hair. Every once in a while, Yangyang would reach out and touch Dejun, almost unconsciously, inoffensively —a palm on his bouncy knee, a knuckle grazing his hand when someone asked for a vegetarian meal instead of grilled chicken, and Dejun passed him the plastic container, or a shoulder bump every time someone pressed the cabin crew button and he was on duty—and Dejun has been a lost case since.
Now, long past midnight, the cabin is mostly dark, with the whirring sound of the plane’s engine being the sole sound echoing around the aircraft. The occasional cloud in the sky makes the plane leap, but Dejun sits silently on the jump seat next to the cockpit, belt well-secured, near the door, and Yangyang sits on the other seat next to him.
The rest of the cabin crew are probably in the crew rest compartment sleeping by now, and Dejun momentarily wonders why Yangyang isn't taking advantage of his break too. Dejun can never sleep well during overnight flights, so he always volunteers to keep an eye out on the aisles, but Yangyang shouldn't even be on duty now.
As if on cue, Yangyang puts a hand on Dejun’s thigh to stop him from bouncing his leg. “Stop moving around,” he mumbles softly. “You’re driving me nuts.”
“Sorry,” Dejun whispers.
It’s fine. Really. He’s got this. He can handle this. He’s not the Dejun from before anymore, and it’s certainly not his first fixation with another fellow cabin crew member. He had a thing with Kun like once, but it was a pure adrenaline rush after one of their first flights together.
But now Yangyang’s hand burns the skin under Dejun’s dress pants. Even with the ice-cold nature of the plane, Yangyang’s fingers on his right thigh—sturdy, staying—are scorching hot. Dejun can’t stop thinking about what if Yangyang pushed his hand a little higher.
Dejun knows it would be a bad idea. A terrible fucking idea. But he just entertains the thought to distract himself and find more delusions to stop himself from doing something very regrettable. Something regrettable like losing his job of four years just because neither he nor Liu Yangyang can keep it in their pants for thirteen hours.
Aren't the seedy hotel rooms the airlines pay for enough? Or… or the one time he let himself be blinded by horniness and Yangyang’s stupid sharp-toothed smile and raw, swollen upper lip in a bathroom stall in a club in Munich when their flights got canceled and all their aircrew colleagues convinced them to get a few drinks until Yangyang was pushing him into a cubicle and sucking his dick.
Oh, if Huang Guanheng only knew that Xiao Dejun didn't ‘ want’ Liu Yangyang but rather had him wrapped around his little finger just as much as he was tangled on Yangyang’s. No one knows what he's seen in private when it's only the two of them in a hotel room after a successful flight. No one knows Yangyang’s mouth belongs on his bare throat when they fuck in hostel showers. His teeth. His mouth. His cock. All his. His.
And it occurs to him that no, Dejun does not, in fact, have his shit under control. His self-control is obviously non-existent because he knows deep, deep down, that if Yangyang offered to suck his dick in the last row where no one sat, he’d have a hard time saying no.
Yangyang hasn’t moved his hand nor stopped staring at him once. He is shameless like that, as he sits back in his seat, not bothering to hide his self-satisfied smile, his body angled to a certain angle that begs for Dejun to look back at him. He’s allowing Dejun a good look from his seat. But Dejun ignores him professionally, legs crossing elegantly at the knee, and eyes straight ahead.
He shifts on the uncomfortable seat and flicks a strand of hair behind his ear. He tries very hard not to notice that Yangyang’s hand digs closer to where he wants it. Failing that, he tries very hard not to care. When both steps of his strategy don’t work out, he angles himself to look out the nearest window instead.
“Dejun.”
Dejun pretends he doesn’t hear him. It’s a lame attempt, the jumping muscle in his jaw giving him away and making Yangyang push more insistently.
“ Dejun. Ignoring me is really mean.”
He rolls his eyes so hard that Yangyang’s hand falters.
“Yangyang, what’re you doing?”
Yangyang looks like a scolded dog when Dejun finally allows himself a long look. The silence is more painful than the uncertainty on Yangyang's face.
“Just… just doing my job.” He answers with an innocent look.
Dejun slowly shifts closer to Yangyang. He whispers just in case, “I didn’t know staring at me was in the job description.”
He makes a noise, taken by surprise. “It’s not.”
“So are you going to quit it anytime soon?”
“ But it should be.”
“Yangyang, this is your third international flight. You know very well that Kun and Sicheng are monitoring the fuck out of you.” And me, he doesn’t say.
“Are you worried about me getting fired?” Yangyang teases and then proceeds to smile as if it doesn’t inflict one hundred different thoughts in Dejun’s mind.
“I'm worried about you getting both of us fired.”
“You know Kun absolutely adores you. He wouldn't say a thing.”
“You’re insane. You’re driving me insane. You need to go to the resting compartment and bother Guanheng or figure out what your hobbies are in the remaining seven hours of flight we have left and let me work or—”
“—Or you could come with me,” he pauses, ominously, “to the lavatory.”
Dejun loses his train of speech and thought at the same time Yangyang squeezes his leg again.
“Oh, so you—so you want to get us fucking fired for real,” Dejun hisses, pushing Yangyang’s hand away once the words come back to his scattered brain. He glares at him pointedly too, as if he’d just wounded his pride and dignity.
“You want this,” Yangyang raises his voice. He seems to be completely unfazed as he says so, and it makes Dejun’s blood boil. “You want me.”
“I want you to shut the fuck up before someone hears you.”
He doesn’t want it. He really doesn’t think he wants it. He’s not even thinking about it.
Dejun shifts against the seat. He practically feels Yangyang’s sharp eyes on him, smoothing possessively over his body, up to his face and his mouth, hovering for a moment on his neck. His throat. He’s never done anything with Yangyang—or anyone, really—during a flight, and especially not while on duty. To be fair, he has also never even been tempted by anyone before. Until tonight.
What a fucking mess. He is thinking about it. In fact, he can’t stop thinking about it. He wants it, what the hell, he’ll fucking admit just that much to himself.
Yangyang gets up from his seat quietly because he can probably sense Dejun’s temptation (and sexual frustration) by instinct, and locks his gaze on Dejun one last time before telepathically communicating something that feels like: ‘I’ll be waiting for you, you horny fuck’ , and walking straight to the back of the plane. He crosses through the open aisle to the other side of the plane and disappears. Maybe Dejun has finally lost it, but he swears he hears the lavatory door click once it’s locked.
Dejun stays rooted in his seat and considers his options one by one:
- Be firm, lie, and tell Yangyang he is unaffected by his cheeky advances and that they should wait until they land (Dignity and Elegance: Dejun: 1, Yangyang: 0).
- Stay there, hold his ground, save his pride (and job!), hurt Yangyang’s ego by not showing up to the lavatory, and stay sexually frustrated until they fuck it out in nine hours. (Satisfaction and Fulfillment: Dejun: 0, Yangyang: 0. Double loss.)
- Get his dick sucked by Yangyang right now. (World peace, wellbeing, and happiness.)
Well. He really can’t spend another single second thinking about what-ifs when he could follow his sexual impulse, go after Yangyang, and find out for himself. He rubs a hand across his mouth, bruised and drenched with his own spit from biting his lip so much, and unbuckles his seatbelt.
“You okay?”
“No, I'm going straight to fucking hell,” as soon as it’s out, he realizes he’s just said that out loud and to Huang Guanheng of all people, “I, uh , meant I’m going to the bathroom to help Yangyang. Because I think he isn’t okay.” He sounds outwardly stupid, like he just begs to be caught. How long has Guanheng even been there? “Because he’s air sick. Nauseous so. So I’m gonna go check on him. It’s his second international flight so he might still be a little nervous—”
“I get it, Dejun,” he says, “I really do.”
“Right.” He sounds unsure. Unsure as to what Guanheng is doing there too, out of fucking nowhere. But he doesn’t think and instead gets up from his seat, leaving him behind.
He reaches the lavatory’s door at the tail of the plane and looks behind once more. The cabin is still dark and quiet, but the thought that creeps into him is that the lavatory is fucking small. Pocket-sized. Cramped. One-hundred-percent unventilated.
God, they won’t fit there. Dejun knows. He stares at the closed door, fist clenched at his side. He thinks of banging on the door or maybe doing a secret little knock that Yangyang wouldn’t even let him finish or pay attention to.
And Dejun is about to raise a fist and try it out, but he doesn’t have the chance as the lock clicks and the door pops open. On the other side of the door, Yangyang looks at Dejun and extends out his arm, pulling him by the tie around his neck and yanking him in roughly.
Dejun stumbles inside, losing his balance and crashing his shin with the plastic toilet on the right corner of the lavatory. He curses under his breath and immediately feels the space shrink around them as they press flushed together in one instant. Yangyang doesn’t look at Dejun as he puts a hand behind his lower back and locks the door.
Before he can open his mouth to say something, he’s shoved against the door with force, nose centimeters from Yangyang’s and breath hot on his cheek. Yangyang’s hand is still clenching at the fabric of Dejun’s tie, fist against his shoulder, while the other fumbles nervously with the loose strands of his hair. Yangyang looks very out of his element, like he doesn’t believe who he has in front of him.
“For a moment I thought you weren’t gonna come,” Yangyang says breathlessly and Dejun just listens, “I really wanted you to come. Make you come with me.” It’s ambiguous and every single word he uses against him from now on is probably on purpose and well-crafted inside his stupid-witty brain. All about him is double-edged, with double meaning.
Yangyang moves his knee between Dejun’s legs. “And you came. You’re right here.”
Dejun grabs Yangyang’s hip, holds him close, and grinds weakly. “You’re wrong. You haven’t made me come yet.”
The relief on Yangyang’s face runs through him like a wave as he shamelessly rubs against him again, pulling Dejun’s ass closer so he can straddle one of his thighs too. “You look so hot today. You look so hot when you have your uniform on,” Yangyang whispers and slips a few fingers around the belt loops around Dejun’s waist. He pushes at the same time he pulls Dejun closer. “I couldn’t stop looking at you.”
“You couldn’t hold it in, you fucker,” Dejun says against Yangyang’s cheek. One of his hands finds the small of his back and presses tight, “You teased me the whole fucking flight to get what you wanted, didn’t you?” Dejun continues. He slides his free hand up-up-up until it reaches Yangyang’s nape, pulling at the fine strands of hair and baring his neck. The movements make the door tremble and Dejun just prays it isn’t loud enough to alert or wake someone up.
It’s too hot, too heavy, too fucking stuffy and they haven’t even kissed yet. But he feels the outline of Yangyang’s cock on his hip and he is immediately making a sound at the back of his throat in satisfaction, “You couldn’t wait until we landed because you can’t stop thinking about me. You’re so impatient you brought me to the filthy lavatory of a plane because you couldn’t wait just a little—”
“I—I can’t stop thinking about you,” Yangyang admits, breathless against Dejun’s hair. His hand finally unclasps from the piece of cloth of Dejun’s tie and instead grabs him by both of his shoulders to push, pull, and switch positions with him so that now Yangyang is against the door and Dejun is against the sink, “and the filthy bathroom stall in Germany didn’t seem to bother you. We’ve fucked in worse conditions, Dejun. We always make this shit work,” He effortlessly spins him around and Dejun finds his disheveled reflection in the mirror. Yangyang presses impossibly closer to his body, the outline of his cock now teasing his clothed ass.
“Now look at your face,” he whispers, lips moving next to Dejun’s cheek. And that’s almost it. He teases his teeth over the skin of his ear and Dejun pushes back. God, he loves Yangyang’s fucking mouth. Loves the words that come out of it, the tongue that slides down his neck, and his fucking teeth —
Yangyang stretches his hands toward the sink, foam ready on his palm, and washes them with the fractional stream of water that pours. A few droplets splash on Dejun’s pants and shirt.
Once clean, Yangyang places a finger on Dejun’s lips, teasing his lower lip with his thumb and staring at him through the mirror’s foggy reflection. He pulls it down, a straight row of white teeth flashing for one second before Yangyang lets go and lets it bounce back to place. “Look at your lips,” and he pushes the digit inside Dejun’s mouth without saying anything more. Dejun’s eyebrows twitch and his shoulders tense for one second before he shows off with a noisy suck.
“So hot,” Yangyang breathes out, “Your mouth is so hot.”
Dejun closes his eyes, sucking the finger, “ssshut up,” he manages half-heartedly and with a lisp just because he can’t let him know that he’s very weak for him, and buzzes outwardly when a second finger is pushed inside.
Yangyang tilts Dejun’s head to look him straight in the eyes because their reflections are getting blurrier with every second they spend inside the restroom. And when Dejun looks at him dead in the eye, dark eyelashes casting half-crescent shadows because of the shitty lighting of the lavatory, Yangyang shudders with a deep breath and removes his fingers to kiss him on the mouth.
He doesn’t let go of Dejun’s jaw, fingers still wet with his saliva, and tilting Dejun’s head with no delicacy to find the angle where he can kiss him deeper. It grows animalistic, Yangyang's teeth sinking to the lip he was toying before with his thumb, and Dejun barely registers that he’s being pushed against the edge of the sink, “Yang –Yangyang, you’re,” his pants get soaked immediately after with the stray drops that Yangyang and other passengers must have splattered, and Dejun tries hard not to cringe too hard at the feeling, “so fucking eager.”
It gives him goosebumps. So he figures it’s truly too late now to back up, with Yangyang pretty much pinning him to the mirror and grinding against his hipbone. The force of each kiss slams Dejun against the plastic faucet, and Yangyang grins into the kiss every time Dejun makes a noise that hints at his irritation.
Yangyang pops Dejun’s belt open and pulls his pants down abruptly without looking. “You want it just as bad,” he says, fingers slipping past the waistband of Dejun’s boxers to finally, fucking finally, wrap around his cock. Dejun gasps, furrowing his eyebrows together when Yangyang strokes him from base to head, thumbing at his slit to spread the precum gathered on the tip. “And I want you in my mouth.”
When he lowers the boxers down his thighs, Dejun makes a noise he’s been holding down since the moment he felt the outline of Yangyang’s hard-on. He watches him descend and balance himself on the heels of his feet; Dejun is simply glad he’s not too blinded by desire and that at least he doesn’t drop to the filthy floor on his knees.
Dejun takes a moment to look at Yangyang properly, and Yangyang also puts on a show himself. The dangly earrings catch the light and blend well with the silver jewelry on his wrists and his fingers. He reaches for Dejun’s hand, unconsciously balled into a fist on the surface of the lavatory, and rubs his thumb over the wrist bone. Dejun uncurls his fingers and lets Yangyang smooth his thumb on his knuckles.
Without warning, he grabs Dejun’s cock with the other hand, pressing a kiss to the underside where a vein pulses every time they meet eyes. He hisses, almost biting his tongue. And he figures Yangyang is annoyed at the unreasonable length of Dejun’s white button-up as he pushes it out of the way to peak at his body, so Dejun pulls it up shakily to allow Yangyang a proper look at his abdomen. Yangyang presses a kiss to his waistline, around his navel, and down the trail of dark hair that leads to his cock.
“Please,” Dejun says, breaking the challenging character he’s been trying to build, “God, Yangyang, if you don’t put your fucking mouth around me right fucking now, I’m gonna—”
The plane dips, leaving them weightless for a brief second, and Dejun steadies himself with the hand Yangyang had been holding. Yangyang bumps his head violently on the plastic next to Dejun’s leg and curses loud when he crushes their fingers against the sink, heartbeat jumping from his cock to his throat.
“Oh my God, we’re gonna crash.”
“We're not gonna crash,” Yangyang huffs, wrapping his hand on Dejun again. Dejun’s heart pounds in his chest, trapped in his throat and in his pulsating dick at the same time.
“I'm gonna die.”
“I will if I don't suck your cock right now,” Yangyang says against his thigh, where the skin burns his lower lip. He traces a line of kisses until his lips ghost on Dejun’s tip.
“I'm gonna die.”
And he kind of does die, for like three seconds as soon as Yangyang takes him in his mouth, deep and at once, like the fucking pornographic dick-sucking ace he is. He hollows his cheeks around him at the same time the plane jerks again, the familiar ‘ ding’ that signals put your seatbelts ON echoing around the aircraft.
Yangyang holds Dejun’s thighs at the same time he pushes in, a stutter of his hips down his tight throat. He barely chokes or gasps for air—barely pushes away—and stretches his mouth wider around Dejun.
Dejun is looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. And maybe he is discovering something new about him today. Like the tiny mole that sits on his left cheekbone, something he only notices now from the extreme attention he has on him. The scene unfolding is hypnotizing, and Dejun looks down at him (although maybe he hasn’t really stopped looking at all) at the same moment Yangyang glances up at him. With a sharp inhale, he eases Yangyang deeper, his cock slipping in farther. Dejun’s eyes flutter shut, and Yangyang moans around him.
“Look at you,” Dejun groans low, his hands digging in Yangyang’s hair, loose and helpless and shaking, he’s trying so hard not to fuck faster into his mouth and ruin his throat and vocal chords.
Yangyang sucks him hard, cheeks probably sore as he moans around his cock, a broken little sound that reverberates all around his body. Dejun wonders if he’s getting off too, somehow, but then Dejun knows—always so obvious—when Yangyang is enjoying it because he hears him whimper quietly this time, that embarrassed noise he makes when he’s desperate himself.
Oh. Yangyang is so hard it must hurt. His thighs are shaking, barely able to balance himself on his attempt at a squat, and his long fingers wrapping around Dejun’s legs to center himself. His mouth is soaked with precum and fucked red, tongue pressing hard against his slit, and Dejun shivers at the sensation and view.
“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles, “Yang- Yangyang, I’m serious, I’m gonna—come.”
He looks down to check whether Yangyang or the horny demon currently possessing him has heard any of the words he’s just spat, and to his surprise, Yangyang looks like he’s come out straight out of a cheap porno film.
“You look…” Dejun moans so loud he’s almost sure at least someone’s heard, “I can’t believe… you. You…, Yangyang.”
Yangyang’s nose hits the dark hair above Dejun’s cock when he pushes his mouth all the way down again, and if that wasn’t enough damage for the night, they make eye contact. Dejun pulls him off by the hair.
“Ow, ow—!”
Dejun pulls him back up by a handful of hair and meets his mouth halfway through a hiss of Yangyang’s pain. To restore the peace, they kiss like they’ve never kissed before, and he tangles his fist around the collar of Dejun’s shirt. The warm, wet slide of Yangyang’s uneven lips feels and tastes too much like he’s finally found the love of his fucking life.
Yangyang’s cool fingers hold onto his jaw, forcing him to turn back again towards the mirror. It’s of no use because he can’t make out anything from how fogged up it is, so instead, he throws his head back and rests it on Yangyang’s left shoulder as his hand finds his cock again. He bares his throat, back arched into Yangyang's front, and face flushed and glazed with sweat.
“You didn’t come,” Yangyang says. His hips grind up, pressing against Dejun breathlessly and hoarsely. His voice is gone, and Dejun barely has half the mind to think about how he’s going to thank passengers for choosing their airline. Dejun only nods in response.
“Why?” He nips at his earlobe with his teeth.
Dejun whines quietly, “—in my mouth.”
“Eh?”
“I don’t wanna come by myself,” Dejun says, pushing Yangyang’s hand out of the way and reaching for Yangyang’s crotch. He almost bumps his head against the low ceiling from the abruptness, and it’s almost cute. Almost, because Yangyang isn’t cute right now. He’s fucking disheveled and sweaty and yeah, Kun and Guanheng are fucking right: he’s fucking obsessed and fascinated and wants everything to do with Yangyang.
He doesn't drop to his knees and squats, doing much better than Yangyang because unlike him, he does hit the gym quite often. He is not about to pull a muscle from sucking dick. The flooring up-close looks worse, but Dejun does not want to think about it and so instead takes Yangyang's cock in his hand.
He alternates between his mouth and his palm. He spits and makes it far more noisy and messy than Yangyang, so he barely registers Yangyang’s voice above him. “You’re so crazy,” he says, “you know that?”
“Mhmm.” Dejun chokes, pulling back again, far enough to inhale and exhale again.
"—bring your goddamn mouth to—to every flight I take and… and use it every fucking night around me," Yangyang says, pressing a hand on Dejun’s jaw to hold him steady. Dejun pulls off to muffle his groan into Yangyang's thigh and takes a deep breath before he disintegrates inside a plane’s lavatory. He keeps his fingers wrapped tightly around Yangyang and jerks forward, unforgiving.
“Faster, please,” Yangyang says breathlessly, “I’m nearly there, just a little more—”
"Never thought you had that in you," Dejun sighs breathlessly. "Kind of impressed and… sick at the same time."
"Fuck you, fuck, don't stop, I wanna—"
Dejun stands back up, stumbling like a wounded deer. Yangyang reaches down for their cocks and presses a thumb—the same one that had just caressed his jaw and cheek—at the vein of Dejun's cock.
"Ah—ah, Yangyang, " it’s a warning.
"Breathe," he says and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, clumsy, “I want to,” Yangyang groans, craning his neck to meet Dejun’s eyes, “I wished I could fuck you. Fuck, Dejun .”
Dejun squeezes his eyes shut and sucks on Yangyang’s tongue because he’s going to fucking shout, otherwise. And then Yangyang presses roughly at his slit, and his breath hitches, spurting cum all over his hand, the mirror,— and to the front of Yangyang’s pants.
It takes one second for the Earth to tilt on its axis, another for the plane to quake again, and Dejun already has a mortified look on his face when the white blobs register. And as he opens his mouth to ramble with a chain of sincere apologies and rips a paper towel from the paper towel dispenser, Yangyang hisses around his knuckles and spills on Dejun’s belt and pocket too. He blinks once and then twice, an unsettling silence filled with tension but he also… finds the situation almost laughable. Nearly forces a chuckle.
“Oh we’re ruined.”
“Well.” Yangyang articulates, word slurred, and then doesn’t say anything else.
The world is bright and hazy from his orgasm for a second too short until it hits him that they’re fucked literally and figuratively. He starts rubbing Yangyang’s pants with the single-ply toilet paper, using another tissue to dry the sweat on his brow and the rest pooling around Yangyang’s neck. He pointedly ignores the way Yangyang stifles a laugh when he wipes the mirror down.
He barely looks up, hands limp around his sides when he realizes the splotches on Yangyang’s pants are gonna dry and look very fucking terrible.
So he just decides to stand there, lean on Yangyang’s shoulder, basking in the warmth of post-orgasm haze. Yangyang’s fingers reach Dejun’s furrowed eyebrows, smoothing them out so that he doesn’t frown anymore, pressing a soft, bone-tired kiss on Dejun’s pouty lips. For a moment he forgets they’re still inside the now-sticky, shoebox-sized lavatory.
He presses his lips to where Yangyang’s pulse drums in his throat and feels the movement when he swallows. He meets his gaze and almost lets the feeling of stress leave his body even for three seconds.
“Pretty boy,” Yangyang whispers like he means it and Dejun scrunches his nose to pretend he hates it. (He doesn’t; he’s a hopeless romantic. He’s been waiting his whole life for this.)
Dejun exits the restroom first—tail between his legs—leaving Yangyang alone to get himself sorted. Most of the passengers are asleep as he walks down the aisle, and the ones that are awake have earbuds on or look out the windows.
He is slightly surprised to find Guanheng still sitting in the same spot and wonders how long they must have been gone. He’s going to say something about it for sure; he walks with a hand awkwardly covering his right pocket, for fucks sake. And they’re scheduled to land in broad daylight.
Guanheng snorts at him and shakes his head as soon as he makes eye contact with him.
“What?” Fight-or-flight.
“I’m guessing Yangyang’s feeling better now,” is what he says, voice mostly devoid of emotion. Dejun expects a witty joke to begin anytime now.
“I got locked in the lavatory. Dejun had to save me,” Yangyang’s voice rings right behind him and Dejun jumps.
God, Dejun thinks, I’m going to fucking kill him.
“I thought you’d gotten air sick,” Guanheng says.
“Uh,” replies Dejun.
“Well.”
“You know what, your sex life really isn’t any of my business.”
Dejun’s jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“I already know you two have been fucking since like… the Germany incident.”
The Germany incident? He’s beyond scandalized but doesn’t say a word. He secures himself in the jump seat furthest away from both of them, and very quietly sighs into his palm. All the pestering about Yangyang had been to drive him closer to madness then; probably even instigated by Yangyang himself.
“I hope you know I'll hold my pee in until we land. Probably didn’t even have the decency to clean the damned mirrors.”
And Yangyang, the fucking devil, laughs: “Well. If you insist, we might go ahead and have a second round before landing.”