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The room is dull, save for the night light in the farthest corner of the room, dim from overuse and a pretty shade of yellow as it colored mundane beige walls. Wooyoung stares at it from the bed, curled up on his side, pretending to sleep— has been for an hour or so, unable to shake his racing thoughts enough to rest peacefully. He sighs to nobody but himself, eyes heavy as he blinks, turning onto his back. Restless. He’s restless, maybe even a little stir crazy. His bedroom is confining him, mocking him, and yet he doesn’t leave— doesn’t try to peel himself from the sheets, stalk out the door and at least crawl to the living room, find something to do.
A hand juts out from the blanket to feel around the nightstand, fingertips grazing over stained wood until he finds the familiar, sleek touch of his phone. He drags it towards him, eyes squinting as he unlocks it, swiping to turn down the brightness so his eyes don’t sear in the sockets, huffing. A couple more drags of his thumb and he’s face-to-face with a familiar contact picture. Anxiety bubbles in his throat, but it’s futile. He taps on the video camera symbol, unable to stop himself from doing so. It’s well past midnight, and he’s most likely beyond saving, but he didn’t care.
A ring. Two rings. Half of a third ring, and the sound of his facetime being answered resounds like an echo. A prayer answered. The larger visage of himself, in the dark, goes away— it huddles into the corner of his phone, illuminated by the person coming into view. Mingi. Mingi, who’s not at home. Mingi, who’s covered in sweat along the line of his brow and has it dripping down his jaw. Mingi, who is at the gym so late, if only to practice his boxing— not that it’s necessary since he’s already good, but Wooyoung doesn’t say that. He appreciates passion when it’s shown to him. Wooyoung takes in what he can of Song Mingi— the quality isn’t that good due to data usage. Mingi blinks, expectant, waiting for Wooyoung to talk— patient, as always.
“Hey,” Wooyoung manages, curled up in his blankets. This song and dance isn’t estranged. He knows it well. They both do.
“Hey,” Mingi mimics him, running gloved fingers through his hair. Wooyoung images his own hands doing it, fingers twitching on his free hand under the cover. “What’s up?”
Wooyoung wonders if he should lie. “Nothing much,” is what leaves, and he bites the tip of his tongue. He can’t lie-- not to Mingi. “Can’t sleep.”
Mingi’s hand falls away from his hair, looking down at the camera. Wooyoung’s anxieties must be painted across his face in neon ink, because he suddenly feels too easy to read. Codependency was a bad look on him, but with Mingi, he couldn’t seem to help himself. His brows knit together, but he smiles. Mingi smiles, because they both know what comes next.
“I’ll be done in fifteen minutes,” is what he replies with. Wooyoung can feel the heft on his chest pushing itself off, slowly but surely, dropping onto his floor with a thump that only Wooyoung can hear. “Can you wait for me?”
Wooyoung nods, slow and soft, blinking his doe eyes at the camera. Mingi’s face grows the slightest bit fond, but that might be Wooyoung looking too far into it. His brows aren’t furrowed as much, his jaw slack. His lips look pink, supple and soft enough to sink teeth into. His own tongue presses into the back of his bottom row of teeth-- he can taste his drink from earlier, a peach soda given to him by a classmate. It’s sweet, and he imagines Mingi’s lips tasting the same.
“Good,” Mingi breathes out, unbridled praise seeping into the words and dripping off in excess.
Wooyoung’s heart soars, flies right out of his chest and is forgotten in the distant atmosphere. That single word hangs off the mantle of Wooyoung’s affections like a prayer in a confessional, damning in all ways, and the way it made Wooyoung feel was something that could not be described by noblemen in the Bible, nor God himself. Wooyoung is good because he waits. He’s good because he forces himself to grip the ledge he puts himself on, waiting for Mingi’s stronger hand to pull him up. He’s good because he’s docile due to his yearning to not be idle, alone, in solus with himself. He’s good because Mingi says so, and that is enough to make him anticipate.
“See you soon,” Wooyoung speaks barely above a whisper. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s eager, or because he’s terrified. He leans on the former, negating the latter. This wasn’t new for him-- he doubted it ever would be.
He hangs up the phone, locking it and clutching it to his chest, turning onto his side to face his bedroom door. He stares, fixates, and waits for the knob to turn. Fifteen minutes, he consoles himself, not bothering to look at the time on his phone. He just waits, need waxing over him like a full moon, and wonders which beast will crawl into his bed and howl at him as the night moves forward.
Mingi is only a minute over fifteen, maybe two-- Wooyoung’s not really paying attention to time anymore. It felt like a century had passed regardless, and the body that greets him in his doorway is enough to have him pushing up, at least to drape himself against his own headboard, trying to look desirable enough that Mingi’s eyes won’t linger elsewhere. They don’t, so Wooyoung thinks he’s doing a pretty good job, a tired smile on his lips.
Mingi pulls his bag off of his shoulder, sitting it down by Wooyoung’s closet as he uses a free hand to shut the door behind him. It clicks, sending a shiver down Wooyoung’s spine. He watches, Mingi’s movements becoming more languid the longer Wooyoung stares, as if he were genuinely moving in slow motion. The ties to his sweatpants are undone, and he’s even careful enough to remove some of the rings from his fingers, sitting them down on Wooyoung’s desk. It’s like he’s came home to Wooyoung, undressing himself and getting ready to lay in bed after a long day, and Wooyoung wishes that this was the reality.
Instead, Mingi is a visitor. A friend. Wooyoung supposes that when he’s spent so much of his time with a heart ablaze around Mingi, it’s easy to think his whole apartment is on fire, including Mingi-- it’s not, and neither is he. Wooyoung is burning all on his own, choking on the smog and inhaling the ash of his burning need. When Mingi turns back to look down at Wooyoung from where he’s sitting on the bed, Wooyoung can taste gasoline under his tongue. It might just burn up if he speaks, so he doesn’t.
“Can’t sleep, huh?” Mingi asks, smile curling on his lips. His face always softens when he smiles, adding extra flesh to his cheeks and smoothing out a chiseled jaw.
Wooyoung nods again, affirming this. His eyelids are slow to close when he blinks, a yawn strangled in his throat. His pajamas are too big on him, hanging off of his lithe form. Black hair is in tousles, streaks of blonde within sticking to the curve of skin behind his ear and on his forehead. He’s sure a mark on his cheek from his pillow remains, but he pays it no mind. Mingi’s seen him in worse states-- put him in them to begin with, for better or for worse, even if it was with good intention.
“Scoot over,” Mingi instructs.
Wooyoung is obedient, not too keen on exerting his playful nature. He really is tired, and now that his loneliness is satiated by the presence of Song Mingi, he’s sure he can sleep well. Though, he knows, deep down, that it won’t be as simple as that. It never is with them. Mingi yanks up the end of his sweatshirt, pulling it off to expose a tighter wifebeater against his chest, white in color with a mild coffee stain right by his lower hip, which Wooyoung can somehow see in the dim lighting. He slots himself in beside of Wooyoung, smelling like men’s body spray and a thin layer of musk from his workout. He didn’t shower, simply cleaned up a little, and Wooyoung prefers that-- Mingi knows he does. He smiles at the thought of being listened to.
Wooyoung turns onto his side, back pressing into Mingi’s chest as he’s tugged towards him. A strong arm wriggles over his waist, palm resting against Wooyoung’s lower abdomen. Mingi’s broad nose finds its way into his slightly greasy hair, nestling in, pressing against the back of his ear. A hot breath ghosts over the lobe, and Wooyoung shudders in earnest, a shaky exhale escaping from his lips. Mingi’s body is aligned with his, perfectly enmeshed as if they’re a constellation forming together in the night sky. Wooyoung feels more comfortable than he’d felt in the past week, eyes shutting with ease.
Sleep doesn’t whisk him away as fast. The palm on his stomach is itching up his shirt, like a parasite crawling under skin, touching over his stomach and up towards healed scars. Mingi always likes to touch those, running fingers over the scarred surface, into each etch, like a curious child would run hands over blades of grass in a meadow or piles of sand on a beach. Searching for something, searching for stimulation. Wooyoung sucks his gut in as a response, and the curve of his ass presses back against Mingi’s half-hard, clothed cock.
Mingi’s lips cusp over his earlobe, suckling there for a mere second before placing a chaste kiss-- a preamble of some sorts for what was to come. Their dance begins, the stage is set, and Wooyoung knows he has all the eyes on him that he wants, even when he’s not performing. This isn’t an act, it’s truthful. Each of his gestures-- the way he gasps when Mingi bites at his neck, the soft moan when it’s kissed over in apology-- are genuine. Mingi’s growl is low, predatory in a way that only Wooyoung understands. He feels small, and he’s okay with feeling small in this instance.
Hands move down the curve of his body to dip fingers into his pajama shorts, tugging them downwards. Wooyoung doesn’t fight it-- if anything, he wants it, even if his eyes can barely stay open. His body is pliant, putty in Mingi’s hands, and Mingi takes advantage of that. He shifts Wooyoung more onto his hip, making him lean on the bone a bit. His shorts are tugged down to his knees, pooling there. Wooyoung’s arm is curled under his pillow, cuddling it in a sense as he got comfortable all over again, slowly delving into his slumber.
Mingi’s fingers are dancing down the curve of his ass and dipping between Wooyoung’s inner thighs, tracing along slickened folds. A whimper frees itself from Wooyoung’s lips, sniffling as he nudges into the pillow. Mingi’s warm, he’s so warm, and he’s smothering Wooyoung with his presence. Fingers retreat for seconds until they’re found between his legs again, slickened up with spit and invading once more. Mingi’s fingers drag a couple times before two are slipping inside-- Wooyoung can’t feign surprise at how easy they pressed in, knowing how wet he was, nevertheless how easy it was to open up for Song Mingi, of all people.
Fingers pump inside of him without much remorse, Wooyoung’s moans slurred and strung together as he drools into the fabric of his pillow. Mingi’s always had large fingers, with ample dexterity and length, and Wooyoung can feel the fruits of such good genetics bearing themselves as he gasps Mingi’s name like it was the only thing he knew. The only word he could possibly utter. He wishes he could never speak another word again-- just Mingi’s name. He would be satisfied with that.
Mingi grunts into his neck, doesn’t speak, but words aren’t necessary. Even in Wooyoung’s haze, he can hear Mingi’s desire in the way he fumbles to get his own sweats tugged down, briefs following-- he can hear it in the way that Mingi’s breath becomes laborious when fingers slip from his cunt, hanging over his hip so they could frame his enlarged clitoris instead. They press in, rubbing softly at the head of his clit, poking out from being erect. His cock is pumped to full hardness, and the only time he speaks is to whisper a sharp, scissor-cut fuck when the tip of it is pressed against his hot, begging entrance.
Wooyoung can feel sleep consuming him, body burning as Mingi pushes his cock inside. It’s heavy, it’s filling, and it’s so fucking hot. It’s as if Wooyoung is ignited all over again, a stray spark turning into a forest fire. It’s a good representation of his feelings. When it rains, it pours. When it burns, it enraptures-- reaps what it sows. Mingi is slow to thrust inside, but he picks up the pace with ease. Wooyoung is so wet, and if he weren’t on the ledge of passing out altogether, he might be more embarrassed with the way it sounded as Mingi drove his hips into the other.
His clitoris throbs, not being given any mercy as Mingi grinds fingers against him even faster. The overstimulation is enough to keep him at bay, drool seeping in excess from his puffy lips as he nudges his face into the pillow. Soft, pitiful whines are drawled out, and Mingi keeps tugging them out of him. Wooyoung is the orange in his hand, cut in half, and Mingi is digging his thumb inside, bursting each individual capsule inside of the orange until it’s a mess of sweet, sticky, aromatic juices.
“Shit,” Mingi groans, unable to hold back his own noises as he tugs Wooyoung closer to him. They’re sticky with sweat, plastering against one another.
Wooyoung continues to be pliant, docile, useable. Mingi’s thrusts are choppy, pistoning into his cunt without much regard for the way Wooyoung’s body pathetically bounces against the sheets in response. He can feel his gut clenching, and he thinks in the farthest recesses of his mind, that he’s going to cum. Mingi’s close too, even says it as he bites down the line of Wooyoung’s neck, teeth scraping at an exposed shoulder.
When Wooyoung cums, it briefly wakes him up enough to have his eyes lidding. A desperate sob leaves him, body twitching and trembling, thighs pressing together. His cunt tightens around Mingi’s cock, and Mingi graciously accepts this, holding his thighs together as he fucks into the tight space provided. Wooyoung is overstimulated, his cunt is buzzing with vibrations, but Mingi likes it sloppy. Likes him tight, likes him unbearably wet, likes the ungodly noises that reverb around the around the room, bouncing around each corner. His neighbors probably hate him-- he doesn’t care enough to think too much into it.
Mingi’s hips stutter when he gives his last couple thrusts, pulling out and sliding his cock against Wooyoung’s folds. The tip presses against Wooyoung’s clitoris, causing him to shiver and wriggle away. Mingi holds him there until he grunts, a low whine leaving as he cums up Wooyoung’s lower abdomen and onto his sheets, the precome and slick stuck between his inner thighs as Mingi rode it out.
Tender kisses are pressed against the back of his earlobe, unconsciousness finally washing over him as he fell limp against the pillow. He was sure that Mingi would get up, clean him up while he sleeps and hold him until the morning, when they can change the sheets together and supposedly ‘forget about it.’ Wooyoung can’t forget these moments no matter how hard he tries, and he dreams about Mingi at the corner of the ring, nose bloody and jaw bruised. When he comes back for a drink, he kisses Wooyoung. They’re in love, breaking the barrier between them.
But it’s only dreams, which Wooyoung will understand when he wakes up, leaving them to return to the dancefloor and try this waltz all over again.