Archive of Our Own

how does this happen? to fall in love and be disassembled

- The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje

“Tyung-ah,” Seokjin says, fingers skimming over the back of his head. Taehyung can feel the warmth of his fingertips through the mess of his hair. “Breakfast.”

Taehyung doesn’t move, even if sleep falls away from him quickly. Seokjin is at the edge of the mattress on his side of the bed, Taehyung’s back towards him.

“Did you really wake me up just to tell me you made food?” Taehyung asks. There’s the phantom prickle of pain behind his eyes, and he knows he slept too long, will probably have a headache for the entire morning now because of it. He curls into himself and away from Seokjin, whose light stroking falters for only a second. Seokjin doesn’t respond before Taehyung adds, “I’m not hungry.”

“Get up and shower,” Seokjin says, rather than argue with him. Taehyung’s eyes open, and he frowns.

They have no schedule today, and in this pocket of suspension where they can pretend only they exist, Taehyung doesn’t feel very much like getting up to shower or having breakfast or opening the curtains. He wants to starfish on the bed until he feels his blood settle at the base of his spine and forces him to move.

Seokjin exhales, maybe a sigh, through his nose. Taehyung lets his eyes slide closed again, listening to the cadence of his breathing. Seokjin stands, still for a moment, before the sound of quiet footsteps follow. He waits for the tension to seep from the room with him, but instead Taehyung grows more tense than before. Fishing line around the curves of his ribs pull him inwards, impossibly tight.

Distantly, he hears the sound of the shower being started, and he sits. Seokjin had gone to the bathroom rather than leave, and he’s starting a shower. Taehyung doesn’t have the energy to be upset about it.

He throws the blanket off of himself and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. His body hurts, a soreness that feels deeper than his muscles, down into his bones. In only pajama bottoms, he steps out of them halfway to the bathroom, leaves his clothing on a pile on the ground and feels a curl of satisfaction about it.

He walks into the bathroom naked, sees Seokjin left the water adjusted at the temperature he likes. He’s standing at the sink, looking at Taehyung through the mirror.

Taehyung doesn’t speak, but he turns Seokjin around and presses him into the counter, kisses him as hard as he can. Hands cup his face and push gently away, and Taehyung blinks at him, half confused.

“Don’t waste water,” Seokjin tells him. He leans in and places a kiss on the corner of his mouth, stepping aside. Taehyung lets him, at a loss. “Let me know if you get hungry, hm?”

Taehyung frowns at him, giving him a once over. “Did you shower already?”

Seokjin doesn’t answer that, only points to the shower again. “The water.”

Annoyed, Taehyung shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Get out then,” he says, colder than he means to, chest constricting like it had been, maybe even before he opened his eyes to the world today. Sometimes, this happens. He feels as naked as he is, very suddenly, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling he doesn’t like. He’s not supposed to feel small or weird or in the way, not around Seokjin. 

He’s hardly out of the door before Taehyung shuts it; he turns the lock. 

They don’t shut doors. The echo of the mechanism sends a lurch of dread through him, his regret acidic. The way it judders through him and into his hands makes him feel sick, the hurt he’d been trying to project reflecting back inwards. He unlocks the door and takes a shuddering breath in.

He’s older now, had learned early that Seokjin’s hurt was his own, but sometimes he still slips into the most repressed part of himself, the one that’s self sabotaging and cruel in the name of repentance. 

He takes his time swallowing it all down like an over-steeped tea, lets the water fall over and erase him. It’s not enough, and by the time he gets out he’s shivering and still can’t decide if he wants to get dressed at all or climb back into bed. His earlier idea of sprawling out until the earth swelled up and around him was tempting, but he doesn’t think he can anymore.

He imagines Seokjin somewhere in the apartment, face still as the calm sea and unexpectant of an apology or acknowledgement. Too good , Taehyung whispers at night, tucked under his chin and certain the Greeks had known of humanity’s origins after all, had been right when they spoke of people cursed to live as one torn soul in two bodies. 

But knowing his own faults is not enough to correct them and it's not enough to soothe the sharper edges of his fragility. The thought, along with lingering steam, is starting to make him lightheaded, and the room is very suddenly claustrophobic.

He opens the door to alleviate the feeling and breathe, and he’s unprepared for what’s waiting for him; on the bed, an outfit he recognizes for its newness. Something he bought in New York, where he could blend into a crowd more easily than he could here, than he could most other places, where a man buying clothing of any kind didn’t inspire even the smallest amount of attention.

There’s a skirt, black, laid out neatly. Taehyung had been drawn to the simplicity, something classic and timeless, an equivalent to the slacks and suits he liked to collect. He reaches out and fingers over the black buttons that trail down off-center, down until he’s tracing the stitch work at the bottom. It was his size—he’d made sure that it fit when he’d tried them on in the dressing room, breathing coming harder as he wondered if he wanted to take a picture to send to Seokjin or wait to facetime him later—but even so, the skirt is designed to fit a woman, with legs shorter and daintier than his own, so despite the technical fit, it looked almost too short on him.

The shirt is—pretty. He’d forgotten how pretty it was, after he got home and left his unpacked luggage for future him to worry over, hadn’t noticed when Seokjin had taken it upon himself to unpack for him. It’s less simplistic than the skirt, the three-fourth sleeves mesh and flowy. The front has a silk bow that hangs over the simple front, where it sits snugly unlike the sleeves. Taehyung runs a gentle touch over it, too.

He gets dressed, feels pretty and warm in a way that isn’t suffocating the way the shower had been. He runs his hands through his hair, newly permed and fluffy. Seokjin had gotten his done the same, and for once neither of them had anxiety over how it would be perceived. It was clearer than ever that they had no control, no control over how people saw them, how people didn’t see them. There was no controlling the mile wide stares through the gaps in his fingers, there was no controlling if someone used his face for a caricatured version of who he really was. Even less so his relationship.

It was terrifying for a time, then frustrating, but the loss of control didn’t always feel like some tall and terrible grief—sometimes it just was. They could not control or predict what people would say of them, of him, but with that brought freedom, too. Taehyung thinks sometimes it was maturity that left him uncaring, others he didn’t care to speculate about it at all.

Today he’s somewhere in between, as he stares at his reflection, walks the length of their bedroom, feels the way his clothes fit on him. When he circles back around to looking, there exists grief and relief simultaneously. Grief for the loss of transparency he might have had in a different life, for the him of an ideal world, for the boy who loves loudly, and relief for the one he is. 

He isn’t sure how people see him without seeing him at all. He sees Seokjin in himself, sees himself in Seokjin, and it’s not always subtle. Maybe he was just a romantic, or maybe he’d learned to camouflage himself at some point without realizing it.

He runs a hand over the clothing as he wore it, tension in his breath. He turns and walks again, his skirt pulling every time he makes a more dramatic movement, his thighs substantial enough that it causes the fabric to ride up eventually regardless.

He’s conscious of it, and it leaves him swimmy in such a nice way, in a way that starts to untangle the weight on him long enough to break through the surface and breathe.

He walks out, bare feet chilled against the cold floor as he counts his steps. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he holds them behind him, feels pretty while he does. 

Seokjin sits at the dining room table, and it’s clear he’s been waiting for him, waiting despite Taehyung’s insistence he wasn’t hungry. It makes him ache and he feels it right in his solar plexus, the beginnings of a fire, still only yellow-orange hot. Taehyung doesn’t feel like eating, still thinks it sounds like a chore, but he walks over anyway, head down.

Seokjin has made them food, and he wants them to eat well, together, and Taehyung says the wrong things too often, isn’t always the version of himself who feels deserving, but that can be motivation, too. He wants to be seen right now, seen and know he’s being looked at with no other motivations—no need for cover worthy. Seen and know it’s enough to just exist.

Taehyung’s gaze glosses over the rice and banchan, catches sight of what might be soup. Despite the number of smaller dishes, and the quantity, Seokjin seems to have only set himself a place. He walks closer, waiting to catch Seokjin’s eye. His footsteps are inaudible, but somehow Seokjin senses him.

His gaze trails the blouse, the skirt, down Taehyung’s legs. He doesn’t comment yet, only tilts his head and smiles. Taehyung doesn’t immediately move to assume a position, and doesn’t ask what Seokjin might want from him. He stands and lets himself be looked at until he’s trying not to squirm. Seokjin was much more patient in this way than him, happy to look without doing anything, so long as the guarantee of something later was known—Taehyung didn’t care if it was guaranteed or not, and he hopes his boyfriend is not in one of those painfully unhurried moods. He doesn’t know what he wants though, he reminds himself, breathes and trusts Seokjin will always give him what he needs.

“Let’s eat,” Seokjin says, after a long few moments. His voice takes on the quality it does when he has to lean into control a little more. It's syrupy to Taehyung, who has tried and failed to explain it to his closest friends, never able to put into words what Seokjin and he had.

Right now it takes an edge of non-negotiation, which means consequences if Taehyung decides not to listen. He’d agreed to let Seokjin take care of him, at least for a bright burst of time, when he’d gotten out of the shower and dressed himself. It was something so easy to slip into.

Taehyung’s head fills with cotton as he nods, finishing his path to him before slowly lowering himself to the floor. There’s no questioning this is what Seokjin wants from him; there’s no questioning this is what he needs. The skirt restricts being able to open his legs or sit any other way than with his calves tucked underneath him in a kneel, can’t risk tearing it when it’d cost him no small amount. He takes a second to settle into this, the here and now.

The floor is cold under him, grounding, and he faces Seokjin diagonally, much lower than he would be any other time. It’s pleasant and not unfamiliar, and when he looks up at Seokjin he knows his gaze is already farther away.

Seokjin smiles at him again, one of the many Taehyung knows are reserved only for him. It makes his heart sing still, possessive until the end and sometimes hoping people see it, hope they see even when he knows how dangerous it is. It wouldn’t take too much after all, and once it's out there, there’s no reversing it. Permanence in regards to Seokjin is not something that even mildly intimidates him, but rather the possibility that they may never get back what they have now, such quietness between them and the endless, burning scrutiny. There exists a churning, violent sea that tore empires apart, more so people. Taehyung knows love is not always enough, but he will admit his willingness to suffer greatly before letting go.

Seokjin strokes down the side of his face with the back of his index finger. “Thank you, baby.” Taehyung shudders, just barely. Oh yes, he forgot how nice it feels to be good, how easy it was to be good when he wanted to be. “But you don’t need to think right now.”

Taehyung knows. Easier said than done, however, but Taehyung looks up at him with a slightly parted mouth and glassy eyes anyway, hoping Seokjin can see his willingness to try. Sometimes that’s all he needed to do: be willing.

He can see the understanding in response, unwavering even when Taehyung couldn’t understand himself. Seokjin understood him when he said the nonsensical, when people would laugh because they didn’t know how else to respond. He grips Taehyung’s chin and pulls for him to open his mouth. “Keep it open,” Seokjin instructs him, “Unless you’re chewing.”

Food is largely unappealing in his sad and sorry state, still coming back to a more regular diet after the one he’d been put on for the Vogue shoot. Taehyung had lost weight for it, had exercised and cut down to not much more than chicken breast for a number of days right before. Seokjin made sure he took his multivitamin in the meantime, and had whispered how he couldn’t wait until Taehyung could gain the little amount of weight he lost back while he fucked him, touched him, told him he loved him. 

(Those were the times Seokjin returned his shameful, burning need to possess, so deep inside while they fucked he’d press down on Taehyung’s tummy and ask, do you feel me? Taehyung spoke this language, knew what Seokjin meant when he did these things. He’s asking Taehyung to blindly follow him into the tremendous need of being one, as much as they were their own separated selves. Reminding Taehyung to care for himself, because his body was for the both of them.)

It’s this in part that keeps Taehyung from protesting. He isn’t supposed to be thinking at all right now, simply keeps his mouth open and his eyes fixed on Seokjin without straying. Seokjin isn’t returning the laser focus, preoccupied choosing for and feeding Taehyung or feeding himself. He does so diligently, and Taehyung doesn’t care so much that he’d woken up and not wanted to eat. It never feels burdensome to let Seokjin do this for him, and is distantly aware of the fact that a trust like theirs was of legends and love songs.

Hyung will take care of him. It repeats until his head quiets, slows, finally. He never realizes just how loud it all is until it’s quiet again. 

“Thank you hyung,” Taehyung whispers, almost without meaning to, slumping until he's able to rest his head against Seokjin’s thigh. It’s a moment of this, peaceful, before he looks up in time to catch the way Seokjin inhales, sharp.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you,” Seokjin replies. Taehyung reassumes his position, mouth open and not so far away in thought. Now his few thoughts circle Seokjin, and he thinks: He loves him, he loves him more than Taehyung thought it was possible to love someone. “My pretty baby works hard,” Seokjin continues, when he feeds Taehyung another bite. “Don’t you?”

Taehyung chews, nods.

“That’s right.” He hesitates, like there’s something he wants to add but isn’t sure. Seokjin trusts him much the same way Taehyung does, knows he won’t be judged or punished for saying the wrong thing, but it was vulnerable no matter how used to the practice they got, and it was still hard. Taehyung waits patiently. “Sometimes I worry,” Seokjin admits, quieter. “When you diet. I want to see you round-cheeked all year long. I want you to be healthy, every year of your life.”

Taehyung knows this for many reasons, even without Seokjin telling him so explicitly. He knows by the way he’s fed, by the way Seokjin pinches his belly more often than he should, sometimes even on camera. He knows by the look in his eyes.

He wonders if he should respond, but he doesn’t particularly feel like speaking. Seokjin won’t make him when he starts to lose himself.

Eventually, Seokjin taps under his chin and Taehyung knows to assume he’s done. He doesn’t move yet, waits for Seokjin to finish and sits on his hands when he feels the urge to touch strike him. Seokjin hadn’t given him permission to touch. Right now, they were eating.

When he’s done he helps Taehyung up, who wants to stay close. He follows Seokjin to the kitchen, and where he would normally sit on the counter to keep him company or help with the dishes himself, he gets back down on the floor. He keeps still, doesn’t say anything, and Seokjin doesn’t protest it.

“Do you feel better?” Seokjin asks him, when he finishes with the dishes. Taehyung blinks up at him, then nods.

He understands Seokjin is checking in, asking if he needs to slow down or stop, if this is all he needed to ground himself and start to feel real again. He’s not ready though, entirely, to come back; he’s sure Seokjin can tell.

“I’m going to game for a while,” Seokjin says. He doesn’t ask, which means it’s not up for debate.

Taehyung exhales sharply, a tick of annoyance. “Of course you are,” he says. Seokjin lets himself look surprised, which means Taehyung is willing to bet it’s intentional, a subtle warning. 

“I thought you were being good for me again.” A hand grips at the top of Taehyung’s hair then, sudden. Taehyung cries out quietly when he’s yanked back, even while the grip isn’t very tight. He’s mostly surprised. “You don’t have a say in what we do when you misbehave.” Taehyung swallows, trembling all over as Seokjin stares down at him. “Pretty girl, stop assuming I’m going to neglect you.”

He lets go of him and steps back, waits for Taehyung to stand before they make their way to the couch. It takes Taehyung a moment to even compose himself, Seokjin’s ability to change so dramatically in a matter of seconds not something he ever got used to. He’s flushed, both excitedly and embarrassed. Seokjin acts uninterested in the reaction, which only encourages him. He isn’t led to Seokjin’s PC, which is good news for Taehyung, who knows Seokjin doesn’t like messing around too much in the room that hosted it. He might not neglect Taehyung when they did this, but he had a tendency to get caught up in his favorite form of escapism.

Seokjin sits on the couch, looking up at Taehyung almost expectantly. There’s still something casual and uninterested in his expression, like he didn’t care one way or the other, and it was a look that had Taehyung starting to feel heavy between the legs. Taehyung has a brief moment of panic shortly after that, however, not knowing what to do and tripping over himself as he tries to explain.

“My—my skirt,” he says. Saying it out loud sends a thrill through him, and he flushes, embarrassed but not ashamed, loves the way he feels. His shyness was not equivalent to hesitance of any sort, more a quality of his personality.

“It’s a pretty skirt for a pretty girl,” Seokjin says baldly.

“I can’t sit,” Taehyung stutters. “Not on your lap.” Not unless he wants to tear it.

Seokjin eyes his thighs, hunger behind his gaze controlled but visible. “What should we do then? Take it off?”

Taehyung shakes his head, face ducking down.

“What do you want to do then, baby?”

Taehyung wrings his hands, his lip between his teeth, half a smile under it. He reaches down and pulls the fabric up, the way a girl might, if she didn’t want to take it off.

“Oh,” Seokjin says. “You want to sit in my lap in nothing.”

Taehyung walks up to him, lowers into his lap, chest heaving slightly with his breathing. “Not nothing.”

Seokjin makes a face. “I didn’t set these out for you,” he says lowly, fingers tracing over the hem of the lace panties. Taehyung is chubbing up under them, but even fully soft they don’t hold him, don’t hide anything.

Seokjin ignores his cock, his hand slipping around instead to his ass. He grabs him, and Taehyung’s breath stutters, leaning into it. “Is my baby already getting wet for me, too?”

Taehyung feels his heart trip over itself. It’s thrumming in his throat rather than his chest. “I’m—I’m—“ Taehyung tries, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t have to play his reaction up, always feels hopelessly excited and jittery when Seokjin so easily spoke of him like this, in a given, factual, humdrum way. It was suggestive in such a dangerous manner.

Seokjin’s finger presses against his hole through the lace, without waiting for Taehyung’s reply or coherence and it feels dirty, almost more so than if the lace weren’t there at all.

“Hm, doesn’t feel like it,” Seokjin says. “Maybe it takes more to get you excited than putting on a skirt. You’re so used to it, these days.”

Taehyung whines. He hadn’t prepped himself, hadn’t been feeling well enough before to think of it, even while he’d grabbed the underwear. It was safe, because he wasn’t sure they were going to be doing anything, and Seokjin might not have seen them at all.

Seokjin leans in to press a warm kiss against his throat, trailing down to his collarbones then back up, and by the time he reaches Taehyung’s mouth it’s parted and waiting, lips wet from where he licked over them impatiently. Seokjin licks across his bottom lip and kisses deep, the way he always does.

“Seokjin-ah,” Taehyung says against his mouth. Seokjin wraps a hand around his throat to push him back, and the restriction feels so good his eyelids flutter reactionarily.

“Is that what you should be calling me?” Seokjin says, sounding amused.

“Hyung,” Taehyung tries. 

The hand tightens. “Try again,” Seokjin says.

“Seokjin-oppa,” Taehyung says, voice gone raspy. “Jin-oppa.”

“That’s right, jagiya,” Seokjin croons, low, and Taehyung is so grateful for the kiss against his lips. “Does baby want oppa to fuck him?”

“Yes,” Taehyung cries. “Yes, yes,” he repeats, the thought of Seokjin inside now all he wants. “Inside. Oppa should fuck me inside.” 

Seokjin’s cock twitches under him in direct consequence, hot and heavy, and Taehyung attempts to grind forward, even if the hand at his throat restricts his movement. He gasps a breath when he pulls back again, largely unsuccessful.

“Not yet,” Seokjin breathes. “Let me prep you first.”

Taehyung nods, and the bottle of lube they keep under the cushion saves them again. Seokjin covers his fingers and doesn’t bother trying to take Taehyung’s underwear off or prevent it from getting all over them. The panties were expensive and delicate, but the knowledge that Seokjin was going to finger him like this was so nice, too impatient to even undress, clothing pulled up and aside like they had no other option. It's a messy process, and lube runs down the inside of and backs of his thighs and below, onto Seokjin’s sweats and possibly the couch, not for the first time.

“You’re wet now,” Seokjin says, when he teases Taehyung with a single finger, hardly pressing in, teasing at the edge before pulling back over and over. “Maybe you are easy.”

“For you,” Taehyung gasps shamelessly. “Anything for you.”

“I know,” Seokjin says. “Look at how you're dripping for me, making a mess.” Taehyung cranes his neck back to look over his shoulder, but it’s impossible to see anything at this angle.

“I can’t,” he whines. “The angle.”

Seokjin presses his finger inside and past the rim fully, and Taehyung sighs deeply, clenching around him before relaxing. “I can’t see it either,” Seokjin says. “Maybe I should move you to see that pretty lace I’m about to ruin.” 

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes perfectly round and pleading. “I can’t kiss you like that.”

Seokjin has no teasing reply, only a low, affectionate sound. “You’re so sweet. Who could have guessed you’d be so shameless?”

Taehyung wants to say that there’s no way Seokjin didn’t know, almost right away. Subtlety in regards to him did not come easily to Taehyung, and it didn’t take too long before sleeping in the same bed every night became Taehyung grinding against him while trying to muffle his moans into the meat of Seokjin’s palm, or wake-up blow jobs as soon as they were able to spend nights in more privacy and not a cramped dorm.

“I can already see the bratty answer behind your teeth,” Seokjin huffs, pressing another finger at his rim. “There are other ways of asking for what you want.”

“More boring ways,” Taehyung answers. Seokjin liked doing this, pretending that he wasn’t blatantly setting Taehyung up to brat out, all too eager to respond accordingly. He liked taming as much as Taehyung enjoyed rebelling.

The hand that comes around and slaps the top of his ass shouldn’t surprise him. Taehyung holds the sound under his tongue, leaning his head forward to press his ass out further. “Is that it?” He asks, because he hates giving the satisfaction.

Seokjin hits again, harder, hand soothing over it right after. “Is my vv stressed?” He asks, biting down on Taehyung’s shoulder, light, light enough not to leave a mark. 

“I just want to be fucked,” Taehyung replies.

Seokjin opts to ignore him. “Working so hard he forgets he doesn’t have to pretend with oppa? Doesn’t have to do anything but take it?”

Taehyung trembles, pressing back into the fingers inside him. Yes, he does forget, but Seokjin doesn’t have to say it out loud.

“I know you do,” Seokjin continues. “I think you need me to remind you it’s okay to let someone else take care of you.”

He has two fingers in Taehyung now, who doesn’t like how soft and slow Seokjin is treating him. He wants it to burn, wants to feel him linger after they finish. He needs the impossible closeness, an unforgiving treatment. Instead of responding, he moves a hand around himself to his hole, tries to push one of his own fingers in fast enough to give him the stretch he wants.

Seokjin stops as soon as he realizes, pulling his fingers out completely. Taehyung cries no, trying to grab his wrist and drag him back.

“Enough.” Seokjin’s tone leaves no room for argument, and a ball of tension in his throat threatens to produce tears. “You know better than that, Taehyung,” he says, when Taehyung leans back to look at him again. “Is this not enough for you?”

He means it seriously, not mockingly, and Taehyung’s knee-jerk reaction is to deny it. Seokjin is always enough, but this is not about that. He’s trying to make sure what they’re doing is good for him, and Taehyung has to think straight long enough to cooperate. He’s his line out at sea; Taehyung won’t win against crashing waves.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I want to feel you.” Voicing the thought does make him cry, even if it’s not dramatic. Tears drip from his eyes, and Seokjin carefully wipes underneath them. “It feels too slow, too soft. I want—more.”

“Okay,” Seokjin says quietly. “Thank you for being honest.” His voice is soft again. Taehyung exhales the tension in his shoulders.

“I wasn’t going to fuck you yet,” Seokjin says. “I really do want to play for a while.”

Taehyung whines. He isn’t sure what his plan is, and thinking is hard right now; he wouldn’t be able to figure it out if he tried.

Seokjin soothes him. “Does cockwarming sound okay?” 

Taehyung feels dizzy just thinking about it. Impossible closeness, something he only just realized he’d been craving, and Seokjin had already known. He nods.

“We can,” he says, running a hand down Taehyung’s back. “I won’t prep you any more, and you can get what you need.”

Seokjin inside, and before he’s as stretched as he normally would be sounds like heaven to him. “Please,” Taehyung says quietly.

Seokjin exhales, nodding. He doesn’t undress, only pulls his own sweats down far enough to pull his cock out, already hard. Taehyung doesn’t waste time grabbing for him, or pulling himself up onto his knees. He guides his cockhead to his entrance and shakes enough that Seokjin has to remind him to calm down and breathe. He goes slow, still, but there’s a burn that Taehyung had needed, the almost-pain he’s missed. He holds Seokjin at the base and sinks, slowly, Seokjin letting him set the pace with hands on his hips.

Now that he knows what he wants, he would have liked warming him with his mouth, would have been happy with that too, but this is even better, and Taehyung’s skin breaks into goosebumps at the rush of endorphins he feels.

By the time he’s sat on Seokjin fully, he feels halfway gone again, deeper and differently. Seokjin is inside, all the way inside, and Taehyung is content to stay still and drift. It wouldn’t feel great if they started fucking anyway, he needs time to adjust, but this is good.

Seokjin does grab for his controller, once Taehyung stops moving, and he plays something unexciting, for both their sakes. It's quiet except for the controller sounds and their breathing, and Taehyung noses over the skin of Seokjin’s neck occasionally, gets a kiss every so often. Seokjin is doing better at not shifting or moving than Taehyung, who is starting to have to consciously not let his hips jerk.

Half an hour passes the same, and Taehyung is so happy to float and not think, to know Seokjin is as close as he can be. He felt his absence in New York, feels his absence when they’re cities apart instead of continents, he feels the distance between rooms when they’re in the middle of a petty argument that ends in promises to never disagree again.

Taehyung is yielding for him, his thoughts a low vibrato of only this: so good so good so good , the mantra that keeps him obedient even after his still satisfaction veers into want. He melts under the soft hunger of Seokjin’s attention, and it means more to Taehyung than any expanse of wealth or praise or adoration of anyone else. He’d worry the well of his feelings ran a vein deeper than what is healthy if only Seokjin were not the same.

“You’re so pretty,” Seokjin murmurs, tucking Taehyung’s hair behind his ear. His mouth pulls into the smallest of smiles, the flutter in his heart the same as the first time, a compliment he cannot remember for anything but how it made him feel. Even at the end of the world, after the sun turns to dust, he would know the pleasure of this love, without even a face to place it by. 

“Do you want to move to the bedroom? Or stay here?” Seokjin asks him, hand holding the side of his face. Taehyung doesn’t think he cares either way, with how expensive this couch was, and knowing it would see use, they’d chosen something more comfortable than some beds.

“Here is fine,” Taehyung mutters.

Seokjin nods, lifts them up in a single movement. It results in Taehyung clenching around him, aroused both by the movement of Seokjin inside and the knowledge that he was strong as he was. Sometimes Taehyung would sit on the couch or at the table and watch him do pull ups until sweat would rivet down his back to the taper of his waist, planning with great impatience the next time they’d have enough gap in schedule to be able to scratch it up.

Seokjin turns them sideways, having to pull out of Taehyung momentarily to settle him lying back onto the couch. He doesn’t take his time settling into place and pressing back inside. It pushes a little sound out of Taehyung, aroused as well as floaty now. His panties are still on, only the back pushed aside for Seokjin’s cock.

He’s still dressed entirely, skirt pushed up and shirt placed as they had been, and Seokjin messes with the bow on the front with one hand, silky and askew over his chest, as he pulls Taehyung’s leg over his shoulder with the other.

His thighs burn with the stretch for a moment, and Taehyung sighs and feels his lids flutter as he gets used to the new angle.

“Shame I didn’t get to see your pussy all pretty and messy for me,” Seokjin says off handedly, and Taehyung’s breath sticks, eyes opening. “Not much, anyway. But that’s alright, I know you liked wearing these for me.”

Taehyung nods, small and jerky.

“Maybe we can try again, with the position from earlier,” Seokjin says, pulling out slowly to the tip. “Set up a mirror, or better yet, a camera, and we’ll both be able to see your ass presented and covered in your own wetness whenever we want.”

Taehyung keeps nodding, mouth caught open in a soundless moan. His cock pokes out of his underwear, and the lace is soft against him but only barely stimulating. It's not enough to get off, the maker of his pleasure Seokjin alone. He fucks slowly first, always, the only exception if they don’t have the time. His resolve has always been immovable, no amount of begging is enough to deter him from taking his time unraveling Taehyung one stroke at a time. They have time now, and Taehyung knows begging is fruitless.

Drops of precum bead and spill out, and Taehyung watches his own cock jerk until Seokjin tilts his face up. He presses his thumb into his mouth, cradling Taehyung’s jaw with the rest of his hand. He doesn’t have to ask, and Taehyung sucks on him while Seokjin continues his patient fucking.

He pulls his thumb out after Taehyung succeeds in coating it wet, a line of drool forming and breaking as he brings his hand down to thumb over Taehyung’s cock head. He plays with it and nothing else, hidden in the panties, while Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut and spasms.

“You turn such a lovely shade of pink when you’re being fucked, Tyeong-ah. I swear you only look this way with me.”

with me , Taehyung’s mind supplies again, because he only does this with Seokjin. It’s a nod to a possessive suggestion, but his toes still curl with it.

“When I dance?” Taehyung hiccups, crying some, the good relief sort of tears that a good fuck always produced.

“It's not the same,” Seokjin thrusts in particularly hard, still at the same rhythm he’s been maintaining. Taehyung hiccups another sob. “I’m the only one who sees you.”

He doesn’t say this way , but even if he’d meant something else, it’s still true. Taehyung cracks open and bleeds with him, and only him.

“Seokjin-oppa,” Taehyung gasps, feeling the familiar tinge of impending orgasm. They haven’t gotten very far. If Taehyung can’t last Seokjin will fuck him through overstimulation and straight into another.

“Already?” Seokjin asks. A thrust so hard Taehyung slides up the couch. “Shameless.”

He tries to muffle himself with a hand, but Seokjin gathers them both and pins them to his chest, shaking his head. “No one’s around to hear you.”

Taehyung knows that, but the sounds he’s making are not typical for him, now more whiney and pitched than usual. Tears streak his face, and he feels so cut open—always see-through when it was them against the world.

“Scared the neighbors will think I’m fucking a girl behind your back?” Seokjin asks pensively, letting Taehyung go but still expecting him to keep his hands away from his mouth or face. “You sound like a common whore in heat today, baby. Don’t be ashamed of it.”

He goes back to playing with Taehyung’s cockhead, relentless little circles, and his precum spills endless as it soaks the underside of his skirt. The intention of only playing with the head feels purposeful. Like he has a clit, and Seokjin is rubbing it for him.

His realization shows in his face and his body, when Taehyung shudders and sobs. He can’t come yet, he won’t.

“Did you not know girls like playing with their pussies this way?” Seokjin asks him.

“Mmm,” Taehyung starts to form something, words perhaps, that rip away into oblivion when Seokjin fucks over his prostate on a few consecutive strokes in.

“Guess not,” Seokjin finishes for him.

Taehyung can’t hold his orgasm any longer, despite his best efforts. Seokjin is not being nice to him, and it only makes matters worse; they both know that.

His cock jerks as he spurts over the skirt folds, ruining it further. His orgasm adds his shirt to the casualty, and his ears start to ring as Seokjin fucks him through it, not stoping or slowing his pace. The only indication of his own state is the tightening grip on Taehyung’s inner thigh of the leg over his shoulder. Taehyung hopes it bruises, hopes the pin prick pain he feels are Seokjin’s nails digging in crescent kisses to press on over his clothing later, while they’re apart again.

His body is confused, wanting to come down even while Taehyung is still mentally aroused, still wanting to be good. The discomfort of too much feeling, feels like a kiss when it’s delivered by Seokjin, and he leans into it. 

“Good girl,” Seokjin tells him, and Taehyung can hear he’s getting closer. “Always good for me.”

Taehyung arches his back and brings a hand to the mess over his front, trails a finger through the cooling mess. Seokjin grabs his wrist when he’s gathered some and brings it to his own mouth, sucking the taste of Taehyung off his index and middle fingers.

“My favorite dessert,” Seokjin says. He leans down and kisses Taehyung with his taste still lingering, their spit mixing and tasting slightly of come, the barely-there saltiness both of them got off on.

“I want you to come inside,” Taehyung says, lashes wet as he stares up at him. His voice is rasping as the syllables catch on heavy breaths and movement. “Please.”

“You’ll feel me up to here,” Seokjin says, wrapping a hand lightly at his throat, less of a hold and more of a suggestion. Taehyung thinks it’s his favorite accessory to date. Of his jewelry collection worth hundreds of thousands, of the jewels he’s been loaned for shoots and spreads and red carpets, Seokjin’s warm hand overshadows them all.

Taehyung wishes it weren’t hyperbolic. He wants to feel them as one, he wishes they could show proof of it the way men and women could, with a baby that was perfectly half of both their hearts. He knows the way a man loves a man or a woman loves a woman knows. However, the love he feels tearing out of him at terminal velocity is not something a man and a woman might understand. They could not fathom a longing and fear and awe and reverence the way they do.

“I wish I could put a baby in you,” Seokjin says for him. Taehyung’s tears start a new, aching yearning and warmth at the idea, at Seokjin’s utter understanding of him.

“We’ll have a baby one day,” Taehyung gasps. Seokjin is close, he can see it in the tense shoulder and distant look in his eyes. “You and I.” We’ll have a baby and a home and maybe a farm nobody knows about. You can feed me grapes and strawberries while we get wine drunk, and when we get too old to drink or have babies we’ll kiss and look at the sky together until we can’t see either, until our joints grow weak and stop working and we can’t remember our own names. I will love you more than I do right now, too. Taehyung wants to say all of this, but he already has, a million ways in more than one language on most continents on earth. 

He says it without his voice to help him, mouthing around the words like it’ll still reach Seokjin, as he fucks deep deep deep, touches his forehead to Taehyungs and comes, one hand fully working over Taehyung’s cock, that had gotten hard again without much delay.

It's all so much, physically and emotionally, and Taehyung spasms as he dribbles what he has left and feels the heat inside him settle. Seokjin breathes heavily, kisses Taehyung hungry but soft, and Taehyung knows what he’s saying. Seokjin’s eyes open while he tries to catch his breath, and Taehyung stares back. I’ll take care of you until my last hair turns bone white and we forget every language we’ve learned, until we sit still and cold and move to the next life without fear. 

“Jagiya,” Taehyung says. He’s still crying, still emotionally at one hundred and unwilling to allow Seokjin to move away or pull out.

“I love you,” Seokjin says, kissing his cupid's bow. It’s wet with saliva, and Taehyung wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t pull out, knowing Taehyung wants this afterwards too. It’s why they didn’t always do warming before, unless they really had time. Especially if Seokjin’s mood swung striaght past mean and into cruel and he wanted to fuck Taehyung to orgasm seven times instead of two. That was a different mood altogether, one version of the many they could share. Taehyung starts to wonder when they might be able to pen one of those days in soon.

Seokjin gives him one last lingering kiss before he pulls out. Taehyung feels like someone numbed the entire bottom half of his body, and he doesn’t even bother trying to move himself.

Seokjin stands after a few minutes of absentmindedly rubbing Taehyung’s ankle where his legs were swung over his lap. Taehyung didn’t bother fixing the skirt, it was covered in come anyway, now cold.

“Shower,” Seokjin decides.

“I just showered,” Taehyung whines. “Why make me shower earlier if this was the plan?”

Seokjin gives him a look, but it's undermined by his loving eyes. He was a good actor, always so careful around cameras and diligently vigilant about even the smallest of mannerisms or speech, but his eyes would give him away when nothing else could.

“You have to be clean if you want me to fuck you. And you have to be clean if you want to get back in bed, or lay out on the couch.”

“What if I want to go out?” Taehyung asks, even as Seokjin picks him up bridal style, back to the bathroom.

“We can do whatever you want. But I doubt you’ll want to.”

Not playing along, then. Not fun, Taehyung thinks. They can’t do whatever they want anyway. Going out together alone was possible but only under special circumstances and precautions. Be seen together one too many times alone, doing the wrong things, and people would talk. Not major media, but the number of people who already suspected, who see them a way others are uninterested in. It was inevitable whether it’s true or not in this industry, which is the guaranteed safety that the very same industry provided. There was still a limit to plausible deniability, though.

Posting pictures of his time golfing, only for Seokjin to do the same was something they could get away with. No one to see them unless they allow it, and no rumor to be spread even so, because they’re co-workers after all, and to speculate was a reach. Matching hair, but no one to say they’d seen this either, no way to know if it was intentional. They’ve been pushing boundaries in more recent years, both because of age and the sheer impossibility of controlling it.

Taehyung wonders how long they will get away with it, wonders if the thread will unwind to nothing and lead to them, if the screens they put up to protect from the vitriol will hold. Will their legacy suspend itself in the support they have now, the way they were once too afraid to hope for? 

He ponders all of it, not in the overwhelmed way he had been earlier, able to see his mood for what it had been more clearly now. Seokjin always held a mirror to his faults, and that’s something that might be uncomfortable, if he weren’t the first to celebrate Taehyung's achievements, innocence, the best sides of himself too. Taehyung wants to be better for both of them, on the days when he doesn’t feel connected to this life or its meaning. Figuring out what was wrong was almost all Seokjin helped him do, but it was enough. Their push and pull of understanding felt too good to be true, sometimes.

Staring across the sudsy water of the bathtub, Taehyung looks at Seokjin and wonders how the world would see them, if they could. Would the love between them be met with scorn the way so much of them is? Undoubtedly, by someone, somewhere.

But in a decade? Half a millennium? A full millennium? What would they say, how would they be dug into and scrutinized and doubted? How would they be loved and venerated? He is not eternal, but he’s grateful the absurdity of the universe brought them together at this impossible moment. The smallest gaps in chance, and they meet now, to have one another their whole lives. He doesn’t know anything at all, but a god might be nice to have just so he could thank them for this religion they’ve made, one between only them.

Seokjin pulls him closer, cupping some water to pour over Taehyung’s messy hair. “My baby is always thinking so hard. Sometimes I wish I could know what you think about.”

“Only sometimes?” Taehyung asks cutely.

“I need space for my own thoughts,” Seokjin says, eyes wrinkling as he smiles. “Half the time. So I can think about how I love you.”

Taehyung makes a face, making a “phsshhh” sound in embarrassment and lightly splashing him. “You’re a hopeless romantic. Have I told you that? Corny.”

Seokjin huffs. “Because you like romance. Your heart is three times the size of mine.”

Taehyung flattens his mouth into a line, “Do you want to know what else—“

Seokjin splashes him back, and Taehyung laughs. “Absolutely not.”

Taehyung approaches again, sitting on his thighs under the water. “They say that lovers who can laugh together stay together forever.”

“Good thing I’m hilarious, then.”

“You’re alright,” Taehyung says flatly.

Seokjin's responding smile is much too affectionate. Taehyung immediately ducks his head down, not that he can hide.

“Glad you’re feeling yourself again,” Seokjin says.

“I’m always myself with you,” Taehyung mutters, after a pause and a heavy swallow.

“Why are you shy, hm?” Seokjin asks, tilting his head down to try and meet Taehyung’s eye.

Taehyung only shakes his head, moves so that they are sitting and flushed together to wrap his arms around Seokjin’s neck. Seokjin hugs him back. “Forever, right?”

Seokjin’s arms tighten. “Even if you don’t want me anymore.” 

Taehyung is glad that the “when” became an “if”. He’d be certain of them, even if he was the only one on earth. He likes to think Seokjin has caught up, though. “You’re my person,” Taehyung mutters.

They stay until the water is too cool and their skin wrinkles, and they move back to the bedroom and crack a balcony door, the ambiance of the night pouring in. There’s what might be the spinning mechanism of a bike far below, the murmur of a group of friends walking home, and the overwhelming sound of cicadas over everything else, blanketing them in the bracket of summer. Taehyung thinks of childhood when the warmth  pours in and suffocates any semblance of a controlled environment, the humidity raucous and all consuming.

Under Seokjin’s hold, he recalls the smell of a library, wood and paper heavy, the beam of light that streaks across a room at sunrise, the sound of broken bread that burns fingertips. It’s home, the unattainable journey of nostalgia. On his forehead, the brush of lips in a kiss.

###

If you live small you’ll be resurrected with the small, a whole planet of minor gods simpering in the weeds. I don’t know anyone who would kill anyone for me.

-Forfeiting my Mystique, Kaveh Akbar