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Dejun wakes up with the sun in his face.
He groans and reluctantly cracks open an eye. What he sees is the window, right smack at the foot of the bed, through which the offending light filters. This is why he had called dibs on the other bed in the room in the first place. Dejun either wakes up at a reasonable hour dictated by his phone alarm, or not at all.
He tsks, annoyed at himself for apparently consuming so much baijiu last night that he had ended up on the wrong bunk without realising, and glares at the Yangyang-shaped lump on the other bed ‒ his bed. He's close enough to kick at without having to get up, so Dejun does.
If he's awake at this ungodly hour, then Yangyang should be, too.
“Eh, why didn't you close the curtains,” Dejun complains, and then immediately stops, because, weird. His voice is lower than usual, and so hoarse. Damn. Maybe the China air is a lot drier than South Korea's?
The blanket-swaddled lump on the adjacent bed doesn't stir. Typical. Dejun rolls his eyes and resolves to chew Yangyang out later. Making a mental note to brew his snow pear drink when he gets back home, he throws back the covers and pads out to go to the bathroom.
Ten is already up, sitting on the living room sofa and sipping his morning coffee. He looks surprised to see Dejun. “Hihi,” he greets. “You're up early.”
“All thanks to Yangyang,” Dejun mutters. “He forgot to close the curtains.”
Ten's expression shifts, like he'd heard Dejun wrong. "Huh?" he asks, but Dejun is already in the bathroom and locking the door behind him.
He's so tired that he can barely stay standing. He runs through his morning routine on autopilot, brushing his teeth and going to the toilet with his eyes half-closed. It's only when he's bending down to wash the soap off his face that he glimpses a shock of white in the mirror where it should be silvery grey.
“Hey,” Dejun yells (he may or may not get water in his mouth), only very slightly panicking. “What happened last night? Did someone dye my hair again because I lost a game? I thought we agreed that hair was off-limits ‒ ”
He raises his head to squint at his reflection to assess the damage, and his already very bad morning gets a thousand ‒ no, a million ‒ times worse.
Because it's not his face that stares back at him.
It's Yangyang's.
Forget sunshine and alarms ‒ Dejun's resulting scream is shrill enough to wake up the entire dorm.
🐏
"How can this be happening?" Dejun wails.
Kun-ge looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. To be fair, he always looks like he's about to have an aneurysm, like, seventy percent of the time they're off-camera, but now he really looks stressed out.
Probably because, Yangyang reasons, sometime between the alcohol-infused blur of last night and this morning, two of his bandmates had somehow ended up in each other's bodies.
In the corner, Winwin shrinks back further into his hoodie. “Please don't yell. You're giving me a headache.”
Instinctively, Yangyang knows that’s the wrong thing to say. Dejun whirls on Winwin, and his volume, if at all possible, increases. “Well, at least you're not trapped in this!”
And, like, okay, they have bigger fish to fry, but, what? Yangyang’s just supposed to let that slide?
He frowns, trying to ignore the teeny part of him that sort of hurts. “Hey, what's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing!” Dejun scowls. Yangyang didn't even know his facial muscles could work that way. “Stop being so sensitive!”
“I’m not. Just ‒ maybe this isn’t such a bad thing.”
Dejun looks at him like he’s certifiably insane. “Excuse me?”
“Like…” Yangyang’s ‒ Dejun’s ‒ heart is hammering. Shit. This is so not the way he wanted this to go. “You know. Isn’t it, like, a good thing, if it’s you? Cause if we swapped bodies, it means that, like, we’re probably s‒ ”
"Don't say it!"
"Oh my god, dude, it’s not a big deal. If we’re really soul‒ ”
"I said, don't say it!"
"Alright, enough!"
Ten-hyung steps in between the two of them, then, and grabs Yangyang's ‒ Dejun’s ‒ arm to sit him down. He does the same with Dejun, forcing him down onto the other end of the sofa, a healthy gap between them to make sure there are no more catfights. Meanwhile, the rest of the members stand and gather in a loose semi-circle around them, eyeing them critically like a particularly intriguing zoo exhibition.
“Anyone ever come across this before?” Kun asks tightly, rubbing at his brow. “How long it's going to last, any potential side effects, whether a swap back is guaranteed?”
There’s silence, and then, in unison, everyone’s head swings towards Hendery. Seeing this, Hendery gives a big, gusty sigh, then duly fishes out his phone (still connected to South Korean internet through a VPN) to open Google.
“Body swaps,” Hendery reads from the webpage, “count amongst the rarest, and most mysterious, of soulmate connections in human history. The switching of bodies occurs arbitrarily and spontaneously without strict correlation to common triggering factors such as age, physical distance, and immediate threat of danger. In this vein, while the swap typically occurs only once in each set of soulmates' lives, the length and reversal of the swap vary widely between soulmate pairings, leaving scientists and historians alike unable to estimate or determine with accuracy when and how a swap may be brought to an end.”
Winwin’s expression grows even more pained. “In baby terms, please.”
“He means that we don’t know,” Ten says.
“Which means,” Kun says grimly, “that we may have to just sit tight and wait it out.”
Wait it out. Yangyang's ‒ Dejun's ‒ heart tightens. Suddenly, this isn’t so funny anymore. Like, what’s going to happen when they have to perform? Or go to the bathroom? Shit, is Yangyang going to ‒ finally ‒ see Dejun naked?
Okay. So maybe it’s not that bad.
On the other end of the sofa, Dejun seems to think otherwise. "We can't just wait. We ‒ we have promotions ‒ ”
“Not anymore,” Hendery mutters, earning a warning look from Ten. “What? It's true.”
“When we go back, we'll still have dance practices, recording sessions, meetings with the company,” Ten reminds him. “There'll be other people around all the time. How weird is it going to look if they saw Xiaojun rapping, or Yangyang doing high notes?”
Yangyang brightens. “Hey, part switches could be fun!”
Everyone ignores him.
Dejun shoots him a nasty look before turning back to the others, expression pleading. Yangyang sure hopes he doesn’t look that pathetic when he’s trying to get Dejun’s attention. “Kun-ge, please tell me you have an idea of how to reverse this.”
Judging by the look on Kun’s face, he does not. “I'II do some research. In the meantime…”
He and Ten exchange looks, doing that weird telepathic thing that they’ve been doing since Ten got back from China. Yangyang feels a pang of jealousy. God. They’re so in sync, and they’re not even the pair of soulmates in the room.
“… you'll just have to pretend to be each other," Ten finishes.
Maybe they’re more in sync than Yangyang thinks, because when he groans, Dejun does, too.
🦖
The thing is, when Dejun had imagined his soulmate, he’d thought it would be someone who complemented him perfectly in every way. Someone who appreciated and loved music as much as he did. Someone who, if they didn’t like dogs, would at least like Bella. Someone who was kind, sweet and treated him well.
Someone who was not fucking Liu Yangyang.
Yangyang yelps when Dejun smacks his hand so hard his vape pen clatters to the floor. He whirls around, scowling, eyebrows drawn into a V. “What the fuck!”
As if Dejun shouldn’t be the one saying that right now. He instantly feels himself swell up like a pufferfish. “Are you seriously smoking right now?”
“Well, I was, until you hit me and ‒ ”
“In my body?”
To Dejun’s great satisfaction, Yangyang freezes. It’s probably occurred to him how much Dejun prizes his throat (and vocal cords, and lungs, and his entire health and wellbeing generally).
“... Yes?”
It’s too bad that Yangyang is currently occupying his body, because Dejun would really like to inflict bodily harm on him right about now.
He settles for shooting Yangyang a withering look instead. “Well,” he says ominously, picking up the vape pen and striding to their trash bin. “Not anymore.”
And that’s how Dejun comes up with the Rules:
- No vaping. No smoking. No doing anything unhealthy, or remotely unhealthy, while in each other’s bodies.
- No meeting anyone outside unless absolutely necessary (to Yangyang’s dismay, eating out at Haidilao with Renjun is not considered absolutely necessary).
- On that note, no meeting with anyone outside of the group, period.
- No hooking up with other people while they’re still in each other’s bodies.
- Lights are to be turned off while going to the toilet, showering, and changing clothes. Lights can only be turned back on when each of them are already fully dressed.
“Um,” Yangyang says a bit desperately, looking down at the long list of rules Dejun’s sent via WeChat. “Rule five, isn’t that a bit ‒ ”
“It’s non-negotiable.”
“Right, right, but how am I going to know where to aim if the lights aren’t ‒ ”
“Non. Negotiable.”
Hendery snorts into his takeaway bowl of ramen when Dejun recounts this exchange to him later. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it? It’s not like you haven’t seen each other’s dicks in all these years.”
“On accident,” Dejun hisses. “And not up close. And don’t talk about dicks in front of Bella, she’s still a toddler!”
He moves to cover Bella’s ears. Bella, highly apathetic to him now that she thinks he’s Yangyang, gives him a side-eye that reeks of contempt and dodges his outstretched hands to snuggle up to Hendery instead.
Great. Now Dejun’s dog hates him. As if this could get any worse.
And then it does.
The tent in his pyjama pants is so fucking obvious it would show up on satellite images. Dejun stares down at his crotch, the sleep fuzzing his brain long gone, half in awe and half in terror. Like Hendery said, he’s seen all of his members’ dicks at some point, in changing rooms and bathrooms and that one time Ten had convinced them to go skinny-dipping in Bangkok, but definitely not up close.
And definitely not hard.
Fuck. Yeah. He’s hard. Painfully hard. Jesus, that joke Yangyang made on that one live when they were all in quarantine is starting to make sense now. Who knew he was this big? Dejun doesn’t remember it that way, but it’s not as if he’d been actively looking. Or maybe Yangyang is more of a grower than a shower. He absently thinks of his own dick, which is fine on its own, really, and it’s not about the size of the ship but the motion of the ocean, but when compared to what Yangyang’s working with ‒
Dejun watches in horror as his dick ‒ Yangyang’s dick ‒ twitches.
What the actual fucking fuck!
“No,” Dejun says in the same tone when Bella is being naughty and won’t listen to him ‒ stern, but also tinged with desperation. “No, fuck, no ‒ go down. Please go down.”
Predictably, this has no effect whatsoever. Dejun feels his dick throb eagerly, and his head spins.
“Fuck,” Dejun whimpers, hand scrabbling for his phone. “Okay ‒ okay ‒ ”
Yangyang picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“How,” Dejun says, more out of breath than he’d like, “do you stop it?”
“Huh? Stop what?”
“Stop ‒ ” Dejun makes a strangled noise when he shifts and the fabric of his pyjama pants drag against his dick, the light pressure feeling so intense after all that neglect. “Oh my god, are you really this sensitive?”
“Sensitive…” Yangyang’s voice takes on a strange quality. “Um. Dejun, what are you ‒ ”
“Your dick!” Dejun explodes. “Your morning wood is so bad, I can’t leave the house like this, let alone my room! So ‒ hurry up and tell me. How. Do. You. Stop it?”
“Wait. Are you saying that… you’re hard?”
Jesus fucking Christ. Yangyang is so dumb.
“Rock hard,” Dejun assures him through gritted teeth. “Painfully hard. Could-hammer-nails-into-wood kind of hard.”
“Oh my god,” Yangyang says, and it might be Dejun’s brain operating on low blood flow, but he almost sounds happy, which is ridiculous, because why would he be happy? “You’re horny? In my body?”
“Yangyang!”
“Sorry, man. You could just wait for it to go away.”
“It’s been thirty minutes!”
“Ah,” Yangyang says. “Well, then, you could just, you know…”
He trails off meaningfully. It takes a second for Dejun to figure out what he’s implying.
“I am not doing that! Have you been doing that?”
“What?” Is it Dejun’s imagination, or does Yangyang sound kind of panicked? “No! It was just a suggestion! What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“The big deal is that you’re asking me to touch your dick!”
“You touch it when you shower! Wait ‒ have you not been washing it?”
“That’s different,” Dejun sniffs. He does not elaborate how.
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Okay,” Yangyang says. “If you don’t want to touch it, I could always come up and ‒ ”
Dejun balks. “That’s worse!”
“Ouch,” Yangyang says, and he does, in fact, sound hurt. “Well, good luck with whatever you have going on in your pants. If you change your mind, I give you full permission to touch my dick.” He lowers his voice into what Dejun assumes he thinks is a sexy purr, but really, it just sounds like he’s got a sore throat. “And I mean that in a completely sexual way.”
And with that, Yangyang hangs up.
Dejun stares at the Call Ended on his screen, and, biting back a scream, tosses his phone away. What was he thinking, calling Yangyang? Of course he would have come up with the nastiest solution available. To make matters worse, the suggestion hasn’t even made Dejun’s balls shrink back up into his body ‒ okay, Yangyang’s body ‒ the way they should. No ‒ to Dejun’s horror, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks he’s actually kind of into it.
This is definitely a sign that he’s been in Yangyang’s body for too long.
God. Dejun can’t do this for much longer. He’s so desperate he wants to cry. So, mentally erasing Rule #5 from his list, he pulls his pants down, and comes face to face with Yangyang’s dick.
His first thought is that it looks… fine. Not pretty ‒ it’s too red, and it lists slightly to the left. But the longer Dejun contemplates it, he thinks he can see why someone would like it. Like, Yangyang’s girthier than he expected. He’s also stayed hard for an impressive time with no stimulation ‒ far longer than any of Dejun’s hook-ups.
Fuck. This is so unethical on many fronts.
But Yangyang had given him permission, right? Not just to look, but also to touch? Dejun’s dick throbs in agreement. Yeah ‒ for some odd, unfathomable reason, Yangyang had said it was okay for Dejun to get off in his body. Maybe he sympathises with how he’s feeling right now. It must be unbearable for Yangyang, in his room with no bitches to speak of (for the purposes of this scenario, Dejun is assuming his bandmate’s heterosexuality), one hand fisted around himself as he jerks himself off, the other covering his mouth to muffle his moans. Yangyang, alone; Yangyang, filthy and needy and wanting.
Fuck. Dejun’s dick kicks at the image, precum drooling out of its head, and, unconsciously, his hand drifts downwards. Maybe if he gave himself one, two strokes, some of the tension could bleed out of this damned body ‒ Yangyang’s body. He can already visualise Yangyang sweating. Trembling. Begging ‒ begging for Dejun’s hand to close around his length, and ‒
The door to Dejun’s room bangs open.
“Hey, Kun-ge says they’re gonna come up later to ‒ OH MY GOD.”
Dejun looks up just in time to see Hendery slap a hand across his eyes. Dejun yelps, yanks up his pants, and yelps again when the elastic catches painfully on the head of his dick.
“Oh my god, get out!”
“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t know ‒ I didn’t mean to interrupt ‒ ”
“Get ‒ ” Writhing in pain, Dejun grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at Hendery “ ‒ out!”
Hendery dodges the pillow, and scampers off. Dejun lets out a full-body groan, probably his tenth one for the morning, and rolls over onto his stomach to bury his face into his pillow.
It’s surprisingly easy. Dejun frowns, and sits back up to discover that he’s now completely flaccid.
Oh. His breath leaves his lungs in a relieved whoosh. Well, then. Problem solved!
And if there’s a tiny, niggling sense of disappointment that continues to linger in his mind throughout the day ‒ well. That’s between Dejun and God.
🐏
“Another one bites the dust,” Kun sighs as he scratches another failed idea off his list, pencil smudges all over the meat of his right hand. “Do you guys need a break, or can we keep going?”
They've been at this for hours. Yangyang has been pinched, poked at, and made to drink a nasty herbal concoction that Hendery's mother's cousin's sister-in-law swore up and down would work (spoiler alert: it didn't). He's exhausted, Kun is growing more antsy with each failed attempt, and for some weird reason, Dejun and Hendery have been diligently avoiding each other’s gaze.
Yangyang can't really find it in himself to complain, though. Over the past week, and unimpeded by any schedules, the other members had thrown themselves into researching triggers for body swaps and how to reverse them. Kun was practically living at the library, only returning in the wee hours of the morning. Ten and Hendery had placed several expensive international calls to their extended families to ask for help. Even Winwin, who had stayed put in China, had sent across some useful academic articles on trigger events.
It would be kind of touching, if the premise weren't so fucked up.
Yangyang glances over at Dejun, who’s rubbing his eyes. He must be really tired, too. “Maybe let's just do one last one? Then we can try again tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Kun says, flipping the pages of his notebook. “So we've tried jump-scares, holding hands, that weird drink from Hendery, and now ‒ uh.”
Yangyang scrunches his eyebrows when the tips of Kun's ears turn pink. “Uh?”
“Uh,” Kun repeats. He clears his throat, trying and failing to look put together. Shuffles his papers.
After a literal decade, he looks up.
“The next one is kissing,” he says sheepishly, and Yangyang's brain promptly flatlines.
Dejun’s, though, is clearly still working.
“Ew, I'm not kissing him!” he cries, brandishing his packet of nicotine gum at Yangyang. “Gross. Gross!”
Yangyang simultaneously bristles and deflates. Like, why does Dejun have to be so mean? “Hey!”
“Oh my god, it's not personal. I'll be kissing myself, you moron. Do you want to kiss yourself?”
Like every young, hot-blooded, totally normal guy, Yangyang has asked himself the age-old question of Would You Fuck Your Own Clone. So, yes, he has thought about what he would do if he ever came across another version of himself (who would be sexy, and maybe a little bit evil, but definitely sexy) and concluded that, like, yeah, he'd be down!
But he's certainly not going to admit that now.
Yangyang huffs, faux-offended. “Come on, man, of course not. But if it means I can get out of your teeny tiny soda can-sized body, then, yeah, I'll pucker up.”
“You're only eight centimetres taller than me,” Dejun says scathingly, which, ha! Joke's on him. because it's actually only seven centimetres.
Ten, already over it, just looks bored. “Okay, girls, do you want to do it here, or ‒ ”
Dejun immediately recoils. “So you pervs can watch? No fucking way ‒ c’mon, Yangyang.”
Yangyang lets himself be pulled into Dejun’s bedroom, mindful of shutting the door before Bella can trail after him, and it's only when the lock sounds that it dawns on him that he's about live out two of his biggest sexual fantasies: one, kissing Dejun, and two, kissing himself.
Maybe after all of this is over, Yangyang should check in with a therapist, or something.
For now, though, Dejun approaches him ‒ prowls towards him, neck flushing red, a determined, slightly predatory look on his face. Yangyang is abruptly reminded of that time he and his parents went to the safari and spotted a panther stalking its prey.
Wait. Yangyang doesn’t remember it being black. Maybe it was a cheetah? Or a leopard?
Whatever. Dejun claps his hands down on Yangyang's ‒ Dejun's ‒ shoulders, causing all feline-related thoughts to disperse, and Yangyang finds himself intimately close to his own face.
“Alright, let's get this over with,” Dejun says, and before Yangyang can protest, he leans down and seals his lips with his own.
Instantly, Yangyang realises three things:
One, he really needs to listen to the make-up artists and moisturise his lips more.
Two, in spite of the equipment he has to work with, Dejun is a phenomenal kisser.
Three, Yangyang is ‒ mortifyingly, embarrassingly, predictably ‒ getting turned on.
Like ‒ okay. Yangyang knows ‒ in a peripheral, theoretical sort of way that has nothing to do with his fixation on his bandmate’s sex life ‒ that Dejun has dated people. He also knows Dejun has spent an inordinate time in front of practice room mirrors perfecting every movement, every angle, every look.
So it makes sense that Dejun knows how to kiss. How to hold Yangyang exactly the way he likes it, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, angling his face up. How to insist on slowness, savouring the moment, when all Yangyang wants to do is rush into this headfirst. How to pull and push, taking his time with Yangyang, making him hot with desire and a growing, urgent need for more.
Just as Yangyang's about to pluck up the courage to initiate tongue-to-tongue action, Dejun pulls away with a wet smack.
“Well?” he demands. “Is it working?”
It's working, alright, but probably not in the way Dejun is envisioning. Yangyang takes his time, letting his eyes roam over Dejun’s face. Even in someone else’s body, Yangyang would know it was him ‒ the dramatic dip of his brows, the way his teeth catch his lip. His expression is so quintessentially and classically him, and something twinges in Yangyang’s chest at the thought.
“Um,” Yangyang says. “No, I don't think so.”
Dejun moans ‒ groans, really, but in this context it sounds like a moan, okay? ‒ and Yangyang feels his face turn crimson. He didn’t realise he had any more available blood left in his ‒ Dejun's ‒ body.
“Fuck this,” Dejun complains, and flops facedown onto his bed.
He doesn’t move an inch, not even when Yangyang says a quiet goodbye and retreats back to his own dorm. In the solitude of his own room, he can feel his heart ‒ Dejun’s heart ‒ still running a mile a minute. His lips are still tingling from their kiss. That strange, disquieting emotion in his chest grows.
Yangyang doesn’t like the way it feels. He doesn’t like the way it feels at all.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, and shoves a hand down his pants.
🦖
They lie low in the days that follow the entertainment ban, Kun making sure to book practice rooms late at night so there aren't any staff around who might peek in and wonder why Dejun and Yangyang have swapped dance parts. Everyone's trying to stay optimistic, even as every method they try to get them to swap back fails and Dejun and Yangyang remain stuck in each other's bodies. As the days turn into weeks, though, Dejun can't help but feel anxiety and a constant, lurking sense of dread.
Their luck eventually runs out when Dejun opens their shared calendar and finds out that Yangyang's been scheduled for a recording of one of the songs on NCT's 2023 album.
“Maybe we can push it back,” Kun says, brows pinched.
“Maybe you can pretend to be sick,” Ten suggests.
“Maybe you can say your dog died and you need some time to grieve,” Hendery chimes in, and Dejun takes great satisfaction in the cry he lets out when he flicks him on the forehead.
“What's wrong with you all?” Yangyang snorts, crossing his arms and leaning over to look over the lyric sheet where it's pulled up on Dejun's phone. “It's just three verses of rap. What, you think Dejun can't do it?”
“No,” everyone else says in unison. Dejun can't find it in himself to be offended, because even he doesn't think he can do it.
For some reason, this displeases Yangyang. “All ye of little faith,” he huffs. “C'mon, Dejun, let's get to work.”
Which is how Dejun finds himself perched atop Yangyang's unmade bed, the demo playing softly in the background as Yangyang coaches him through the rap.
“Give me some privacy, baby don't lie to ‒ baby don’t lie ‒ " The beat gets away from Dejun as he struggles to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar words, and he sighs harshly, frustrated. “Ugh, maybe I should just call in sick. I'm never going to get this right.”
“Eh? It wasn't that bad.”
“It was crap.”
“No, it wasn't,” Yangyang insists. He scoots closer to Dejun, patting him on his knee in a surprisingly comforting manner. “Stop putting yourself down. Like, okay, you weren’t trained to be a rapper. And you tend to mumble your words a lot. And you definitely don't have my awesome flow ‒ ”
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better.”
“ ‒ but,” Yangyang continues, as if he hadn't heard Dejun. “You're like, you know. Super hardworking. And talented. And I don't think there's, like, anything you couldn't do if you didn't put your mind to it. Or whatever.”
It all comes out extremely stilted and awkward.
Dejun’s eyes narrow. "Stop messing with me."
“I ‒ I’m not messing with you.”
Dejun squints at Yangyang. “Then why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re really embarrassed.”
“Shut up, you’re really embarrassed.”
"Why are you getting so upset?"
"Because I really think all of those things and know you can do it even though you think you can’t and I wish you would, too,” Yangyang says in one breath, then clams up immediately, turning a vivid shade of pink.
All Dejun can do is stare.
“What?”
Yangyang colours even deeper. “I said what I said.”
He tilts his chin up, stubborn, to meet Dejun’s flabbergasted gaze. There’s a steely glint in his eye that somehow never came across when he was in his own body (privately, Dejun thinks Yangyang’s eyes are too kind for that, but he'd honestly rather die than admit that). It’s almost as if he’s daring Dejun to disagree with him, or to prove him wrong.
Something strange bubbles up in Dejun, and before he can analyse what it is, he finds himself nodding. “Okay. Again.”
“Huh?”
Dejun picks up his phone with newfound determination. “The rap. Let’s try again.”
He’s still practising days later, muttering the verses to himself as he paces outside of the recording booth. He's never dreaded a recording session this much before. He knows he's worked hard, as shown by the multiple highlights and pencil markings littered across the lyrics sheet, but what if he still messes up? What if the producer notices that there's something wrong with him? What if, despite the late nights and personal coaching from Yangyang, it all just isn't enough?
At that moment, the door to the recording booth creaks open, and Mark Lee emerges, the ends of his fried blue hair sticking out from under his baseball cap. He looks surprised to see Dejun. “Oh, yo, dude, how’s it going?”
“Great,” Dejun squeaks. “Um. So great.”
“Cool.” Mark smiles genially at him, and then, to Dejun's dismay, he switches over to English. “What did you think of the song? Did you like the lyrics?”
Oh, god. Dejun scrambles, mentally flipping through all the English vocabulary he's heard Yangyang use for something remotely coherent.
“It’s, um,” he stutters. “Really... really... swag?”
Mark blinks. If Yangyang's body weren't naturally immune to sweating, Dejun is pretty sure he'd be drenched right about now.
To his relief, Mark's face splits into a wide smile. “You really think so? I tried to, like, work with the brief, and also make the lyrics make sense, you know how they are, haha ‒ ”
Dejun listens to Mark wax lyrical about the rap verses he wrote, nodding dutifully until the producer pops his head out of the adjacent room and lets him know it's his turn. Mark wishes him luck, and Dejun is just about to step into the recording booth when he hears Mark's chirpy voice again.
“Hey, Xiaojun!”
Dejun spins on his heel. To his utmost surprise, he sees Yangyang coming down the corridor, something in his hand. He and Mark exchange high-fives when they pass each other, and then Yangyang is standing in front of Dejun, rocking on the balls of his feet and smiling nervously.
Dejun waits until Mark's rounded the corner and is out of earshot before turning his attention to Yangyang.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses.
Yangyang fiddles with his sleeves. He's got on one of his own oversized hoodies. “I was upstairs for a schedule and figured I'd come say hi. So... Hi?”
That’s weird. Dejun doesn’t remember Yangyang being slotted for anything at the company today.
“Uh. Hi?” His eyes slide towards the studio. “I have to go in and record now, though.”
“I know,” Yangyang says. “Here.”
The object in his hands turns out to be a bottle of water. Yangyang shoves it towards Dejun, who takes it gingerly, raising an eyebrow in askance.
“My throat gets really dry in there,” Yangyang explains, shrugging. “And I know you hate that. So, like. Hydrate, or whatever.”
Dejun blinks down at the water bottle. It’s one of those generic brands that costs next to nothing from the convenience store near their place. Yangyang has given him plenty of things before — his clothes when he’s gotten tired of them, a new watch for his birthday, and a whole lot of grief — but this small, insignificant gesture makes him feel oddly… touched.
“That's… Thanks, Yangyang.”
“Don't mention it. I'll stick around if you need me, okay? But, like, don't worry. You'll do great.”
With a hand at the small of Dejun’s back, Yangyang gently herds him into the recording booth. Dejun goes into autopilot mode, then, bowing to the producer through the glass and arranging the lyric sheet ‒ damp from his clammy palms ‒ onto the music stand. He snaps on his headphones, and looks up just in time to spy Yangyang slipping into the studio behind the producer. They make eye contact through the glass.
Jiayou, Yangyang mouths, and inexplicably, Dejun feels a sudden surge of that same strange feeling towards him, and he realised what it is:
Affection.
Dejun almost reels back in shock. He’s been begrudgingly fond of Yangyang for years, but this is something new entirely, both in its nature and intensity.
And all because of how Yangyang’s treated him ‒ helped him ‒ over the last couple of days.
What had Dejun said he wanted in a soulmate? Someone kind. Someone sweet. Someone who treated him well.
What if that could be Yangyang?
What if that was already Yangyang?
The producer’s voice comes through the speaker. “Yangyang, are you ready?”
Dejun swallows. His heart pounds ‒ not from nerves, but the sudden realisation that maybe, just maybe, everything's that happened has happened for a good reason.
Reluctantly, he pulls away from his thoughts. This thing with Yangyang will have to wait for later; right now, Dejun has another task at hand.
“Yup.” Dejun clears his throat, and makes sure to look at Yangyang one last time for good luck. “Let's go.”
🐏
“Guys.” If Yangyang thought that Kun was stressed out back in China, it’s nothing compared to the way he looks now. “Guys, have you really tried everything?”
It’s not been the worst experience ever, being trapped in each other’s bodies. Sure, Yangyang would have much preferred for them to switch back, but it’s been kind of nice helping Dejun out with his rap, and seeing Dejun wear his clothes (it’s his body, sure, but it technically isn’t him in that oversized hoodie). But three weeks have passed in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, there are only two days left until their countdown live and rescheduled album release.
Which means they only have two days to figure out a solution, or risk exposing the fact that they’re soulmates in each other’s bodies to the entire world.
Dejun is clearly feeling the heat, if his snippy response is anything to go by. “If we hadn’t, do you think we would still be stuck?”
“We could try, I don’t know ‒ ” Yangyang wracks his brain for an idea, any idea. “Staring deeply into each other’s eyes for a minute? Jumping and landing at the same time? Eating a couple of raw eggs?”
Hendery flips through Kun’s notebook detailing their previous attempts, frowning. “We did all of those already.”
“Well, it couldn’t have just happened randomly, right?” Dejun says desperately.
“I’m not sure, the Wikipedia page said ‒ ”
“Fuck the Wikipedia page!”
Yangyang feels a pang of sympathy, and lays a placating hand on Dejun’s shoulder. To his surprise, Dejun melts under his touch, and he turns to face him with an apologetic expression.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s nothing against you. I just ‒ I want my own body back. I want to be me again.”
Yangyang smiles. He hopes it’s encouraging, even if he, too, feels like it’s hopeless. “It’s okay. I get it.”
Ten, who’s been sitting on the floor in the middle of the chaos that is their living room and watching on in silence up until now, steeples his fingers under his chin and hums thoughtfully.
“Maybe we’re going about this wrong,” he mutters, thinking out loud. “Maybe we should retrace our steps.”
Kun tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Like… maybe the trigger happened when we were all in China. Yangyang, what did you do the night before the swap?”
Yangyang thinks back as hard as he can. “Uh. Well, we played games. And drank. A lot.”
“And after that?”
“Dejun went back to our room first. And then Winwin-hyung and I played flip cup, and I lost, so I had to clean up everyone’s trash. After I finished, I went to the bathroom to wash up, and — ”
Yangyang stops abruptly, vividly remembering what he did afterwards, and hopes no one notices.
Unfortunately, Ten does.
“And?” Ten prompts.
“Uh…” For a brief moment, Yangyang wonders if he can pull off a lie, but then Ten’s eyes narrow and he immediately crumbles. “I… may or may not have jerked off in the shower.”
His members make noises of varying levels of disgust at that.
“What? Please, it’s not like you all haven’t done this before! Remember the plumbing in our old bathroom?”
Ten rolls his eyes. Yangyang braces himself for a snarky remark, but Dejun pipes up instead.
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know, like, around two?”
“…Oh.”
This is not a normal oh. This is an oh loaded with significance. Instantly, four heads snap towards Dejun, who suddenly looks very much like he’s regretting saying anything in the first place.
“Wait,” Kun asks suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”
Dejun reddens, and mumbles something unintelligible.
Yangyang frowns. “Huh?”
Dejun looks like he wants to die. “Imayhavejerkedofftoo.”
Yangyang leans closer. He really can’t hear him. Maybe all that Justin Bieber has ruined Dejun’s eardrums for good. “What?”
“Oh my god,” Dejun flares, fed up and flushing scarlet. “I SAID I MAY HAVE JERKED OFF, TOO!”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Hendery recovers first. He looks between the two of them, eyes dropping to their crotches, and Yangyang sees the moment the metaphorical light bulb above his head flickers on.
“Hang on a minute,” he says slowly. “Are you saying that in order to swap back, you both have to ‒ ”
🦖
“How the fuck are we going to come at the same time?”
Dejun is aware that is the wrong thing to focus on right now. He’s also aware that he’s spiralling, which he thinks anyone would be doing if they swapped bodies with their bandmate and found out that the triggering event was, of all conceivable things, the both of them orgasming at the same time.
Yangyang, bless his lawful evil, sex-positive heart, remains unconcerned. “With good communication?”
“And how are we supposed to do that?”
“By doing it together.”
Surely he must not be hearing him correctly. Dejun slowly turns to Yangyang.
“Let me get this straight. You want us to simultaneously masturbate. In the same room. With each other. Until we orgasm.”
“Uh.” Yangyang thinks it over for two seconds. “Yeah?”
Okay, so there’s nothing wrong with Dejun’s hearing.
No, Yangyang’s just insane.
Sensing Dejun’s hesitation ‒ or more accurately, distaste ‒ Yangyang steps forward, expression pleading.
“Come on, Dejun,” he begs. “We only have two days left. We’ve waited for so long, and all eyes are gonna be on us. It’s gotta be perfect. We can’t afford to screw this up.”
Dejun knows this, but hearing it from Yangyang, of all people, makes him feel kind of heavy, like he’s eaten too much hotpot. Weirdly, it also makes him want to reach out and give Yangyang a hug, or something. Like, Yangyang is… Yangyang. A constant thorn in his side, yeah, but his didi. Their maknae. He shouldn’t have to worry about things like this. That’s what Dejun and the rest of his ges are for.
“And like,” Yangyang continues, eyes going far too big and wide to be innocent, “you haven’t come in three weeks.”
Immediately, whatever empathy Dejun feels for Yangyang vanishes. “What?” he squeaks, scandalised. “How did you know that?!”
“I didn’t, but I do now,” Yangyang says, and Dejun experiences that familiar urge to commit manslaughter. “And if I know my body, you’ve got to be super horny now, right?”
“That’s none of your ‒ ”
“We’d be killing two birds with one stone! Get you off, and get our bodies back. Like, think about it.” Yangyang pauses dramatically, then looks deep into Dejun’s eyes. “Our orgasms would single-handedly save our comeback.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“You’re insane,” Dejun tells Yangyang.
“And you’re thinking about it,” Yangyang volleys back with ease. “Aren’t you?”
Dejun’s dick twitches in interest at that exact moment. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to look down and give Yangyang the satisfaction.
“Fine!” Dejun gives in. “Fine, but just so you know, I’m only doing this for the sake of the group.”
Yangyang grins like he sees right through him. “Sure thing,” is all he says, though, before dropping his pants to reveal a pair of leopard-print briefs.
He’s at least chivalrous enough to relinquish the use of his bed to Dejun, and to opt to do the deed with a generous space between them. By the time Dejun turns around from making sure all of Yangyang’s plushies are face down ‒ there’s no way he can get off with their tiny, sewn-on faces leering at him, especially Yangyang’s old Winnie-the-Pooh ‒ Yangyang’s already gotten comfy in his gaming chair, dick out, bare ass squeaking softly against the leather.
“Oh my god, seriously?”
“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” Yangyang says, unruffled. “Anyway, ready whenever you are.”
This is so bizarre on so many counts. Dejun cringes and makes quick work of his own pants and underwear. He lies back down, turning on his side so his back is facing Yangyang. It’s not his favourite position, but he also doesn’t want Yangyang to, like, look, even if it is his body.
Dejun closes his eyes and takes one last steadying breath. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“Great,” comes Yangyang’s voice. “Let’s do it.”
Dejun had thought that the second he wrapped a hand around himself, all the tension would bleed from his body and he’d be done in five, ten minutes, tops, like he normally is. Instead, it feels kind of weird, and uncomfortable. He bites on the inside of his cheek as he hears a soft, pleased hum in his own voice come from the gaming chair, and the unmistakable sounds of Yangyang jerking himself off.
Dejun tries quickening his pace, but all it does is make him wince. Yangyang makes another sound, obviously enjoying himself, and Dejun suddenly wonders if he’s doing something wrong. Is it the angle? The position? Should he get some lube? He’d have to get up, and then Yangyang would know he’s having trouble. And he doesn’t want Yangyang to know that he’s having trouble pleasuring himself, because what kind of impression would that ‒
“You’re not going to come like that.”
Dejun’s eyes snap open to find Yangyang looming over him. “Don’t look!”
“You’re literally right there.”
“You had to turn your chair around and walk across the room to get here!”
“Apples and oranges,” Yangyang says blithely, which makes no sense. “But seriously. You’re not going to come like that.”
“Oh my god ‒ fine. What’s wrong with what I’m doing?”
The way Yangyang eyes the hand wrapped around Dejun’s dick is critical. “I don’t like it like that.”
Dejun frowns. “Well, I do.”
“Dude, you’re forgetting one crucial fact: it’s my body, and I’m telling you, my body doesn’t like it like that.”
“Okay, then,” Dejun says, starting to get irritated. “How do you like it?”
“Like this,” Yangyang says, and he reaches over to wrap his fingers around Dejun’s dick.
It’s like someone’s shocked him with a defibrillator. Dejun gasps on instinct, back arching off the mattress. He looks down, dazed, and finds that visually, it’s a wholly different experience, too. Yangyang’s hand is so small around his dick, barely managing to wrap around half its length, moving fast and determined and precise. Wait, no ‒ it’s his hand, Dejun’s getting off to his actual hand in Yangyang's body, and it feels so, so good. Surely this must mean something, but he’s too busy being blissed out to figure out what it is.
“Shhh,” Yangyang says. “Stop thinking.”
Dejun decides to take his advice on that. He can unpack whatever it is that needs to be unpacked later. Right now, Yangyang’s crawling into bed, pulling Dejun flush to his chest, and it’s a testament to his hand-to-eye coordination that his strokes somehow don’t slow down in the slightest. Every tug upwards sends sparks dancing across Dejun’s skin, makes heat pool in his belly, and soon he finds himself thrusting fast and shallow into the tight circle of Yangyang’s hand, one hand clamped around Yangyang’s wrist to keep him steady. Behind him, Yangyang is grinding against the cleft of his ass, smearing wet everywhere, but it doesn’t feel gross. If anything, the closeness, the heat, the way Yangyang’s laboured breaths exhale harshly against the back of his neck ‒ it turns Dejun on even more.
Then Yangyang moans, right into his ear, high and breathy and in a voice that doesn’t belong to him, and Dejun experiences not an orgasm, but something pretty close to it ‒ an epiphany:
Yangyang's easy acceptance of them being soulmates. His excitement when Dejun told him about his morning wood.. The water bottle incident. The visceral physical reactions Dejun’s experiencing during this entire handjob.
Yangyang finds him attractive. Yangyang thinks he’s hot. Yangyang, dare he say it, likes him.
Romantically.
“Oh my god,” Dejun whimpers, and Yangyang hooks his chin over his shoulder to check on him.
“Are you close?”
“Are you close?”
“I’ve been close for ages,” Yangyang says, breathless. “It’s okay, though. I can wait for you.”
It’s not the most romantic thing someone’s said to Dejun, not by a long shot, but for some reason, that does it. Before he can debate the ethics of what he’s about to do, Dejun rolls over, ignoring Yangyang’s noise of confusion, and kisses him clean on the mouth.
Knowing that Yangyang likes him, and that he likes Yangyang back ‒ yes, in spite of their differences, and in that way ‒ spurs Dejun to be bolder, to be more demanding and assertive. The way Yangyang immediately melts under him, going pliant and clingy, is exciting ‒ Dejun’s never thought about calling the shots in bed before, but Yangyang makes him want to try.
This, Dejun decides, is better than the first time. This time, it’s not an experiment, or a means to an end. This time, Dejun knows exactly what he wants, and it’s Yangyang.
Dejun swallows Yangyang’s gasps whole, and trails his hand down until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a mess of lips, teeth and hands after that, the both of them tugging at each other’s lengths gracelessly, all urgency and no finesse. A familiar heat begins to build between his legs, and in the midst of the lustful haze that’s descended around them, Dejun feels a shot of pride when he sees that Yangyang, too, is similarly affected, his cheeks turning pink, his eyes going glassy.
“I’m gonna,” Yangyang pants against his mouth, and Dejun is right there with him, blood buzzing, hurtling towards the edge, ready to fall. “Dejun, I’m gonna ‒ ”
🐑
It happens instantaneously.
One second, Yangyang is having one of the best orgasms of his life, and the next, he’s staring at a face he’s only seen in the mirror for the past few weeks ‒ only this time, it’s not a mirror. Dejun’s plush lips are bitten red, his eyelashes clumping together with unshed tears, radiant in the afterglow.
He’s kind of the most beautiful thing Yangyang’s ever seen.
“Oh my god,” Yangyang breathes. “Oh my god, Dejun, we’re back.”
“Wha…?” Dejun blinks, dazed, and then his eyes lock onto Yangyang’s face, sharpening. “Wait ‒ ”
He hops out of bed and rushes to Yangyang's full-length mirror. Yangyang sits up, too, and sees Dejun stare at his own reflection incredulously, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
Yangyang watches as Dejun touches his face. Leans so close to the glass that the tip of his nose leaves a delicate smudge. Runs his fingers through his hair. Yangyang wants to tell him to stop, to point out that his hands are sticky with cum, but then Dejun spins around, face shining with elation, and the words die on the tip of his tongue.
“Oh my god,” Dejun says, hushed and almost in awe. “It worked. It seriously worked.”
Then, to Yangyang's surprise, he tackles him with a hug.
“Oof!”
Yangyang goes down like a ton of bricks, but a happy ton of bricks. Dejun is so warm, soft in all the right places and toned in others, and Yangyang can feel the shape of his smile against his bare shoulder. This ‒ it's kind of everything he's ever wanted. Slowly, like he's afraid the movement will scare Dejun off, Yangyang lifts up his arms and carefully wraps them around Dejun's waist. When Dejun doesn’t shake him off, something soft and tender blooms in Yangyang’s chest.
It's nice. He wishes they could stay like this forever.
All too soon, Dejun peels himself off Yangyang. “Ah,” he grimaces, wrinkling his nose cutely at the cum drying on his hands. “Sorry.”
“It's okay. Here, let me…”
Yangyang grabs a pack of wet tissues from his desk. He takes Dejun’s hands in his, making sure to get between his fingers and under his nails, and runs a fresh tissue across Dejun’s torso and belly to wipe up all the mess. Dejun stays still, silently watching him work, and it’s only when Yangyang’s standing up to throw away the trash that Dejun speaks up.
“Yangyang... Do you like me, or something?”
Yangyang freezes. The tissues miss the basket and land in a crumpled ball on his floor. Slowly, like the first girl to be killed in a bad horror film, he turns around to face Dejun.
“Ha, ha. Pft, no. That’s crazy. Like… what?”
It falls flat. Dejun doesn't say anything at first, but when he speaks, it's in a tone far more gentle than Yangyang's used to.
“You know I can tell when you're lying, right?”
“Then…” Yangyang flushes. He’s suddenly aware that he’s still naked, standing in the middle of the room, getting grilled by a guy he kind of loves. “Then don't make me lie, boy.”
A beat passes. Dejun’s eyebrows contract in confusion, and Yangyang sighs.
“Look,” he says. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. I know you were really bummed out about the soulmate thing, and I get that you don’t like me like that, so ‒ ”
“Who says that I don’t?”
"You…” Yangyang starts, then does a double take. “Wait ‒ what?"
Across from him, Dejun reddens, but doesn’t look away. Instead, he crosses his arms across his bare chest and lifts his chin. He probably thinks he looks self-assured, or something, but to Yangyang, it’s just plain adorable.
“Don’t make me repeat it,” Dejun says, and Yangyang’s heart literally stops.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” Yangyang breathes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“You ‒ you. Like me.”
"I believe that was implied."
"You like me back?"
“You know what? Forget I said ‒ ”
"No! No take backs!" Yangyang cries, and then, this time, he tackles Dejun to the bed instead.
Kissing Dejun is great, but kissing Dejun with feelings is even better. Dejun grumbles and complains that Yangyang’s using too much teeth, but he can’t stop smiling, okay, and by the time Dejun gently pushes his face away and crawls into his lap for a break, Yangyang’s heart is so full he thinks he might burst.
He’s broken out of his reverie when Dejun pokes him in the cheek. “What are you thinking about?”
“Uh,” Yangyang says, because he’s not going to tell Dejun anything overly sappy on their first date. (Is this a date? They’re naked and technically had sex ‒ it must be a date.) “Hypothetically speaking, if we were to do that again, do you think we’d, like… You know… Switch one more time?”
Well. He’s not strictly thinking about that, but he’s also not not thinking about it.
Dejun doesn’t scoff, or punch him in the nuts like Yangyang thought he would. Instead, he tilts his head and purses his lips, like he’s actually giving it serious thought. Shit, Yangyang thinks. I guess he really does like me.
The next thing that happens convinces Yangyang of Dejun's feelings once and for all.
“Why don’t we find out?” Dejun suggests, and, to Yangyang's delight, he slides off the bed and drops to his knees.