Work Text:
Wai looks at him. At Korn. But he doesn’t see him, not really. All he sees is what Korn can offer him.
Because he hates him. Wai hates Korn with all his might. With all his heart, with every inch of his being and all the eyelashes in his eyes.
He hates him even more when he comes to the bar, to Wai’s workplace, explicitly to mess with him. Because Wai knows this is all done on purpose. Because there are a thousand more bars in the city, and yet he always comes here with his friends. His annoying ass friends that Wai hates even more than he does Korn. Not because he hates Korn any less, but because he hates them more.
He hates Korn almost as much as he hates himself for walking into the lion’s den voluntarily. For being so stupid and falling into Korn’s trap, when Wai has always prided himself in being the smart(er) of his group.
Wai hates himself because he claws at his arms so hard he leaves marks whenever Korn makes eye contact with him from across the bar. It’s some kind of twitch he’s developed and that he gets when he looks into Korn’s eyes. Stupid fucking brown eyes. Wai wants to gouge them out, but doesn’t. Because that would mean Korn won’t ever look at him again, and if that were to happen, Wai would hate himself a little more.
He hates himself because he can’t help but think, even after all this time, that Korn is an idiot and that he’s attractive. An attractive idiot.
And Wai hates himself even more because he can’t stand it. Because he’s been going without this, without Korn for a week, and doesn’t even know how he’s done it, but he wants to go back in time and punch himself in the face. Because the last time they saw each other ended with Wai smoothing over the wrinkles in his clothes (his work uniform, he reminds himself, and hates himself a bit more for it), using his fingers as a mock-comb and stating the obvious.
“This is fucked up.” And he avoided making eye contact with Korn, even through the restroom’s mirror (the bar’s restroom, he reminds himself, and hates himself a lot more for that). Because he would have reverted back to his old habits if he had, and he was already pushing his luck too far, sneaking out in the middle of his shift for a quick fuck. “We are all fucked up. This has to stop. Now.”
And that was it. That was fucked up, they were fucked up. That couldn’t be.
For some fucking reason, Korn left him alone.
A week.
That’s how long it took for Wai’s willpower to waver. A week.
A week and a look from Korn and there he is, falling head first into the trap.
His body moves on instinct, and Wai knows he’s fucked up, because he won’t stop telling himself ‘No, stay away. Turn around right now. Keep working and ignore the son of a bitch’. But he hates that voice (because it’s his own), and right now, he feels pathetic enough. Seeking comfort in the arms of a bastard like Korn seems the ideal solution.
Wai feels pathetic because he’s been trying to use alcohol to placebo himself this last week, and all he’s gotten out of it is waking up with his head throbbing in hungover guilt. Feeling like one of the many drunkards he deals with day in, day out at the bar and that he finds annoying, disgusting, pathetic.
Wai is no better than them right now. Maybe he never was. Maybe that’s why he feels some sort of momentary and asinine comfort being with Korn. At least during the twenty minutes they usually spend locked inside their stall of the restroom.
Because that stall is theirs at this point.
Wai avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror when he enters the bathroom. Because, if he did, he would see himself in all his lame glory: with his work uniform, hair midly tousled, smelling of a mix of alcohol and sweat and the deodorant he’s used to try and mask it.
All he can do is remind himself that he’ll smell far worse in a matter of minutes.
“Looking awfully gloomy here, babe.”
Wai clenches his jaw. Because he hates Korn’s fucking voice just like he hates everything else about him. He hates when Korn calls him ridiculous pet names when there is nothing between them. All they do is fuck sometimes, when Wai feels a mess and is fed up with everything and the voice in his head won’t stop mocking him. Telling him that Pran can’t stand him and that he’d pick Pat over him any day of the week.
He tries to count to ten, because blowing up now wouldn’t be good. Not when he needs Korn to stop feeling so empty. To feel a bit less stupid and disgusted with himself.
One...
“Wai.”
Two...
“Dude, I’m talking to you.”
Three...
“Are you even listening, or do you just enjoy seeing me here, talking to myself?”
Four...
“Fine, I’ll leave then. You take care of yourself, see if I care.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Korn smiles because he knows he’s won the battle. He’ll win the war too, probably. Wai knows he’s going to lose himself as soon as they start this, and then he won’t be able to fight.
Korn corners him against the sink with that toothy, arrogant smile that Wai wants to punch off his face. He’d probably like that, the sick fuck. Korn has always been a little masochist. They both are. They bite and scratch each other till they draw blood, pull hair until the scalp stings, tease one another.
It’s like playing with knives and grabbing them by the blade. Walking barefoot over broken glass, and it’s digging deep, deep, deep into their skin. It’s swallowing razors and feeling them go down your throat and cut, burn, until you bleed out.
Korn’s chest pushes up against his and he looks down on Wai. He likes to pretend he’s taller, even if he has to stand on his tiptoes for it. Must think that will intimidate him or something.
Moron.
Deluded moron.
Korn is a deluded fucking moron, and despite it all, Wai feels a little less fucked when they are together.
Wai hates Korn a little more and hates himself a bit less when he notices how close they are, feels Korn’s shaken breathing. Wai likes to think he is the reason Korn is like this, and it has nothing to do with the situation. That no one else would get him this riled up, even if they were in a bar’s restroom, in plain sight of everyone, with the possibility of being discovered at any moment hanging over their heads.
Being the only one that can get that reaction out of Korn makes Wai feel slightly better with himself. It’s a wicked pleasure, to know that Korn will never get anything better than him. Or, alternatively, that he’s hooked on Wai like an alcoholic or a drug addict.
They are addicts.
A couple of damn addicts. Codependent, maybe.
Wai decides that he’s definitely a masochist.
“I knew you’d come around eventually.” And Wai is this close to smashing Korn’s face with his fist, but then he hears the rest of the sentence. “I’ve wanted to fuck you stupid for days.”
And Wai hates himself a little more, because those words get to him more than he could have expected. Because he’s been feeling it for days, too. The need. Like Wai has fresh cuts all over his body that burn, itch, scream for rough touches. For bruises on his hips, rings of teeth in his flesh that will throb under his clothes when he goes back to work. That will inevitably remind him of what he’s just done in the restroom of his own workplace, and the night will end with Wai taking Korn home for a proper round two.
“Y-You wish your dick was that good.” He tries to sound confident, but his insecurities make it into his voice. Because Korn’s hands have captured his wrists and their lips are inches away from touching, and they both know that whoever makes the first move will lose the war.
(Wai knows that will be himself, but he’s not so pathetic that he’ll give up so soon.)
Their lips brush together, but there is no kiss. Korn smells of beer (he’s drunk a lot, but Wai knows his alcohol tolerance is pretty high; anything goes, so long as he gets an excuse to stare at Wai while he's working) and sweat and the cologne he’s thrown on after rugby practice to mask it. And the idea of kissing Korn is disgusting and arousing at the same time, and this is all Korn’s fault, because Wai really wants to give in and do it.
But he’s no pushover, Wai tells himself.
So he refuses to make a move, and the hateful voice in Wai’s head (his own voice) says over and over again that no, he doesn’t want to kiss Korn. He doesn’t want to fall again, doesn’t want to fill the empty gaps Pran has left with feral kisses, nights with no tomorrow and touches that don’t mean shit at the end of the day.
It’s ridiculous, Wai tells himself, because Pran hasn’t abandoned him, far from it. They simply spend less time together now that Pran has a boyfriend, and even then, it’s not that big an issue.
Wai reaches the conclusion that not only is he pathetic for using Korn like a toy, but also for wanting to be someone’s first choice for the first time in his life. Korn just offers him the illusion of that being true.
“Stop playing fucking hard to get,” Korn’s breath is warm against his lips. Wai takes a sharp breath, the stink of beer sneaking into his nostrils, “baby.”
And Wai breaks.
He smashes their lips together so hard it hurts, and fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so fucked. He licks the roof of Korn’s mouth, because Wai is going to take as much as he can get for the sake of filling the gaps. It’s selfish, taking from Korn to fill himself, until Wai is running low on supplies again and the cycle repeats itself.
Definitely, he’s an addict. He’s tried rehab and it hasn’t worked. Instead, he’s fallen twice as hard and now he’s here for a fix.
Their bodies press together all the way. Korn grabs him by the waist and Wai clings to the collar of his shirt. About time. The nasty asshole took his sweet time to give in.
Korn lowers a hand to his ass and squeezes it shamelessly. The other sneaks under Wai’s shirt. Because it’s Korn and doesn’t know about shame, or good manners, or basic human decency.
Wai doesn’t register when they make it all the way to their designated stall until he hears the noise of Korn locking the door.
Korn pushes him to the nearest wall and it hurts, but doesn’t matter. His head is full of Korn, Korn, Korn and nothing else. Wai is a simple man; not able to think when there is a shameless tongue licking, sucking, biting into his neck (a part of Wai wants the marks to be visible, for his coworkers to see him come out of the restroom and know what just went down, even if that costs him his job—his masochistic tendencies extend to exhibitionism, it seems) and a pair of hands burning his body wherever they touch.
Wai is rough when he takes Korn’s shirt off, because even if he does know about shame and good manners, he’s desperate and he needs, needs, needs more of what Korn has to offer.
The kiss is a mix of spit and wet noises and a lot more teeth than tongue, and Wai can catch the faint metallic taste of blood. He notices sooner rather than later that it was he who bit Korn, that his lower lip is bleeding, and as much as he tries to pretend he’s normal outside of this restroom, Wai is a fucking degenerate and this turns him on. He stopped thinking logically (or with the right head, for that matter) a while ago.
None of the two is really thinking. Like the addicts they are, they become useless when they are near their drug, and all they can do is show with actions what won’t come out of their mouths.
Korn takes the condom and the packet of lube out of his pocket (the asshole already knew Wai wouldn’t stand a chance; he never did), and Wai feels Korn’s heartbeat pick up when he latches his mouth on the prominent vein of his neck. His skin is salty and sweaty and it’s gross, but Wai is fucked in the head.
Wai hates himself a little less thinking that, if Korn is like this, it’s because of him.
He strokes Korn over his jeans and makes him groan. He’s having a hard time, Wai knows, but he deserves it. He deserves it, because Wai is also having a hard time and no one gives a fuck, not even himself.
Wai grinds against him so that he notices, so that he hurries the hell up and fucks him senseless. Because he doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to feel empty or stupid or pathetic or hate himself any longer, and he wants Korn so badly he could die.
Wai’s pants don’t stay on for much longer.
The rip of the lube package being opened, a harsh bite to Wai’s earlobe. The lube in Korn’s finger is still cold when he shoves it inside him.
It makes Wai shudder, stifle a cry because he can’t be as loud as he’d like. As loud as he is at his own house, with the headboard smashing against the wall and the mattress creaking under their bodies. Sometimes he even leaves the window of his room wide open, so that they can be heard on the streets too, and everyone knows who belongs to whom here.
It’s a sick thought, because Korn is nothing to him nor is Wai anything to him. But sometimes, just sometimes he'd like for that to change. During those times they remain quiet and catching their breaths and Korn brushes his sweaty bangs out of his face, or washes off bodily fluids from Wai’s body and fetches him cold water.
Sometimes he’s even felt the impulse to carve his name in Korn’s flesh, with a knife if he needs to. Wai can’t tell him he loves him, because those chaotic feelings swirling and twisting in knots inside his chest could be anything, so he settles for the next best thing: writing his name on what’s his. Like Korn is a notebook and not a person.
A moan half-way between frustrated and pitiful falls from Wai’s lips.
“Tell me what you want, Wai.”
And his name is the hottest thing Korn has ever said in these situations.
“You know...”
“Do I now?” Korn asks in his ear. It earns a full-body shudder from Wai. “It’s been so long though... Care to jog my memory?”
Wai doesn’t know when the fuck Korn took his pants off (there is a lot of things he doesn’t know, apparently). Most times, he doesn’t even do that. Only takes his dick out and that’s all. That’s all Wai needs anyway.
He licks Korn’s lips, stopping at the wound on his lower lip that has stopped bleeding almost completely. Making a show out of it. “Fuck me like you paid for me.”
(Wai wonders if Korn is so fucking hooked that he’d pay for him. He should test that theory one day.)
Korn rips the condom open with his teeth and penetrates him with one fast thrust. Wai is positively breathless, can only think Korn, Korn, Korn and more, more, more.
He repeatedly tells himself that he hates him. That he hates Korn and hates everything about him that isn’t his body and his stamina in bed. That he wants to write his name in Korn’s body to assert dominance and not because he wishes Korn never has the opportunity to fuck anyone else but him. He repeats it in his head until his blood boils, until he’s sinking his nails in Korn’s shoulder blades and scratching so hard that he might as well be trying to skin him alive. Until the friction of his sweaty back against the stall’s wall becomes painful and his legs turn to jelly and Korn has to pick him up to keep him steady.
Worst of all is, they both seem to like it.
He knows Korn is about to come when his thrusts turn erratic, and Wai is no better. He looks for Korn’s mouth and kisses him. Drinks up his moans and all his contained hatred and his lust like he's trying to eat him alive. He takes from him until there is nothing left, and Wai ends up a bit fuller and Korn, a bit emptier.
They come and Wai can’t keep thinking. The only thing keeping him grounded being his legs wrapped around Korn’s waist and Korn's hands gripping his thighs as hard as he can. Korn’s lips on his neck, nipping and licking and soothing all his open wounds, presses his chest against Wai’s.
“You came all over your shirt.”
And Wai doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All he knows in the world is Korn and himself and this dirty bar restroom, and if that’s all there is, then so be it.
“Round two?”
Korn smiles at the proposal, and Wai knows he won’t say no.
It’s likely he’ll lose his job over this, but Wai couldn’t care less. He likes to play with fire, it fascinates him.
Because if Korn is fire, he’s the water, and together they are dangerous like that. Mutually destructive, ridiculously attractive and critically addictive.