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San sees the exact moment Yunho lets go.
It’s truly a wondrous sight—his skin flushed a delicate pink, the way his eyes roll back and his head rolls along his shoulders, fully lost in the pleasure he’s taken for himself. Given how held back he was the first time, this Yunho is a completely different man. Untethered. Unrestricted. The Yunho from last June would’ve never asked for San to fuck him of all things, especially wouldn’t have used that language, yet here he is, breath shuddering as he adjusts to San’s cock inside of him.
All San can do is curse as Yunho clenches around him, unintentionally he’s sure. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good. If he’s not careful, he’s gonna come in two seconds flat from how fucking hot and tight Yunho is.
And he’s not the type to do that—he’s lasted hours, multiple rounds before he’s allowed himself to come, if he was even allowed at all or if he even wanted to. He’s proud of his stamina. Even Wooyoung couldn’t outlast him.
That was all before him.
Yunho slams a hand down on his chest and levels him with an all-consuming stare, heated and dark and pure lust as he bares his teeth and begins to ride him. San laughs of all things, something that bursts out of him because he’s damn proud of Yunho finally taking what he’s clearly wanted for so long, and the responding laughter makes his heart burn. Wild, free. Beautiful in the way Yunho bares his throat to him. Of all things, Yunho is shy, so San doesn’t want to startle him by staring too intensely, but God—the muscles in his arms, his chest, his abdomen as he moves, the trail of hair that leads down to his unfairly perfect dick that’s red and leaking precome despite barely being touched, and he wants him so badly his teeth ache from his desire.
When San grabs his waist and thrusts up, Yunho falls forward, lets out these little gasps that go straight to his gut. He takes it so well, like he’s made for it, perspiration glistening on his skin in the sunlight that cuts through the room, punched out little noises and sighs. The tremble in his thighs from exertion. Everything has led him to Yunho in this moment, in this bed together.
San doesn’t believe in God, but he might after this.
It doesn’t surprise him when Yunho slides off and lands face down on the bed, though he jolts when Yunho speaks.
“Do your worst.”
San lurches into motion, kicks his jeans the rest of the way off, shoves Yunho’s knees apart wider with a muttered, “God, you’re all legs, aren’t you?” It earns him a tired huff. His palm spreads across his back to make him arch a little more, knowing it’ll feel better if—there, perfect. His perfect boy. His perfect Yunho who takes him so well when he grabs his waist and fucks in as hard as he can, relentless. Nothing can prepare him for the breathless moans Yunho lets out, the noises seemingly ripped out of him with abandon, his mouth open in pleasure and lashes clumped together from tears. Though they’ve done various things together by now, this is the loudest Yunho has been, usually stoic and soft no matter what San does to him to make him react.
Long fingers find their way to his own and entangle together, a lifeline. A reassurance. San reaches down with his other hand to fist Yunho’s cock, knowing he’s close from the way his breath hitches just so. That’s all it takes for him to come, quiet and perfect and all San’s to witness.
“Fucking hell,” San curses because Yunho is clenching so hard around him it almost hurts, can’t even move inside of him.
Then his body goes lax. A leg hooks over his own. A whispered, “C’mon, San,” into the sheets.
San drives forward with the last of his willpower, muffles a pathetic noise and buries his face in the back of Yunho’s neck as he comes with a prayer of his name, white behind his eyes and a cottony buzz in his ears.
Unsurprisingly, Yunho passes right out after that. Seems to be a recurring thing with him when it’s particularly overwhelming, something that lasts from a few minutes to half an hour. It takes a moment for San’s legs to stop feeling wobbly enough that he can pull out and—Christ, if he hadn’t just had one of the most satisfying orgasms of his life, the visual of his come leaking out of Yunho would do him in.
Focus.
He turns Yunho on his back, runs his clean hand through his bangs. He’s peaceful like this. Younger. San presses a chaste kiss to his forehead, another to the scar on the side above his ear, a strange act considering what just transpired, but he can’t stop himself from—from wanting to take care of Yunho in some way. Even like this.
The shirt barely clinging onto him gets thrown to the floor without ceremony. No point trying to salvage that. He manages to find some hand towels in the kitchen and wets them in the sink, makes his way back to the bedroom. San wipes himself off quickly, then switches towels and starts with Yunho’s face and wipes away the drying tears and spit. Moves his way down his body. Tries to be clinical about it all even though the visual of oil and come and sweat coating his skin does something to the most depraved section of his brain that seems to find anything related to Yunho horribly attractive. San really, really hopes he doesn’t mind that he’s doing this because he’s woken up from similar situations and felt gross and miserable and—he can’t do that to Yunho, not when he’s perfectly capable of cleaning him up afterward.
All of that aside, Yunho truly is handsome, pouty face and broad shoulders and lean body with slim hands. Like someone picked San’s brain and created the ideal man for him, a Prince Charming from his childhood stories brought to life to secure a fairytale romance. Though San knows he’s no prince himself, and Yunho’s stash of secrets makes him no paragon of grace. That might be what makes it more appealing.
With a sigh, San realizes he should change the sheets as well, and he discards the damp towels on the wooden floor next to the pillow that must’ve gotten knocked off at some point as he lifts Yunho up, one arm under his shoulders and another under his knees in a bridal carry. Shit, he’s heavier than he looks. But he sets Yunho on the couch in the living area and wonders… Hm. There’s a trunk at the foot of the bed. A spare set of bundled up sheets are in there, which he grabs, but—
San pauses.
His eyes flick back to where Yunho is knocked out cold. He shouldn’t.
He quickly strips the bed and replaces the damaged sheets, dresses himself as best as he can—Jesus, did Yunho really have to rip his undershirt in half? Whatever. He’ll go without it.
After folding Yunho’s clothes and carrying him back to the bed, tucking the sheet over his lower half for at least a modicum of decency, San turns to the trunk again.
Glances to see Yunho dead to the world.
A deep breath. San kneels down on the floor and opens the trunk and grabs the photo album he spotted. His fingers dance along the cover. He shouldn’t, really shouldn’t pry into Yunho’s life without his consent, but God, he’s so fucking closed off about everything. San has to know.
He opens the album.
The first few pages are baby pictures, toddler pictures, loopy handwriting labeling Yunho, Age 3 under quite frankly the most adorable photograph he’s ever seen where baby Yunho is shoving a disproportionate amount of bread into his mouth. San smiles, turns each page to witness more pieces of Yunho’s life opening up to him via ink on paper. Fishing trips, sporting events, horseback riding, piercing eyes staring up at him in a photograph alongside a massive antlered elk with the caption First hunting prize, Age 10. Country boy through and through. It shouldn’t be cute, but somehow it is—calm, capable Yunho, who’s apparently always been this way.
It takes until age twelve for San to realize there’s no one else in the photographs. Sure, there’s people in the background, a stray hand or someone Yunho is laughing at off camera, but no one with him. No recurring friends. No parents.
Confirmation Day has Yunho pictured with a few other boys and girls, maybe around fourteen, all lined up in their Sunday best. He doesn’t know what that means. Must be something religious based on the marble steps and stained glass in the background. Yunho seems happy enough, a vague smile on his lips that San is familiar with—one that is just shy of cocky and arrogant yet still bashful. So very Yunho.
The pictures stop just after age fifteen. San flips through pages, wondering why there’s so many blanks. Blank, blank, blank. Nothing comes up until he’s three-quarters through the book.
March 23rd, 16th Birthday.
Yunho isn’t looking at the camera from where he sits at a table, his young side profile showing. Not smiling. The ever-present rosary wraps around his neck, the first appearance in the photographs. Seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth birthday are all tucked into sleeves of the same page, Yunho in variations of the same pose, all looking away from the camera, all with the rosary on.
More blank pages. San frantically turns each page to look for more until—
She’s pretty, maybe about forty. Same doll-like eyes and nose as Yunho; same spindly fingers that hold a cigarette; same piercing gaze, like she’s reaching into the viewer’s soul through the photograph alone. He’s seen her before in the picture out in the entryway just before Yunho turned it face down.
Taken July 9. Last photo of her.
San stares at the different handwriting, rounded letters with less space between them. Traces his finger over the words. It’s the final page in the entire album, nothing beyond when he flips the cover closed. Like pictures weren’t worth it after that point.
He places the photo album back into the trunk and closes the lid.
Choking back some ineffable emotion, San sets his forehead on the trunk and wills the burning in his chest away, the strange fluttering behind his ribs he’s felt for at least a month now but has largely ignored. A hand clutches at his chest to try and stave off the growing pain and nausea dwelling inside of him. Even though he knows he should’ve waited until Yunho woke up, he’s glad he’s not awake to watch San fall apart over a childhood photo album of all things. It’s just—intimate. Like he’s gotten to witness a part of Yunho he hasn’t had access to yet, the parts before he became who he is today.
Fuck. He’s so fucking fucked.
Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, San stumbles back into the kitchen where he knows he saw—yes, the landline on the counter. The numbers have long since washed away on his wrist. Doesn’t matter because they’re seared into his memory.
“Hello,” says the familiar voice on the other end when the line connects, “my name is Wooyoung, how can I help you today?”
San stifles a sob behind his palm, pulls himself together enough to stutter out a strangled, “Hey, Youngie,” before he slides to the floor in a heap, the phone cord stretched to the limit.
A muttered curse, a muted, Hey, I’m taking my break now, okay? And then Wooyoung’s voice is back to normal. “San? Fuck, San, you disappeared for almost four fucking months—Hongjoong said you’re ranching? What the fuck? Do they not have phones out in the mountains or something? Call a guy once in a while, eh?”
“Missed you, too.”
“Ranching! You don’t even know how to ride a horse!”
San snorts. Of course that’s what Wooyoung would focus on. He swallows down the horrid lump in his throat so he can speak. “Jongho was the only one willing to hire me—you remember Jongho, right?” A hum. “Mingi got injured. Needed a replacement for the summer. So he gave me a two-week crash course in horseback riding and other shit he figured I’d need to know ’cause he knew the guy he was gonna set me up with wouldn’t want ‘any damn city boy,’ as he put it. I know how to ride a horse now, thank you very much.”
A shrill cackle through the speaker. “You’re a fucking con man!”
“I’m a man of many talents,” San argues.
“So?” He can picture Wooyoung’s face right now, alight with curiosity at the life he’s missed out on these past few months. “How was it? Details! Who’s this stranger Jongho paired you off with?”
Where does San even begin with this stranger? He’s hardworking, smart, shy, endearing, adventurous. Attractive as hell. Passed out in the room next door because San fucked him unconscious.
Inhale, exhale. “His name is Yunho.”
The line crackles, and Wooyoung’s voice is a low warning when he says, “San…”
“Don’t San me. Fucking hell, Wooyoung, he’s so—”
Intriguing. Compelling. Every single one of San’s most desired fantasies come to life, a man with so many secrets that San couldn’t possibly ever discover them all, but he wants to. He wants to so badly. He wants to have morning coffees with Yunho and he wants to hold his hand and he wants Yunho to show him that damn photo album himself, not snuck behind his back like some horrible secret. He wants to learn every piece that makes the Yunho puzzle. San wants to show him off to his friends, his family he barely talks to, random people on the street. Look at this man. He’s mine. I care about him, can’t you see that?
“This isn’t the same Yunho that Mingi talks about, is it? Guy who lives by himself in the middle of nowhere, never socializes, deeply religious? You sure he’s safe to be around?”
San grits his teeth in order not to bite Wooyoung’s head off for the comments. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Wooyoung, ’cause I think I—” He slaps his free hand over his mouth, breathes in harshly through his nose to cover what he was going to say.
Wooyoung stays silent for a minute. His next words are hushed, likely so that no one overhears him at his job, his new job where no one recognizes him for what he once did. “You know why we left,” he hisses through the phone. “It’s ’cause you’re so—San, I love you, but you’re willing to give your heart to anyone who shows you two seconds of affection. This can’t be—”
“He’s not like that,” San insists. “He’s different, I swear, and yes, he’s a lot like Mingi’s stories about him, but he’s so different—”
A scoff. “Yeah, different ’cause he didn’t ask you to bend over right away probably.”
He wants to chuck the phone at the wall. Wooyoung’s just looking out for him, he knows, and it’s why they get along so well—one of them has to be suspicious of the world at large, and it sure as hell isn’t San.
“Don’t you throw the phone at the wall.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” San lies, petulant.
“Were too.” Wooyoung sighs, static crackling. “You’d fall in love with a leaf if it fell on the ground properly, darling.”
San thunks his head back against the cabinet out of stress. “Listen, you want the story? Yunho shoved me out of a truck, gave me the most temperamental horse to ever exist, shot at me with a fucking gun, ignored me—”
“I’m sorry, he shot—?”
“—and he’s caring and sweet and hardworking, will go to bed late and wake up early just so I don’t have to, gives me extra rations for no reason, cares so much more than he lets on, and he…” San trails off, twirls the phone cord around a finger because he isn’t sure if it’s something he should share. “I’m the first person he’s ever been with, I’m sure. He hasn’t said it outright.”
“Of course you fucked. Anyone ever tell you you’re a bit of a whore?”
San snipes, “Pot, kettle.”
A hum of affirmation. Never one to let something go, Wooyoung asks, “Why the fuck did he shoot you?”
“At me. I told him to, I guess, so he took it as…a joke. Showing off his skills.”
“Yeah, real fucking funny when your dad caught us as teenagers and tried to shoot us ’cause I had a hand down your pants. Or did that horrific experience conveniently slip your mind as well as the rest of your sanity?” snarks Wooyoung.
“I didn’t talk to him for like a week and punched him, and then he sucked my cock, so I guess that makes us even.”
The breathless laugh Wooyoung lets out lightens the tension enough. He’s not mad. He never could stay mad at San for too long, attached at the hip as they are. He’ll just bring it up at least once a year for the rest of their lives, which San can live with in the end.
“Where are you anyway?” comes the question in a change of topic. “Seonghwa’s apartment?”
Wooyoung is too perceptive for his own good. He’ll know if San lies again and says he’s at Seonghwa’s place, so he says the truth: “I’m at Yunho’s house. He invited me, and he’s—occupied at the moment, so I called you because I—I don’t know what to do here, Wooyoung, I don’t know what to do.” I want to stay here and try to make this an actual relationship, he doesn’t say because he’s terrified that Wooyoung will drop everything out east and storm up the mountains himself within the next day to stop him. “I barely fucking know him, but I want to. I want to,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper.
Someone yells in the background to tell Wooyoung his break is over, and he slaps a hand over the transmitter to yell a few choice words back at his coworker. “You,” he says in a normal tone, “are gonna go to Seonghwa. Just like we said we would when shit hits the fan. Don’t you dare stay at that house, you hear me?”
San nods, realizes Wooyoung can’t see him. “Yeah. I’ll go to Seonghwa. I promised him I’d check in once I was done anyway.”
“Good man.” Someone shouts again. Wooyoung shouts back, then: “I gotta fuckin’ go, but I’m serious. Listen to me. Please, San.”
“I will.”
“Love you.”
And then he’s gone, line cut, hours away when San wishes he was right here so he could see how much Yunho is deserving of him. San reaches up to place the phone back on the hook before slumping back down into his spot on the floor, knees tucked up to his chin and arms wrapped around them, something his sister once said he should patent as his brooding pose.
Ultimately, San knows he has to see Seonghwa and not just give him a call. Knowing him, he’d force Hongjoong to drive right up here and throw a fit, saying how Yunho did something—unseemly. Seonghwa’s parting words still burn sour against his throat.
Don’t trust him, San. He stays alone for a reason.
Rumors, that’s all it is. Because when San pried for more info, Seonghwa closed up like a clam, refusing to elaborate on any more details, which in turn made San angrier. He might regret a few of the words he said to Seonghwa, though defending Yunho’s honor was something he felt obligated to do. He’d lied enough to him already. Raised by a rancher, been around horses his whole life—blatant lies concocted by Jongho so that Yunho would accept him without too much complaint. So sue him for defending a guy he barely knows to one of his closest friends. Guy’s gotta have a reason, right?
The reason being—
He’s not quite sure. Something to do with his mother in all likelihood since Yunho seems to simultaneously only have her in his life and rarely talk about her. Maybe something with his absent father. San stretches from his spot and crosses to the entryway to look at the photograph that was tipped over: a picture-perfect family. His father is tall and lean, though he can’t see his face well enough to make an accurate judgment of how similar he looks to Yunho. His mother is smiling in this one, eyes scrunched shut as Yunho kisses her cheek in obvious affection. Mama’s boy. Of course he would be. He flips the frame over and undoes the clasps on the back to peek at the back of the photograph for a date.
Nothing. San sighs, places the picture face down on the table again so it doesn’t look as if he was prying.
Whatever else he finds out, he wants Yunho to tell him.
There’s only three rooms in the house—the kitchen and living area, the bathroom, and the bedroom. San makes his way to the bathroom and flicks on the light, appraises his reflection in the dingy mirror.
Not much has changed. His hair is longer for sure, falling in light waves over his eyes and down the back of his neck. He’s more tan. A bite mark graces his collarbone, and he tries not to blush as he buttons his shirt up a little higher to cover it. Despite the fact that countless strangers have seen him in various states of undress and more, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get shy about it every now and then.
Mary Magdalene is sometimes iterated as a former prostitute. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.
If San is being quite honest with himself, that might be when he began falling for Yunho. It’s the sheer, baffling statement itself—something absolutely no one else has said to him before. He’s gotten everything thrown at him, from the usual curses and slurs to the downright evil comments that cut to the bone, and not once has anyone told him that it doesn’t make him a bad person. Not even Seonghwa or Hongjoong have said this in the years he’s known them. Scolded, sure, especially after he’s had to throw a punch or thirty to defend the catcalls against himself and Wooyoung. But never…
The vague attempt to make sure San didn’t feel obligated to do this the morning after. He remembers not wanting Yunho to leave, wanting him to stay close, but he’s so skittish—like one of the horses. He’s tried to be gentle, be demanding when needed, mold them into some undefinable shape with all he’s been given to work with.
Undefinable. All things considered, that’s what they are because San may want something more, but he’s not sure where Yunho stands. And that fucking terrifies him.
San turns the light off and heads back to the bedroom.
Yunho is finally stirring, eyes blinking in the afternoon sun before he shuts them again. Without saying anything, San sits at the end of the bed and wriggles the sheet away to rest a hand on his bare ankle, rubs his thumb over the smooth skin there. Calming. He doesn’t want to startle him.
Of all things to say after waking up, Yunho groans out, “Cigarette.”
Snorting at that, San tosses the pack and the lighter up the bed to him, watches him fumble his half-awake hands through the familiar motions. San’s not a smoker himself, and he doesn’t necessarily understand why Yunho will leave so much of the cigarette untouched, but he doesn’t mind it. It’s sort of attractive in a way—the purse of his lips around the stick, the careful exhale of smoke.
Before he loses his confidence, San says, “I need to go see Seonghwa.”
Yunho tenses underneath his hand at that. He can’t hide from San as well as he thinks he does, especially with the way San has learned to read his tells over the past few months. Stressed. Agitated. The way he acted when he knew the wolves were approaching the herd.
“I can take you to him,” says Yunho, stubbing the cigarette out on the nightstand without caring about the damage.
And San knows he should nip this in the bud while he can, should leave the mountains, the city, the people, everything he’s learned to love these past few years and begin anew out east just like Wooyoung did. All over again. He should never, ever look back.
He glances over at Yunho’s rigid posture as he drives, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. The veins in his arms, the tan he’s developed over the summer, the fall of his black hair into his eyes. San tries to capture these moments in quick bursts so Yunho doesn’t catch him staring.
As discreetly as he can, San slips a hand into his pocket and curls his fingers around the silver and leather bracelet stashed there. His father’s. Well, his father doesn’t care much for him since they haven’t talked for the better part of a decade, but Yunho knows what this is. What it means to San. It’s a piece of him, a memento to remember him by, and San lets it slide quietly into the pocket of the door. Maybe Yunho won’t find it right away, maybe he’ll find it by accident a day, a week, a year from now—no matter what, San is sure he’ll remember whose it is. He has to.
When they reach the city, Yunho quietly asks for directions to Seonghwa’s place. Doesn’t surprise San that he doesn’t know it.
They park just around the corner, and Yunho kills the ignition.
San watches him mulling over something in real time, the way he needs to work up the courage. And San can wait. San would wait an eternity for Yunho to say whatever he needs to say.
“When my dad left.” Yunho clears his throat and rubs his fingers along the side of his rosary, a habit San has noticed he does when he’s nervous. And then Yunho talks about the rosary. Says it was a wedding gift, how much it meant to his mother, how it means everything to him. He’s opening up, giving one final parting gift to San. “It’s all I have left of them.”
Not everything, San doesn’t say. You have the pictures, and the gun, and yourself. Just because they are gone doesn’t mean you cease to exist.
You’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time, San doesn’t say.
I think I’m falling in love with you, San doesn’t say.
Memories flood through him, enough memories that if they were rooms, he’d have a mansion full of them, each door unlocked with a special key. The first smile. The punch, the slap, the desperation ingrained in every line of Yunho’s body when he kisses, like if he doesn’t get his lips on San, something terrible will happen. Another key unlocks another door. The feel of Yunho’s body underneath his, calloused hands on his waist, the ease with which he lifts San up and presses him back into a tree. The fear of holding a gun, intentionally mistepping so Yunho would hold on to him. Reassurance at every turn from the both of them. And San has no idea what kind of expression he’s making, only that Yunho refuses to look at him, refuses to acknowledge him other than the grit of his teeth.
So he doesn’t burst into embarrassing tears for the second time that day, San opens the pickup door and leaves.
Seonghwa’s apartment doesn’t stand out from any others other than the neat 8 marking it, and San takes a deep breath and knocks.
Footsteps behind him. San turns, and Yunho—
Every worry flies out of his head when Yunho fixes him with that gaze, the one that imbeds into his soul and makes him want to collapse to his knees and do anything he’d ask him to, and Yunho grabs his face in his hands and kisses him. Nothing about it is chaste—fervent desire, pent up longing, and everything San can’t say because he doesn’t want to scare Yunho off gets thrown into the kiss as he reciprocates with reckless abandon, opening up his mouth and letting Yunho take and take and take all that San is willing to give. He rests his hand on Yunho’s neck, thumbs his jaw wider to try and reach the taste he so hopelessly craves.
A final press of lips to his, close-mouthed and demure. Yunho’s unreadable eyes meet his, a thumb brushing along his cheekbone in the most gentle caress. And he’s gone.
“San! You’re here!”
Seonghwa’s enthusiastic greeting gets ignored as San stares after Yunho’s retreating form, the way he clutches an arm to himself like it hurts to breathe, and San chokes out a strange sound in an echo of the ache.
“San?” Seonghwa grabs him by the shoulder, his long hair framing his angelic face as his brow furrows in worry. His brain fuzzes out, looking at Seonghwa but not actually seeing him. “Did—was that Yunho? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
Did he hurt you? Yeah, Yunho has hurt him. He’s shot at him and lied to him and been the world’s most insufferable jackass at times and God knows that if San pushes hard enough, Yunho will likely destroy him—mentally, physically, spiritually. Yunho has unwavering faith in a higher being, and San has futile faith in the earth beneath his feet. Stability and instability.
Seonghwa’s hand reaches out to touch his chest. “San? Why are you wearing this?” he asks, innocent.
San feels at his neck, lifts it into his eyesight. Dark reddish beads, slightly worn from years of use, and a silver crucifix on the end, one that San has witnessed being kissed too many mornings to count.
Yunho has hurt him.
And Yunho has loved and loved and loved San. Continues to love him if this rosary is any indication; it’s just that Yunho doesn’t know how to say it because of whatever barriers he’s constructed in his mind. Actions, after all, speak louder than words.
San turns toward where he knows his perfect Yunho must be and makes a choice.