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There are very few things that come to him on instinct.

Whether they are driven by the human condition or the discipline he’s taken time to etch into being, Johnny finds himself following the motions, accommodating the little things that tie his life together—keep it going. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and curls up on a bed that won’t feel like home soon enough. Curls up next to a body that’s too small, too fragile, too warm, too cold. He pulls him closer to himself—thumbing at a bony waist, nails digging into the jut near his pelvis, a half-moon indent next to the careful lines etched there. It earns a hiss from the party, who squirms in protest, only relaxing into his hold when Johnny apologises in between kisses peppered between laughs. 

Their days together feel numbered.

Soon, Johnny won’t be able to come and seek the familiar warmth like he’s always done since learning of it. It leaves him raw. Leaves him greedy and exposed. Vulnerable in ways he’s never been. He presses up against the figure in his arms, solid but pliant, until there’s no space between them, almost in an attempt to seal him to his soul, bind him to Johnny’s side. He kisses a spot he knows is sensitive—and wonders whether it would be okay to leave a mark, just something that proves he was there. Something other than the twin swallows they both carry. Something that only he can leave behind. His teeth nip at the spot, teasing, and there’s a muffled groan, the body turning around in his arms ever so slightly so it can steal the kiss from his lips before Johnny finds his next target. He sighs, eyes falling shut, lips parted slightly, breathing in each other’s scents, stuck in limbo like this. Johnny unlaces their hands, trailing it down his palm, ghosting over the pulse, where a heartbeat quickens in anticipation. Trails it up the arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, watching with mirth as the boy shudders, shivers, hands reaching out to grab Johnny’s t-shirt. Johnny closes the distance between them, all tongue and teeth, all his yearning slithering out before he laughs.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers into the kiss. It comes out breathy, the syllables cracking because even now, Johnny can’t afford to be selfish—despite everything in him screaming at him to be. To say fuck it to all his worries. But they’re on a tight schedule, so any rest is good rest—especially for the boy in his arms. The body hums in response and Johnny pulls back to allow him breathing room, but a hand drags him back to where he was, until they’re a mess of entangled limbs and matching heartbeats so close that Johnny doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. 

There are very few things that come to him on instinct—and maybe falling in love with Lee Taeyong was the most natural of it all.

October had brought with it a sated exhaustion. 

It’s their fifth album, and Johnny can’t recall the last time they weren’t running around finalising and perfecting all the details. Can’t recall a time when they weren’t swamped with practice sessions and promos and tour preparations. It feels like they’ve been working non-stop, never really sitting down to breathe once the third quarter rolled around. They’re still riding on the high of the NCT Nation concert—and, in hindsight, it helps that it bled into their album announcement. The problem with a comeback always has been the scrutiny. How fans, critics, and the people praying on their downfall alike are tuned in, hawkeyed and critical. There is a need to prove themselves all over again. To breathe life into their images and show that they’re not failures, no matter how much people try to paint them as one. They have to be better and more composed. Exude professionalism to the point people flock to them to soak it in, willingly coming to eat right out of their hands. 

And Johnny excels at it. 

He plays the role designated to him: the handsome idol, the perfect gentleman, the charming prince, the man who’ll visit their wet dreams. He knows he’s admired—for his personality, professionalism, and physique. Desired by many, in and out of their circle. He sees it in their gazes, the way they seek him out, curious and wanting. To get a taste and leave satisfied—and Johnny doesn’t turn anyone away. Sex is not something he attaches much thought to. It feels good. A way to blow off steam. Something fun that’s only natural and bound to happen when you’re surrounded by so many attractive people.

So, it doesn’t shock him when Felix finds him at his haunt in Itaewon, tucked away from prying eyes, nursing a drink in his hand. There’s surprise, then understanding, and then desire. There’s a shy laugh, a quick question, and an even quicker answer. The intent is clear. Quick and easy. Hard and rough. Something Felix wants and Johnny can give him. They don’t start talking until they’re out of the building, away from the spectators, but once they do, it’s easier than he thought it would be. About the way they miss things, how despite loving Seoul so much, there’s still something that they’re always looking for. The ease of talking in English with someone who is not Mark leaves Johnny a little giddy. He doesn’t have to second guess the words that come out of his mouth or about things not making sense when Felix giggles; doesn’t have to worry about it moving too fast when Felix moans, Johnny’s hands tangled in his blue strands when he pulls Felix in for a kiss.

It makes it easy enough to forget a lot of things. To forget the exhaustion and alienation and hiding. The frustration at how they’re not allowed to exist as themselves but as caricatures. It makes it easy enough to forget the expression on Taeyong’s face when Johnny stumbles into his apartment with a hand wrapped around Felix’s waist like it belonged there.

What are you doing here, Johnny wants to ask. But the words don’t form. Taeyong doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, surprise etched into his features as he stares at them. He hears Felix greet Taeyong cheerily and watches it snapping Taeyong out of it. It happens fast—Taeyong’s walls get put up before Johnny can say anything to stop them, returning Felix’s greeting with a tightness to his words. Johnny can’t get a word in as Taeyong clears his throat, getting up from Johnny’s couch, hurried steps carrying him to the kitchen counter, bringing Johnny’s attention to a crockpot sitting there. 

“Sorry I let myself in, but I made galbi-jjim—” Taeyong shuffles awkwardly, eyes darting between Johnny and Felix. Johnny’s mouth refuses to cooperate. He wonders what he looks like, kiss-swollen lips and whatever marks Felix left on him on the drive over, but Taeyong pushes through, not letting his composure break, “I thought I should bring it over since you were talking about how much you were craving it.” His tone is airy, but Johnny hears the hurt in it all the same. He winces when Taeyong laughs to ease the tension. “Should’ve texted ahead. Didn’t know you’d be having company, but there’s enough for two—”

“Yong—” 

“I should get going,” Taeyong rushes to say, his eyes not really meeting Johnny’s, already poised for the door; Felix none the wiser to their dilemma. “You guys have fun!”

He watches Taeyong leave, a hurried goodbye Johnny returns half-heartedly, forcing everything else down as he closes the door shut. If Johnny was smarter, he would have chased after Taeyong. If he knew better, he would have asked him to stay, to never leave Johnny. But they’ve been caught in this game of trying to protect themselves for so long that Johnny doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore.  

Felix doesn’t ask him anything, taking in Johnny’s and Taeyong’s exchange with a curious glance. Johnny shrugs it off, plays it up as Taeyong feeling awkward about almost cockblocking him, and Felix laughs, deep and warm, Johnny grateful that he didn’t pry. Felix is kind. Felix is fun. Felix shouldn’t have to get caught in this mess. So, Johnny makes it good for him. Like he always does. Makes Felix fall apart and puts him back together, Johnny’s experience and desperation working in tandem to make it memorable. To make it easier on Johnny’s heart.

He doesn’t regret it. He stopped regretting it years ago. Sure, he feels a tinge of guilt. The what-ifs are potent. Strong enough to dissuade him, but the sex is good enough that Johnny forgets about everything else. It always is. It needs to be. Or else, Johnny will be standing on nothing but air, plummeting to certain death.

Later, they’re sitting on his couch—Felix, a sated cat and Johnny, his kind companion—as they share the galbi-jjim before they have to part ways for the night. 

“Oh, this is amazing,” Felix moans with a content smile, inhaling the savoury aroma as he takes a bite, “I did not know he was this good a cook. Like, is there anything this man can’t do?”

“Drive a car. Allegedly.” 

“Seriously?” Felix snorts at his reply. He grabs another bite, clearly enjoying what Taeyong whipped up for Johnny. “I should bake you my signature brownies sometime. And you gotta promise me that you’ll share it with Taeyong. Or else I’ll feel bad for eating something this good for free.”

Johnny nods. He’s quiet as he wonders how he’s supposed to face Taeyong the next time they meet. Felix’s eyes narrow, a sly look on his face, “So—” he turns to Johnny, eyes mirthy and devious, every bit the fae he and Taeyong gets likened to, “Are the rumours true?”

“What rumours?”

“Hey! I’m not going to judge. But I am curious—” 

“Then I guess you’ll stay curious.”

Felix huffs, but he doesn’t push it. Johnny knows what he’s asking about. It comes up in conversation with everyone he brings to his apartment. The same curiosity and eagerness to learn more about him. To know if Johnny’s free to be theirs. Whether he really is a taken man.

And his answer is always the same.

They never made it official—the two of them. Taeyong never wanted to. They don’t have a term for it. They’re nothing. They could be something. But when it comes to what matters, nothing is set in stone. Johnny has Taeyong. Taeyong has Johnny. They both have others. They don’t need each other like they need air to breathe. It arose from convenience. A way to blow off steam. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s as simple as that.

It works.

(It really does.)

It’s what Johnny tells himself halfway through the conversation with Felix, the galbi-jjim they’re gorging on doing nothing to quell the guilt lingering in his bloodstream. It’s what Johnny tells himself once Felix has left, and Johnny finds himself driving to Taeyong’s apartment when he should be in bed. It’s what Johnny tells himself when he hesitates outside Taeyong’s room, his heart clenching when he realises the door’s unlocked. It’s what Johnny tells himself—over and over and over again —as he curls up next to Taeyong, pulling him in closer, lips pressed against his nape in a kiss that tastes like sorry . A million apologies warring on his tongue because Johnny doesn’t want to keep saying sorry, but sometimes it feels like that’s all he can do.

“It’s fine,” he hears Taeyong whisper, all pretenses of slumber dropped. He pulls Johnny’s arm tighter around himself, nails digging into his skin like he has no intention of letting go, Johnny following him, moulding himself into the curve of Taeyong’s back. Taeyong fits against his body so well. All the notches in his spine and the dips in his back made just for Johnny to press up against. Like a missing piece. A characteristically Taeyong rightness that no one can hope to replicate, “It’s fine, Johnny. We’re not dating—”

“We could be—” Johnny doesn’t mean to say it. Saying it means accepting that while Johnny has others, it’s Taeyong he wants to come home to. Saying it means accepting that even though Taeyong could have anyone he wants, it’s Johnny he leaves his door open for. “We could be, Yongie—” Johnny finds himself repeating against better judgement.

“You know we can’t—” Is all he gets in response. “You know why we can’t.”

If you ask Johnny, he won’t be able to tell you who made the first move.

All he knows is it happened one day. And all anyone would tell him, if he were to confess to them, teary-eyed but not regretting anything, is that it was a long time coming. After all, they are Johnny and Taeyong. They’ve been dancing around each other for as long as they have known each other—literally and metaphorically. Since day one. Their friendship has always been played up for the cameras. Flirting for fanservice while not being able to take the next step, to not care about the millions of cameras on them. All the sincere moments of intimacy that were once tucked away now blasted everywhere for anyone who so desires to pick it all apart. It leaves him keyed up—to play the role assigned to him diligently, but never the way he wants. Never getting to touch Taeyong the way he wants.

Or anyone, for that matter.

It’s not like Johnny was expecting the idol industry to get behind casual sex or bisexuality the moment he set foot in Seoul. Far from it, if he’s being honest. Johnny has always had an outsider’s awareness of the entertainment industry—but the extent to which they are monitored surprises him when his training finally begins in earnest, no longer reminiscent of a fun summer camp that left him looking and hoping for more. Now that Johnny was fully on board, the hours and intensity asked of them put the summer sessions to shame, making him wonder whether it really was training and not a way to scam money out of him.

Another change he notices once he settles into full time trainee life was how there was no more coddling or beating around the bush. He and the rest of the trainees were made to sit down and listen to way too many talks about how to manage dating and sex within the idol industry while not betraying their fans’ expectations of them. Johnny is no longer a kid, after all. No longer bound by the rules of the outside world, but to the laws of fanservice and damage control and playing the role of a boyfriend. Suddenly, it all became way too real, sitting there and nodding as the instructor drones on about how they should all be careful if they want to stay on the career track. 

And true to the advice, Johnny is careful. 

But he’s also a young man with needs. 

Johnny has never been one to shy away from sex. He likes pleasure like every boy his age. He never assigns any meaning to his actions except for release, relief, and curiosity. And while sex is certainly not a taboo, it gets swept under the rug so much that Johnny worries about the potential after-effects of sexual repression in his fellow trainees. It’s stifling. Suffocating in a way he never expected it to be. Hooking up was easier back home. While it’s not what Johnny misses the most about Chicago, it still ranks in his top five reasons to ditch everything and go home when the training gets too much. When the cameras and etiquette get too much and he needs something to take the edge off. But here, thrust into the centre of idolhood and SM, there are way too many contractual obligations that come with a casual fuck that kills the joy of it. For all that they try to play it cool, his management isn’t quick to hide their displeasure whenever they get wind of someone fucking around. Hell, Johnny doesn’t even know what their stance on him wanting to fuck other boys is—and after seeing how close their management was to blowing a fuse when Taeyeon and Baekhyun made headlines, Johnny would rather keep that little tidbit to himself. Instead, he nods and pretends to listen as they get called in for yet another meeting about how no one has to stay celibate, but can you at least be careful?

And while Johnny is careful, he’s always loved the risk of it all.

The boy is younger than him. 

Johnny’s plans for a quick fuck in a bathroom stall for the night did not in any way involve him. It’s only pure chance that they both ended up next to each other, a familiar face sharing his predicament coming with an implicit understanding. It’s easy to parse together what they both want as they push off their seats and head in the same direction. They’re both used to things being easier. Freer . Speaking in a tongue that’s less restrictive than Korean. Johnny thinks it’s his luck that he found someone who gets the pent-up frustration he feels, the long training period and feeling like a foreigner in a country that should be your home. 

The kiss they share is anything but chaste. 

They’re too rushed. Too demanding. Too used to taking the lead. It takes a third clacking of their teeth and a hint of iron bursting on their taste buds for the boy to push at Johnny’s chest, keeping him up at arm’s length as he raises an eyebrow at him. Johnny mirrors the expression, confused at first, but realisation slowly dawning on him as they stand there panting, hard and aching—they both seem to have made the same mistake.

The boy grins just then, dimples deepening, as his mouth opens to let out the cockiest Australian accent Johnny has ever had the pleasure of hearing. “You a top too, bruh?” Johnny nods, steadying his breathing so whatever they were planning on doing could be salvaged, but the boy tuts, eyes still roaming over Johnny’s chest. The desire is still there, just a bit dampened. “Was it my height?”

“No, no—” Johnny laughs because it’s almost comical, the way things play out. “I should be asking you that. What could’ve possibly made you think I was into bottoming? Not that I’m opposed to it, but—”

“You’re pretty.”

“I’m flattered. But so are you.”

“You sure you’re not up for trying the bottom bunk for a change?”

“Maybe someday with something less challenging.”

That gets him a giggle before they’re both doubling over, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Chris doesn’t take it to heart and they find themselves talking about sneaking around to meet cute boys and getting laid, slipping into a more casual topic of conversation, followed by complaints and commiserations. It’s easy on Johnny’s nerves—the comfort of a language that doesn’t beholden him to politeness and piety. A clumsy make out ending in a tentative friendship is better than nothing.

When Johnny finally manages to drag himself back to their dorms, a little later than usual, Taeyong is still awake. He’s propped up against the wall, pencil scratching away at the notebook he keeps on hand, penning god knows what as his bedside lamp flickers; almost like he was staying up for Johnny. When he notices Johnny’s presence, Taeyong’s expression turns unpleasant, eyes narrowed as he takes in Johnny’s appearance.

Johnny doesn’t think much of it. Taeyong has the worst case of resting bitch face Johnny’s seen, but he’s almost always looking at Johnny like he hung the stars in the sky for him. It’s probably the lack of sleep leaving him tired and strung out. “You alright, Yongie? You didn’t have to stay up waiting for me.”

“It’s risky to go with trainees from other companies so close to a comeback.” That’s Taeyong’s leader voice. Firm. Strict. Devoid of all emotion, oriented for the best possible results. Johnny has stood by him countless times as Taeyong used it on their fellow trainees and members. Has seen first hand how effective it is. It also has never been used against Johnny. So, it catches him off-guard, killing any budding curiosity that dictates he asks Taeyong how he even got to know about Chris in the first place. “You’re lucky no one else saw you—”

“Not that lucky if I didn’t get laid,” Johnny ignores the little barbs thrown in his direction. It’s easy to. Taeyong’s words won’t hurt him. Others, maybe—but never Johnny. “Did you know that Chris is an exclusive top? I mean, so am I, but he’s got that vibe going for him, and I’m surprised I didn’t pick up on it.”

Johnny sees it happen in slow motion. The hardness and severity in Taeyong’s face melt away for a fraction of a second before he schools his expression back to the one he greeted Johnny with. But when Taeyong speaks, his voice betrays him. It cracks lightly. Like all the weight suddenly got taken away, only for his facade to crumble. “You didn’t fuck him?”

“Should you be saying bad words, Yongie?” 

“I’m not a kid—” 

“ Coulda fooled me,” Johnny laughs as he tugs his jacket off and places them in the spot Taeyong designated for Johnny’s club-adjacent outside clothes. Taeyong’s eyes follow his motions, locked in on what Johnny might do or say next. “All prim and proper and cute even when there’s no camera pointing at you. I know you don’t have needs you need to take care of, but that’s not the case for the rest of us—” 

It’s a low blow, but Taeyong’s eyes widen like they do when he tries to keep something from Johnny, knowing he won’t succeed. He swallows. Johnny can see the slight bob of his Adam’s apple, eyes flighty as quiet settles around them for a minute.

“I’ve—” Taeyong starts, clearing his throat, “I’ve had sex.”

Johnny can’t help the little chuckle that leaves him. Taeyong still has that wide-eyed stare on him, but he makes no move to speak. No further clarification. No follow-ups to the little detail he let slip to Johnny. As though the words uttered held finality and truth. Johnny raises his eyebrow and tries to swallow around a question he wishes didn’t sound as desperate as it feels, “I thought you didn’t lie?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Well, you’re not telling the truth either—” Taeyong is really fucking with him. Because there’s no way Taeyong—Taeyong, who writes the raunchiest lyrics out of them all but turns red when Johnny looks at him too long, has actually gone out and fucked someone. Johnny always attributed his words to a case of self-indulgent writing, something of a role he’s playing, a fantasy he’s curious about—

“How else do you think I write half the stuff I do?” Maybe it does make sense. It has to. Taeyong isn’t a liar. He’s too descriptive in his verse, too precise about what he wants done to him. Almost like a man who’s chasing a familiar high. “I’ve had sex, Johnny. Is it that hard to believe?”

“No. Christ. That’s not—” In hindsight, it shouldn’t surprise Johnny. Not at all. He knows what Taeyong looks like. How he’s a vision even when he’s not styled and paraded around like a god or called a prince or whatever manga character of the week they compare him to. Like right now: messy hair the same pink as his lips, ratty tee and shorts, and the blanket Johnny got him as a gift pooling at his waist. Taeyong is pretty. He always is. Always has been. And Johnny is aware of it. A bit too much. Ever since they had first met. Even before Taeyong was Taeyong—jumpy as a mouse and struggling to hold a conversation with Johnny. Johnny knows. But he tries to keep it locked away. To not damage the delicate balance of this thing called their friendship. Johnny can easily imagine people falling for Taeyong’s charms, letting Taeyong do whatever he wants to them, letting Taeyong use them to fulfil his craziest fantasies. Johnny can because Johnny would. He would do it—all Taeyong has to do is look at him. “Who was it?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Why? Worried I’m gonna ask them? And they’ll tell me your breath is stinky and technique is weak?”

“No.”

“Is she someone we know?”

Taeyong looks at him. Resolutely . There’s a brief flash of guilt in his eyes that Johnny wants to ignore. “Who said it’s a girl?”

“You’re fucking with me—” Johnny’s clothes feel too tight. There’s a sudden awareness of everything in the room, everything in the perimeter that envelopes him and Taeyong. Johnny opens his mouth to speak, but no sound escapes. If this is a way to get back at him, Johnny doesn’t find it funny at all. He thinks back to when they were trainees. When Johnny realised that Taeyong was someone he would trust with his entire soul. He thinks about how he had told Taeyong, half-drunk off the beer that Hansol snuck in with the help of their sunbaes, that he’s bi and how much he misses kissing cute guys behind bleachers and taking them out on dates without worrying too much about consequences. 

Because Johnny can get girls. 

Since moving to Seoul, he’s snuck around with enough girls despite the strict rules SM keeps touting about. But never boys. Meeting a cute guy and not having it be the end of his dream before it even started was tough. Especially when he didn’t know whether his teammates would stick by his side should the news get out. And Taeyong had listened to him patiently, letting Johnny keep talking, giggling when he tried to tell Taeyong about a boy in his math class and how much he missed not having to care so much about who he wanted to hold hands with. And Taeyong had looked at Johnny like Taeyong always does— kind and understanding and filled with so much love—and told him that Johnny would always be his best friend. That nothing could force them apart, and if someone were to make life hard for Johnny—which, with Johnny’s build, wasn’t going to be easy—they’d have to deal with Taeyong first.

It was a hell of a show of solidarity, but Johnny also saw it or what it was: a subtle rejection. A gentle demarcation of where Taeyong’s preferences lay, kindly telling Johnny that he wasn’t interested in being anything more than friends. 

So yeah, it stings a bit. 

To know that Taeyong isn’t interested in him. To know that someone else got to kiss the boy Johnny dreams of falling asleep next to. To know that Taeyong didn’t trust him enough to tell him. 

“Okay then.” It’s hard to stamp his curiosity down—but it’s harder to accept a reality where Taeyong would choose literally anyone who’s not Johnny. He sighs, loud and drawn out, making a show of it to hide the hurt barrelling through his chest, “Keep your secrets.” 

He changes quietly, not really pressing Taeyong to answer or clarify anything. Taeyong doesn’t make a move to speak either, sitting in silence as Johnny goes about the motions and gets ready for bed. He doesn’t even bother saying good night to Taeyong, afraid that if he spoke, his mouth would betray him and spill all the hurt for Taeyong to see under the glow of his bedside lamp. Johnny curls onto his side, not caring about the pang in his chest, pulling the covers over his head and pretending to sleep.

But he doesn’t get anywhere.

Johnny stares a hole into his blanket the longer sleep evades him. They’re both wide awake, but neither of them makes a sound. As though they’re afraid of breaching the quiet that’s settled over them. The only sound in their room is the rattling of the aircon, which sucks at doing its job even though summer is only beginning. Johnny should put in a complaint. Or something. He’s sweating the longer the awkwardness stretches, desperate for something to cut through it. He doesn’t want to get up and strip out of his clothes. Doesn’t want to leave the confines of his blanket cocoon and see Taeyong’s beady eyes on him, all beseeching and guilty, just like they were as he dealt a death blow to his supposed best friend. 

After what feels like an eternity and a half of warring with everything in existence, Johnny hears the soft sounds of feet padding across the room. Feels his flimsy old mattress dip under the new and added weight of Taeyong. Johnny forces his eyes shut, levels his breathing, tries to calm his quickening heartbeat—anything to make it look like he’s asleep and not ready to entertain Taeyong. But Taeyong seems to not care. He wrenches the blanket out of Johnny’s hands, tugging it aside so he can crawl underneath it and cuddle Johnny. His hands wrap around Johnny’s middle, tightening his hold so he’s plastered against Johnny’s back—the only thing separating them the thin fabric of their t-shirts. Johnny could shake him off. He can. It would be easy to. Johnny’s stronger. Older. He can leverage all of his seniority and strength to get Taeyong off his back— literally —and Taeyong would listen. Because it’s Taeyong. Would listen because it’s Johnny.

It would be easy. 

But Taeyong is so warm, pressed up against Johnny, and it has nothing to do with the sweltering heat in their room. He’s warm. Solid and soft. It shouldn’t turn Johnny on—that Taeyong is so small and tiny next to him like this. That he can engulf him if he so wishes. Johnny feels Taeyong take a deep breath, feels him counting to three in his mind, lips moving against Johnny’s shoulder blades as he speaks: “Johnny, turn around for me? Please?” 

Johnny ignores him, squeezing his eyes shut. Because Johnny’s petty like that. Because he thinks it’s only fair that he leaves Taeyong hanging. Because he doesn’t trust himself to behave if he turns around right now. He tries to remember the lyrics to Helena, letting Gerard Way’s vocals drown out the roaring in his ears. Anything that’s not drenched in association with Taeyong so that it quells the heat inside him.

“Johnny,” Taeyong tries again, dragging his name out, a palm slipping under Johnny’s shirt to tickle him, “I know you’re awake. Please? Will you please look at me?” 

Johnny hears the pout. 

He feels it through his thin t-shirt, Taeyong’s bottom lip plump even through the fabric, wetting it slightly as his tongue darts out. Johnny resists the urge to groan, to turn around and pin Taeyong onto his back, to kiss him until that offending pout of his is all red and bruised. Until Taeyong is needy and begging for more.

Taeyong’s palm is warm on his skin. Johnny ignores the heat it threatens to unleash inside him, biting his lips to keep in any and all sound, breathing slowly to stall any movement. Taeyong seems to have gotten the memo that Johnny’s determined to never turn around, so he does the one thing he’s never wont to do. His hand slips lower, leaving fire in its wake, fingers tracing the planes of Johnny’s abdomen languidly. He teases the waistband of Johnny’s low-slung sweatpants, a rude nail leaving a crescent moon into the juncture of Johnny’s pelvis, digging into the sensitive flesh—and Johnny jolts upright, his pathetic act of ignoring Taeyong forgotten because it’s not fucking fair that Taeyong can do this.

Johnny glares at him, fully prepared to tell Taeyong off, but Taeyong looks at Johnny with so much love that it’s evident even in the dark of their room. Even with all that transpired—and will between them—Taeyong looks happy that Johnny turned around to look at him. It breaks Johnny’s will. Dissolves any and all traces of the anger simmering inside him, the way Taeyong’s gaze falls to his lips. Johnny swallows, not wanting to look away from the Taeyong in front of him, the one without any of his masks. Johnny doesn’t know who initiated it, doesn’t know who closed the distance between them, whether it was him or Taeyong or both of them—but all he knows is that he’s kissing Taeyong. 

Deep and long and desperate. 

And Taeyong is kissing him back. 

Just as desperate. 

If not more. 

It’s an awkward angle—Johnny’s torso bent and muscles pulled so taut that it’s just shy of pain—as Taeyong writhes underneath him, impatient, pulling Johnny towards him, eager to meld into him. Johnny wants to break the kiss and get them into a more comfortable position—but he struggles, not ready to end it yet, should it be the last he’ll get Taeyong like this. He could get addicted to this. To the feeling of Taeyong’s lips against his. To his taste and scent and everything. Even more than he already is. Johnny tries to pull away but groans into the kiss again when Taeyong chases his lips, not letting Johnny catch his breath or letting his mind catch up. Their desperation is mirrored, adding fuel to the fire, all their longing and need out in the open as he bites into Johnny’s bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth. It’s uncoordinated and clumsy. Wet and messy. Bursts of pain that have Johnny keening. 

It takes effort—to pry himself out of Taeyong’s insistent hands and manoeuvre them around so Johnny is no longer risking injury. Despite his earlier resistance, Taeyong goes willingly, letting Johnny rearrange him until he’s laid on his back, pliant and willing, spread out and inviting, and Johnny dives back in, the bulk of his body crushing Taeyong in a way that has him moaning before Johnny’s lips can even brush against his. 

“That hurt, baby?” His voice is gravel. Johnny doesn’t know how he had managed to push that sound past his vocal cords. He lifts up a little, just so that his weight isn’t bearing down on Taeyong—but it seems to spur Taeyong on, who whines as he hooks a leg around Johnny, tugging him down just as Taeyong’s hips rise off the mattress, free to grind up against Johnny. 

“Johnny—” Taeyong whimpers. Fucking whimpers into Johnny’s mouth, too lost to even close the gap and kiss him again. He’s clinging onto Johnny, panting into Johnny’s mouth, hands digging into Johnny’s biceps, whiny and bratty as Johnny hovers above him. Still and unmoving, letting Taeyong do all the work, chasing his hips for more friction. “Johnny—” 

He’s begging, pride already set aside—and if Johnny wasn’t hard already, he would’ve been in seconds. He brushes his lips against Taeyong’s petal-soft ones, tongue teasing the seam, a hand sliding between them to force Taeyong’s hips down, holding them in place and not letting him rut against Johnny. Taeyong whines again, growing impatient the more Johnny is content to lavish him with soft touches. Not giving him what he wants. Johnny grins, sly , sighing softly, cooing at Taeyong as he leans in to kiss him again, just as soft as before, not giving him a warning when he grinds down, dragging his cock across the front of Taeyong’s sweats, slow and insistent, pressing down into him, so he feels how hard and leaking Johnny is. “Yeah, baby?” 

Taeyong moans into the kiss in response, deepening it, letting Johnny’s tongue slip past his lips, his hold around Johnny tightening the filthier the kiss gets. There’s too much teeth and tongue now—Taeyong not slowing down, still being a brat even as he begs Johnny to take and take and take —

“You don’t taste like him—” 

“Huh?” 

“Chris—” 

“Why would I?” Johnny groans. “I brushed my teeth, Yongie. And I don’t think Chris tastes of anything in particular. But also, can we not talk about him when I’ve finally got you in bed with me?” 

“Sorry,” Taeyong whispers, all his bravado slipping away. His eyes are wide. Guilty. Hungry . Moreover, they don’t leave Johnny’s. They stay stuck like that. A stalemate. But Taeyong yawns, breaking the reverie and illusion they almost got too comfortable in. He looks tired now that Johnny is forced to calm down and look at him properly. Johnny’s eyes slide to the clock on his nightstand glowing a sickly green, the time reading 1:27, and he would have laughed if not for the sudden anchoring of all their feelings that were threatening to float away. It hits them both then: the lines they just crossed, but Johnny can’t find it in him to care. He would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much, “Sorry—” Taeyong sounds guilty, “I’ve just wanted this for so long that I don’t know how to act—” 

“What about me then?” Johnny manages to say, trying to keep his voice level as he fights the urge to kiss Taeyong again. And maybe keep kissing him— if he lets him. If Johnny’s allowed, he would give Taeyong everything. All he has to do is ask him. “You think I haven’t been wanting to kiss you for just as long?”

“You could have anyone. Someone better than me. You could—”

“So could you—”

Taeyong’s eyes widen—a silent don’t want anyone else . He never says it out loud. But Johnny hears it all the same. It leaves him giddy. The knowledge that it’s not only him. It abates the heat in him, the desperation slowly giving way to concern as he takes in the eyebags gracing Taeyong’s face. He kisses him again. Slower. Disarming him so he won’t put up walls again. Letting him know he’s safe here with Johnny. 

He stays there like that, kissing the scar under Taeyong’s eye, his nose, the high point of his cheek, the crease of his eyelids, and the corner of his lips. Trails his lips all over the spots he’s only ever dreamt of kissing until Taeyong giggles, looking at him with the kind of devotion Johnny never considered himself worthy of. Johnny settles down next to Taeyong, pulling him closer, even though that seems impossible with how tightly pressed they are, so his face is squished into Johnny’s chest, not caring about how hot it is in their room. Taeyong goes willingly. Again . Like he wants to be an extension of Johnny’s limbs, nuzzling into him and stifling yet another yawn. Johnny kisses the top of his head, gentle and chaste, breathing in the warm vanilla of Taeyong’s shampoo, not caring about his pink hair tickling his nose. “As much as I was whining about not getting off earlier, I’m not making you miss out on any more sleep— You look like you’re about to fall apart—”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“You’re—” Taeyong wiggles a little, reminding Johnny that they’re both sporting hard-ons that won’t leave without intervention—and Johnny tuts. 

“It’ll go away soon, but you need to get some rest.”

“Johnny—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow, Yongie. If you’ll have me—”

“Tomorrow,” Taeyong finally relents, pinkie brushing against Johnny’s own—a promise of what’s to come, “I’ll be here.”

.

.

.

Maybe it was his fault for being optimistic. But Johnny never expected things to get extinguished without them even giving it a fair shot. He thought there would be enough to savour the feeling of Taeyong falling asleep next to him, to commit every little thing about Taeyong to his memory, to be able to love him—anything and everything before they’ll eventually be forced to part ways. When Johnny falls asleep that night, something warm blooms in his chest as Taeyong lays there nuzzling into him, sleepy and content. Johnny falls asleep hopeful, but he wakes up to heartbreak—it’s a swift death, but painful nonetheless. 

Johnny barely gets a moment to come to his senses, sleep still tugging at him. He yawns, trying to shake away the lingering tiredness, despite how peaceful his slumber was, so he can focus on Taeyong, who is pacing in the cramped space of their room. Taeyong, who looks like he’s been awake for some time. He tries to call for him, his name slipping out of Johnny’s mouth with the ease of an exhale, and Taeyong turns around, eyes frantic, matching the restlessness of his body. They don’t meet Johnny’s, downcast as Taeyong walks over to him, not quite coming near Johnny, instead crawling onto the far side of his bed. Johnny can cross the distance and climb into Taeyong’s tiny bed, but something stops him. “ Yongie ?” 

When Taeyong speaks, he isn’t soft or calm or composed. They echo the same restlessness Johnny woke up to, half a shout and a sob. Johnny can’t register half the things Taeyong is saying. His words are rushed. All over the place. They run and tack onto each other—deformed and premature, not really stopping, but with nowhere else to go, crowding and clogging their room like the aftermath of a traffic accident. Piling up, crushing Johnny underneath the rubble—and then, he hears it, loud and clear, a siren blaring: “—was a mistake.”

Was it, Johnny wants to ask. Taeyong’s eyes don’t meet Johnny’s, guilt eating away at him. He hates breaking promises, after all. Taeyong is always kind and gentle, but there’s an unfamiliar sharpness to his edges today—and Johnny wouldn’t be surprised if he came out bleeding just from brushing up against Taeyong. He needs to say something. But he doesn’t know what to ask or what to say. No one prepares you for this. No one is prepared for this. They might tell him it’s premature love. Hasty and impulsive—one that does not need to be mourned so gravely. And it is , by all means. But not to Johnny. Not when he’s been in love with Taeyong for so long. Not when he knows Taeyong loves him back. Just as much. But not enough to try.

Johnny clears his throat—Sleep finally leaving him alone to give them privacy. He doesn’t look at Taeyong—Johnny might break if he does, but he tries to get the words out. He has to. Before Taeyong goes on another tangent. Another lecture about company policy and their comeback. The members and their dreams. How Johnny was a mistake, “Do you regret it, Yo—” the nickname sits heavy on his tongue, leaden and poisonous, Johnny swallows around it, “—Taeyong?”

“I—” Taeyong blanches at Johnny’s words, wilting like a flower. He drops his head back against the wall—a little too hard, Johnny wincing at the sound, caring for Taeyong second nature to him even now. He doesn’t speak for a while, Johnny’s question hanging between them as he chooses his words carefully. He looks tired, eyes closed, tension emanating from him. Taeyong should never look like this. But Johnny shouldn’t have to keep hurting either. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Do I not matter then?”

“No,” he says, “Johnny, that’s not— Please. We can’t mess this up for the others. I can’t—”

Johnny knows that. He knows why Taeyong is scared. Why he’s willing to hurt Johnny. Out of all of them, Johnny knows it best. Knows the pressure placed on Taeyong’s shoulders when he was still a kid. The blame that comes his way for every misstep and mistake—no praise to soothe the ache or cauterise the wound. The way Taeyong has been stripped of his self-worth over the years, holes poked into him so everything good in him leaks out, leaving him hollow. And it would have worked if it wasn’t Taeyong. Would have worked if it wasn’t good, kind, and loving Taeyong, who keeps trying, who keeps working hard, never letting them take away what makes him him . 

Even now, as he’s breaking Johnny’s heart, he’s still everything that Johnny fell in love with. Maybe that’s what gets Johnny to agree—begrudgingly. Acquiescing, only because Johnny loves the boy in front of him more than he should.

“Fine,” Johnny sighs, “But we need to talk— About this. After the comeback. You can’t just— Do this to me, Taeyong. I—”

“I promise,” Taeyong swears. Hurried, like he can’t believe Johnny agreed to it. Johnny’s tempted to point out that the validity of his promises doesn’t seem that great, but Taeyong hugs him—crosses the chasm between them and wraps his arms around Johnny—tender and tentative like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch. “I promise we’ll figure this out—” Johnny hates the ease with which he finds himself forgiving Taeyong, willing to let his heart ache just to keep Taeyong safe, hands wrapping around Taeyong’s middle in return to rub a soothing circle on his back. “After the comeback— We have to be careful not to worry the members too much. They won’t be motivated if we’re going to be fighting in front of them.”

“I’m not going to fight you.”

“I know— I’m sorry . I’m scared,” he sighs, burrowing into Johnny’s hair, “Don’t tell anyone, Johnny. No one can know.”

.

.

.

Their comeback is a success.

He’s not surprised—the members gave it their all, even when everything seemed daunting. He sees them tire themselves out, countless practices that seem never-ending, stopping only when someone is close to collapsing. There is undue pressure on them—the number of people wanting to watch SM’s new boy group crumble is numerous—and though they might be hidden and faceless, they haunt them. Failure isn’t an option. He sees the managers parrot it—unflinching as they look at Taeyong, uncaring of his eyebags or the sickly pallor of his skin—over and over until Johnny’s sure that the words have seeped into the floorboards of their practice room.

Johnny worries for Taeyong, who is slowly turning into a heap of bones that only knows when to dance, when to sing, and when to smile pretty, living solely by the cue cards thrust onto them. Johnny worries for Taeyong—the one who is his best friend and roommate. The one who is his leader. So, it makes sense to Johnny: to slip into the role of a caretaker naturally. They’re back to being them, memories of that one night no longer bothering Johnny because Johnny will always be Taeyong’s friend first. Taeyong is NCT’s leader, and Johnny is his shield. Johnny’s the one Taeyong trusts and needs. Sure, others might be able to do a better job than him—but it’s Johnny that Taeyong seeks out, whether it’s to discipline rowdy members or to make Taeyong laugh. It’s Johnny that Taeyong’s eyes seek out when he needs to ground himself. Johnny that anchors him. And Johnny does it all without question, squashing down all his inconvenient feelings so he can stick by Taeyong’s side through it all without distraction.

Johnny doesn’t mind not bringing it up ever again. This too is love, he reasons. The trust that Taeyong places in him is precious, and Johnny is willing to do anything to keep it safe—as long as Taeyong is there with him.

It helps that their schedule is so packed.

In the week that follows their comeback, Johnny barely gets rest. Taeyong, even less so. But they push through it—they love it too much to give up now that they’re here. Love the exhilaration of performing and being on the stage too much to regret anything. When they win their first comeback encore, Taeyong is ugly-crying, snotty and blotchy, hugging the trophy to his chest as he tries to rap and follow the choreo, not allowing himself a moment to rejoice even at the finishing line. But he smiles at Johnny when he catches his eyes, mouthing a small thank you—and Johnny decides that maybe it was worth it all.

He doesn’t know when the cracks start to appear.

Maybe it’s when Johnny’s hands lingered a little too long, dug in a little too hard into Taeyong’s soft skin. Or maybe it’s when Taeyong fell asleep against Johnny’s chest, too tired and wrung out to care who might see them—Johnny sharing the sentiment, hands rubbing a soothing circle onto Taeyong’s back, lulling him to sleep. Maybe it’s the both of them: too rushed, too needy, too much like always. 

The dam bursts one night.

It’s already been a tiring day, but they still have a practice session to review their choreo. So, Johnny is grateful when one of the stylist-noonas hands him an energy drink, giggling as she dabs away the sweat on his forehead. He says his thanks, stripping out of the suffocating clothes and changing into something less irritating to move around in.

When practice eventually does start, it’s a mess.

Johnny’s had his fair share of off days, but he is proud of how he can keep a lid on it, able to stay calm despite all the shit that gets thrown at him. But right now, he’s being pushed to the limits of his patience, and a storm brews in their cramped studio. He’s not making any mistakes. If anything, he’s on top of his game, quick and precise and moving with an ease that surprises him. But Taeyong glares at him, the darting of his eyes sharp like a whip as he points out mistakes and missteps that no one else picks up on. The members watch in concern as the scene unfolds in front of them: Taeyong, testy and quick to anger, and Johnny, matching his mood. It continues the rest of the session. Arguing over a costume or choreo or something equally trivial, voices raising, neither willing to back down. It follows them out of the practice room and into their dorms, all through dinner and Johnny’s gaming session with Hyuck—no one brave enough to ask Johnny or Taeyong what’s wrong. 

It comes to a head when Johnny is finally back in their room, not ready for another bout of annoyance, only to have Taeyong crowd him against the door. It comes to a head when he kisses Johnny without warning, swallowing the yelp of surprise that Johnny lets out. 

Like all things with Taeyong, the kiss is also intense.

It’s pure heat: all-consuming, burning and branding Johnny’s skin as Taeyong’s hands slide under his clothes, digging and searching and hungry for bare skin. While it lacks the vulnerability that Johnny saw that day, the gentle warmth that laces itself into Taeyong’s actions, Johnny can’t find it in himself to complain. He isn’t sure if they can call what they’re doing ‘kissing’—not with how they’re set on devouring the other, all claws and fangs. Taeyong moans into the kiss, throaty and whiny, hips canting against Johnny’s, impatient and messy glides unbecoming of Taeyong’s main dancer title. It upends Johnny, the desperation coiling itself in Taeyong, bursting at the seams and dragging Johnny into it. But he catches himself just in time, letting Taeyong loose for a second more before matching his intensity. Not backing down, luring Taeyong in until Johnny can take the lead. 

Johnny lifts Taeyong up like he weighs anything, not breaking the kiss, Taeyong’s legs wrapping around Johnny’s middle on instinct. Johnny can feel him like this. Feel how hard Taeyong is, rolling his hips and grinding against Johnny’s abs, anything to get a nasty friction going. He gasps, breaking out into a whine when Johnny slips a hand between them to palm at the hard length, squeezing it in a way that’s a little too mean, Taeyong thrashing around in Johnny’s hold. They almost topple over, but Johnny rights them in time, pulling Taeyong into a kiss once more, swallowing up all the little whines he lets out. And Johnny finally, finally, presses him onto his mattress, void of all the softness from last time, crowding him into his sheets so that Taeyong feels Johnny’s weight crushing him, feels his hard cock dragging against him. Taeyong groans, nails digging into Johnny’s back, lips parting to let Johnny’s name spill forth like a litany. Curses and cries as they rut into each other.

When they finally break free, Johnny pushes himself up to sit back on his haunches, taking in the sight of Taeyong in front of him, messy and ruined. His lips are bitten red, the places where Johnny’s fingers dug into already bruising, his sleep shirt torn in places. Johnny groans, cock throbbing from where it’s tucked into his sweatpants, dragging Taeyong down the bed and lifting him up so he’s half laid out on Johnny’s thighs, Taeyong’s legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate Johnny’s size. He lets out a little hiss of discomfort, but it dissolves away the moment Johnny rolls his hips, grinding their dicks together.

Taeyong moans—head falling back, hands fisting into the mattress, rutting up into Johnny, even with how awkwardly his spine is bent, all bow-like, threatening to snap any second. His legs wrap around Johnny, tugging, urging him to do something, and Johnny laughs, leaning down to crowd into Taeyong’s space.

“Baby,” he breathes out, the slow exhale tickling Taeyong’s skin, “Baby, slow down.”

“Fuck,” Taeyong whines, eyes scrunched up, hands gripping Johnny’s hair so he can pull him into a kiss, “Fuck— God —”

Not God, just me, Johnny thinks, but he can’t get the words out. No wisecracks or quips at the ready. Not with how Taeyong keeps kissing him, rough and messy, their exhales and inhales melding into one. Not with how keyed up Johnny is too—painfully hard and only having enough coherence to groan when Taeyong’s hips move in short little thrusts, begging Johnny to go harder, “Yongie— Baby, come on.” He should pull the pace back just a little. Johnny’s not above coming in his pants like a teenager, but he wants to drag it out and take his time with Taeyong. Pull him apart and put him back together as many times as needed. “Taeyongie,” he tries again, voice dipping low, “Listen to me, baby. Don’t you want to be good for me?” 

It happens instantly: the flip of a switch in Taeyong that’s only ever been alluded to. Johnny watches it happen, entranced, unable to look anywhere but Taeyong. He swallows, cock twitching in interest as Taeyong’s body goes pliant, sinking into the mattress, no trace of fight or brattiness left in him. He looks up at Johnny, all hazy-eyed and doll-like, a plea to be taken care of written all over his face, in the slow rise and fall of his chest and the erratic heartbeat. A reminder that Taeyong trusts him—with his heart, all his weaknesses, all his fears. So does Johnny. Utterly.

He kisses Taeyong—slow. Lazy and drawn out, nipping at his plump bottom lip and Taeyong shifts, trying to not whine. Trying to not complain. Trying to be good. Johnny licks into his mouth, taking his time to explore now that Taeyong isn’t trying to eat him alive, a hand sliding up Taeyong’s chest, barely grazing a pebbled nipple. Taeyong keens. Shudders where he’s laid out. Johnny does it again, a curious finger tracing the areola, so feather-light that he might as well be not touching, Taeyong grumbling like a displeased cat. Johnny laughs at the display, and Taeyong shoots him a glare, mouth opening to voice his displeasure when Johnny nips into the flesh of his earlobe, tongue darting out to soothe it immediately. Johnny leans in to capture his lips in a kiss, and Taeyong whines, impatience winning out. Johnny doesn’t relent, deepening the kiss—slower than molasses despite Taeyong’s empty protests that fall apart the moment Johnny rolls his hips harshly, without warning, the angle he’s laid about trapping Taeyong’s cock in between the slide of their bodies. The pressure on it is lethal, and Taeyong cries, but Johnny coos at him as he ruts into the boy spread out on his lap, “You’re such a good boy, Yongie—”

It’s dissonant: Johnny’s words and his actions—the gentleness of his voice and the cruel way he’s letting Taeyong’s cock rub to the point of oversensitivity, trapped between all that fabric and friction. “You always do your best, don’t you, sweet thing?”

He tugs at his nipples a little too roughly, and Taeyong lifts off the bed completely, pushing up into Johnny’s touch. Taeyong whines, high and needy, nails digging into wherever he can get his hands on Johnny. He’s close. So is Johnny. With all that’s been rubbed raw between them, Johnny doesn’t think it’s wrong even if he can’t drag it out anymore, both of them craving release too much to think straight. 

It’s syrupy still—sappy and sweet even with the way it’s bordering on painful, the rough drag of cotton over their cocks. Johnny tries to bring them both to completion, taking in all of Taeyong’s signals to push him over the edge: rolling and pinching his nipples, fingers tracing the spots that makes Taeyong’s breathing hitch, “You’re doing so good, Yongie. So good for me—” Johnny trails a hand up his chest, presses his thumb up against Taeyong’s messy pulse, hands wrapping around the width of his throat. He squeezes lightly as a nail digs into Taeyong’s nipple, sharp and jolting—and Taeyong comes. Wails through it, Johnny kissing him just in time to swallow up all his sounds as Taeyong shakes through the throes of the orgasm, hips stuttering, spine bent and taut like a bow. He slumps into the mattress, eyes glazed over and his hold on Johnny finally relaxing, a wet spot forming over the front of his sweat, over the outline of his chubbed-out cock, and that pushes Johnny over the edge—how ruined Taeyong looks. Johnny ruts against Taeyong once more, coming with a punched-out groan, not caring about how sticky it feels inside his boxers, slumping forward and crushing Taeyong under his weight. Johnny kisses Taeyong’s forehead, breathing in his scent, the salty vanilla and strawberry of his sweat and shampoo and lotion. Lips planting kisses wherever they feel like—and the words slip out. Like it’s the most natural thing to do, whispered into the rose blooming beneath Taeyong’s eye, and Taeyong goes still.

Johnny almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of his own panting, still coming down from the high, but it’s unmistakable. Johnny doesn’t want to believe him at first, half-expecting Taeyong to say sike. But Taeyong says nothing. A beat passes. Johnny’s breathing slows down enough that he’s not gasping, and Taeyong is still quiet. He swallows around the tightness in his throat, “What do you mean by “no,” Yongie?”

Taeyong pushes at Johnny’s chest instead of replying, scrambling to get away from the boy sprawled on top of him. Taeyong has the same nervous expression from before, hardening with each passing second. Johnny closes his eyes, counting to five to calm himself down, or he might lose it if he has to listen to another one of Taeyong’s spiels about company policy and the expectations of fans.

“We can’t do this again,” Taeyong says, keeping his voice steady. His efforts succeed in imparting it with the stillness of a frozen lake, cold and freezing. It’s like Johnny is getting whiplash: Taeyong’s switch up too fast and too painful, no trace of the boy who gave himself up to Johnny.

“Oh— Like the last time we said we won’t do it again? Like the time you said we’ll fix it once the comeback is done?”

“This was a mistake—”

“Taeyong, I just made the both of us come.” 

“It’s too risky.”

“Of course, it’s risky. You think this shit is going to be any easier? It’s hard enough being gay, Yong. We’re fucking K-pop idols on top of it,” Johnny laughs dryly. He’s tired. So, so tired. “But I want to try— I want to try because it’s you—” 

“This is a bad idea.”

“It didn’t seem like a bad idea when you were begging me to let you come. Which, by the way, you started. I never brought it up. I was happy not to bring it up. But you just had to. You can’t do this to me, Taeyong. You said we’ll try—”

“That was before this—”

“Before what? Before I told you I’m in—”

“You can’t do this to me, Johnny.”

“But you can?”

“You’re just confused.”

“Oh, for fucks sake. I am not confused.”

“You just wanted to fuck someone. And I happened to be here. There’s nothing more to it—”

“You kissed me. Both times. You were the one who—” Johnny sighs. He can’t do this. His nails dig into his palm, the drying stickiness in his sweatpants damning and disgusting. He laughs because it’s the better alternative to let Taeyong see him crying, “You know what? You’re right, Taeyong. It’s my fault for thinking I mattered to you outside of this group—”  

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to. Your actions are loud and clear enough.” 

“Jo—”

“Save it. I’m too tired for this shit.”

.

.

.

They don’t really stop being roommates. Or ignore each other. Avoiding means admittance. That something happened, and they can’t see eye to eye anymore. That someone’s heart broke—and someone broke it. The shoe fits them both. Johnny, with the need to hash it out in the open, and Taeyong, with the need to bury it all because it is risky. At the end of the day, Johnny has seen first-hand exactly how risky it is. So, they never bring it up and stay as roommates. Roommates who still care for each other. Who makes sure the other gets enough sleep and sustenance. It’s built into the two of them—a routine that is pretty much instinct.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Johnny wonders how transparent he really is. Whether their friends can see the way Johnny’s heart is bleeding, every second he stays in that room—Taeyong just a hand’s reach away.

Temptation is deadly . 

It rips into you—slowly, methodically, and then all at once. Tears you up and forces you to witness the way everything around you crumbles down because of your mistakes. And Johnny has never been one to cause trouble. It’s not how he was raised. It’s not what he was taught. It’s been drilled into him: fall not into temptation, succumb not to sin. But sometimes—sometimes, when the lights are out in the hallways, and the only illumination left in the room is the twitchy lamp, which Taeyong keeps on to scribble lyrics in his notebook at night; when the glow emanating from it hits his lips, the sheen of the lip gloss he applies every night rendering it plumper and juicier than it is in actuality, Johnny wishes he could tell his younger self to never question why Eve did what she did. To never fault her for chasing what’s forbidden and tasting it, dooming them all to a life of suffering. Because he would too. 

He would reach out and touch. Put an end to the misery nesting beneath the crook of his ribs, the restless beaks digging into his heart with every glance and accidental touch. He would forgo everything. Every piece of effort he’s put into it—just to know what Taeyong’s lips taste like once again. Trace them with a well-manicured finger; let it dig into the plushness until Taeyong hissed, pain and pleasure going hand in hand. A physical manifestation of the torture Johnny has to reckon with him, walking the tightrope between desire and damnation so well.

Johnny wants to stop feeling this ache so deep inside him. Stop feeling the hold of the thorns around his heart when Taeyong tries to act like Johnny didn’t kiss him like his life depended on it. Like he didn’t kiss Johnny back. All their tentative truces refuse to factor in the bit where Johnny is in love, has been in love, and probably will always be in love with Lee Taeyong. The delicate balance of their friendship and career hinges on Johnny never acknowledging his feelings.

So, Johnny doesn’t.

He seeks out the familiar comfort of strangers. Carries their scents to the room he shares with Taeyong, smelling of smoke and booze and whatever it is that he chooses to indulge in. A cage he’s making out of his insecurities and shortcomings to trap any and all hope and to keep away the pesky feelings that Taeyong brings out in him.

Johnny finds it calming, falling back into the role he once took up—a playboy who loves his vices a little too much. Old habits die hard, but Johnny notices the slight changes. He’s not reckless like before—despite everything, Taeyong’s penchant for worrying about the group’s reputation rubbed off on him, rendering Johnny mindful of his liaisons. Always careful—never overstepping, so he’s not reprimanded. So Taeyong is not reprimanded.

But he lets the reminders litter all around him, still hoping subconsciously—a fool never learns, after all—that Taeyong will cave in and ask him. Anything to show him that Johnny had meant something to Taeyong.

But Taeyong never asks, and Johnny never divulges.

404: loading

It’s not Taeyong he hears it from.

Then again, it hardly surprises him. For all that they try to spend time together, they’ve been caught up with promotions and tour preparations. Johnny’s seen more of Taeyong who is NCT’s leader, than Taeyong, who sometimes falls asleep in Johnny’s room in Johnny’s arms, wearing Johnny’s clothes, smelling like Johnny’s body wash and shampoo and fabric softener. They barely get the chance to sit down and talk or have a meal—let alone do the things they desperately want to do to each other. He’s lucky if he catches Taeyong before his manager whisks him away; lucky if he sees Taeyong in any capacity that’s not official.

Sure, Johnny can go to his apartment. 

Taeyong would be more than happy if Johnny came over with the promise of wine and good food. He still has Taeyong’s key in his wallet, next to the picture of them at that amusement park, a reminder that Johnny is a part of his life. He can, and he has. But those moments are far and few between now, twenty-four hours not enough for Johnny to get a fill of Taeyong. Despite being called a frat boy by everyone and their mother, Johnny thinks he’s more of a romantic than most: at the end of the day, he’s just a sappy man who’s hopelessly in love. And sometimes, all Johnny wants is to go home to Taeyong and talk to him about the most boring things as they cook dinner. Do crosswords as they drink coffee or watch shitty movies. All Johnny wants is to curl up next to Taeyong on their bed and fall asleep. Something that everyone else takes for granted, something so mundane. But for him, it’d mean everything. 

Their tour is fun—that’s guaranteed, what with all the effort they put in. Johnny loves being on the stage and performing, loves the soreness in his muscles and the hoarseness of his voice after a lively set. Loves the cheers from the crowd. Loves the way Taeyong dazzles on stage, proving to everyone why he’s Lee Taeyong. Loves the way, despite their lack of time, Taeyong will crowd him in the corridor, away from everyone, to kiss Johnny breathless before every show, urgent and desperate, a good luck ritual Johnny looks forward to more than anything. 

And they’ve had a good run this year. Johnny’s having the most fun he’s had in a while. Being on stage with the people he cares about. He’s cooling off—winding down and psyching himself up for the end of the year now that they’re almost done with their Seoul leg when he hears Yuta speak. Hushed tones. Frantic almost.

“What do you mean you send it in?”

“I had to send it in at some point. There was no use in delaying it.”

“You weren’t going to consult us? None of us ?”

“I—” Johnny hears Taeyong hesitate. He moves to get a closer look, and right enough, Taeyong is looking down at the ground, refusing to meet Yuta’s eyes. “The sooner I get it over with, the faster I can come back.”

“Taeyongie,” Yuta’s voice is soft—the tenderness from him has more than its intended effect on Taeyong, who audibly winces. “Is that what you want? Is this something you’re doing for yourself?”

Johnny doesn’t know what prompts him to move from his spot and butt in, but he can’t stop himself. He knows whatever Taeyong says will be a bullet through his heart, but Johnny has always been ready to jump in front of them for Taeyong. “What’s this about?” 

Yuta looks incredulous, feeling indignant on Johnny’s behalf. “You didn’t tell Johnny either?”

“Didn’t tell Johnny what?”

“He’s enlisting. Send in his application and everything.”

Ah, it stings. Johnny doesn’t have to look at Taeyong to know he’s avoiding his gaze. Taeyong has always found it easier to run away. There are so many things he wants to ask him. Whether he won’t miss Johnny. Whether it’s that easy for him to stay away from Johnny. Whether after all that they’ve been through, Taeyong still thinks that Johnny wouldn’t mind waiting the whole time for him. He clears his throat, trying to mask his surprise and hurt, but from the expression on Yuta’s face, he probably failed, “When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Yuta answers when Taeyong doesn’t say anything. He shifts in his spot, fingers twitching like he wants to correct Yuta but is too scared to. Yuta seems to have caught it, too, his eyes narrowing as he speaks, “Last week?” Taeyong doesn’t say anything. “Last month? You’ve been sitting on this news for more than a month?” 

“Yuk—” Taeyong starts, but Yuta shushes him. Johnny watches them go back and forth, arguing about the details Taeyong was withholding, struggling to wrap his head around it all. 

“No one’s going to be pleased about this, Yong. But I won’t tell them. That’s up to you,” Yuta turns to Johnny, looking sympathetic. “But I guess you two need to talk first.”  

“No,” Johnny says, forcing eye contact so he doesn’t cry, “It won’t really make a difference now, will it?”

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.

.

The news reaches everyone that night.

They’re huddled around the sofa in their practice room—eight against one, as Taeyong lays it all out. He doesn’t waver as he states his reasoning. Why he thinks it’s the most optimal time for him to enlist—they had NCT Nation, a solid comeback with their new album, the winter album that’s in the works, a tour that’s been amazing despite their management being fucked up, and more importantly, his sophomore comeback. Taeyong is wrapping it all up, replacing the chaotic life of an idol with something more disciplined and not self-serving, tying a pretty little bow with everything he’s put his hard work into.

It makes sense in the grand scheme of things; it makes sense in a way that all of them hate to admit because it means agreeing to separation. Agreeing to be okay with the idea of Taeyong not being around.

No one says anything.

Not when Taeyong looks determined. Not when what he’s saying makes sense. Not when he looks so tired. Not when there is nothing they can say that won’t sound insincere. 

“Okay,” someone says, quiet, as though they don’t want to get the words out. Johnny looks in the direction of the voice and sees Donghyuck biting at his nails, usual loudness and goofiness set aside, “Do you know when you’ll have to go?”

“Not yet.” Taeyong sounds like he’s been rehearsing these lines for a while now. Standing in front of a mirror and repeating the words, predicting the member’s reactions, and coming up short. Practising with them every day but not being able to say anything because he could never get the words out. “They have to process the whole thing, and I’ll probably know in a month or two.”

“Would it affect touring?” 

Doyoung’s questions are sensible: he knows that Taeyong needs to answer them out loud. To provide proof for his own peace of mind that he did factor everything in, to convince them that this wasn’t an impulse decision he made after half a bottle of soju. Doyoung is giving him the opportunity to—even when he looks as shaken as Johnny feels.

Taeyong shakes his head. “It won’t, Doie,” he sighs, looking at his bitten-down nails, biting at the inside of his cheek. “I made sure there won’t be any scheduling conflicts for us. Listen—” Taeyong looks small like this. Curling into himself and making himself as sparse as possible. Tiny, and not in the way that makes everyone coo at him. Johnny feels his shoulders tense up—the need to protect Taeyong almost instinctual. 

He continues, eyes still downcast. “I know I should’ve talked it out with everyone, but I wanted this to be a decision I made on my own. I don’t get much of that these days.” Taeyong’s laugh is self-deprecating whenever he talks about their management, full of regret and anger—and in his case, in their case, almost always true. 

Johnny wants to say something, but he hesitates. It’s hard to move, and Johnny finds himself staying rooted to his spot even as he wants to alleviate Taeyong’s worries with a few choice words only he can give him. But Yuta beats him to it, sensing Johnny’s apprehension—gets up from his spot and walks over to Taeyong, pulling him into a tight hug. Taeyong yelps for a second, surprised at Yuta’s intensity, before he sags against him, crumbling in Yuta’s hold. It prompts everyone to do the same—to break the seriousness that loomed over them. To hug and let Taeyong know that they will be fine. That they aren’t mad. Johnny watches, the hurt in him anchoring him, weighing so heavily that not even Johnny can move it if he tries. 

The Seoul leg of their tour wraps up the next day without a hitch, but it’s hard to stay composed. 

The news is fresh in everyone’s mind, and they get through the performance, seemingly fuelled by it, determined to make the most of the time they have left together. They almost succeed in putting up a strong front, but it all crumbles at the end when they huddle around, and Taeyong breaks. It’s a sight they’re not used to, his tears that don’t seem to stop. It cements it—the decision that’s been made. The rest of them can only be spectators. Can only cheer him on and pray for his health and well-being. Johnny gives him a pat on his back, cracking a lame joke so his silence doesn’t seem out of place. So he can bury all the conflicting feelings under pleasantries. What they are outside of this doesn’t matter. It’s not something he should dwell on, not something he’s supposed to be hung up on, not after everything . But when his phone lights up with a text from Taeyong that night, a simple, come over, we can talk? Johnny doesn’t bother responding. 

Johnny still remembers it.

It’s not a hazy memory clouded by alcohol; it’s not drunken hands seeking comfort. Taeyong kisses the man with surety, determined and deliberate, but still a kiss so chaste that Johnny would think it was forced if not for the way Taeyong’s fingers were bunched up in the man’s shirt. He’s hidden from the crowd—but he’s right where Johnny can see him, in his direct line of sight, almost calculated in its precision. There’s a message embedded in Taeyong’s actions; an act of rebellion meant only for Johnny’s eyes. But strip away the guise of desire and defiance, and he’ll find Taeyong, scared and shivering, pushing Johnny away the only way he knows.

It’s only Taeyong that Johnny sees—the other man’s identity is obscured, even though all he needs to figure out who it is, is a proper glance. But Johnny doesn’t press it. He doesn’t feel the need to know more. He stopped doing that after their last encounter, the need to sift through and sort Taeyong’s actions so he could make sense of it all. Instead, Johnny turns away. Away from the dark corridor hiding Taeyong, away from whatever twisted games they both started, as far as his feet can carry him.

There’s a girl. Cute enough to set everyone around her on the defensive, all doe eyes and plush lips. He’s seen her when they’re doing promotions, but they never really had the chance to talk—both of them busy with the tight schedules they have to adhere to. She smiles at him, a small wave over the counter, and Johnny finds himself smiling back. Her head tips back, pointing at a spot away from the noise, and Johnny nods, shuffling over to the couch in the corner, his drink in hand. He’s feeling a bit petty, actions guided by a fit of unwanted and unneeded jealousy—and it’s an industry party, so what happens stays within the confines of the building because no one wants their secrets exposed. It leaves him feeling bold: to do something out in the open, to flirt, and if Johnny’s lucky, something more. Taeyong still hasn’t emerged from where Johnny last saw him, but he doesn’t get to dwell on it because the girl finally walks over, armed with a smile and a drink too sweet. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Chungha says in lieu of an introduction, taking a seat next to him with a grace that betrays her excited tone, “so I didn’t want to pass up on the opportunity.”

Johnny is surprised by the ease with which they fall into conversation. Chungha reminds him of everything he’d left behind the longer they speak, poking at the homesickness he thought he’d gotten over with that same sweet smile she flashed at him, which widens in surprise when Johnny links their hands together, a thumb tracing her knuckles. She relaxes, melting into the sofa instead of saying anything, a silent permission. He unlaces their hands, letting his fingers drag and dip, encircling a thin waist, rubbing circles onto the heated skin. He can feel her squirming, eyes trained on him, pearl-white teeth leaving marks on her plush lips as she resists the urge to flutter them shut. Johnny digs his nails into the knobs of her spine, feeling them out, and she lets out a gasp. 

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks her, voice low and scratchy, clearly more affected than either of them thought they’d be. “The party is boring.”

“Won’t Taeyong mind?”

“Why exactly would Taeyong mind?”

Chungha looks at him like he’s crazy. Or stupid. Or both. He might be, but she doesn’t have to know. “Everyone says it?”

“Says what?” 

“That you two are together?” 

“Was any of them me?”

“No.” 

“Then why bother listening to the rumours?” 

“It’s just— You two are always together,” she laughs, suddenly nervous and aware of their proximity. Johnny’s fingers are still dancing across her skin, a slower tempo, but she makes no move to stop him. She tucks a strand behind her ear, as though she feels guilty for still wanting him, “I wasn’t— This wasn’t in my plans, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“There’s nothing like that between me and Taeyong.” Johnny wonders whether Taeyong cursed him to a life where everyone Johnny takes to bed serves to remind him of his still bleeding heart. But that’s not something Taeyong would do. Or maybe it is, and Johnny never really knew his best friend. But that’s also a lie. “It was just blowing off some much-needed steam. We’re nothing. Not in the way you think—”

Not in the way I want.

“You alright?” Chungha seems to take note of the shift in his tone, her voice dipped in concern when she meets his eyes.

“Yeah,” Johnny laughs again. It dispels the gloom for a second, but Chungha is still a bit tense, afraid that she stepped on one of Johnny’s landmines she was better off not knowing about. Johnny shrugs, meeting her gaze, smiling slyly, “Maybe a bit sad that I did such a shitty job at flirting that the pretty girl wants to talk about my group leader instead of kissing me—”

She swats his hand at that, giggling as she chastises him. “You’d fit right in with the frat boys.”

“They’re not your type?”

“Nope! ” Her laugh is pretty. Clear like the summer sky. She links her finger with Johnny’s, tugging him a little closer, and he leans in until he can feel her breath against his lips. “But I can make an exception—”

Chungha is fun. She’s sweet and smart and understanding. It’s different from most of his flings. She’s good for him. Takes away a weight from his chest that he never knew was there. Johnny finds himself looking for her in the artist crowd during promotion stages, even after what they clearly said was a one-night thing. Finds Chungha waiting for him in spots that feel coincidental to others, even if she had already seen him the previous night. They meet up—more often than not, even if he can’t spend the night with her, having to return to the dorms before it gets too late. Johnny makes sure he breezes through practice so he can get an early start on his night, the existence of his radio schedule a convenient excuse. He wakes up to her texts and falls asleep to them. She fits seamlessly into his routine—practice, promo, radio, Chungha. 

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.

.

Music Core was excruciating. 

By this point, Johnny is used to the intricacies and formalities that go into a successful comeback—the never-ending promotions, the constant variety show appearances to keep the attention on them, and the networking behind the scenes. All to ensure nothing snubs out their career before it takes off. It’s only their second comeback with Johnny. But he’s got faith in himself and the members, their capabilities and persistence to pull it off. So, it’s not a fear of failure which grips Johnny as he stands there amongst the audience. 

Chungha had mentioned it a few days back when Johnny was too caught up in his head to register it. Trying desperately to not think about what Taeyong had told him before their performance, with all the sincerity he housed in his body, that he found Johnny comforting. That it’s Johnny that Taeyong looks for when things get too much. That despite all the fighting and heartbreak and anger, Taeyong still thought of Johnny as his anchor.

“Will you be alright?” Chungha had asked him, hands threaded in his hair, her voice gentle and understanding, as though she saw right through him. Like she never really bought Johnny’s story to begin with. 

And Johnny had shrugged it off. Told her, but mostly himself, that he could handle it, but there’s something about seeing the two of them on the stage, performing in sync, that leaves him rooted to the spot. There’s something about the ease with which Taeyong slips into the role required of him and how Chungha breezes through it, all smiles and matching his energy. Summer skies and monsoons—two of Johnny’s worlds colliding while he stands to the sides as a spectator. 

Jaehyun gives him a look of concern, but Johnny ignores it, trying to figure out how to sneak out so he can hide away from the complicated emotion that is adamant about ripping into him without raising suspicion.

But Johnny’s never been lucky like that.

They’re wrapping up for the day, the stylists already done with Johnny’s make-up removal when Jaehyun asks him. The two of them are alone in the corridor, away from all the people and the press, away from the other members, in a tone very decidedly not Jaehyun. “Are you dating her?” 

“Who?”

“Chungha.”

“I—” Are they? Johnny doesn’t really know. It’s too new to put a name to it. But he can see it—them falling in love. How, with all the time spent together, they both stopped being one-night stands to each other. How this is something precious that he wants to hold close to his heart. Johnny can picture Chungha waiting for him, tapping away on her phone, patient and kind in ways he doesn’t think he deserves. “I like her.” It’s different to be able to say it out loud like this. It’s different to say things and not regret them leaving his mouth. “It’s all very new, and we’re still figuring it out.”

“What about—”

“What about?”

“Nothing—” Jaehyun shakes his head, but Johnny knows what he wants to ask. It’s the only thing anyone would ask him if they saw him with others. Jaehyun bites the inside of his cheek—he regrets bringing him up. That much is evident in his expression. Johnny hates pity more than anything. “I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—”

“Jae—” He starts, trying to keep his voice steady so Jaehyun doesn’t feel worse. Johnny’s not mad at him. Jaehyun is too good a friend and too good a man to do anything out of ill will. “There’s nothing between me and him. Never was and never will be.”

“I’m just looking out for you, man,” Jaehyun flicks his gaze towards the green room, a sign that he knows. That they weren’t as stealthy as they pretended they were. But he doesn’t press Johnny for more. “And her, too. She’s a good girl, Johnny. Don’t break her heart because someone broke yours. It’s not fair to her.”

.

.

.

Johnny does think it’s unfair to Chungha. 

To deny something he feels so deeply, still, for his own comfort. Stringing Chungha along in his little attempt to put it all behind Johnny. If she caught on to his charade, she doesn’t mind. Not with the way Chungha’s eyes seem to soften in understanding whenever Johnny’s breathing hitches when she mentions Taeyong by mistake; not with how she lets him ramble on, listening patiently, as Johnny recounts stories from his trainee days, Taeyong the star in all of them. Chungha loves him—in a way Johnny doesn’t let himself be loved. One where he’s not the only one taking care of the others, one where he lets himself be taken care of in return. Maybe it’s the ease of the language, the same that Johnny sought out with Chris, a tongue that won’t limit his feelings. He thinks about staying with her forever, curling into the warmth she sheds, and not returning to the dorms—or into a cold room occupied by Taeyong.

“He’s very pretty.” It’s said with the same airiness Chungha’s voice carries, crystal-clear and warm. She’s lying down on his chest, a finger tracing the soft skin of his palms. “I’ve never seen him this close, but whatever they say about him is true.” 

Johnny hums, linking their hands together as she sighs, nuzzling into him. “Is he now?” 

“Very.” Johnny thinks she’s trying to let the knowledge that she knows sink into his skin, the way her words are delivered with an empathy Johnny might not deserve. He lets it wash over him. “Does he know about us?”

“He doesn’t.” Music Core really made everything come to a head, flaying Johnny open in the process. He had rushed over to see Chungha, still reeling from Jaehyun’s questioning, as innocent and well-meaning as it was. His throat tightens, something clawing at it and killing him from the inside. It’s guilt, the fear that he might make an unwilling victim out of her. “I haven’t told anyone. But Jae— Jaehyun knows.”

“Hmmm.” He wonders what Chungha is thinking. She squeezes his hands, reassuring, but there’s a slight tightness to her voice when she speaks again, “You have a type. The very pretty ones.”

“Ah—” Johnny clears his throat—and tries to laugh, but it comes out broken. Still, he tries to play it off, hoping that she won’t mind, “That should be obvious. Have you seen yourself?”

“I have,” she laughs into the dip in his chest, right over his stuttering heart. Places a kiss on it, an offering of a salve, a remedy for a disease no one knows how to fix. “I think Taeyong knows.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Intuition,” Chungha pushes herself up, so Johnny has to meet her eyes. No more hiding. When she speaks next, his heart clenches—whether it’s because of Chungha or Taeyong, he doesn’t know. “I don’t think he hates me, but he knows. Or, at the least, he has an inkling. And I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his ire if he does have an issue with me—” 

“He shouldn’t—” There’s the familiar need to defend Taeyong. A need to list his virtues instead of his supposed faults, even if it exposes Johnny’s heart in all its ruin. “He shouldn’t have an issue with you. Taeyong is not that cruel.” Chungha watches him with careful eyes, Johnny reeling from the kindness that still nests in them. “And I don’t think he knows. And I don’t think Taeyong will act on it, even if he does. He’s really not that cruel. Plus, there’s no need for him to. It didn’t— It never meant anything between me and him.”

“Why do you keep lying to yourself?”

“Makes it hurt less.” There’s no point in keeping up a lie when the only one being lied to is yourself. Johnny wants to reach out and tuck a strand of her hair behind her hair, but his hand hovers, stuck in limbo like the rest of him, “If he pulls anything, let me know, I can give him a stern talking to. He has no right to go after the people I care about.”

“You’re too nice to me.”

“Not as nice as I should be,” he tries to joke, to add levity despite the way he’s struggling to stay afloat. “I’m surprised you haven’t kicked me out yet—”

But it’s met with the same understanding threaded into Chungha, the same kindness she’s always extended to Johnny. She leans in, knocking their foreheads together, “I like you, Johnny. Maybe it’s not the same for you— But I do like you a lot.” 

“I like you too.” It slips out his lips with ease, no doubt behind it. “Jaehyun asked if you’re my girlfriend.” 

“Does he not like me?”

“He does. He’s— He’s just worried that I’ll hurt you.” 

“What about you? Are you worried you’ll hurt me?” 

“All the time,” he confesses, urgent and beseeching, “All the time. What I’m doing is not fair to you.” 

“Maybe—” She kisses him then—soft, trailing it down his face, into the hollow of his throat, speaking into the divot there, “What did you tell Jaehyun?”

“That I like you. And that I want this with you. For as long as you’ll let me—” Johnny sits up, jostling Chungha. He meets her gaze, hoping that the sincerity is evident in him, that it’s not masked by his regret and fear of all that will happen. He hesitates for a moment—but grabs her wrist, linking their hands together, bringing it to his lips so he can kiss each of her knuckles, reverent, “Is it selfish that I want you to stay? That I don’t want to call this off?”

“It might be. But I think it’s okay. Human beings can afford to be a little selfish. We started this whole thing to have fun, didn’t we?” Johnny nods, and Chungha hums, hands cupping Johnny’s face, cradling it tenderly. “So, let’s keep having fun. The moment it burns enough to hurt, we stop.”

.

.

.

There are a few things that don’t change.

Even with all that hangs between them, Taeyong doesn’t fail to jolt up from his sleep the moment Johnny creaks their bedroom door open, eyes hazy and red, before checking in on him and making sure he ate, falling back into bed with a groan. He’s always a good leader. Still is a good friend. And on days Johnny catches his mind slipping, the “ Are you back home? ” sounds like I miss you, and the “I’m hungry. Did you eat yet? ”, I’m sorry I can’t love you.

Johnny thinks that if Taeyong was ever put in Orpheus’ shoes, he would be able to make it out of the underworld—never turning around, never looking back, because carrying out duty at the cost of his own feelings is something Taeyong is painfully acquainted with. What makes Johnny laugh is that he would be no better because Johnny would follow him without question. He would follow him, even when it got too much, even if the silence ate him up and ripped into his heart—if it all meant he’d get to have Taeyong beside him at the end.

He gets back to the dorm a little later than usual.

They had the radio schedule like always, and Johnny was worried it might end up messy, what with Chungha coming on as a guest. He knows that the two have talked before, but not after Johnny and Chungha became Johnny and Chungha. Johnny wants Jaehyun to like her. Sure, Jaehyun is his friend, but he’s also Taeyong’s dongsaeng ; the nerves almost eat him up as Johnny waits to see Jaehyun’s reaction to Chungha. Which, to his surprise, goes well. They hit it off better than he thought they would: Samuel, Chungha, Jaehyun, and him. It’s a good time between the four of them, reminiscing over things that Johnny doesn’t get a chance to do, so good that it has him missing home. When they do wrap up, all smiles and laughs that feel never-ending, Johnny opts out of the drinking party in favour of following Chungha to where they have privacy. He was meant to catch the ride back with Jaehyun, but Jaehyun just shrugs as he tells him that Johnny could afford to be a little late and stay out.

When he clicks open the door to their room, almost everyone in their dorm has gone to sleep. The door makes no sound as he slides it open as gently as he can, Johnny having fixed the creaky hinge earlier to prevent Taeyong from getting woken up by him at ungodly hours, not wanting to ruin the measly amount of sleep he got. But Johnny has barely made his way into their room before Taeyong is already stirring, sleepy eyes blinking up at Johnny from where he’s bundled up in his sheets. 

“Sorry,” Johnny mumbles out an apology. He’s quick to. Taeyong yawns, sitting up in his bed slightly. “Didn’t mean to wake you—”

“Did you just get back?”

“Yeah. Jae and I were—” He doesn’t know what prompts him to lie, but it’s out of his mouth before he can register it, “We were just chilling with the guests and staff after the shoot. Thought it’d be fine since it’s an off day tomorrow—”

Taeyong doesn’t say anything for a while, his eyes still on Johnny. The silence is disconcerting. Calm before a storm that never should exist.

“Jaehyun got back hours ago,” Taeyong laughs. Short. It cuts off in a way Taeyong’s laughter never does—mangled and trampled on by something unseen. Johnny’s heart stops for a second. “I know that because I made sure he took something for the hangover that’s sure to hit him tomorrow—” 

Johnny doesn’t know what to say. They’ve never lied to each other. At least not one that mattered . So, he opts for the most logical thing: “How long have you known?”

“I had my doubts. But it wasn’t until Music Core I knew for sure.” 

“And you have nothing you want to say?” 

“Will it make a difference? Would you break her heart to soothe mine? Trade off one secret for another?” 

He would. Taeyong knows that. Taeyong knows, and he still asks. 

“You’re right—” Johnny doesn’t want to add anything to the conversation. It’s as good as dead. He goes through the motions mechanically, ignoring Taeyong’s eyes boring into his back. Silence descends over them when Johnny’s done with his routine and climbs under his blanket.

“She’s a wonderful person. Chungha— She’s amazing.” Taeyong’s voice is quiet. Small . It barely echoes in their room. Too soft to cut through the stillness of the night, whispered into the void, but Johnny hears it all the same. “Told you that you would find someone better—” 

Johnny doesn’t bother correcting him.

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.

.

Their schedule is a blessing in disguise for Johnny.

Even if it puts him in proximity with Taeyong, the constant fuzzing over costumes and choreo and everything that used to once irk him are now welcome distractions. The two of them are adults— yes , but they’re also kids who grew up too fast. There’s a ticking bomb lurking under Johnny’s skin, placed right over the muscle beating and pumping out blood, whiling its time away as August turns to September to October, waiting for Johnny to slip up. 

It’s their first day off in god-knows-how-long, over a month of shuttling around everywhere, living in the studio and practice rooms and costume checks, constant rehearsals and reviews until Johnny can perform Cherry Bomb even if he’s six feet under the ground. Their manager tells them they’ve got the week off, tentatively—enough time to catch up on rest and sleep and then get back to whatever schedule they’ll be required to attend. Johnny is looking forward to the sweet, sweet off-time, but there’s also a part of him dreading it. 

Taeyong and Johnny have not been in close quarters since their promos kicked up again: Johnny rooming with either Jaehyun or Mark or, if he has no option, with their manager, while Taeyong clings to Yuta and Doyoung like a sticker. If you ask Johnny why he still shares a room with Taeyong, he might not be able to give you an answer. Like all things that concern Taeyong, it’s a part of Johnny’s life now, too intrinsic to cut off, no matter how infected it gets. They keep up appearances fairly well, go through the motions, stilted words, rinse and repeat until they start believing in it too. It’s all only water under the bridge until someone is drowning. And they both are—but they’re also content to ignore it for the sake of the group. No one wants to bring it up; no one has a reason to—Johnny and Taeyong are too professional for it to be an issue. Taeyong is adamant about keeping things from becoming an issue.

But there’s a muffled sob.

It drags Johnny out from the grasp sleep almost had on him. He had gotten back to the dorm after hanging out with Chungha and her friends—who are also Johnny’s friends now—a little earlier than his usual time. It wasn’t late enough that people were sleeping—Johnny could make out Hyuck yelling at his game and the sounds of Yuta strumming away at a guitar. Taeyong didn’t move from his spot like he used to, curled up under the blanket, his back facing away from Johnny, and Johnny was too tired to make any meaning out of it. Too sleepy to check up on Taeyong, so Johnny is ready for bed in minutes before crawling under his blanket without much fanfare. So, when he hears the sob, Johnny is bewildered for a moment, struggling to register what’s going on. But one look over his shoulder, and Johnny can see it as clear as day. Can hear it just as clearly.

Taeyong rarely ever cries.

He stays strong, for the most part. Not letting anyone see his tears until it gets too much for him to hold it all in. Johnny wishes he would stop doing that. That he starts relying on the members more. Taeyong cries when they win their first encore. He cries when they win the rookie award. He cries when the scandals Johnny knows are mixed in with lies keep piling up. Taeyong is sensitive—but he rarely ever cries for himself. Not the ugly kind that leaves him immobile—curled up into his mattress, sobs wracking through his body as he desperately tries to soothe himself.

But he is crying right now, and Johnny can only sit and watch in silence. He can’t reach out and comfort him, the ticking of the bomb blending in with his heartbeat, telling him that the wrong move could end it all. Tension coils in his stomach, a loose rope that hasn’t been fashioned into a noose yet. Johnny’s hands twitch at his sides. He could . Taeyong is his friend at the end of the day. He should . But a livid Yuta comes barrelling into their room before Johnny can move. His eyes scan Johnny, lingering on him for a second, and Johnny swallows tightly. Yuta ignores him in favour of going to Taeyong’s bedside, kneeling on the floor, a hand gently rubbing at Taeyong’s back.

“Taeyongie—” Yuta’s words are gentle, his actions gentler. He pries the blanket from Taeyong’s hand, coaxing him to turn over. And Taeyong does, hiding his face into Yuta’s chest, hands digging into Yuta’s t-shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality as he crumbles against the Japanese boy. “Shh,” Yuta says, quiet, “I’m here now.”

Johnny opens his mouth to speak; he needs to know what’s wrong, but not a word comes out. He half-thinks Yuta forgot his presence before Yuta looks over his shoulder, eyes hard, “I think it’s best if you’re not here right now.”

“Yu—”

“Not right now, Johnny. Jaehyun asked Hyuckie to go to my room for the night.”

Johnny listens, nodding and getting out of bed, quietly pulling on a loose t-shirt because Yuta says it with finality. There’s no room for him to argue, Johnny struggling to vocalise the thoughts swirling in his brain. He tries to not linger, afraid of accidentally saying something that might make it worse, even if he wants to fix it.

Jaehyun doesn’t question him when he gets to his room, crawling into Donghyuck’s bed with a groan. Johnny lets sleep wash over him reluctantly, letting the tiredness and guilt smother him for long enough that he falls deeper into slumber.

.

.

.

Taeyong cleans up well. But the signs are blaring for those who know what to look for. Johnny sees it in the tightness of his jaw, the fingernails that are bitten red again, the way Yuta hangs around him like he’s ready to strike any second. Ready to strike Johnny any second. The three of them have always been close, sticking around each other because they felt lost in a way that only the other two understood. They’re his closest friends, but right now, it feels like Johnny’s been left behind.

He’s on dish duty when Yuta creeps up behind him. 

“Jesus! Yuta— You scared me.” 

Yuta doesn’t respond. He’s never been in the habit of mincing words. He chooses to not get caught up in all the trouble brewing around him, prefers to hang out in the back, and lets things sort out on their own. For him to get involved in something that’s not obvious to the rest of the members means Taeyong told him. It means even Yuta thinks it’s gotten bad enough to require him to step in. That nothing is under control like Johnny and Taeyong wants it to be. Like they pretend it is.  

Yuta’s eyes drop to the pile of dishes Johnny is elbow-deep in, expression impassive, “Finish this up first. We need to talk.”

“Not even going to offer to help?”

“Nah, you might need time to think of ways to explain this clusterfuck that won’t have me punching you—” 

“Yuta—”

“I’ll wait. And Johnny? You’re not getting out of this. Because I’m really sick of whatever shit you and Taeyong have got going on right now.” 

Johnny’s face hardens. It annoys him. The way it all gets placed onto his head—the reluctance and fallout all being blamed on Johnny and not Taeyong. “What’s the point of talking about it? Will it make a difference?”

“You’re both my friends.” Yuta sounds tired. Johnny is, too. “And you’re both hurting.”

“I highly doubt it’s both.” 

“You know that’s not true,” Yuta bites out. “For fucks sake, Johnny. You know that’s the farthest thing from the truth—” 

“Yuta,” he sighs. The air around them is tense. “You don’t know— You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be with him. And not—” The way I want goes unsaid. “I’m happy now. I’m trying to be. I don’t want to be hung up on a boy who won’t love me back because he’s too much of a coward to do it.” 

“Johnny—”

“I know you’re looking out for us. For Taeyong. But there’s not much you or anyone can do here unless—” Johnny doesn’t complete the sentence. The message is clear. Yuta’s eyes have a flash of anger, tempering out just as quick—a solemn understanding of how precarious everything actually is. He doesn’t say anything, nods and gets out of Johnny’s space, leaving him alone with the dishes. He tries to focus on the repetition and not think about how many bridges he’ll have to burn before the ache in him goes away.

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.

There’s an email sitting in Johnny’s inbox.

A subject line that gives nothing away. Inconspicuous in the sea of official emails if it weren’t for the flair he’d set for their manager. Johnny clicks on it expecting a revised schedule or something related to their promos, but there’s not much information in the three lines staring back at him, calling him and the rest of the members for a meeting with another manager sent from the management. Nothing at all to debrief or put them at ease. Johnny’s never seen this protocol in action before—even the previous scandals that riddled them were dealt with differently, an air of tact that felt like indifference most of the time if the way the vultures clung to Taeyong was an indication. Johnny replies in affirmative and gets ready for the day. Taeyong’s bed is empty, everything neatly put away, his presence non-existent in their room for the past week.

There’s an uncomfortable rhythm his heart is being forced into, one that Johnny can’t seem to bring down as he jogs up to Mark and Jaehyun, who seem to have been waiting for him. They join the other members, who all look equally as confused as him. Except for Yuta and Doyoung, who barely meet Johnny’s eyes—and Johnny forces his attention onto his phone screen, on anything that’s not the tense atmosphere. Or how Taeyong isn’t there with them. For a second, Johnny wonders whether they’re disbanding before he even gets to savour the idolhood he chased so passionately and relentlessly. It would be cruel—but he wouldn’t put it past the universe to do that to him. 

The room they’re escorted to is not the meeting room they always congregate at for any official schedules. It’s more private, almost hidden away. Their manager asks them to take a seat, and Johnny’s eyes scan the room. Empty, except for them and their manager and a few others who rarely meet up with them. Johnny recognises a senior manager from the company, one Johnny has only seen once before but can’t recall where from, whose presence confuses him, but before he can dwell on it, his eyes latch onto Taeyong. He’s seated next to their senior manager, curled up on a chair with his hands fisted into the sleep shirt he practically lives in without doing much sleeping. Taeyong, who is quiet as people talk over him in hushed tones. Taeyong, who looks like death warmed over.  

Usually, it’s Taeyong who briefs them before meetings—filling them in on details of what’s to come and where to place their expectations so they won’t be disappointed. He’s the one who serves as the bridge between their team and the staff, but right now, it feels as though Johnny and the rest of them walked into a trial by fire. Taeyong is far away from them, floating and drowning as he gets thrown around by the currents.

“As you’re all aware,” their manager starts once he spots Johnny and ensures that all nine of them are accounted for, “we haven’t exactly stopped or placed any restrictions on your personal relations. We expect you to be careful, and it would be stupid to expect you to not do what boys your age do— as long as you don’t get caught.” 

For a second, Johnny wonders if he wasn’t careful enough—and someone caught on to his and Chungha’s meetups. For a second, he wonders if Taeyong let it slip out of some bitterness. But he squashes that thought just as quick. Taeyong is never that cruel. 

“What’s going on?” It’s Doyoung who breaks the silence. No one is used to the quiet from Taeyong, so unnerving that it sews their vocal cords shut. Doyoung pushes through it, the tension still evident in his face but not in his voice, almost as though he has been rehearsing the words since he got the email. “If you called us here, you’d want us to know the details as well. Even if it’s to get our stories straight in case someone asks—” 

“We received an email with compromising pictures of a member.” Their manager doesn’t give Doyoung a chance to finish his sentence, interjecting as if to make a point. Johnny’s heart skips a beat, hammering away in his chest as he replays all the times he’s gone out, combing for anything suspicious. “We’ve managed to get everything sorted out, but I would rather not have gossip rags extort us for money because you were stupid enough to get caught.”

The silence descends over everyone again. Johnny can see the members glancing amongst themselves, wondering which one of them messed up, whether it’s them or someone else. Their manager sighs audibly, dragging Johnny’s attention back to him. He’s facing Taeyong, annoyance gracing his features but still pleasant enough that it’ll only be construed as mere chastising—and not a verbal beatdown. 

“I expected more from you, Lee Taeyong-ssi,” he says, monotone, disregarding the way the room fell silent. Or the way Johnny’s heart picks up, the ticking bomb skipping its way through the tune. “One would expect you to have learned from your mistakes. Evidently not. ”

Taeyong doesn’t respond, but the man continues. “We can spin the story as elaborately as needed and play it off, but if the truth gets out, there will be consequences. It’ll affect the other party more than you. We can’t keep cleaning up your messes. Especially if a senior artist is implicated in the process. This is bigger than you.” 

“Bigger than us?” Taeyong finally looks up at that, scoffing. Even with the angle obscuring half his face, Johnny can picture his glare. Can picture the tiredness in his eyes. The manager’s words remind Johnny of gruelling practice sessions, of instructors who believed barbed words could do their jobs for them. Of Taeyong wrung out of all his joy. “We work just as hard. The members are working just as hard. Don’t disregard their efforts because of my mistake— I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes my way. When have I not?”

“No one is disregarding or getting punished for anything. Minho-ssi had made it a point to—”

“There is nothing going on between Minho-hyung and me—” Taeyong’s voice is venom, but Johnny’s ears won’t stop ringing. Minho and Taeyong make no sense, but somewhere in his heart, he knows it’s true. A memory tugs at him, blurry but insistent, but Johnny ignores it like he did that day, wishing he could walk away still. But there’s no place for him to run and hide. “Can’t I just be visiting my sunbaes?” 

“That’s the bit you’ll give the reporters should this get out. Not us—” The manager turns to the rest of them, the words carrying an air of un-importance, as though he’s disciplining unruly children, as if they don’t really matter and will be discarded should the worst come to pass. “I suggest you all be careful from now on.” 

They get dismissed just as quick, with a few curt words on being careful and avoiding tabloids—and Johnny nods, bows, runs through the motions so he can hurry and talk to Taeyong. But he can’t get a word in edgewise—not with Yuta swooping in and dragging Taeyong away from everyone and Doyoung trailing after the two of them, leaving Johnny in the dust. It’s a crack in the veneer, out in the open for everyone to see, no longer hidden under false pretences or pleasantries. Jaehyun offers him a look of sympathy, and Johnny shrugs it off. He can’t afford to think about this any longer. Doesn’t want to. He has to stay strong for the rest of the group.

.

.

.

It works for a while. 

The ride back to their dorm is quiet; their car is almost empty with the three missing bodies. No one brings up what everyone wants to ask. No one says anything. No one dares to. Only after they pile into the privacy of their dorm in silence does someone break it.

“You think it’s true? What they were saying about Taeyong-hung?” 

“Well—” Johnny starts; the members look at him with equal amounts of confusion and concern, relying on Johnny like they always do. When they were trainees, Mark used to joke that Taeyong was like a fuzzy mother and Johnny, the laid-back dad. He’s always been by Taeyong’s side, quick to speak and support him silently, to clear the air when Taeyong’s words failed. It falls on him right now: to carry that role even when it kills him. Johnny sighs, schooling his expression and tone into a more friendly one. Good on SM for all the media and PR training they gave him over the years. “It’s not nothing. They’re scrambling because this will affect the sunbaenim more than us if it gets out. We’re—” Expendable is not the word he’d use, but sometimes it feels like they’re just a side project to suit the whims and fancies of the higher-ups, “—not as established so the flack wouldn’t fall on us. This is so we get our stories straight in case something does happen. It was only us, right? They didn’t drag or involve the other units or trainees in this for a reason.”

His words seem to do the job of reassuring them. Jaehyun looks impressed with him, as though he was half-expecting Johnny to lash out or break down. He probably will in the privacy of his room, but Johnny’s been taught to put everything on the back burner. Compartmentalise and compartmentalise. Until everything is neatly packed into boxes so his tears can fall for more flashy and productive things. Johnny raises an eyebrow at Jaehyun, asking him to let it go, and focuses his attention on Mark when the boy clears his throat.

“You think—” Mark sounds dejected, nails digging into his palm as he chooses his words. He coughs to hide the wobble in his voice, “You think he doesn’t trust us?” His eyes are glassy, Johnny registering only then that Taeyong is just as important to the rest of them as he is to Johnny. “He would have told us if he did, right? Did he think we’d hate him? Is this because of the Bib—”

“No!” Johnny and Jaehyun rush to correct him, but Johnny lets Jaehyun take the reins, afraid he’ll say something wrong in his current state. “No, Markie. It’s nothing like that—” Jaehyun is careful. His words are dripping in diplomacy, a measured response that Johnny would not usually struggle with, “He does trust us. He doesn’t think that way of us at all. He was probably trying to look out for us in his own way. I’m sure he would have told us in time—”

“Yuta and Doyoung knew from the looks of it—”

“That doesn’t count. They’re best friends, of course, they’d know.”

“Then, by that logic, shouldn’t Johnny-hyung know too? They’re roommates and best friends.”

“Maybe we weren’t that close after all—” Johnny jokes. His chest feels too tight. He swallows, levels his voice, and tries to sound serious, “I think we should give Taeyong some space when he gets back. He wouldn’t want to feel like he’s under scrutiny.”

.

.

.

Their schedule for the day is cancelled.

Practice sessions rarely work out when everyone is tense and worried about a potential fallout. Usually, Johnny would welcome an off-day, but as things stand now, the lack of structure doesn’t bode well to keep him from spiralling. Everything in their room reminds him of Taeyong. It nags at Johnny as he burrows into his blankets, uncaring of the summer heat: the fear in Taeyong’s eyes when he had told Johnny they couldn’t, the quiet resignation as Taeyong let their manager berate him, the silent fury when it extended over to the members. It’s a feeling he can’t decipher or give a name to that isn’t heartbreak.

Johnny needs to do something.

He could game for a bit—Hyuck will always be up for it, especially if he manages to drag Mark in. Or he could go and annoy Sicheng or Jaehyun, anything to keep himself occupied the longer Taeyong’s absence gets stretched. No one knows where Yuta and Doyoung dragged him off to; their phones are switched off, and the only sign they’re not dead are the texts in the group chat sent almost explicitly for that purpose. His phone lights up just then, and Johnny grabs it from the nightstand to turn his notifications off—not wanting another update from Yuta or Doyoung—pausing when he notices the sender. It’s a simple text, but it makes him smile; Chungha’s innocent inquiry about whether or not he’s free makes him forget everything around him for a second. Johnny responds immediately, eager to see her, forcing the guilt inside him to not rear its head. When they set a time and place for their meeting, it gives him something to look forward to, and he tells him it’s okay to be a little selfish after everything.

There’s a knock at Johnny’s door later that evening as he’s getting ready. 

He makes a non-committal hum, hoping they hear him over the music he’s playing, and his door opens to a tired Jaehyun. Witnessing everything going on is ripping away at him—the constant picking sides and testing loyalties bound to trouble someone like Jaehyun, knowing you will hurt someone when you help another. He raises his eyebrow when he takes one look at Johnny’s get-up, “You going somewhere?”

“Out. You need anything?”

“Just came to chill,” Jaehyun says, climbing onto Taeyong’s bed and getting comfortable. It’s an odd sight, reminding Johnny of when they were roommates and when things with Taeyong weren’t as messed up as it is right now, “I was just going to sit here and keep an eye on you since you’ve been sitting here and gaming for a concerning amount of time. But I guess that’s not needed anymore.”

“I’m fine, Jae—”

“Are you though?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to see her?”

“I—” Johnny sighs, knowing Jaehyun won’t let it rest. He’s a good friend. But right now, that’s not what Johnny needs. Any amount of kindness will kill him. “What do you want, Jae?”

“I want you to be honest about how you’re feeling. You’ve been bottling it in for so long, and I’m worried about you. The members are worried about you. You’re Johnny Suh! Like no one is supposed to be worried about you—”

No one does, Johnny wants to say. Despite Jaehyun’s efforts to cheer him up, his words sting like a brandished whip—the realisation that somewhere along the line, Johnny had traded off his feelings to exude only warmth to those who needed it. He doesn’t say anything and focuses on getting dressed. He’s not trying to be fancy, but Johnny needs something to go right, and clothes have never really failed him. There’s a lull in the convo until Jaehyun speaks again, “Did you think it’d be Minho-hyung?”

“No,” Johnny responds, tight, “And we’re not talking about it—”

“How long are you going to ignore it, Johnny? This whole thing is not fair to you or him or—” Jaehyun’s voice goes quiet, careful as he says her name, “Or Chungha. You need to talk about it at some point, Johnny.” 

“What do you want me to say? That it hurts? That I’m angry? That I’m afraid I’ll hurt Chungha because I can’t love her despite wanting to? Despite how happy I am with her? Because I’m in love with a boy who can’t— Who doesn’t want to love me back?” Once he starts, the words don’t stop, tumbling out of his lips with an unfamiliar urgency. It’s an explosion, an eruption: all the pressure building up inside him finally leaking out. “What do you expect me to say, Jae? It hurts. Of course, it hurts. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t here: in this room, in this stupid company, in this fucking country. I hate how suffocating everything is—” Johnny laughs. It sounds broken even to his ear. He takes a deep breath, steadying the tremor in his hands. Jaehyun looks guilty, hands twitching like he wants to cross the distance between the beds and hug Johnny. “It was easier with him around. All this shit was easier with him around. He made it all worth it. I’ve been— I was lonely before him. He’s my best friend , Jae. But now I don’t even know— I’m not even sure if I meant anything to him.”

Johnny doesn’t realise how loud he is getting until someone coughs from the hallway. He doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Doyoung, standing by the door, hands clenched at his side awkwardly. Yuta’s there too, a hand wrapped around Taeyong’s shoulders to keep him from crumbling. Johnny’s sure there’s a crowd forming in the corridor—Johnny’s little outburst having made everyone scramble down to find out what could have upset him like this. But Doyoung sends whoever had gathered away, saying they need to give Johnny some privacy. 

“I know this is probably a bad time,” Doyoung starts once he’s sure everyone has left. He’s looking pointedly at him, a request to stay and talk, and Johnny would have laughed if he hadn’t been drained of his energy, “but could you hear us out?”

Johnny could. It would be easy—to listen and follow the script handed over to him. Apologies stacked on top of apologies. I’m sorry. I forgive you. We’re cool now. His eyes are traitors: they glance at Taeyong, taking in how tired he is, worrying about him even now. Johnny gets it. This is not easy on anyone involved—least of all Taeyong, who receives the brunt of the responsibilities and all the flack. He gets it.

But Johnny needs time. He thinks he’s owed at least that much. Thinks about how it’s his heart that got broken despite them both hurting. How it’s only Johnny clinging to something while trying to move on. Johnny opens his mouth to speak, but the blaring of the reminder he’d set breaks him out of the motion, and drags him out of the trance he gets put on whenever Taeyong is concerned.

Right, Chungha . 

“I have to go—” He bites out, the words jagged as they slip past his lips. Johnny’s surprised he doesn’t taste blood. He grabs his keys and pockets his phone, running on autopilot to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Through it all, Taeyong says nothing.  Jonny never expected him to, but it still stings. “Can we do this some other time? I already made plans for the night—”

“Johnny—” they call after him as rushes out. Everything around him is static. He’s frantic. At this rate, he’s sure to mess up.

.

.

.

Johnny thinks he’s a terrible kind of evil.

The drive from their dorms to their meeting spot does nothing to ease his nerves; Seoul traffic only adds to his building frustration, leaving him paranoid as he examines all the vehicles and people that pass him by. The routine is simple—practised and perfected: pretend to shop, grab a bite alone, lurk for a while, and slip out into a corridor that gives him enough privacy when no one is watching. But the usual coolness evades him today—Johnny feels conscious of his actions, worrying about an unknown spectator documenting his every move; Taeyong’s news hangs over him like a storm cloud, threatening to rain on any attempts Johnny makes to maintain normalcy. It follows him, demanding and loud, even as he stands outside the room reserved for them, gripping the keycard with hostility before he swipes it and enters the hotel room.

“In a minute!” Chungha yells from inside when she hears the door close shut, and Johnny takes the time to recentre himself. It’s not fair that this happens. That he has to be methodical to eke out love in his life. He frowns when he realises how hard his expression must be—tired and sporting a grimace when he hears Chungha running to him. “Whoa! You look like you’re going through something! Not happy to see me?”

Johnny laughs, finding himself smiling despite everything. She really does make it easy on his heart. And he wishes he was better than this to her. “I always look forward to seeing you.” There’s a kiss pressed up against the corner of his lips, Chungha on the tip of her toes, straining to reach him—it’s placed tenderly, reverently—and Johnny leans into the comfort of it, bending down and lifting her up like he’s done countless times, deepening the kiss as she giggles against him. “Did you have dinner?”

“I ate before I got dropped off here—” Her eyes are discerning, taking in the way Johnny stiffens a little when her nails scratch the back of his neck, “You alright? You look tired.” 

“We had an emergency briefing because of Dispatch. There was a scandal involving a member—” There’s not much he can divulge without baring himself in the process, so he pauses, hoping his hesitation comes across as an attempt to preserve the group’s image and not something self-serving, “So, they asked us to be careful for the time being. We were all thrown off by it. I’m still— A bit on edge?”

“Shit ! You could’ve cancelled, you know? I would understand. It’s risky for you right now. Especially if they’re already keeping an eye on you. They’re like sharks the way they’re on the hunt for gossip.”

“I wanted to see you—” And get away from Taeyong. “The dorm isn’t exactly a great place to be right now.”

“I get it,” Chungha runs her fingers through his hair, ruffling it, “I’m glad you showed up. I like spending time with you. And I was looking forward to it, but we don’t have to do anything. You’ve had a long day! We can watch a movie. Or something. Your pick! ”

They settle on The Breakfast Club because it’s something they both like: Johnny remembers them trading anecdotes of acting out the dialogues, a childish joy he’s struggling to hold on to. The movie is as good as he remembers, but he’s too caught up in his head to enjoy it. Too caught up in his head to register the words slipping out of his lips, “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

“Is this because of the leak today?” Chungha’s eyes are still glued to the screen, where the movie continues, unaware of the tide Johnny set forth. “Or is it because of something else?”

Honestly? He doesn’t know. None of this makes sense to him. But it’s not fair to her, “Look, I— I’m not sure anymore. It’s risky— ”

“Johnny.” Despite her effort, Johnny can hear the slight wobble in Chungha’s voice. “What are we?”

“I—” His throat is dry. When he speaks, trying his best to not hurt Chungha, knowing this is something he has to do to keep her safe at the cost of their happiness, Johnny understands Taeyong for a moment. “I think the whole thing with Dispatch today just brought me back to reality.”

“Was Taeyong the one who got in trouble?”

Johnny doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. His actions are dubious at best, but Chungha laughs. Short and ragged, “Hey, do you think—” She says, her voice laden with pain, cracking when she tries to sound nonchalant, “When you— When you think about your life in five years, am I there? Am I a friend? Your lover? The crazy ex you bring up at every date?” Johnny mumbles a sorry, unable to meet her eyes. “Do you see Taeyong there?” Chungha pauses, hands gripping the front of her t-shirt, “Who am I kidding? He’s your group leader, of course, he’s going to be there—”

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess. You deserve so much better than me and my bullshit—”

“I don’t doubt that,” she bites out, but the vitriol is short-lived. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t regret getting dragged into it either.”

“You really should stop being nice to me. I really wish things were different.”

“And I wish you were an asshole so I could punch you and feel better about this.”

“You can still punch me. Just not the face. It’s the money maker.”

“Are we really done?”

“Guess so. It’s not fair to you. I can’t keep stringing you along—”

“I didn’t mind,” Chungha turns to meet Johnny’s gaze. Her eyes are wet with tears, Johnny reaches out to wipe them off, and she laughs, broken, “You— I think you managed to almost make me fall in love, Johnny Suh—”

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.

.

The lights are out when he makes his way back to their dorms. He figures they’re all sleeping; it’s not late by any means, but Johnny supposes everyone wants to get some rest to get their bearings straight and make sense of everything that went down today. He’s careful not to make too much sound as he goes up to his room, eager to put the day behind him. He changes out of his clothes quietly, thinking he can skip his skincare for tonight—the tear steaks are gone for now, but his eyes are still dry—when one of his rings clatters to the floor. Johnny curses inwardly, hurrying to pick it up. There’s a rustle of sheets, and a dishevelled head pokes out from the lump on Taeyong’s bed.

“I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”

Johnny’s tongue feels heavy; he hums in lieu of a response, slipping into a worn-out pair of pyjamas and crawling into bed. Taeyong seems to get the memo, mumbling out a good night and pulling the sheets over his head until Johnny can barely see the silver strands of Taeyong’s hair. There’s not much spoken between them these days—only uncomfortable silences and guilty glances. They haven’t been in their room at the same time since their last confrontation either: Taeyong opts to camp out in Yuta’s and Doyoung’s rooms or the practice room instead, and Johnny avoids sleeping as much as he can.

A sense of Deja vu hits as the silence descends over them, gripping Johnny’s heart—tight and bruising. He wonders what they would have been doing now if Taeyong hadn’t kissed him then. If Johnny hadn’t stopped kissing him and just pulled him into his arms and carved a space for himself inside Taeyong. The sounds of the air conditioner and the low hum of music through Taeyong’s earphones fade into the background, all of Johnny’s attention zeroed in on Taeyong’s uneven breathing. Taeyong is not asleep. Far from it. He’s biding his time so Johnny falls asleep first, and Taeyong can cry without worrying Johnny. And Johnny thinks that’s fucking selfish—to act like he’s doing Johnny a favour by making himself small and willing himself into non-existence. Johnny coughs lightly—the way he’s curled up on his side makes his throat hurt a little at the action—but he looks at the far corner of their room, trying to keep his voice steady as he speaks:

“Did you have dinner?”

“Huh?” Taeyong sounds taken aback—the mere fact that Johnny wants to talk to him puzzles him. It stings when he realises that that’s where they are right now: not best friends who knew each other’s every thought, but not strangers either. A fucked up in-between. 

“You skip out on food when you’re stressed,” Johnny adds as if it’s enough of an explanation. Taeyong makes a choking sound at how fast he sits upright. Johnny turns over then, almost laughing at the incredulous look on Taeyong’s face: eyes wide and mouth slightly open. 

“Are you talking to me?” His voice is barely a whisper, eyes trained on Johnny as if Taeyong is scared that Johnny will disappear if he dares to blink.

“You see anyone else in this room?” Johnny deadpans, an eyebrow raised dramatically. Still, there’s a fondness nestled in his chest: fluttering its wings, colouring his words, when he speaks, “Did you eat, Yongie?”

Maybe he should’ve expected it, but nothing prepared Johnny for the speed with which Taeyong scrambles out of his bed. His feet get tangled between the covers, and he stumbles onto Johnny’s bed ungracefully with a loud thud, flailing limbs and a sense of urgency that’s never been there. “Shit! You okay?” Johnny asks, and he gets no answer, but Taeyong clings to him like a lifeline, all choked-out sobs and a bruising grip on Johnny’s bicep that’s sure to leave marks.

“Johnny,” Taeyong says, cries, “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny—” until his name morphs into an incoherent babble. 

“It’s okay, Yongie,” he shushes him, running a soothing hand through Taeyong’s back. He’s lost weight. It should hurt. How right he feels in Johnny’s arms like this. It should hurt—that they’re so close, yet so far. “It’s okay— We’re okay.” It’s easier once he says it out loud. Easier once the words leave his mouth. It’s okay. Even if it isn’t okay, it will be. As long as Taeyong is right there with him.

“No,” Taeyong says gravely, despite melting into Johnny’s hold, “No, what I did to you was not okay.” He refuses to look at Johnny and burrows into his shoulder, speaking into the divot, his lips brushing Johnny’s skin like a cruel reminder. Johnny wraps a hand around him to pull him in tighter. “Jaehyun was right, it’s not fair to you. I wasn’t being fair to you—” Taeyong’s voice breaks, muffled as it is against Johnny’s skin, “I was so caught up with not wanting to hurt the group, to not get hurt—and I ended up hurting you. I hurt you, Johnny. I made you feel like your feelings weren’t worth fighting for.”

“Yong—”

“No. You have every right to be mad at me. And I don’t want you to forgive me. You— You don’t deserve what I did to you. I don’t have the right to be upset about what happened either,” Taeyong pushes off from Johnny’s side, meeting his eyes for the first time since they began talking. There’s something indecipherable in them, but Johnny knows it’s Taeyong wanting to make amends at the cost of his happiness. Overcompensating for the pain he caused Johnny by pushing his wants down. Johnny just holds him tighter, hoping he’s clear. “I’m glad she’s there for you. You deserve someone who can make you happy.”

The irony of the timing almost makes Johnny laugh. It must show on his face because Taeyong pulls back, putting distance between them as though he’s suddenly conscious of how close they are. Johnny mourns the warmth of Taeyong’s body, but he figures it makes sense. After all, the intimacy they once shared can’t be regained after everything. Taeyong’s lips part, the question at the tip of his tongue, but not leaving. He looks at Johnny, his eyes following the minor changes in Johnny’s expression for an answer. When he comes up short, he chews on his lips, choosing his words carefully: “Is everything alright between you and Chungha?”

Johnny might as well tell someone. It might as well be Taeyong. “We broke up.”

“Why?”

“We both wanted different things.” Johnny’s chest feels heavy. It feels wrong to confide in the root cause of it all—but Taeyong’s face falls, concern leaking into his demeanour the longer it takes Johnny to formulate a sentence. “Plus, it’s risky to have partners at the moment. I didn’t want to cause any problems.” 

“I thought you liked her.”

“I did— I do. We’re still friends. I— I don’t think a relationship is something I can manage.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, for what it’s worth. You guys were good together.”

Johnny shrugs. It’s awkward as they both fall quiet for a beat, unsure what to say next. Taeyong is still in his bed. In the periphery of his mind, Johnny wonders if it’s the right thing, and he doesn’t mean to ask. “Is it true?” But he wants to know. It’ll hurt like a bitch. Still, he wants to know. “About you and—?” 

Taeyong nods solemnly. “I— We didn’t do anything,” he laughs, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his sleep shirt. “We just spend a few hours gaming. That’s all— We didn’t do anything.”

“But you have before?”

“When we were trainees—” Taeyong sounds embarrassed. As though there’s a story in it that Johnny would like to know, but Taeyong isn’t willing to tell, “I was so bothered by something, and I thought it’ll help if I stopped being a virgin that I might’ve slutted it up a bit,” he laughs again. Johnny wonders what it could have been. There’s something telling him he knows, but Johnny wants to hear it from Taeyong. “I thought it might work again. That it’d hurt less if I tried to move on again. But it didn’t. I couldn’t—”

“Why?” His voice is hoarse. Brittle and scratchy. Johnny thinks he might break. Taeyong’s eyes widen at the question, but Johnny holds his gaze. Longing lures him into a spider’s web—all honeyed promises and stolen kisses.

“You know why.”

“I don’t—” Johnny doesn’t know. Not for sure. This could all be an elaborate dream. “Tell me, Yongie.”

“Don’t make me say it,” Taeyong says, shakily. He’s pushing Johnny away, but his hands seek him out, elegant fingers lacing with Johnny’s own—mind and body at odds with what they want. Johnny squeezes them: once, Taeyong’s eyes dip to where their hands are linked; twice, his breath hitches; Johnny doesn’t wait for a third time before he pulls Taeyong in. Taeyong crashes against him, rolling waves and jagged rocks—and Johnny can feel the erratic way his heartbeat is rising, no longer a calm sea.

“Why not?”

“Johnny,” he whimpers. There’s a plea in it. Out in the open, laced into how Johnny’s name is uttered. Something precious, something divine. It’s addictive. Taeyong squeezes his eyes shut, avoiding Johnny’s stare. But like this, it’d be so easy. It would be so easy to go through the motions again. To seek out the warmth of him. To taste him. But he needs to hear it from Taeyong. Johnny can’t risk getting hurt again. He leans in, lips merely a breath away from Taeyong’s, watching as he tenses at each exhale that ghosts across his lips. The way Taeyong leans forward to close the distance between them. “Please don’t make me beg—”

“You know what you have to do, Yongie.”

“Please,” he whines, “Johnny, please just touch me—” 

“You think you’ve been good enough?” he leans in closer, their lips barely touching; Johnny can feel the way Taeyong’s muscles are pulled taut, a live wire in his hands the more he denies him the soft press of lips he so clearly craves. It would be easy. To turn him into putty. To make him his and put an end to everything. “Come on. Use your words. You’re a songwriter, aren’t you?” 

“You’re being mean to me.”

“Am I?”

“Mmmph—” 

“I thought you liked it.”

“Fu—” There’s a breathy moan, light and sweet like spools of sugar, giving way to Johnny’s name, broken and pleading, “Johnny— Please.”

It’s heady. Johnny traces the shell of Taeyong’s ear, fingers dipping low and dragging up his jaw until he can press his thumb against Taeyong’s bottom lip. His mouth parts, pink tongue eager; and his eyes flutter open, wet and glistening. He wipes away a tear gathered by the corner of Taeyong’s eyes. “You’re so pretty, baby. But you did hurt me,” Johnny presses a kiss on top of Taeyong’s scar, tasting salt, “It’s not fair to me that you want it all now, Yongie—”

“John—” All Johnny did was kiss him, but Taeyong sounds wrecked—as though he’s willing to do anything for Johnny as long as he keeps kissing him. Johnny pulls back to gaze at Taeyong, eager and needy in front of him. The only light in their room is the streetlight filtering in through the curtains and the glow of the bedside clock, rendering everything about Taeyong hazy. Dream-like. This could still be one. Johnny swallows, leaning against his pillows, letting out a deep breath, and finally relaxing. Taeyong stays rooted to the spot, eyes not leaving Johnny, taking in every twitch of his muscle like he’s waiting for a signal. Johnny wants to see how far he can push it, a hand slipping into his sweats, palming at his length, Taeyong’s eyes widening in a way Johnny didn’t know was physically possible.

“You’ll be good, right? You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Yongie?” Taeyong doesn’t respond, but there’s a slight tremble, giving away his efforts to stay put and be good. Johnny hums, dragging his sweats down to expose his length, splaying his thighs open and leaving enough space for Taeyong to slot himself into, perfect for him to mouth at Johnny’s cock eagerly. Johnny lets out a groan of relief at finally being able to touch as he fists his length, spreading the pre-come as he works himself to full hardness. Taeyong’s lips part at that, pink tongue darting out just a bit, wetting his lips. He looks hungry. “You like it, baby?”

“Johnny—”

“You wanna try that again, baby?” Johnny tuts at him as Taeyong’s fingers twitch, nodding reluctantly, “Is that a yes? C’mon, use your words!”

“Please— I want you—”

“Too bad you won’t get to touch it.” Taeyong’s mouth opens in protest, indignant at the denial, but Johnny laughs slyly, “You can watch me, baby. But that’s all. If you try to do anything else, this is as good as over.”

He makes sure Taeyong is watching, hands running across his length, smearing and spreading the slick, making a show out of it. Taeyong’s breathing is so shallow that Johnny would think he stopped altogether if not for the rise and fall of his chest. There’s something indecent about it all: Johnny is supposed to grieve, to mourn the loss of a relationship, but like every other moment in his life, his wires are crossed when it comes to Taeyong.

“Joh—”

“Did he fuck you good? Were you such a slutty little thing that you went to our sunbaes instead of asking me?” 

“I didn’t know. I thought—”

“That I didn’t want you? Yongie, Taeyongie, I would have fucked you so good. You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to— But you would rather spread your legs for your hyungs like a whore—”

“‘M not a whore—”

“You sure about that, baby? I haven’t even touched you yet, and your cock is drooling. Just had to be a little mean to get you all wet and leaking. Is this how you got Minho-hyung to fuck you? Did he see how starved you were for cock and put you out of your misery?”

“I—” Taeyong shudders, words breaking out into a moan, “You were in Chicago. And you sent pictures of that guy— I thought— If I wasn’t a virgin, I might have a shot—”

The knowledge he unlocks feels forbidden: Johnny knows what Taeyong is talking about. He would be a fool not to. It was his first trip back home, and Johnny had found himself hitting up an ex and sending Taeyong a picture in a drunken haze. And he remembers Taeyong swearing up and down that he deleted it. Johnny didn’t think much of it then—but now, he can’t help but feel a little shitty. Can’t help but feel horrible about what he subjected Taeyong to unknowingly. What Johnny subjected himself to. He pictures Taeyong, heartbroken and eager, spread out under Minho, desperately trying to move on from Johnny. Thinks about how if they had been a little patient—a little mature—none of this would have happened.

He swallows, eyes meeting Taeyong’s—there’s understanding in them, threaded into all the yearning and hurt. It’s not an excuse. It’s not a reason to forgive and forget, but it smooths down the jagged bits sharpened and chipped away over the months. Johnny clears his throat, not ready to let his composure break, “Yeah?” His voice is low, dragging along the ground from the want laden in it, “Did you want me that bad, baby? So bad that you would take any man’s cock to know what it’d be like to have me inside you?”

Taeyong nods. Says nothing else. He licks his lips, eyes dropping to where Johnny’s thumb is dipping into his slit. He crawls a little closer—not close enough that Taeyong can touch him, but it is close enough that Johnny can cage him between his legs if he wants to. “Take your shirt off, baby. It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

Taeyong does without further prompting, moaning when his hands brush against his nipples, Johnny fighting hard to not pin him onto his back right then. He’s still in his shorts, and Johnny can see the goosebumps littering his skin despite the heat, cock pressing up against the front, wetting the fabric. It’s truly a sight—Taeyong will always leave him in awe; even now, with Johnny holding all the reins, he’s still at Taeyong’s mercy. 

His hands are familiar with what he needs, working rhythmically to get him to completion—Taeyong’s needy whines and moans adding to the pleasure. Johnny wonders what it’d be like to have him laid out in bed, rolling his hips and fucking into Taeyong slow, his walls gripping him tight. He wants to know what it’d be like to make love to him. Wants to know what it is like to watch Taeyong fall apart. To have Taeyong be so lost in it that he tells Johnny he loves him. That pushes him over the edge—Johnny’s hips stuttering as he fucks up into his hand, not caring about muffling his groans as he spills over his fist. His chest heaves, the orgasm taking out his energy—and when Johnny looks at Taeyong, he’s just flushed, lips parted into a pant, the wet spot adoring the grey of his shorts opaque. And larger.

“Did you just—”

Taeyong nods, embarrassed. Johnny breaks out into a grin, pulling Taeyong in, not caring about getting either of them dirtier. They can clean up later. Or never. The mess on his hands is proof. “Do you want me that bad, Yongie?” 

Taeyong muffles his moans into Johnny’s chest, grinding against the hand Johnny snakes into his shorts, oversensitive and overstimulated. He sounds close. Even though Taeyong just came. So close, with the way he keens when Johnny scoops up the wetness and touches Taeyong’s still-hard cock. Taeyong’s hips stutter, fucking up into Johnny’s fists, but Johnny pulls his hand back, ignoring the needy whine that follows. “No, baby. You’re still not allowed to—”

“But—”

“No buts—” Johnny breathes against Taeyong’s lips, still not kissing him, “I know you want it, baby, but you’ve been a mean little thing to me. How can I touch you when I’m not even sure you’ll still want this in the morning?”

“That’s not— I’ll be good.”

“I know, Yongie. I know you’ll be good for me. God, I want to ruin you—” It comes out of him as a growl, the realisation that he can. That Taeyong wants it just as bad. “But you have to wait. Where’s the fun in me just giving you whatever you want?”

Taeyong whines. Meets Johnny’s gaze with a shy determination. He extends his pinkie, linking it with Johnny’s, “I’ll be here tomorrow, Johnny. If you’ll have me.”

.

.

.

It’s Mark who says it the next morning, smiling as he takes in the way Taeyong and Johnny are talking over a cup of coffee, “You guys aren’t fighting anymore—”

“Looks like we’re not.”

.

.

.

Maybe Johnny is evil. 

He’s avoiding Taeyong again, limiting their interactions to the bare minimum outside their room, citing a million reasons why he can’t hang out or go shopping with him. And it’s not because he’s reeling from a broken heart like before, but to see Taeyong—proud and dignified Taeyong—be reduced to the whiny mess he is in front of Johnny at night, begging and pleading, all to be able to touch Johnny again. They’ve been at this for a week: Johnny making it clear that there won’t be any touching, at least not until Johnny thinks Taeyong has been good enough. And Taeyong has been nothing but patient—not crossing the boundaries Johnny drew, eager to behave and please every night when they’re back in their room. But Taeyong is also used to getting what he wants with his pretty eyes and smile bolstering his requests. And Taeyong makes sure to take full advantage of them, perched on Johnny’s bed, eyes glaring daggers into the fist curled around Johnny’s cock, not moving from his spot because Johnny asked him to. Not touching despite wanting to because Johnny didn’t tell him he could.

Maybe their little war has brought back some of the more recessive meanness in Johnny. He doesn’t want to slap or hit or ruin Taeyong—none of the things Taeyong sings about, at least not right now. They haven’t even kissed yet. And sure, Johnny isn’t treating him lovingly or spoiling him like before—but Taeyong comes undone so beautifully at the slightest touch now, not even getting the time to wrap a hand around his dick before he’s spilling into his hands, keyed up from watching Johnny come in front of him and not getting a chance to touch him. Johnny would’ve laughed at it if it didn’t amaze him: the way submission comes naturally to Taeyong.

But everything has a breaking point.

They’re set to go on stage after the next few performances, and Johnny and Taeyong are the last to get ready. The stylists seem relieved that Taeyong and Johnny don’t have a wall between them anymore, asking Johnny for feedback on the various things they’re putting on Taeyong like they used to. Johnny smiles and lets them dress Taeyong up like a Barbie doll incapable of looking bad, grinning at the blush on Taeyong’s face when Johnny’s gaze lingers, appreciating the sheen of the lip gloss and the drape of the fabric. Johnny’s about to join the rest of the group when the stylist-noonas give him the okay, but a familiar hand grabs his shoulder.

“Looking good!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Why? Not allowed near you anymore?” Chungha narrows her eyes at him, but the smile on her face tells a different story. Johnny isn’t surprised to see her—they’re still in touch, still trying out the notion of being friends, even after Johnny stammered out an apology and stumbled over his words trying to explain the whole thing with Taeyong, only for her to hug him and tell him it’ll be fine. “Are we only going to talk if you’re balls deep in me?”

Johnny makes a shushing motion, silently grateful that Chungha likes to speak in rapid-fire English in public. “You’re never letting it go, are you?”

“I could be bribed to forget—” She looks around the room, her eyes flitting to Taeyong in his make-up chair, watching Johnny and Chungha through the mirror, “Are you two always the last ones to get ready?”

“Yeah,” Johnny answers, “mine’s easier, and Yongie’s takes too much time.” 

“Makes sense. Also, how is he making a seatbelt and that tie look good? Is this man for real?”

Johnny shrugs, trying to hide how proud he is. Taeyong is every stylist’s dream. “Will you be watching us perform?”

“No, Johnny, I’m only here to boo and throw tomatoes at you after all you put me through—”

“That would make me very sad. You don’t want that, right? Me sad?”

Chungha hits his shoulder lightly, and Johnny laughs. He looks at her, the slight crinkle by her eyes and the small smile on her lips, his chest filling up with fondness, “No, seriously though, I’m glad you’re going to be watching us perform.”

“Wouldn’t miss it—” There’s a skid of a chair, the sounds of someone fuzzing over Taeyong as he walks over to the two of them. Johnny raises his eyebrows quizzically—Taeyong never interrupts their stylists, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Youngho.” Oh. That’s certainly new. “They need us.” 

“But we aren’t on for at least another forty-five—”

“I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Chungha says, and Johnny pulls her into a hug, motioning for Taeyong to join them too, “Have a great performance, you! And take care, Taeyong. Please don’t hurt him.”

Johnny doesn’t hear what Taeyong says in response, but it has Chungha smiling softly. Their stylists drag Taeyong back to his chair, fuzzing over him until they are satisfied. Johnny hangs out in the background, waiting for the stylists to leave so the coast is clear, “Wanna tell me what that was about, Yongie?”

There’s no response or explanation. Taeyong focuses on fixing his near-perfect hair, eyes not leaving Johnny’s reflection in the mirror, defiance and a challenge intertwined in his gaze. Johnny sighs, wondering what made him fall for the biggest brat he’s had the pleasure of meeting, walking over to him. “You need to be nice to Chungha, you know? She’s my friend—”

Johnny doesn’t get a chance to finish because Taeyong is kissing him—all tongue and teeth, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs. It’s desperate. It’s messy and clumsy—all his need to be obedient and good forgotten as he whimpers into Johnny’s mouth, deepening the kiss. “Youngho,” he moans, twisting in Johnny’s hold, fingers digging into his skin frantically, a week of Johnny leaving him on the edge; a week of Taeyong behaving with only the promise of a reward, “Fuck— Youngho—”

“You like saying my name, baby?”

“Mmhmm,” Taeyong nods, nipping at Johnny’s lips. They’re out in the open like this. Anyone can see them. Johnny pulls away from him, much to Taeyong’s annoyance. “Youngho—”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, you needy thing,” Johnny leans in again, pulling Taeyong into a softer kiss, savouring the needy whine he lets out, “We have a performance to get to, Yongie. You’re going to behave and wait till after.”

“Fuck— Yeah, yeah—” He looks up at Johnny, lips red and shiny, letting Johnny know how easy it would be to push Taeyong onto his knees and fuck his mouth, “Don’t take your eyes off of me—”

“We’re going to be performing together? Like I’m literally supposed to keep my eyes on you. It’s in my job description—”

404: play

It was just Johnny’s luck that they’d gotten roped into filming something for their winter special.

It’s only been a day since their tour wrapped up—and they’re already getting shuttled away to god knows where, with Johnny stuck in the bus with the rest of the members—and Taeyong—when all he wanted was some quiet time. Johnny tries to remain civil, jokes around and plays along with them enough so that no one picks up on it. But Taeyong does. And maybe the rest of the members notice too—choosing to not bring it up so Johnny doesn’t have to expose himself as a fool. Taeyong probably won’t confront him, not when there are camera crews around them. Not when they can’t catch an ounce of privacy to bare their hearts and claw at each other. But Johnny should know, from his years of having shared everything humanly possible with Taeyong, that it’s hard to avoid him. 

Or maybe Johnny doesn’t want to. 

Because if he did, he would’ve said something that didn’t sound like a petulant five-year-old when Taeyong ambled after him into the car. If he did, he would’ve pushed Taeyong off with ease, not whatever the fuck he is currently doing. He’s caged in like this. The car seat digs into his back as Taeyong sits on his lap like there’s no free patent leather seat for him to occupy. His goddamn boba eyes are on Johnny, all vulnerable and beseeching—the first proper eye contact they’ve had since the little truth bomb Taeyong dropped on him.

“You’re avoiding me,” Taeyong pouts, his eyes shiny, and Johnny knows it’s not a trick of the light trickling in. “You eat the snacks I got, but you don’t look at me. You laugh at everyone’s jokes, but not mine—” Johnny has a retort at the ready, “Before you say they’re bad jokes, when has that ever stopped you, Johnny?” Even now, Taeyong says his name like always, dragging the syllables out like molasses until Johnny’s name is dripping with his love. “Are you mad at me?” 

“I’m—” Johnny isn’t mad. Maybe he is. But not at Taeyong. He’s angry at their situation more than anything. Frustrated that this is even happening. “Taeyong—” Taeyong’s eyebrows rise at that, admonishing him amidst his obvious hurt, “I— I’m not mad at you.” 

“Is this about the enlistment?”

Johnny swallows. Even though it’s cold outside, the car feels too hot. He hates the Chicago winter for leaving him immune to the cold for a second. “Can you blame me?”

“I didn’t want to keep it from you,” Taeyong starts, “but I wanted to make this decision myself, Johnny. It’s what I told the members as well. I needed to do this—”

“What about us then?” Johnny doesn’t mean to raise his voice. But he does. It splinters from all the hurt Johnny thought he wasn’t capable of feeling. “I’m not— I’m not the rest of them, Taeyong. We’re— Did you not think about that?”

“You have others.” Taeyong shrinks in on himself, shirking away from Johnny. “There are others. When I’m gone— There will be others. People who won’t have to enlist. Who you can talk to freely—”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’m only in this for the convenience of it all? That I would leave you—” Johnny can’t help the hurt leeching into his voice. He’s been keeping it all to himself. Even as he took others to bed. Even when he reasoned and rationalised it. “Taeyong— The only reason we aren’t exclusive—the only reason I even have others—is because you refuse to let me commit to you. Every time it gets too much, you pull away, Yong. Every time I chase after you,” Johnny sighs, “you set me up with your friends. You think I don’t know how Felix knew about me? How all—”

“I thought it would help.”

“You thought wrong, Yongie. I don’t need them.”

“No—” Johnny can feel the cogs in Taeyong’s brain whirring, working into an overdrive. He doesn’t meet his eyes, but Johnny knows what he’ll say next, “No— You deserve someone better, you know?” 

Johnny doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out of him: “Sometimes it feels like it’s only me who wants this.”

Taeyong goes quiet the second he registers the words, his muscles taut, and the vein on his neck stands up. He’s angry. A resigned anger he’s been running around convincing himself he’s made peace with. Like this, Johnny can see the exhaustion seeped into the fibre of his being. The Taeyong on his lap is not the god that demands attention. He’s not the boy who has millions vying for morsels of his affection. He’s the scared boy Johnny met one summer day and fell in love with. The one who’s stuck by him through everything. Whose kisses taste like chocolate all the time. The one who hates the taste of beer but still drinks it because he wants to make people happy. “I—” Taeyong starts, refusing to meet Johnny’s eyes. His hands fiddle with the zipper of his jacket. “I never said— Johnny, I want this. I want us,” he squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a shuddery breath. “More than anything. I want us. I want— Don’t say that I don’t want this. I want this so much that I’m scared. I’m scared that if I get too greedy, that if I start craving you the way I’m stopping myself from craving you, everything will crumble around me. Around us— We’ve worked so hard. You’ve worked so hard. I don’t want to ruin it—”

“I know,” Johnny says. He knows. He’s known for years. He’s stayed by Taeyong’s side through it all, “I know that. But you’re not the only one who’s greedy, Taeyong. It doesn’t feel nice when all I have of you is are promises. I want more. As much as you’re willing to give me—”

“Everything,” Taeyong breathes out, “When I’m back. I promise.” He meets Johnny’s eyes shyly. “I don’t want us to fight. I want to enjoy what’s left of my time before enlisting. I want to spend all my time with you. I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you for as long as possible. I miss you.” 

“Yeah— Yeah, I miss you, too.” It’s barely been a day. Maybe it’s been longer. All Johnny knows is that he misses him.

“Can I kiss you?” Taeyong asks. Johnny nods because he doesn’t know what else to do. Keeping himself away from Taeyong when all he wants to do is curl up next to him has been an endeavour and a half. They lean into each other’s space—the conversation weighing their actions down—but Johnny sees Taeyong’s lips part like they always do when he’s eager for something, and it’s muscle memory from there. It’s risky—to do this where anyone can walk in on them, but Taeyong might be worth it all. Even if it isn’t, Johnny doesn’t care anymore. Not when Taeyong feels right in his arms. Not when Taeyong crumbles on top of him, melting onto Johnny like the convenience store ice cream he was always forced to buy for the pretty boy with a pout. “I missed you. It’s only been a day, but I missed you so much. I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to manage twenty months without you—” 

“So he has brain cells.” Taeyong hits him, shuffling to get more comfortable in Johnny’s lap. “Maybe we can get hitched. Won’t that exempt you?” 

“I don’t wanna marry you because you want me to not go for military service,” he huffs, annoyed, but Johnny hears the smile. “I want you to ask me because you’re madly in love with me and can’t bear to be apart—” 

“But I am—” 

Taeyong shushes him. A thin finger pressed up against his lips. It’s a plea. They both know. But saying it out loud isn’t worth it—at least not right now. Not when they can’t get enough of saying it. Not when there’s not enough time left. Johnny could spend every second they have left saying the words. Write a million songs chronicling every bit of emotion, pouring his heart out—but it still won’t be enough. “Can we stay like this?” 

“Yeah,” he says, pulling Taeyong in closer, letting him mould his body against Johnny, all the bumps and divots fitting against Johnny’s form perfectly. Soulmate— Taeyong had called him once. Made for each other. Same cloth and cut and everything. 

It’s Jungwoo who finds them. Curled up against each other like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. He smiles at them as he snaps a picture, giggling at Taeyong’s protests despite the sleepiness in his limbs. Jungwoo shrugs and takes another one before showing it to Taeyong, who quiets down upon seeing it. It’s a good picture, Johnny notes, surprised at how obviously in love they look, “Yuta-hyung told me to keep an eye on you two and to also get proof if you stopped fighting.”

“We weren’t—”

Jungwoo doesn’t respond, but his expression says more than enough. “Can we go inside now? I want to play Jenga.” Softer. “I won’t tell anyone. There’s no need to, but I won’t tell anyone. Your secret’s safe with me— And Yuta-hyung.”

The room is tinged in red.

It’s not dark enough to hide tears, but no one wants to shine a light lest they expose themselves. There’s something looming in the air. Sadness that’s only moments away from permeating, but between the on-and-off buzzing of the trimmer and the shouts and whistles, there’s no space for it to leak through. The one thing Johnny has learned after spending the better part of his adulthood with these men is that they believe being loud keeps the sadness away. That if they roar and shriek and have enough fun with each other even when the world is about to end, it will force the very fabric of reality to shift—and they can all wake up unbothered the next day.

Youngjin’s studio isn’t crowded, but between the six of them and a few of Taeyong’s friends, there are more people than Johnny is comfortable with being witnesses to his emotions running rampant. Johnny feels the same trepidation—the same tightness that coils in his guts before a concert, but right now, what awaits him isn’t a satisfactory shudder after a job well done. Taeyong’s eyes don’t meet his. Johnny doesn’t want them to. There’s something so uniquely vulnerable about the act—something that Johnny might never understand. Something that underlines where he is from and how he was raised. And how, despite everything they went through together, they’ve always been—and always will be—different. Johnny doesn’t cry, though. He comes close to it—but he doesn’t cry. His tears gather and well up, but he forces them away, shifting his focus onto the beer in his hand that’s no longer cold. 

Jungwoo lets out a nervous giggle as he brings the razor to Taeyong’s hair, only for a yelp to follow the sharp buzz of the blades as a chunk of hair longer than what was initially agreed upon falls to the ground. There’s a moment of silence as realisation hits. Johnny is still rooted to his spot, eyebrows scrunched up, as Jungwoo devolves into a shout of petulant “ No, no, nos—” 

“It’s fine,” Taeyong laughs, voice soft as he comforts Jungwoo. “Maybe it’s time I gave my scalp a fresh start too.”

There are shocked gasps all around. It’s understandable, even considering what they had gathered here to do. Taeyong’s hair has always been eye-catching, even when not decked out in the colours of the rainbow. Him shaving it all off is a fresh start. A clean slate, a new chapter in his life—in their lives. Johnny watches as the members glance at each other as Taeyong urges Jungwoo to have another go at it, all soft smiles and a teasing lilt in his words to ease Jungwoo’s and their fears. 

That breaks the dam. 

Jungwoo wails—an uncharacteristically non-Jungwoo way—as he brings the razor to Taeyong’s scalp and runs it through the thick locks again. Another chunk of hair falls, joining the offending strands from earlier—and Taeyong laughs as Jungwoo hurriedly passes it off to the next person. Despite their earlier rowdiness, they’re careful and deliberate with their hands. There’s a deep sense of devotion—Taeyong is theirs. He’s always been in their corner as much as he could be, and this is the least they could do for him now. Johnny watches Taeyong smile at them encouragingly as they take turns to shave his head, the same devotion mirrored in his eyes, and for a second, he wishes he was anywhere but here.

But there’s no place for him to run and hide. The razor ultimately makes its way into Johnny’s hands. Taeyong has virtually no hair left, except for the spots left for him and Youngjin to shave off. It reminds him of the spoofs in the old cartoons he used to be glued to—almost comical with how surreal it all feels. Johnny brings the whirring blades to Taeyong’s forehead, and Taeyong finally— finally—looks at Johnny with those boba eyes, meeting his gaze with hesitation. Johnny can’t help the tired sigh that leaves him as he cards his fingers through his assigned strands. Taeyong’s eyes flutter shut at that, head still held straight to make the process smoother, but Johnny can feel him relaxing into his touch. Can feel the way his jaw unclenches the more Johnny’s fingers tentatively play with his scalp. Someone clears their throat—and Johnny lets out a nervous laugh, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the buzz of the razor isn’t loud enough to drown out the static in his head. He’s careful not to nick Taeyong from how hard his hands are trembling, watching as wisps of hair fall down onto his face in slow motion, leaving tiny spots of black all over his pale skin. Johnny has the urge to reach out and touch, to smooth out the blemishes, but it might ruin whatever facade he’s built up over the night. Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, Johnny steps back a little too quickly, hands Youngjin the razor a little too hurriedly, runs to the comfort of his beer a little too desperately. 

There are eyes on him—sympathetic and understanding even as they try to give him space. Johnny tries to not let his eyes linger on Taeyong for too long. Tries not to show the hurt as Youngjin spruces it up, leaving Taeyong without his trademark mop of black, allowing him to take off the weight placed onto him. It’s jarring—to be stripped of the familiarity of the roles he’s always carried, but Taeyong takes it in stride. Fingers raised in the classic rockstar sign, none of the earlier hesitation or fear on his face. Trust him to turn emotional moments into one of triumph. It makes Johnny smile, eyes watering from how bright Taeyong shines even in the dimly lit room. His tears don’t stop—everything he’s kept a tight lid on getting a chance to burst forth. 

“Johnny—” He hears a quiet inhale right next to him—careful like they’re approaching a spooked animal. Yuta has a tentative hand curled in the air—not quite touching, but ever ready to should he need the grounding. His mouth opens, and Johnny can’t quite make out the words, but he hears the, “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Johnny stammers, the sleeves of his hoodie quick to wipe at the offending tears. He is supposed to be better at this. “Just a bit emotional. Sorry—”

“Don’t be—” Yuta sounds like he’s talking to a kid. “Don’t be— We get it.” They stand there watching everyone crowd around Taeyong, Yuta’s eyes understanding and kind as they flick between Johnny and the spectacle in front of them. Someone walks up to them and passes Johnny another beer wordlessly, leaving just as fast, trusting Yuta to keep him company. The cold of the bottle is a welcome relief. He downs it a little too eagerly, almost coughing from how fast he tries to empty it. Taeyong looks up at him then—eyes wide as he takes in Johnny’s expression. There’s a hint of concern as he mouths a question that Johnny tries to ignore. He schools himself, getting to his feet to play the role of hype man even when he’s not feeling it. Everyone knows—they all do—so it’s easy to fall into it. Easy to fall into the swing of the party. It doesn’t feel real even now. 48 hours. Even less. Johnny feels the clock tick, an annoying crescendo that forces his heart to match with it, unmoored and unanchored, free to float away and get dragged in by the currents.

Maybe if he drowns, he can have him. Sailors and seas are meant to mix.

Sometimes, Johnny wishes they never jumped into it. That the pain didn’t render them greedy. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to meet Taeyong under different circumstances. Sometimes, he wonders what he would be without Taeyong’s influence for the past decade. Sometimes, he thinks Taeyong is the key to Johnny understanding himself. Sometimes, Johnny thinks he wouldn’t really like the him that exists in a world where he never met Taeyong. But he has him in this life—in whatever capacity he can get him. Sum of parts, a painstakingly made collage. And despite everything, Taeyong is there, and that’s more than what Johnny deserves.  

There’s something about the drive over to Gimhae that gets to him. 

Johnny has taken this route before—out with the members on trips that don’t carry the weight he feels now. Their plans are tentative now—a meet-up in Gimhae with the hopes that the rest of the members can reach them in time. There’s a familiar ache tugging away at him, but he ignores it. Jungwoo and Yuta are talking about something—gifts and plans and music—that Johnny can’t focus on. He hasn’t had a chance to be alone with Taeyong—he’s been staying over with his parents for the past two nights, leaving Johnny’s apartment to stew in a discomforting emptiness. 

It’s a break in the routine they had built up, greedily holding on to each other as the time ticked away. Chasing time and memories in the hopes that they’ll be enough. That they can stack them against the odds. It’s a raw wound, a single row of stitching undone, but it’d be so easy for Johnny to dig his fingers in and pry it open. Leave him flayed out and begging on his knees. Johnny is tempted to pass out, cramped in the backseat, Yuta’s voice lulling him to sleep. It would be easy, Johnny thinks, if he could fast forward and wake up in his bed twenty months into the future—Taeyong curled up next to him. 

It’s late into the night: Johnny is on his phone as sleep evades him when his door creaks open. Not even a knock. Or a prior text. Taeyong is still in his clothes from earlier, the too-big hoodie and beanie, looking awkward and nervous by the door. Johnny is glad he left the door unlocked. Maybe he was expecting him at some point, selfishly, wishing that Taeyong would want it just as bad as he did, but not selfish enough to ask. What they are is still murky—lines drawn in the sand, waiting for a particularly vicious wave to mess it up.

Johnny puts his phone down, a hand gingerly patting the unoccupied space next to him, and Taeyong smiles. Wide and toothy. Lips pulling up like curtains at a play, full of hope and love. He plops down onto the space next to Johnny, breathing in his scent. Johnny hums in response, relaxing into the pillows so Taeyong can nuzzle against him properly. He goes back to his phone, a routine he’s taken to lately—thumbing away at the screen mindlessly until his mind quiets down enough for him to sleep. But right now, the well-established method fails. Taeyong’s body is warm and solid next to him. His shy exhales tickle Johnny. It’s a reminder of what he has and doesn’t want to lose. Taeyong presses a shy kiss at Johnny’s pulse—and Johnny tries to focus on the video playing on mute. Another follows, a little more insistent, open-mouthed and wet, and Johnny jerks, his thumb swiping up, a Taeyong fancam from one of the fan accounts he follows from his burner gracing his screen all of a sudden. Johnny coughs, scrambling to shut his screen off as Taeyong on the screen grinds down on the floor, confident and self-assured that all the eyes in the room are on him. 

“Is that No Manners?” Taeyong asks, mischief laced into his tone. “Are you watching my fancams, Johnny?”

“You look good in it.”

“Yeah?”

“You got no idea what it did to me, Yongie,” Johnny tries to laugh it off, but Taeyong blinks up at him. All wide eyes and innocence, a shyness brought forth from the revelation and Johnny pleads with his eyes to not bring it up. Taeyong giggles, falling back to Johnny’s side, getting comfortable against him so there is no space between them. When he speaks, the hoarseness of his voice rubs Johnny’s neck raw.

“I can’t believe it’s tomorrow.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you think— If it’s allowed— Will you call me every day?”

“You know I will—”

Taeyong hums, mouthing at Johnny’s pulse again. Johnny wonders whether they should head to bed soon. It’s an early day tomorrow, and he wants Taeyong well-rested. He says as much, Taeyong stilling in his motions; his fingers swirl against the fabric of Johnny’s sweats, shy and tentative, “Do you think I’m ugly?” 

“Yongie, you know that’s— Like, impossible, right?” Johnny snorts, the question feeling like a prank. He brings Taeyong’s restless hand to his mouth, pressing reverent kisses on his elegant fingers, “You’ll always be the prettiest thing to me.” 

“But am I ugly now though?” Taeyong turns around to look at Johnny, sounding a bit desperate. Unsure. Insecure. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“You’re not touching me.” 

Oh. Oh. “That’s not— You have a long day tomorrow. And you can’t— We can’t risk it. I don’t want to push you—” 

“Johnny,” Taeyong says, meeting his eyes. He sounds resolute, pushing through the crack in his voice. “I won’t be coming back with you. Tomorrow, you’ll drop me off at the base— And I won’t come back with you.” 

“Yong—” 

“This will be our last night together for a while. And I want this. I don’t care if it’s a stupid idea or if it hurts. I want this with you. I need you—”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—”

“What’s your colour, baby?”

“Green.”

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much? Because you can’t— I don’t think— I won’t be able to stop, Yong.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong says, his voice barely a whisper, “Please.”

Johnny’s never been in the habit of denying Taeyong anything—and he isn’t planning to start either. It’s easy to steal a kiss from Taeyong, stun him as he begs, press Johnny’s lips plush against Taeyong’s petal-soft ones, tasting like the mint toothpaste Johnny has grown to like. It’s easy to fall into the motions: a routine at this point, muscle memory to a carefully choreographed dance, tongue easing at the seam of Taeyong’s lips, prying them open, swallowing up the gasps he lets out. The whimper that follows it as Taeyong’s hands seek out Johnny’s skin, needy like the rest of him. 

When they part, the red colouring Taeyong’s cheeks rivals that of his lips. Johnny thumbs at the highpoint, pressing into the rude blush, tracing the contours of his face, no longer cast under the shadow of his hair. Johnny touches a spot by his ear, crimson and warm, massaging the indents left behind by Taeyong’s piercings, “You took them out?”

“Yeah—” Taeyong answers, his voice raspy, lilting into a whine, “Please—”

“I know. I know— Fuck—” Johnny takes a deep breath, head still reeling from the kiss. “You’re really leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll miss you. Fuck, I think I miss you already—”

“I know— I’ll be back. I won’t— ’m not gonna disappear on you—”

“You better come back,” Johnny says, leaning in for another kiss Taeyong melts into. He’s putty in Johnny’s hands, pliant and malleable as Johnny manoeuvres him onto his lap. “That comfortable?”

“I’m not delicate.”

“I know you’re not. I— I’m just worried,” Johnny’s hands rub soothing circles onto the dimples on Taeyong’s back, his fingers running up Taeyong’s spine, careful not to press too hard, “You mean so much to me. You know that, baby? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are hurting me right now,” Taeyong pouts, his pursed lips reminding Johnny of simpler times. It sheds the alien gravity, Johnny smiling now that they’re face to face. “You’re not touching me, Youngho—”

“My name is not a cheat code, Yong—” Johnny chastises, ignoring how it still makes his heart flutter. No one calls him Youngho the way Taeyong does—a single exhale before it dips; Taeyong’s signature rasp at the end renders Johnny’s name obscene and reverent. His complaint is unheard, ignored as Taeyong shuffles around, his thighs splayed on either side of Johnny’s until he’s seated right on his dick. He giggles just then, a swivel of his hips, a teasing roll and a slow grind, and Johnny ignores the interested twitch his cock gives, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Brat.”

“You love me—”

“I do—” It stuns Taeyong, his eyes widening at Johnny’s sincerity, “What? Am I still not allowed to say it?”

“You’re not being fair,” Taeyong whines, shuddery, crumbling against Johnny’s front. He mouths at his clavicle, canines sharp as they drag across his skin, kisses laved along the hollow of Johnny’s throat, wet and messy, up and up until they’re face to face. Johnny could kiss him again. Act like it’s every other night. Act like things are fine, and they’re just fucking like usual. But Taeyong’s gaze is indecipherable. Beseeching. It asks for something—and knows that Johnny will give it, but the fear of the consequences is potent. “Do you mean it?”

Johnny almost laughs, stopping when the tears prick at him, “I’ve never not meant it, Yongie.” 

“If you love me— And—” Taeyong’s words are careful, refusing to leave his mouth. He bites at his lips, still an inviting shade of red, “If I love you— Would that mean we’re making love right now?” 

It’s a stupid question, really. A childish curiosity. Unbecoming and unnecessary. After all, they’re both almost thirty. But there’s a confirmation in it—one Taeyong can’t say outright, one Johnny should never be too greedy to ask for, “Yeah. It would.”

“Youngho,” Taeyong breathes into the space between them, his exhale shaky, “I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you for far too long.”

“I know,” Johnny chases it, lips brushing against Taeyong’s, savouring the syllables still lingering in the air, tasting bittersweet after all this while. Still, Johnny is not above begging, “Will you say it again, Yongie?”

“I love you—” His teenage self would laugh at him for how his heart skips a beat, but Johnny can’t find it in him to care. Because teenage, closet-emo Johnny Suh isn’t the one who just got confessed to by Lee Taeyong. That’s all Johnny—pushing thirty and growing old. No longer the boy Taeyong met when the seasons were turning, a gloomy April like this one, cherry blossoms falling amidst the rain. “I love you,” Taeyong whispers against his lips, a litany, a promise. Johnny swallows it all up, pulling him in closer, hands sliding at his sides, clumsy and clammy from how hard his heart is beating.

He stills Taeyong in his hold to pull the hoodie over Taeyong’s head, his beanie following it, thrown to the floor in a haphazard pile, Johnny’s own joining it the next second. Johnny kisses the tattoo on Taeyong’s shoulder—over the inked swallow, biting at the tender skin. Taeyong gasps, hands digging into Johnny’s hair, gripping it to hold him closer. He pulls at the strands, deterring Johnny from his path so he can kiss Taeyong again. It feels like that’s all they can do—all they want to do. Kiss until their lips are bitten red and raw. Kiss until Johnny knows for sure Taeyong is all his.

“Want you in me,” Taeyong moans, tugging at Johnny’s sweats, “Johnny—” 

“Yeah. Do you have lube?”

“In your handbag. I packed it before I left your apartment—”

“Did you now?”

“Mmm,” Taeyong moans, not ashamed at his admission, “I wanted— I want this. I need something to remind me of you—”

Johnny doesn’t respond, tapping at Taeyong’s thighs so Johnny can go get the lube. Taeyong is impatient as Johnny rummages through his bag, shucking out of his pants, the offending piece of clothing joining the pile on the floor. Johnny finally grabs the familiar bottle, tossing it to Taeyong before stripping out of his remaining clothes. He crawls onto the bed, crowding Taeyong against his pillows, sucking his bottom lip into a bruising kiss. He hears Taeyong click the bottle open, getting his fingers slick with the slippery liquid, and Johnny swallows, “You’re going to do it yourself?”

“It’s easier—”

“Can I do it?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. Let me take care of you, baby—”

“Okay. Yeah— Please—” Johnny doesn’t respond. He plants a kiss over Taeyong’s heart, mouthing at the twin dragons encircling it, nipping at Taeyong’s skin as he makes his way down. Taeyong’s legs fall apart, spreading and making space for Johnny, his arousal insistent and sensitive when Johnny mouths at it. He swirls a tongue around the head, sucking it into his mouth, tasting the pre, Taeyong’s whines resounding around him. Johnny pulls off of him, kissing down the shaft, nibbling at the base lightly, dragging his teeth across the perineum. He can see Taeyong’s entrance: pink and glistening and needy. Johnny breathes against the sensitive pucker, finally closing the gap, mouth pressed against the winking hole, Taeyong’s high-pitched moans spurring him on. He kisses at the rim, his tongue slipping in with ease, Taeyong clenching around the intrusion.

“Relax, Yongie,” Johnny pulls back a little, licking a stripe up Taeyong’s perineum and back down, getting him all wet and leaking, “I know you got all ready for me, baby, but I need to prep you—”

“Feels too good,” Taeyong gasps when Johnny dives right back in, tongue working on eating him out, “Don’t wanna come yet—”

“But you deserve to, baby,” Johnny whispers against the wet ring of muscle. “You’ve been such a good boy, and you’ve worked so hard—” 

“Johnny—” There’s a punched-out groan when Johnny slips two fingers in, stretching Taeyong’s rim without warning. His hips stutter, pushing down onto the digits curling in him. He knows Taeyong inside out, so Johnny finds the bundle of nerves quick, fingers tapping against it insistently until Taeyong wails, hips grinding down, undulating as Johnny massages the spot through his first orgasm.

“You’re mean.” Is what Taeyong tells him when he can speak again, but Johnny smiles, tapping against Taeyong’s rim again. He pouts when Johnny meets his gaze, mouthing the lyrics to Tap, growing redder when Johnny’s lube-slick fingers slowly ease their way in, three this time, leaving the pink opening a little red. “Meanie—”

“Sorry, baby,” Johnny kisses the tight ring of muscle, cold from the lube but warm to the touch from the stretch. He needs to prep Taeyong properly. Even now, when everything inside him is shivering, terrified of what tomorrow holds, Johnny has to stay strong and make sure Taeyong is okay. Johnny kisses his inner thigh, nipping and sucking at the sensitive flesh to distract Taeyong enough that he can ease a fourth in, the burn teetering on the edge of pain if Taeyong’s mewls are an indication. Johnny pours more lube onto his fingers, encouraging Taeyong to relax slowly. Johnny is careful as he works him open, getting him all loose and ready. His fingers spread Taeyong out, thumb gently massaging at the swollen rim to ease the pain. Johnny kisses the juncture between Taeyong’s thigh and pelvis, tongue laving at the soft skin as his thumb continues teasing the rim—Taeyong’s gasps pitchy and erratic as Johnny curls his fingers against his prostate. Johnny muffles his laughter, kissing up Taeyong’s body, swirling his tongue against Taeyong’s cock.

“Johnny—”

“Yeah, baby?” Taeyong’s cock isn’t big enough that Johnny struggles to take it all in. It’s velvety soft, drooling all over his stomach, the taste of his precum heady as Johnny swallows around it. He sucks at it lightly as his fingers seek out the bundle of nerves again, no longer gentle as they rub it, Taeyong’s cock twitching feebly in Johnny’s mouth. He doesn’t give Taeyong a chance to answer, determined to make him come again, working the nerves until Taeyong’s hips lift off the ground, cock leaking onto Johnny’s eager tongue as Johnny pushes him to the brink of an orgasm.

“Wanna come—”

“Go ahead, Yongie—”

“Not like this,” Taeyong whines and Johnny laughs around the dick in his mouth. Johnny presses the spot harder, Taeyong’s hips lifting off the mattress, his dick bumping up against Johnny’s palate as he comes again. Johnny gags, swallowing around the length, still hard, still leaking, dragging his teeth across the slit even as Taeyong keens, “Johnny— Want you in me—”

Johnny pulls off Taeyong’s cock, gazing down at the panting boy in front of him. His chest rising and falling; pale skin red and splotchy. His tattoos gleam from the sheen of sweat, leaving him a hazy canvas. Johnny pulls his fingers out, wiping them clean on the sheets before dragging them up Taeyong’s body, feeling out every dip and bump and crevice and scar already committed to his memory. They’ve changed so much. Seven years have left them older. More mature. But deep down, Johnny still feels like the boy who saw Taeyong and fell for him as easy as breathing. Johnny traces his tattoos, wishing he could smudge them, undo something permanent and rewrite them so he stays embedded in Taeyong’s skin, nestled into the crooks of the art adorning him. Johnny’s hands don’t stop: they trace his nipples, the smooth expanse of his belly, the dip in his chest, over his beating heart. Up the hollow of his throat, small enough for Johnny to wrap a hand around it. Johnny can feel Taeyong’s erratic pulse, eager and anticipating; he presses in a little, Taeyong’s groan leaving him heady.

“You’re so beautiful, Taeyongie,” Johnny whispers, mapping out the body offered to him. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Taeyong blurs in front of him, all frosted glass and watercolours, “Fuck—”

“Don’t cry,” Taeyong sobs, hands reaching out for Johnny, pulling him in, “Young— Don’t cry,” Taeyong kisses his cheeks, soothing the tear tracks, “I love you,” he whispers into Johnny’s mouth, voice cracking, “I’m sorry I never said it—”

“It’s okay—” Johnny isn’t used to not having a hold of his heart. He isn’t used to his feelings being out in the open. Even when things were murky, even when their fights left him reeling, Johnny knew Taeyong was only a hand’s reach away, but right now, their future seems unsure. Johnny kisses him again, a desperate crash of their lips, letting himself get dragged around by his heart. 

Taeyong melts in his hold, hands running down Johnny’s back, whispering promises every time Johnny breaks their kiss to catch air. Taeyong’s legs wrap around his middle, pulling Johnny in impossibly close, rocking against him, gasping when Johnny’s abs glide over his sensitive cock.

“Sorry,” Taeyong says, embarrassed and a little guilty, but Johnny laughs, hoarse.

“It’s fine, baby.” Their erections have flagged a bit, and Johnny runs a curious finger up the vein on the underside of Taeyong’s cock, watching with lust as it fills out again. He pumps the length once, Taeyong’s whine equal parts aroused and equal parts pained. Johnny trails his fingers down, teasing Taeyong’s hole: the lube is drying, but he’s still loose, still ready for Johnny. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Taeyong nods, relaxing against the mattress as Johnny hikes his leg up over his shoulder, dribbling more lube over the pink hole and over his neglected cock, gasping when he finally wraps a hand around himself. He rubs the fat head over the winking hole, smearing the wetness, teasing Taeyong, knowing neither of them will last long.

“You ready?” Johnny doesn’t wait for a response before sliding in, Taeyong’s body opening up for him eagerly. He gives Taeyong a moment to adjust to the fullness, pulling out slowly and thrusting back in carefully. Slow and languid. A gentle rhythm that usually would make Taeyong complain, but right now, he lies there, eyes closed and bottom lip caught between his teeth, letting Johnny take care of him. Johnny kisses Taeyong’s leg, nibbling at the soft skin as he picks up his pace slowly. Johnny’s already at his limits. And so is Taeyong—his eyes are half-shut, but they stay stuck on Johnny’s face, a content smile on his lips. He lifts his arms a little, beckoning Johnny closer—and Johnny rubs a soothing circle onto his calves, carefully lowering Taeyong’s leg. Johnny lets him adjust to the change in position, grinding his hips as Taeyong shifts and shimmies half-heartedly. Taeyong whines again once he’s comfortable, and Johnny laughs, leaning in so Taeyong can hug him.

“You close, baby?” Johnny whispers, kissing his jaw, Taeyong moans in response as Johnny wraps his hand around his dick. He pumps the length, the drool from Taeyong’s cock making the slide easier. Taeyong jolts when Johnny’s cock drags against his prostate, oversensitive as Johnny works his cock in tandem with his thrusts.

“‘M close, too,” Johnny bites out as Taeyong nods, head lolling to the side, drool soaking his chin. He twists his hand the way he knows Taeyong likes, grinding his dick against his prostate—and Taeyong comes, cock spurting all over Johnny’s hand and walls clenching around Johnny’s length, dragging him under as well. Johnny fucks him through it, slow even now, tender in how he lets Taeyong feel every inch, letting him feel how much Johnny is stretching him out as his cum paints his insides.

Johnny slumps against Taeyong, careful not to crush him, but there’s no strength left in him. Taeyong nuzzles against his cheek, hands carding through Johnny’s hair, slicked with sweat, “We should clean up,” Johnny manages to say, “Or it’ll get too messy—”

“Can you stay inside for a little longer?”

“Yong—”

“Please—”

Johnny sighs, kissing Taeyong’s heated skin, “How about this? I’ll clean you up, and we can shower so you won’t feel dirty in the morning—” 

But—”

“Lemme finish, you whiny thing,” he huffs, chuckling when he feels Taeyong pouting, “We can come back here and cuddle. And since you’re a good boy, you can warm my cock when we fall asleep.”

“The entire night?”

“Only you behave—”

“I always behave—”

“Lying isn’t a virtue, Lee Taeyong.”

“Says you—”

The rain is a blessing. 

That’s what Taeyong’s eomma tells them as it starts drizzling. Prosperity and luck, fortunes and good health—the list goes on. The enlistment ceremony is cancelled due to the weather, so their schedule isn’t as demanding. A part of Johnny, still holding on to hope, wonders if he wishes hard enough—Taeyong wouldn’t have to go. But when he looks out the window, the base is within his line of sight, and hope has always been a fool’s endeavour.

Taeyong notices it too, hurrying to lace their fingers together, the chilly air losing to the warmth radiating from him. He squeezes Johnny’s hand, “I’ll be fine.”

“Who’s going to do your shopping and carry your bags?”

“I’m plenty capable. But the moment I’m back, we’re flying to Milan.”

“Why stop at Milan? Add Tokyo and Paris to the list. NYC, too—”

“And you’ll carry all my bags?” 

“Yes.”

“Even if they have those tiny straps you hate cause they hurt your hands?”

“Even if they have the tiny straps that hurt my hands.”

Taeyong giggles. It’s an addictive sound. Johnny wonders when he first heard it. When it became what he looked forward to the most. “Johnny—” Taeyong starts, but his words get drowned out as their car lurches to a stop, and their manager rushes to them, hurrying them along to not hold up the ceremony.

The rain isn’t kind. It’s not the harsh winds Johnny has come to associate with Seoul, but it pelts down. Insistent. Johnny gets handed an umbrella, a flimsy thing that barely does its job of covering. Still, he shields Taeyong as he gets out, leaving enough space for someone to come and escort him. But Taeyong lingers, crowding under Johnny’s umbrella—uncaring of how it leaves him exposed to the mercy of the weather.

“Careful,” Johnny says, breath ghosting over Taeyong’s lashes as he pulls him closer so his sleeves don’t get wet. Taeyong smiles at him slyly, a silent admission that he knows Johnny won’t let anything happen to him.

“You’ll call?” he asks as they make their way through the crowd, quiet enough that only Johnny hears, “Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“And when I get discharged, you’ll come to pick me up?”

“Obviously—”

“Will you bring flowers?”

“Roses.”

“The red ones?”

“Yeah. The red ones.”