Archive of Our Own

The words still plague Sieun’s mind.

They press into the recesses of his temples, where they settle and throb with a pain that numbs— deafens the crunch of rain against the bus stop roof, the low hiss of passing tires on the soaked road.

It was just a slip of his lips, unbidden, in that one rare moment when his mouth moved faster than his brain could think— an unwarranted race of what could unravel Suho first.

“You said there wouldn’t be any more secrets between us.”

The regret burst in him right after, veining out fast like ink on water. It flooded his bloodstream, filtering adrenaline through rough pumps of his heart, its tendrils clawing fast up Sieun’s throat to snap his lips shut.

The statement tasted like acid. Like it’s something that shouldn’t have been said. Because where was his right?

Suho is his own person; he can do what he wants. He’s allowed his own space, his own silences, his own secrets— who is Sieun to say that he should be a part of that?

He knew how wrong it was, and yet…

It was also relieving. To say it. Like an unbearable weight had been lifted off his tongue, his chest— giving way to a thought that begged to be set free from the depths of his heart.

An acknowledgment, that maybe… Sieun’s always wanted more than what Suho was willing to give.

He’s always felt as though he’s been balancing on glass. His every step was measured. Calculated, then recalculated, lest he risk a percent-higher chance of the glass breaking. He’d always had everything under control. And everything had been fine. Everything seemed so okay…

So he let himself look away. Just that once, when Suho was at Sieun’s doorstep after the fight. He ignored the look in Suho’s eyes that seemed as though they held a million questions, his tight-lipped smile, the determined set of his shoulders as he retreated from Sieun’s doorstep, the unease that festered in Sieun’s chest as he watched Suho walk away.

It was just that once. Just that once.

And it was that decision to glance away, that one act of carelessness, that found him with a crack beneath his feet. The one crack that could split everything apart.

So maybe that was why he’d said it. Maybe it was a confluence borne from loaded gazes, held-back confessions, days lived-through with half a soul and nights spent sitting by hospital bedsides.

Maybe it was because he knew, deep down, what happens when he looks away. Maybe it was the fear, that— the next time he’s ignorant, what’s under his feet wouldn’t just be a crack—but the end.

He couldn’t risk it anymore.

So he allowed himself, just that once. The selfishness of reaching out for an answer he never dared ask from Suho.

He’d waited. Held his breath, as though that could coax an answer from his best friend on the other side of the line. As if patience could bridge the rift he felt forming between them.

“Sieunnie…”

And just like that, his hope shattered. A clean break, so clean it almost didn’t make a sound.

And then the hiss of bus doors cleaves through his fog. Sharp and grating. Metal upon metal. It’s such an abrupt pull from the concave of his mind, it was as if someone yanked him from the bottom of a deep, deep pool and into open air before he was even ready to breathe.

Sieun’s head snaps up.

There’s a blur of motion. People are spilling out of the bus in an unrelenting current, umbrellas flying open with the cadence of startled wings, shoes clapping hard against the wet pavement, stirring puddles whose previous stillness reflected the gray belly of the sky. Voices rise in indistinct, frustrated murmurs, though muted— like they speak from behind a pane of glass.

Sieun just stands there in the middle of it all as the tide of people part around him, brushing past with rain-soaked shoulders, leaving behind an ozonic tang as they pass him by.

The cold is harsh and unforgiving, in the way it reminds Sieun— of its presence, how it gnaws into his skin, settling into the dips of his collarbones and clinging to the trembling line of his arms.

Of how— bare, he feels. How wrong.

Like something has been stripped from him.

And it’s in that raw, shivering space in time that the memory blooms again—

The jacket.

It used to be nothing, really. Just Sieun’s silly, worn-out jacket he’s had since high school. Threadbare at the cuffs, riddled with a few stubborn stains, the dull greyness of it a result of scraping through countless days like worn stone.

But that’s not what it is anymore.

Now, it carries a warmth. An almost impossible, warmth— the kind that lingers long after touch should’ve faded, that feels like the ghost of hands smoothing over his shoulders, looping loosely around his neck, patting his back in passing with an absentminded fondness— contentment materialized, etched into fabric.

It was as if, somewhere along the way, pieces of Suho had caught on its threads.

As if Suho’s touch turned Sieun’s jacket from just some thing Sieun wore, to something gentler. Something that tethered him when the world tilted off its axis. Something that reminded him he wasn’t drifting.

And now, without its familiar weight on his shoulders, Sieun feels flayed.

Sieun's chest tightens, a hollow ache blooming behind his ribs.

He clicks up the volume on his phone as he steps into the bus, so that the music plays louder than his thoughts.

By the next afternoon, Sieun is standing at Suho’s door again.

The sky is too bright—unrelentingly blue, the sun a hot and heavy cloak pooling over the building’s overhang. Heat gathers beneath Sieun’s collar, slick against his neck, and the damp air clings to his skin like shrink-wrap. It feels suffocating, like even the air has stilled to join him in holding his breath.

It’s definitely going to rain again.

And Sieun definitely shouldn’t have come.

It's a sharp, spearheaded thought, its blow hard enough to send his knees buckling. Fight and flight grapple for dominance in his mind— a war that flight may be winning— his body twitching with the urge to run, back into the elevator, back into the safety of distance before he’s forced to confront something he’s always been scared to on the other side of the door.

But he already texted Suho. Already rode the bus here. Already knocked.

And Suho still hasn’t opened the door.

So for too long, Sieun just stands there— the strap of his bag constantly slipping off his shoulder, his palms turning damp where they grip at them. He ticks down long seconds in his mind as he shifts his weight, heartbeat swelling louder and louder the longer time passes.

Finally, he can hear from inside: a faint scrape. A shuffle. Somehow, it felt unnaturally quiet, like it was the product of someone moving too carefully.

Sieun’s stomach drops. Is Suho ignoring him? He didn’t answer his text, after all— Sieun just came on the assumption that, like always, Suho would let him in without question.

Maybe Suho changed his mind. Maybe he doesn’t want to answer. Maybe Sieun was made to just stand like a fool, outside his door, remembering all the other times Suho had shut him out—half-smiles at doorsteps, unanswered questions— it claws up now, the fear that this time will end the same—

The lock clicks.

Sieun’s head whips up.

The door creaks— slow and deliberate, opening inch by painstaking inch— until a thin strip of light cuts across the floorboards. Sieun could see the worn edge of a rug, the faint scuff of sneakers abandoned at a corner—

Then suddenly, the view is blocked. The sharp red of a shirt floods Sieun’s vision, the fresh tang of soap filling his lungs, warm, sharp, familiar— and then the hall light halos around the man standing in front of him.

Suho.

His hair is damp- bangs clinging in wet clumps, some are pushed back from his forehead as if he’d tried to run a hand through them, while water drags the rest of them loose, strands falling stubbornly over his eyes. Droplets gather in the net of his lashes, veiling a stare that looks too sure to be startled.

The sight punches the air out of Sieun’s lungs.

Huh. So Suho has been there for a while.

Sieun’s gaze drags downward before he can stop himself. Past the dark tracks of water marking Suho’s collar, sliding into the hollow of his chest, to the curve of his forearms, down to where Suho’s hands strain gripped around—

The jacket.

Sieun’s jacket.

Sieun’s eyes flick back up, catching on Suho’s face.

The younger’s expression is unreadable, too many clashing emotions to pin down— but his eyes give him away. Tight. Searching. As if waiting for a blow that hasn’t landed yet.

For a moment, it’s only silence.

Then—

“Hi.” Suho’s voice is soft.

“Hello,” Sieun replies.

The quiet stretches with the absurdity of the exchange, taking on the air of something so awkward and unnatural it makes Sieun’s head ache.

Suho shifts his weight then, his hand tightening around the jacket. His gaze darts once over Sieun, before returning to lock with Sieun’s own. The movement is quick and small, but it knocks something loose in Sieun’s chest, leaving him raw and a little restless.

Suho clears his throat.

“Here.”

He offers the jacket forward.

Sieun takes it, fingers brushing the fabric, and—

Wrong.

The weight is the same, so is the familiar drape settling over his arm, but—

Everything else was wrong.

It’s too stiff, fibers scrubbed harsh from what likely is an over-wash. Too smooth, the texture stripped of the lived-in softness he knows by heart.

And the smell— sharp. Chemical. Bleach-scorched.

It’s his jacket. But it doesn’t feel like it at all.

A strange heaviness presses at the back of his throat.

He slips the jacket on anyway, the fabric dragging rough against his skin. When he looks up again, Suho is watching him— pretending not to, eyes flicking away just as quickly.

The air stretches taut, fragile as glass. If either of them moves too fast, it’ll shatter.

Why is Suho giving him his jacket out here? Is he not going to let Sieun in? Did he just want him to take it and go?

Sieun wets his lips, words balanced at the tip of his tongue: Do you want me to leave?

His chest is heavy with the weight of almost saying it, knowing he might not like the answer.

But before he could speak, Suho blurts out, quick and stumbling—

“Are you… hungry?”

The question lands crooked in the silence. Not quite an invitation, not quite an excuse - but maybe something in between.

Sieun blinks, thrown off-balance for a moment. Hungry? It’s too late for lunch. Too early for dinner. He hadn’t eaten either, but that isn’t what’s making his chest twist.

It’s the way Suho asks, like he’s grasping for any reason to keep him here, like letting him walk away would be the worst thing he could do.

And Sieun, starving for something he cannot yet name, takes it as permission to stay.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

It’s not relief, exactly, but Suho’s posture softens, the rigid set of his shoulders giving way just enough to show Sieun the weight he’s been carrying.

Wordlessly, he steps back, the door opening wider.

Suho’s kitchen is a lot brighter than usual.

Sieun’s propped up against the edge of the counter as he watches Suho cook. His eyes try to drift away from the younger’s figure whenever he catches himself staring for too long, but everything else around him is oddly blinding– in the way the light reflects off surfaces in sharp white, like even the space itself refuses to soften the tension between them.

Suho really is acting so strange.

He moves about the kitchen with an unease that is so untypical of him— pots and pans clatter with a frequency not usually present in their dinner hangouts, movements to quick and imprecise like he can’t get a grip on himself, and Sieun thinks he hears him nick his finger on a slice at some point— confirmed when Suho strides across the kitchen, brows furrowed as he sucks tightly at his thumb. He doesn’t even look at Sieun when their shoulders brush in passing.

Sieun doesn't ask what Suho’s making. He doesn't ask why. And he definitely doesn't ask why he's pretending this is all normal, why they're pretending this is all normal.

Savory steam softens the room, but not what exists between them. It only curls around Sieun uselessly, leaving the hollow under his ribs untouched.

They eat at the counter, where the space between them is more narrow.

Suho slides a bowl toward him with careful hands, like even the ceramic might bruise. Steam curls from the broth, threading faint warmth into the air.

It probably tastes delicious. Suho’s cooking always does— whether simple or elaborate, or whether Sieun even likes the dish at first or not, it always turns into a favorite when it’s been in Suho’s hands.

But Sieun can’t confirm that right now. Not through the numbness he feels.

They eat quietly. Suho hasn’t looked up once, gaze fixed on his bowl, movements careful where they’re usually loose to accommodate his greedy appetite.

When the bowls are empty, the quiet grows unbearable. The broth sits cold at the bottom in an oil-slick sheen, and Sieun can’t take it anymore.

This not-knowing, this sickeningly familiar distance— it presses too close to the memory Sieun’s been burying for years.

His hand tightens around the spoon. His pulse scrapes the edge of his throat. And before he can stop himself, the words are slipping out—

“What’s wrong?”

The question detonates in the silence.

Suho’s head jerks, but his eyes don’t lift. They’re fixed on the counter, somewhere near their bowls, as if the answer might be carved there. His thumb drags over the lacquered wood. Back, and forth. Back, and forth.

Something ugly twists in Sieun’s chest, quickening his pulse. Heat rises in him, sharp and tight, frustration fraying at the edges of his restraint—

When Suho finally exhales, it’s thin and hollow.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t lie.”

It comes immediately after, as if Sieun read the truth straight off the tense line of Suho’s body.

Somewhere beyond the walls, thunder rolls low. A few stray drops tap against the roof, hesitant, holding back its strike.

Suho stills, caught, and Sieun can see the way the words die on his lips.

“You keep acting like nothing’s changed, after that call,” Sieun pushes on, “but it has. I can feel it.”

Suhos mouth parts, then closes again, his fingers loose around his spoon — he looks lost, almost stricken, like he wants to say something but can’t.

It guts Sieun. His favorite person in the whole goddamn world, and he’s folding in on himself, walling off parts of him Sieun can’t reach. It hurts.

“Why?” Sieun breathes, “Why are you being so distant?”

Another hanging, disappointing beat.

And before he knows it, Sieun is on his feet. His chair scrapes against the tile with a protesting shriek, but he can’t sit still anymore. If he doesn’t move, he’ll split open right here.

“I should go,” he clips. “I shouldn't have stayed.”

His throat works around the words that follow after, softer: “you clearly don’t want me here.”

Suho flinches.

Sieun turns, but he makes it barely two steps before a hand catches his wrist.

“Sieun, wait—”

And the sound of it— cracked open and raw, like it was wrenched from the deepest parts of Suho— is what roots Sieun in place.

“It’s not that. It’s not that at all.”

Suho draws Sieuns hand into both of his, trembling, desperate. Then he lowers himself onto the chair Sieun just left, looking up at him— wide, brown eyes, big and bare and pleading, pulling at every one of Sieun’s fragile threads—

Suho curls inward. And then he whispers—

“I’m scared.”

The words slice straight through Sieun.

When Suho lifts his head again, his eyes are wet and red-rimmed. “If I tell you,” he chokes, “you’ll think I’m messed up. And you’ll leave. You’ll never come back.”

Sieun’s tired, and so lost, and he really doesn't think he can handle the extra burden of Suho talking in circles, too, but he tries, he’s going to try—

“Tell me what, Suho?”

Something shifts in Suho’s gaze, painting his face in an emotion so raw but hard to place, and Sieun could only keep looking to try and figure it out—

Suho's throat works around the words, and when they come, they’re ragged, fractured:

“…Your jacket.”

A beat.

Sieun blinks. Confused. He doesn’t understand. “What…”

Suho squeezes his hand tighter, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way Sieun has never seen before.

“It’s— I’ve… Used it.” His eyes squeeze shut, and the next words tumble out in a rush. “It was there, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you after you left, and I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t stop—I know it’s wrong, I know, but you were all I could—” He breaks off, breath hitching. “—I’m sorry, Sieun. I’m so sorry.”

Everything hits fucking pause.

Pause, pause, pause— because Sieun can't hear himself over the loud thudding in his head. The words crawl under his skin, settle in his bones, and suddenly it’s like he can’t tell where his heartbeat ends and where Suho’s shame begins.

The jacket. His jacket. Suho had—

It should repulse him.

The wrongness of it should be enough to shove him out the door. To make him spit out something bitter, and disgusted— just to keep the ground steady beneath his feet.

But all it does is unravel Sieun.

Because Suho did this, thinking of him. Suho wanted him, like that.

And Sieun doesn’t know what to do with that truth, except hold it so fucking tight it hurts.

For so long, he’s been guessing at shadows—watching Suho drift closer, yet fold himself smaller and smaller, as though trying to disappear. He’d convinced himself that if he kept still, if he pretended, the glass beneath them might hold.

But here it is, shattered wide open. In Suho’s trembling voice. In his pleading eyes. In the grip that won’t let go of Sieun’s wrist.

The words tear out of Sieun like a splinter pulled free.

“Show me.”

The air shifts. Outside, the storm finally breaks. Rain hammers the windows in sheets, the wind rattling through the seams in a wild percussion, stretching to accommodate the sudden charged silence that fills the room.

Sieun’s mouth parts.

Suho’s eyes go wide.

And Sieun—Sieun can’t move.

The silence doubles down like a weight, and he swears he might stumble under it.

What the fuck did he just say?

His stomach flips, hot and cold all at once. For a dizzying second, he thinks of taking it back, of swallowing the words down like poison. But—

“What?” Suho whispers.

And Sieun sees it in his eyes—the same shock, the same want, reflected back at him.

His lips part again, but nothing comes out. His heart is a drumbeat in the cage of his ribs.

Neither of them moves.

But Suho is still here. Still clutching his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“You… You want me to show you?”

Sieun swallows, instinct tugging him to retreat, but the thought pulses through him again, unrelenting: Suho thought of me, Suho wanted me—

— And against all logic, all the careful control he’s built his life upon, he finds himself leaning into it.

“Yes.”

Suho’s fingers twitch around his wrist, then loosen. A flush creeps fast up his throat, over his ears, and his mouth opens and closes soundlessly before—

“I… I don’t…” His lashes tremble. His breath stutters. “Sieun-ah, you don’t know what you’re asking. If I— If I show you, you’ll…” His voice cracks. “… You’ll think I’m disgusting.”

Something in Sieun snaps. He can’t bear the shame that drags Suho’s gaze down, can’t bear that Suho thinks he should hide.

Sieun steps closer. Their shadows spill into each other.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Suho-yah.” It’s his own voice, but it sounds so foreign to him. Hoarse, but certain in the way it desires.

Suho looks up at him, startled, his expression caught between fear and hope.

For one suspended second, the world holds still. The fridge hums low. A drip from the tap counts seconds Sieun doesn’t feel.

And then Suho’s resolve shatters.

A shaky breath breaks from him. His grip on Sieun’s wrist tightens like he’s anchoring himself.

“Okay,” he whispers. Once, then again, like he’s convincing himself. “Okay. Okay.”

His hand rakes through his hair, trembling. His eyes don’t leave Sieun’s, no matter how wet and wrecked they look. And beneath the shame, there’s something else—small, desperate, burning through the cracks.

He swallows hard, voice dropping into something faint, uneven. “Then… Come with me.”

The bedroom feels smaller than Sieun remembers.

The air inside is thick— stifling, like the walls lean in to listen. The curtains are drawn, dragging the light down to a dull haze, shadowing the corners, making everything feel muted, expectant.

Suho doesn’t let go of him until they reach the bed. When they do, his hand slips away too quickly, leaving Sieun’s skin buzzing where the touch used to be. For a moment, Suho just stands there— his back turned away from Sieun, breath unsteady on the wide set of his shoulders. It twists something in Sieun’s chest. Suho feels miles away, even though he’s standing just steps from him.

Then, slowly, Suho reaches for a pillow at the head of the bed.

Sieun’s breath sticks. His pulse trips over itself. He watches Suho’s trembling hand hover above it like he’s watching him balance on the edge of a cliff. Sieun doesn’t dare move.

“I…” Suho’s voice fractures on the first word. He pulls in a jagged breath. “…this is what I did. That day.”

His voice is so small it punches the air out of Sieun’s lungs. And still, Suho turns slightly, enough for Sieun to see the wet gloss edging his eyes. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About— what it would be like, if…” He falters, jaw tight, choking the words back like they’ll burn if he lets too much out.

The sound that leaves Sieun is sharp and low, almost a gasp. Because there it is, finally laid bare— the thing Suho’s been carrying like it might ruin them both.

It was me. It’s always been me.

The thought pulses, hot and relentless, behind Sieun’s ribs. He grips his own thigh hard just to ground himself.

Suho clutches the pillow tighter, knuckles going white. And still— still— he drags his gaze up, straight into Sieun’s.

“Do you hate me?” He splinters.

Hate him?

Sieun almost laughs at the impossibility of it, except his throat is too tight to make a sound.

“No,” his voice comes out rough, but steady. “I don’t hate you.”

The chair by Suho’s desk catches his eye, and before he knows it, his body’s moving— he lowers himself onto it, then grips its edge, pulling breath into lungs that barely want to expand.

“Please,” he says, like gravel. “Show me, Suho-yah.”

Suho jerks at that, like the sound of his name cracked something open inside him. His lips part on a sharp inhale. For a moment, Sieun thinks he’ll refuse— but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

Suho drags in another breath— ragged, uneven — and nods once. “…Okay.”

Suho’s hands shake as he lowers himself onto the bed. He sets the pillow down like it’s fragile, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers. The sound of fabric against fabric is so quiet, but Sieun swears it fills the whole room.

He kneels, shoulders hunched, and for a long moment—he just grips the pillowcase. Sieun’s breath sticks in his throat, pulse pounding against his ears, because he knows—he knows what’s about to happen, and it feels like everything around him is waiting for it too.

And then Suho moves.

Slow. So slow, like he’s peeling his own skin away— his hips rock forward once, tentative, dragging across the pillow, and Sieun’s lungs seize— He grips the chair under his palms until the wood digs deep into his skin, because fuck— Suho’s really doing it.

Then, another roll. Still hesitant— but this time a sound slips out of Suho, startled, like he hadn’t meant to let it go, and Sieun feels heat thrum in his veins in response to the sound.

Suho grinds again, rougher this time, then breaks off with a frustrated sound. His hands fumble at his waistband. He hesitates—just a beat—but then, clumsily, frantically, he shoves his pants down to his knees.

Sieun’s throat goes dry.

The cotton of Suho’s briefs tents obscenely, darker now where wet seeps through, outlining every curve, every strain, and the sight burns into Sieun’s vision—

And then Suho presses down again. This time the grind is sharper— filthier— the soaked cotton dragging filthily across the pillow’s edge, his head tips back, a half-sob-half-moan tearing out of him. His fists twist in the fabric like he’s willing it to anchor him, but all Sieun sees is how close he is to coming apart.

Sieun can’t breathe. He can’t move. Every thrust is pulling Suho further out of himself, and Sieun feels every inch of it in his own body—the twitch in his thighs, the ache pounding low in his stomach, the way his chest hammers with want—

And then Suho looks at him. Eyes shining, plump lips gaping, voice cracking—

And it’s then, seeing him like this, that Sieun feels it again.

That coiled, thrumming energy– But this time, it isn’t regret. This time, it doesn’t clamp his mouth shut, or hide away his feelings in a tightly locked box. No.

This time, it claws to get out. Out, out, out— spilling, unraveling, aching to to reach out and wrap itself around the boy in front of him. The boy who lay sprawled over a pillow on the mattress, trembling, showing him his pleasure like it’s a secret he’s never shared before.

All Sieun could think at the moment, over and over, is that this is for him. Suho did this thinking of him. Suho does this thinking of him— and the thoughts beat in his skull like a mantra, steady and relentless, like the snap of Suho’s hips that Sieun tracks with laser focus— like every shift, every shudder, every gasp, every tear that pearls and threatens to spill across flushed cheeks, and Sieun just wants—

“Sieunnie.”

Sieun’s eyes snap up.

Suho is a wreck. Sweat slicks his bangs, sticks his shirt to his wide back, and sobs break through his breath. The flushed head of his cock is poking out the leg of his briefs, tracking fluid down the inside of his thigh, and a line of wetness crowns the pillow where Suho rubbed over. His hands clutch at the pillow, shaking, and he looks so vulnerable, like he’s coming apart at the seams, but still— still— he looks at Sieun with all that trust, those wide, pleading brown eyes—

“Please,” Suho sobs. “Please touch me.”

A thunderclap shudders through the room.

And something in Sieun’s brain just clicks.

And then the chair is scraping back, and Sieun crosses the distance to the bed in two strides, his jacket slipping off his shoulders.

He doesn’t need that damn jacket right now.

He catches Suho’s face in his hands, hot and damp, brushes his bangs from his forehead with shaking fingers. Suho gasps, hips still rutting helplessly against the pillow, mouth red and lips parted—

He only needs Suho.

And right now, Suho needs him.

So he leans in, closes the space that’s lived between them for too long, and finally— finally— his mouth presses to Suho’s.

It’s clumsy at first. More force than finesse, their teeth knocking together, but Sieun’s too hungry to care— and Suho might be, too, because he releases a sound so broken it sends heat flooding straight through Sieun’s veins, and Sieun could only taste salt, and sweat, and Suho, Suho, Suho—

The younger surges up to meet him, mouth opening and chasing like a starved man. His hands leave the pillow at last, flying to Sieun’s shirt, clutching fabric tight enough to wrinkle. Every pull drags Sieun closer and closer, until there’s nothing left between them but heat and frantic want—

Sieun tilts his head, deepening the kiss, swallowing Suho’s sharp gasp when his tongue brushes his. It’s messy, and wet, and alive, and Sieun thinks he could drown here, lost in the warm cavern of Suho’s mouth.

All those years of circling each other— of silences, and half-truths, of hiding things that begged to be spoken— burned away with one kiss.

Suho whines into it, hips jerking against the pillow even as his hands fly up to clutch at Sieun’s wrists. His skin burns under Sieun’s palms, slick with sweat, and Sieun can’t stop himself from stroking his thumbs along Suho’s temples, brushing back the damp strands clinging to his forehead.

Sieun breathes against his mouth, lips trembling as he pulls back just enough to see him. Suho’s lashes are clumped with tears, his lips swollen and wet.

“You poor thing,” Sieun murmurs, his thumb tracing down the side of Suho’s flushed cheek. His gaze flicks down, to where Suho’s cock strains against the damp cling of his briefs, and Sieun’s chest caves at the sight. “Does it hurt?”

Suho nods frantically, a choked sound tearing from his throat. “Y-yeah—Sieunnie, please—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Sieun hushes him with another brush of his thumb, cooing softly, like he can soothe him through touch alone. His own breath stutters as he gestures faintly toward Suho’s briefs. “Can we… take them off?”

Suho nods again, desperate— “Please.”

And so Suho’s briefs are slid down, peeled slow from his trembling thighs, and then—

“Oh,” the sound leaks from Sieun’s throat before he can stop it, ragged and reverent.

Suho’s cock is gorgeous. As beautiful as the rest of him— it’s thick, and long, blushing a healthy red, jutting forward heavily from his pelvis— it’s glossy all the way up to the head, where it leaks precome in a messy, constant stream, smearing wetness over the pillow when Suho jerks once, like proof of how badly he wants it—

“Suho-yah…” Sieun breathes, his hand lifting to tentatively cup the base. Suho jerks with a sharp, guttural sound that rakes through Sieun’s spine— as Sieun brushes a thumb over his slit, gathering the moisture beading there.

“This for me?” Sieun murmurs, gaze flicking up to catch Suho’s glassy eyes. “You got this hard just for me?”

“Y-yes,” Suho gasps, nodding frantically, hips twitching forward into Sieun’s touch. “Only you, Sieunnie.”

Something inside Sieun caves— spills open, constricts his chest with a kind of gratitude he can’t name. He leans in close, pressing his mouth to Suho’s temple, whispering against his sweat-damp skin:

“Thank you.”

And then, slowly, slowly— he wraps his hand around Suho, and gives him one, careful pump.

The reaction is instant.

Suho keens, hips snapping up into Sieun's fist, like he can’t help himself— “Sieun—” His voice cracks, body trembling hard.

Sieun wraps his hand more properly around Suho's cock, strokes him once, twice, lips brushing the younger’s ear—

“Can you show me properly this time? How you did it?”

For a moment Suho just stares, eyes wide, pupils blown, and then he’s nodding his assent, moving to sit upright.

He strips his shirt off with fumbling hands, tossing it aside. He's fully naked now, flushed all the way up to his chest, cock bobbing as he repositions himself— He crawls a bit upward so he's situated completely over the pillow, hands braced at the side, angling his hips—

And just like that, Suho is moving again, the muscles of his back and glutes rolling with each thrust, his thighs shaking as he grinds down with practiced need— and Sieun watches every movement closely like it’s holy scripture—

Then he's right there, behind the younger, close enough that his chest grazes Suho’s back, his heat spilling over Sieun’s skin like fire. Sieun presses kisses against Suho’s flushed cheek, filth spilling from his lips—

“Does that feel better?”

Suho nods, gasping, sweat dripping from his chin.

“Tell me, Suho-yah. When you humped this pillow, did you think it was me?”

A moan, high and broken— Suho’s eyes squeeze shut.

“Did you think of fucking me?”

A sob tears out of Suho’s throat. His hips jerk harder. “S-Sieun—”

“Is this how hard you imagined fucking me, Suho-yah?” Sieun says, a hand stroking down the line of Suho’s abdomen, laying to rest there, feeling it flex and twitch at the apex of each thrust, and Suho whimpers—

“It must be,” Sieun murmurs, breath hot against the shell of Suho’s ear. His hands slide down to grip into Suho’s hips, riding his every roll, every jolt, guiding, encouraging— “Look at you. You’re working so hard right now, Suho-yah.”

Suho whines, close to breaking apart— “Ungh, Sieun—“

“Are you close?” Sieun asks, feeling a bit like he's going to tumble off the edge too.

Suho nods desperately, body trembling, thighs quaking—

And that’s when Sieun reaches down, grabs his forgotten jacket from the floor, and cups it over Suho’s cock.

“Ah!” Suho gasps, and Sieun watches, transfixed, as the cotton darkens in a spreading bloom right where Suho grinds through it, the fabric molding wetly to every ridge and curve of his cock—

“Oh, fuck, yes—yes—” Suho sobs, and he’s so gone on it— hips snapping, breath breaking, the jacket bunching and dragging around him— His knuckles fist the pillow like he’ll rip it apart, and his eyes roll, lashes clumped with sweat, mouth falling open in ragged cries.

Sieun presses up close, his chest to Suho’s back now, lips dragging hot across the younger’s jaw, his throat— His hand slides lower, under the jacket, fingers brushing the wet heat of Suho’s rutting cock, and the sound Suho makes is just utterly broken— and Sieun groans, low in his throat, because fuck.

“So messy,” he murmurs, cooing against Suho’s ear. “Can you feel how wet you are, Suho-yah? You're ruining it.”

Suho whines, nose scrunching like he’s embarrassed. “‘M sorry, I'm sorry, Sieunnie—” but his hips keep driving forward into Sieun’s grip, fast and frantic like he’s trying to fuck the apology right out of himself— “I—I can’t stop— fuck, I can’t, I’m going to—”

“It’s okay,” Sieun breathes. He fists the jacket tighter around Suho’s cock, pumping hard, matching the snap of his hips. “You’re doing so good for me, Suho-yah.”

Suho’s whole body bucks, and his head tips back against Sieun’s shoulder, exposing the line of his throat. Sieun kisses him there, biting down, nibbling into salty skin—

“Sieun—! Please, please I want—”

And then Sieun makes the call— he yanks Suho back from the pillow, drags him into his lap to send him sprawling over his thighs— the jacket stays clutched in Sieun’s fist, wrapped around Suho’s cock—

And then Sieun's working him fast.

“Fuck! Oh my god—” Suho groans, bracing his hands on Sieun’s thighs, head falling forward— and he’s watching, they’re both watching, Sieun’s fist jerking the fabric harder, faster, until the wet squelch of it is loud in the room—

“Come for me, Suho-yah.”

Suho breaks— he cries, strangled, his body locking up before jerking hard, cumming into the jacket. It's hot, and messy, streaking across Sieun’s fist, white sinking into grey, taking on a darker color that spreads fast across the fabric— and Sieun looks on in complete amazement.

He keeps stroking Suho through it, gentle but firm, kissing Suho’s damp cheek and whispering, “Good, so good, my Suho.”

Suho sags back against him, trembling, gasping like he’s run a marathon. His cock twitches weakly in Sieun’s hand, as the aftershocks tear through him.

All Sieun can think is that Suho has never looked more his.

Suho slumps against him, trembling, breath a jagged rasp against Sieun’s throat. For a moment, it’s just the sound of him—wrecked, undone, chest heaving like he’s fought for his life. But then his head tilts, sluggish but determined, his lips grazing Sieun’s jaw.

“Y-you,” Suho pants, voice hoarse. “I want… You.”

Sieun swallows hard against the sharp ache in his cock. His hand tightens on Suho’s hip automatically, steadying himself, because the thought of Suho even thinking about touching him right now nearly buckles his knees.

“Suho-yah…” His warning breaks halfway, already too soft. Already lost.

But Suho’s already shifting, sliding down off his lap, pressing Sieun back onto the sheets. His hands are shaky, fumbling, but his eyes—

They’re clear, dark with intent, lit with something raw and determined as he palms at Sieun’s thighs, pushing them apart, reverent in the way he spreads him open.

“Let me,” he whispers.

And Sieun— helpless, thrumming, brain white with need— can only nod.

Suho’s fingers work fast, unbuttoning Sieun’s shirt, parting the fabric to reveal flushed skin. His mouth drags down, messy kisses down Sieun’s chest, his stomach, leaving spit and heat in their wake, and Sieun tips his head back to it helplessly. Each press of his fingers and lips burns like claim Sieun’s skin, and Sieun can’t believe Suho’s finally touching him the way he’s always ached for—

“Please,” Suho rasps again, mouth now tugging at Sieun’s zipper. “Let me taste you, Sieun-ah.”

The ‘yes’ tears out of Sieun, ragged and desperate.

Suho brands a kiss against Sieun’s hip in thanks, and then he’s tugging the zipper down, peeling off Sieun’s jeans and underwear in one slide—

And then Sieun is bared to him. Hard, flushed, leaking, the sight enough to make Suho’s pupils blow wide. Suho’s hands tremble as they settle in Sieun’s thighs, and his breath hitches audibly.

“Fuck,” he whispers, like it’s a prayer. “You’re so fucking pretty, Sieun-ah.”

The praise sinks into Sieun’s skin— his stomach flips in a collision of shame and want, but the look in Suho’s eyes makes it impossible not to believe him.

And then Suho steadies his grip, and pulls Sieun down the mattress— closer, closer, until his cock presses flush against Suho’s lips.

And everything else shuts down when Suho’s mouth finally closes around him.

“Ah!” He cries, the first lick almost having Sieun jerk off the mattress, a ragged sound tearing from his throat. Suho’s tongue is hot— deliberate, curling up the length of his slick cock, circling the head with aching precision— and then he takes him in. Slow, lips sealing wet around him, sucking gently as though to savor the taste.

Sieun’s eyes squeeze shut, hips bucking, and just— the heat of it, the wet, the suction— Suho’s mouth is so eager, swallowing him down in greedy pulls— his tongue flicks, and drags, burrows into his slit, and Sieun is shaking, whining, every one of his muscles drawn tight like a bowstring—

Suho moans around him, and the vibration makes Sieun choke on his own voice. He forces himself to look down, and the sight nearly undoes him completely—

Suho, between his legs, cheeks flushed, lips stretched wet around him, eyes glinting up through heavy lashes.

It’s overwhelming. Years of restraint unraveling in seconds. The boy he’s wanted all this time— now on his knees, naked and hard between his thighs, swallowing every broken sound he makes—

“Su—Suho!”

Sieun cries, hand flying to Suho’s hair, threading through damp strands. His hips twitch up hard despite himself, and Suho groans around him, riding the buck, bobbing faster, sucking harder, his cheeks hollowing with the effort. Every time he pulls back, his tongue flicks at Sieun’s slit, before sliding down again, sloppy and focused, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Sieun can’t breathe. Can’t think. Every one of his nerves is lit up, every muscle strung tight— His thighs tremble violently, but Suho just pins them down, strong fingers digging into the meat of them to keep him still.

“I’m— Wait—” Sieun chokes, panic edging into the pleasure as the knot in his groin builds fast, uncontrollable— he pats urgently at Suho’s shoulder, whining— “Suho-yah, I’m— I’m gonna—”

But Suho just squeezes his thighs harder, moans low around him, and keeps going.

Sieun breaks.

With a high, keening cry, Sieun’s hips jerk forward helplessly— and then he’s spilling cum straight into Suho’s mouth.

And Suho takes it all. Takes everything Sieun is giving to him. Sieun watches through tears as Suho’s throat contracts, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows— his eyes flutter shut, lips sealing tight around the head, suckling out every last drop until Sieun is shaking— sobbing quietly, reduced to raw nerves.

And when it gets too much, Sieun whimpers and tugs weakly at Suho’s hair again, and Suho finally lets go—slowly, hanging his head, lifting off Sieun’s cock in a long, sucking pull — his lips catch on the crown, puckering, dragging his lips up, before they pop off the head, leaving Sieun’s cock to land wet against his belly.

Then Suho looks up at him, mouth red and slick, chest heaving, expression so wrecked and reverent like Sieun’s the only one he’s ever wanted, the only thing he could ever need—

And Sieun can’t even think. He just grabs Suho by the face, pulls him up, and crashes his mouth onto his. It’s messy, and wet, and so filthy that he can taste himself on Suho’s tongue. But it feels so good, too. Everything feels so good right now—

Suho moans into his mouth, body melting against his, and Sieun swallows the sound whole, his heart hammering so hard it hurts.

Finally. Finally.

When he breaks away, there's barely enough space between them to breathe. His lips are still brushing Suho’s when the words spill out, wrecked, needy:

“Suho-yah— please. Please fuck me.”

Suho freezes, then his whole body wracks on a shiver, like the words broke a piece of him. “Sieunnie—fuck,” Suho chokes, his forehead dropping against Sieun’s, eyes half lidded with a want so intense Sieun feels it sink into his bones.

Sieun clutches at his hips, dragging him closer until their cocks slide together, and the friction makes him sob. He’s shaking, chest caving in, and it feels like begging is the only language left for him to speak.

“I need you,” he pants, raw, pulling him tighter still. “Please, Suho-yah, I need you inside me. I can’t—” His voice breaks. “I can’t wait anymore.”

And Suho— Suho looks ruined. Ravaged. His hands fist in the sheets beside Sieun’s head, as if the only thing keeping him from pouncing right now is sheer force of will. His lips part, trembling, and his voice comes out strangled, a vow more than a question:

“I’ll give you everything.”

Suho leans back, fumbling clumsily through his nightstand drawer, and Sieun keeps a steadying hand on his thigh. When he finds it, he nearly drops it in his haste, and Sieun’s heart flutters at the slip, feels such a consuming fondness—

And soon enough, slick is coating Suho’s fingers fast, dripping between knuckles as if he can’t get enough on, and Sieun almost sobs with the sheer frantic reverence of it—how Suho moves like every second counts, like he’s terrified of breaking what he’s wanted all along.

The first press of Suho’s finger is trembling but careful, easing past the tight ring of muscle. Sieun gasps, thighs trembling as he clutches at Suho’s shoulders, nails biting deep. “Ah—fuck—” Suho chokes, breath faltering at the sensation. “You’re so tight. Sieunnie, I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“You won’t,” Sieun pants, desperate, voice wrecked as his head tips back, throat bared. His words fall out raw, pleading, “You won't ever hurt me. Please—please, Suho-yah, I want all of you—”

And Suho groans, low and guttural, forehead pressing hard to Sieun’s temple as he continues to work him open with clumsy care. Too slow, too fast, not enough, never enough—until he can’t take it anymore, until the slick drag of his cock against Sieun’s thigh has him shaking.

He pulls his fingers free, breath shattering against Sieun’s skin. Lines up, flushed head nudging at his entrance, trembling like he might come apart from just this. “Breathe for me,” he murmurs, voice broken, promise threaded through every syllable. “I’ve got you. Always.”

And then—slow, slow—he pushes in.

Sieun lets in a sharp inhale. The stretch bites— it stings and blinds and it’s so much—

He lets out a high, unsuspecting moan, his hands clutching at Suho’s arms, his guide in this uncharted map of pleasure— and Suho’s forehead presses to his, like he's trying to hold it in for the both of them, body shuddering as if he’s never known anything like this, and Sieun definitely feels it too— that impossible sense of rightness, like something missing has finally clicked into place.

And soon enough, Suho is gone— completely gone— his pace turns frantic, and reckless, and every thrust slamming Sieun deeper into the sheets seemed echoed in the storm outside, urgent and unrelenting, the rain hitting like a battering heartbeat against the windowpane.

Sieun’s nails dig into Suho’s back, his voice breaking in every gasp, his body a raw nerve sparking with each snap of Suho’s hips, and it’s so overwhelming but so so good, and a Sieun just wants more, more, more—

“Yeah, just like that—” he pants, grabbing at Suho’s hips, guiding him down hard, his heels digging into the firm swell of Suho’s ass— “Come on, Suho-yah, just like that, just how you practiced—”

Suho growls, and his face twists, desperate, needy, and his rhythm sharpens into something raw, perfect, unrelenting. His body moves like it’s been trained on this, like every lonely rut into his pillow had only ever been rehearsal for the real thing.

And fuck—he’s perfect. Every thrust lands deep, precise, his stomach flexing with the effort, his arms straining as he braces above Sieun, sweat dripping onto flushed skin— he looks ruined, and oh-so radiant, like he was built for this— like he was built to fuck him—

Sieun’s brain is molten static. Every nerve burns. His cock is trapped between them, leaking against his stomach, smearing wet across Suho’s abs with each brutal snap of hips—untouched but throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. It’s unbearable.

“Suho— hah, I’m—” he gasps, voice cracking. His hands fly to Suho’s face as the pressure inside him builds in one wild rush, dragging Suho down into a messy kiss, their teeth clashing, tongues tangling, and heat is coiling too tight, too fast— and then it rips through him.

Sieun’s body arches off the bed with a loud cry, fingers clawing desperate at Suho’s shoulders as he spills hot between them, in thick white ropes across their stomachs.

Suho nearly sobs, hips stuttering, his cock driving harder into Sieun’s tightening walls. His face crumples, ruined with need, and Sieun—

— Sieun, half-mad with it, cups Suho’s cheeks again with shaking hands— pulls Suho close, pressing their foreheads together, and his eyes are wet, and burning, and his voice cracked but sure, spills into the intimate space between their mouths:

“You never needed my jacket, Suho-yah. You’ve always had me.”

The words crash like spark to kindling.

“Fuck!”

And just like that, Suho shatters— his thrusts turn erratic, brutal, every muscle straining as a guttural cry rips from his chest. His hips snap forward in desperate, jerky slams, and then he’s cumming into Sieun— heat flooding between them, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sounds present is of their ragged breathing, Sieun enduring the slow uneven pull of his lungs trying to catch up. The sheets cling to his skin, his sweat cooling, and he could feel how Suho shakes with exhaustion on top of him.

Then Suho slumps forward, his lips brushing the hollow of Sieun’s throat in a dazed press that seems more instinct than intention. Sieun can only hold him— arms looping weakly around Suho’s back, nails dragging faintly down damp skin. He still feels the tremors still running through him.

It’s overwhelming— the weight of him. Years of watching from a distance, and Sieun is finally allowed to touch and to feel and to have—

“Suho-yah.”

Suho stirs faintly. His head lifts, and his lashes wet, cheeks blotched red. He looks beautiful.

Sieun cups his face, thumbs stroking at the tear-tracks cooling there, before pulling him into a slow kiss. It’s nothing like before—no hunger, no frenzy. Just mouths pressed together in the hush of after, lingering and steady, a promise Sieun can’t quite name yet.

The room is quiet again, save for the softening, slow ticks of rain against glass. Their breaths come slower now, hearts still racing but no longer frantic—just steady, like they’re finding a new rhythm together.

After a while, they shift onto their sides, facing each other, the tangle of limbs easier now. Suho’s fingers fidget against the sheets before finally brushing over Sieun’s, hooking there shyly.

Sieun squeezes once, teasing. “So— You humped my jacket.”

Suho groans, hiding his face in Sieun’s chest. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why?” Sieun murmurs, fingers brushing idly over Suho’s damp temple, smoothing hair back from his face. “Why did you carry all that baggage alone? Make yourself sick over it?”

Suho’s lips part, shaky. His lashes flutter, and for a heartbeat, he looks like he might shatter all over again. “— I thought you didn’t want me like that.”

It hits Sieun square in the chest, stinging. How could Suho even think that?

Sieun huffs quietly. His hand drifts lower, comes to rest on Suho’s jaw to force him to look him in the eye. “I want you in all the ways that you are, Suho-yah,” he says, passing his thumb over the younger’s cheek. “And all the ways that you will be.”

Suho exhales shakily, at that, and then he pulls Sieun close, holding on like he’ll never let go. Sieun goes willingly, tucking himself against him, and they just lay like that, pressed together until the tension slowly ebbs into comfortable warmth.

Bit by bit, the storm eases. Thunder fades to a far-off murmur, the downpour gentles into a drizzle, and it was as if it had only ever been waiting for them to find this quiet.

Once Sieun’s breath steadies, he notices it. Suho’s heart hammering beneath his cheek, faster than before, even more so when Sieun lifts his head, frowning, pressing his palm flat over Suho’s chest to feel the rapid rhythm.

“What's wrong?” he asks softly.

Suho glances at him, something wary passing over his face, before turning away.

“Nothing, it's just—” he shifts, carefully easing his arm out from under Sieun, then sits up on the bed. Sieun follows without protest.

“I want to ask you something, Sieun-ah.”

Sieun looks at him with patience this time, and Suho's mouth opens once, before closing again— gaze shifting again— and then Sieun can see the way his throat works around a swallow, before his eyes land back on Sieun.

“Sieun-ah…” His voice wavers. “Do you— want to be my boyfriend?”

Sieun’s breath catches. For a moment, the world stutters, and all he can do is stare. “Huh?”

Suho’s words spill out in a rush, like they’ve been dammed up for too long— “I know we’re doing this all… Backwards, but— I’ve liked you for so long, Sieun-ah, and I care about you so much— And I don’t wanna just leave things like this— Like, just this and that’s it— I want to do it right. Because you mean too much to me. I don’t want to ruin us. I just… I want to take care of this. Take care of you.”

Sieun’s chest swells so full it almost hurts, and his throat piles up with everything he cannot put into words. He’s wanted this— wanted Suho, for so long, that hearing his exact adorations reflected back at him from the same man he holds them so dearly for, it’s so invigorating—

His face must give it all away— because Suho flinches, panic brewing on his own. “B-But if that's not what you want, that's totally fine too, I mean— I'm okay with the way things are right now, if that's what you want us to be, just— friends, yeah, I think I can get over it if—”

Sieun doesn’t let him go on. He just leans up, cups Suho’s jaw tighter, and pulls him into another kiss.

Immediately, Suho melts— everything, the tense line of his body, the spiral of words in his mouth, everything gone to puddle under Sieun’s touch, his hands gravitating to Sieun’s waist.

When they part, Sieun’s forehead rests against his, both of them panting, hearts a wild tangle.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“What? Yes to what? To being my boyfriend? Or to just being friends—”

“To being your boyfriend, you big idiot.”

Suho pulls back, eyes wide and wet, so disbelieving it’s bordering on ridiculous. “Really? Sieunnie, really? You'll be my boyfriend?” And Sieun is just nodding along, smile inevitably growing on his face, and Suho laughs, breaking halfway into a sob, shaky with relief— and then Suho’s kissing him, giggling and smiling against Sieun's mouth, like he still can’t believe it’s true, that he’s allowed now.

And outside, the rain doesn’t stop. It only steadies, falling sure and endless— like Sieun’s love for Suho, and Suho’s love for Sieun.