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Jooyeon misses home. He tells Gunil this under the privacy of no privacy at all in a room packed with people — Seungmin’s talking to a camera the size of a full fist, and there’s someone doing Jungsu’s hair where he sits dozing off next to the lit up vanity bought brand new as a gift for staying in the first place. Jooyeon’s hands lay on his lap. He’s shaking like a wet dog.
I miss home, he says. His eyes are big, a little wide. Mostly blank, but just for the show of it. Gunil can read him a little better than he used to when they were still technically trainees; Jooyeon’s got this look about him, like he needs someone to put him back together even when he’s completely fine. A feeling about him, or around him: this sort of light. Dimming down. Turning dark.
Me too, Gunil admits to him. Probably not what Jooyeon needs to hear, but at the time he’s only twenty-four, and he’s never had someone look at him like this, and it’s weird in a way that he’s never felt before, wiggling around in his stomach the longer Jooyeon stares somewhere just above his mouth without fully meeting Gunil’s gaze. It’s different from how it used to be, too, not that long ago but long enough that he remembers it. Jooyeon stumbling into him, tears not dry on his cheeks, and his whole body trembling. Young enough that it’d been hard to understand why he didn’t just leave when he still had a whole future ahead of him. But Gunil hadn’t asked.
I’m tired, Jooyeon tells him. He breathes out, shaky and unstable. And cold.
Cold — but there’s a blanket strewn two inches away from Jooyeon’s knees bouncing against the couch. It’s not the weather. Not any degree of August. Gunil gets it, too. The chill creeping in and down his spine, condensing sweat from staring into the lights they have to focus on for a shoot. He doesn’t know what to tell Jooyeon. I’m sorry wouldn’t cut it. You’ll see them soon is a lie he can’t really get his mouth to shape around. There’s no comfort in this. Just the having to face forward despite it all.
He lays a hand on Jooyeon’s knee, rubbing against the bony feel of it under his jeans. Jooyeon goes quiet. Gunil looks at him and says, we’ll be alright, and listens to the hitch in Jooyeon’s breath turn sharper with the pause of motion. The quick fall of his gaze. He leans forward a little bit, like he’s drawn in by the gravity of Gunil’s presence, but it doesn’t last. Someone ushers Gunil into the chair after Jungsu finishes up.
Half an hour later he swears he can still feel Jooyeon staring at him from where he sits.
//
Jooyeon’s got memories. He talks about them, sometimes. The first person he ever had a crush on, like it matters now. His first time scraping his knee. Scratching open a small wound on his face when he was little; Gunil laughs, but it’s only funny because it wasn’t a serious injury. There’s a little scar on the back of his right thigh, Jooyeon says. Seungmin asks to see it, and then goes red in the face. Jooyeon stutters out his confusion/awkward laugh of ridiculing whatever it is that was implied.
Jooyeon says, it’s there. When they’re back at the dorm, Jooyeon stares at Gunil scrolling on his phone and stands very still two feet away from him. He’s wearing shorts that don’t reach his knees. A shirt too big on his lanky frame, but that’s all Jooyeon seems to own. There’s a speck of toothpaste on the edge of his jaw. His hands are clenched beside him and Gunil doesn’t ask what it is that he wants because he already knows Jooyeon’s going to speak first anyway.
Do you, Jooyeon starts, and then clears his throat. His eyes are fidgety, sliding towards the ground, and there’s a pink in his cheeks that falls flat under the dark curtain of his hair, only slight color, frizzy ends.
Do you want to see it?
See what, Gunil thinks at first. But then he remembers. There’s a scar on the back of Jooyeon’s right thigh; higher up, higher Jooyeon said, close to his asscheek, to a giggle from Jiseok; seriously, sometimes they’re just like kids playing around with words that they should be mature enough to handle but aren’t. See what, he thinks, except he can’t picture it and couldn’t picture it then, and he’s wondering if it’s shiny, or a color, or old and faded. He does want to see it. For some reason.
Sure, he says. His voice comes out even.
Jooyeon’s mouth trembles. His fingers are probably cold, because they always are. He steps closer hesitantly, pauses, and then braces himself and walks up to Gunil. His feet are socked with a mismatched pair. He hasn’t been forced to shave by the company so his legs are littered with dark hair and his knees are going to buckle if he doesn’t stop shaking, Gunil thinks. His nails have been cut to the quick. Knuckles white-peeled.
He turns around, and pulls at the edge of his shorts. They rise up high against his skin, rolled up by his gentle fingers. Some color or other. All Gunil sees is the stretch of his leg thin and seemingly long, and the small scratch Jooyeon’s just called a scar; a faded white strip of blurred color about the size of Gunil’s pinky. So high up Jooyeon’s been right about one thing — it probably does reach his asscheek. If Gunil ducked his head a little lower to peek he’d probably be seeing either Jooyeon’s ass or the cover of his underwear. Either way it’d be weird. Between them. Like this. He’s not a pervert. He’s not a fucking pervert; he’s been raised right, he’s christian, before he goes to sleep he prays that the future doesn’t fall apart.
Gunil’s so hard he can barely think. He says, oh, and reaches out to touch before he thinks better of it. At the first brush of his fingertips, Jooyeon jerks forward, almost slipping on the floor. He makes a small noise in his throat.
Says, sorry, and then dashes towards the restroom. Disappearing as quickly as he came in. Hair bouncing around behind him like a trail, and it leaves last.
Gunil sits. Reflects.
//
There’s layers to this. Layers. The first: Jooyeon crawling on top of him when Gunil is dead asleep at two in the morning before the hurricane of their next week of activities begins. In technicality. The second: Gunil only waking up because Jooyeon’s mouth is right on his neck and his body starts heating up from having someone lay on top of him while the A/C is off for how low the air pressure has dropped. The third layer is probably something like Gunil blinking against what is probably Jooyeon’s hair draped all over his face, shifting constantly. But he can’t be sure. He’s not really thinking at all.
Jooyeon-ah, he croaks out. His throat is dry. His nose is all stuffed from getting sick during the walk back after practice because he’d wanted to clear his head and now he’s suffering the consequences. Jooyeon pretends not to hear him, like he’s falling asleep, but Gunil knows he hears it because Jooyeon’s shoulders go all stiff, drawn in, and his body rises slightly off Gunil’s chest. Hovering a bit. His hair is still in Gunil’s face.
What the hell, he says, and then he realizes he’s being a bit harsh. Jooyeon doesn’t take well to direct language; he’d made fun of himself for not even knowing the ups and downs of Seoul but he’s not stupid; it’s like Gunil forgets that Jooyeon’s twentieth birthday hasn’t come yet, he’s still nineteen, still learning, and he’s just a dog following around his owner, a puppy being pet to grow a little more loved.
What are you doing? He asks. What’s going on?
Jooyeon’s never done this. Never tried it. Even when he used to cry at Gunil’s feet with his knees tucked in and his face all scrunched, even when he’d pressed his nose to the fabric of Gunil’s sweater on his shoulder and gotten it damp with snot and tears. He’d slunk off to his bunk and wrapped a blanket around himself to faint music playing from the cracked screen of his cheap phone, lockscreen bright lit, the sniffle of his occasional descent down again. He’d never crawled in with Gunil. Never sought to grab him beyond a tug for insistence; pulling him somewhere else, heartfelt in the mouth of someone who wasn’t even sure he wanted this — dream or unreality or otherwise nothing yet, but something coming.
There’s a beat of silence. Two beats. Many chances of silence turning sour, but Jooyeon rescues it before things get any worse. His fingers crawl up Gunil’s chest. His heartbeat travels from his chest to a reflection in Gunil’s throat, and the stare Jooyeon directs at him once he decides he wants to stop pretending; that he’s clueless, that he’s asleep, that there’s not something at play here.
Hyung, he says. Let me sleep here tonight.
His eyes blink hard and fast. His mouth twists after he speaks. There’s a tic in his cheek and his jaw working and working and working, a harsh swallow audible enough to eat all the static in the room. Dust particles flying onto Gunil’s tongue, landing behind his gums. Serious damage on the enamel of his teeth. Jooyeon’s looking at him like he’s waiting for guidance on something Gunil can’t even begin to understand as an idea. Sleep here tonight. He’s already dug a space for the width of his body on top of Gunil, landing too roughly, but it works.
Jooyeon-ah, he mutters. He feels lost. There’s no reason to even say no — but still. Hesitation bleeds into every inhale. Something reeks of blame.
Please, Jooyeon begs. His fingers bunch up the collar of Gunil’s shirt. He’s pretty when he’s trying not to be. He’s beautiful enough even with the lack of light. Gunil’s being intrusive about things he shouldn’t be.
Okay, he relents. Just— just for tonight.
Jooyeon stares at him.
Yeah, just tonight.
//
Jooyeon’s here again. He’s here before Gunil is, here when the sun rises and here when the sun sets and here even when the manager comes to get them early morning before dawn cracks open the sky for a golden yellow of egg yolk birth. He’s here all the time. His fingers leave cold imprints on Gunil’s waist. His hair is growing out a little longer and Gunil knows this because he’s been running his hands through it — encouraging Jooyeon.
There are things he could say, Gunil thinks. Like, this is inappropriate, or even, you don’t really know what you’re doing. He’s the responsible adult here; he’s the leader, he’s a good person, he’s prepared. Life has thrown curveballs at him before.
Not like this.
Jooyeon curls up against him in the smallest space he can fit himself into. He smells simple. His breathing is shallow between small twitches of his brows pulling together. His mouth settles into a pout Gunil brushes away with his thumb, pulls lower until he can feel the wet edge of Jooyeon’s mouth and its threatening heat on his hand. Jooyeon’s leg tucks itself between Gunil’s thigh. Something is creeping closer to them in the inky dark of the curtains pulled tight, a pillow stuffed beneath them, a second layer of security over them with tape securing the put-together makeshift cover over the window.
Jooyeon’s mouth opens a little, around the slow swipe of Gunil’s thumb against the cracked center of his bottom lip. His face is still a bit sweet. Gunil always thinks he looks sweet. Like there’s something inherently bright about him, a light, or a call for the greater things in life. Maybe his features, angular and sort of boyish, easing out of it into maturity now. There’s something sad in growing up; something great in growing older. There’s the slow enveloping of slick saliva around Gunil’s finger, and the guilt a hook sinking into his stomach. Jooyeon’s lips close around him. His skin is soft with a flush from being so close in his sleep.
Gunil thinks it would take nothing — it would take just this. He hauls himself closer to Jooyeon for once, presses himself right against Jooyeon’s thigh. The skinny fit of it between his legs, the soft of his breathing interrupted by the intrusion held in his teeth, the fitting of a fingerprint on his tongue, soft and wet. His nose is shiny under no light. His hair is a mess behind him, and his bangs are brushed out of the way. Jooyeon doesn’t seem to like them all that much; he doesn’t say anything though.
It’d be easy to wake him up. Turn him on his stomach. Gunil won’t because he’s not even sure Jooyeon would want to be bothered, or if he’d stare at Gunil, wide-eyed again, a little shaken by being held like this. He can feel Jooyeon too-bony against him. All his sharp edges and flat planes, the soft little peek of his hips still with something on them, and the slow push-and-pull of his body with Gunil’s.
There’s heat pooling lower, hotter. A wrongness in it. Just a bit. Or a lot? Gunil can stop looking at Jooyeon’s face and pushing forward. He thinks he could even get away with taking out his cock. Jerking himself off over the front of Jooyeon’s shorts. Like he’s allowed to do this when all Jooyeon’s really done is look at him — touch him with the sincerity of someone wanting to be reassured, craved, needed. The rapid flutter of his eyes but that’s just habit; Gunil wants to see more than he does, and he’s aware of it, and it’s stupid but he can’t help it.
Jooyeon sighs a little in his sleep. Sucks Gunil’s thumb further into his mouth. It’s pathetic that that’s all it takes for him to cum all over his own underwear. Still trapped on the bed with Jooyeon. Still aware that it’s fucking weird to be doing this but there’s pleasure buzzing all over him and he doesn’t care, for maybe a minute. All of one minute. There’s sweat staining his pillow. In his hair, falling towards Jooyeon’s face.
Slowly, he withdraws his thumb. The clock on his bedside reads an hour before they’re supposed to get up; Gunil’s phone is buzzing already with messages. He wonders if he’ll be able to sleep anyway, but he already knows he’s not going to try. It’d be impossible anyway. He’s starting to feel uncomfortable in his pajama pants.
Jooyeon makes a small noise in his sleep. Gunil chooses not to think about it.
//
There’s escalation of everything. Busy-work of the schedules being switched around, and Jooyeon’s falling onto him because there’s stress pulling him every way. He’s not used to it. This career. Gunil isn’t either, but he’s used to the feeling, if not the work. The labor of his body boiling to a final point but he’s forced forward — that’s just how it is in every turn of life. Pre-band and post-band and during the process of being one. Jooyeon will grow into it.
He lays in Gunil’s bed with his feet kicked up. He tucks his hair into a band that doesn’t pull; he says it’s cute, pink, Gunil should buy him some. He’s cheeky, he’s endearing, he’s annoying. He stares at Gunil with eyes still too bright for how he’s behaving in indecency. He takes Gunil’s hand to place it on his stomach, and he’s pushing — he’s pushing things again. Always pushing. His breathing goes shallow. His shirt rises higher until it’s at his ribcage, right under his chest.
He says, I’d let you touch me hyung. Tongue peeking out from his mouth. The tilting edge of what he means by it when his palm curls over the back of Guni’s hand to guide it lower, to spread the web of his fingers over the dip of his hip swinging into a sharper shape. His body expands with a breath; there’s something in his face just short of shy, bubbling quiet that turns him softer in need. Red has bled over down his neck. There’s no mark on him otherwise. But the scar. And Gunil’s allowed to touch it. He’s allowed.
How much, he says. How far. He’s responsible; he’s grown, he’s got a brain, he’s not any sort of stupid; he’s had experiences Jooyeon hasn’t, he’s lived a life far different from this one. He used to have days where he’d lock himself in the bathroom just to stare in the mirror: state of depression, and there was girl but Jooyeon’s not a girl, not even feminine most times, but Gunil wants him all the wrong ways. It. Wants to call him one sometimes, just for the fun of it, the drying of his mouth. He wants to see if Jooyeon would take it. If he’d like it, if he’d dress up. If he’d respond. Wide-mouthed. Wet.
No limits, Jooyeon tells him. Whatever you want hyung. I just want you to touch me.
Touch him. Gunil’s fingers released from the hold Jooyeon has on them — free to roam on Jooyeon’s skin. He thinks, whatever, and whatever he wants, and he’s allowed, freely allowed. He feels like a virgin all over again, nervous about something he shouldn’t be and he’s done this before, he’s fucked someone and touched them and had them. He’d felt guilt then. For a different reason. There’s layers to that too, layers to everything. How he slips his fingers into the waistband of Jooyeon’s shorts, his boxers, to pull them lower, and Jooyeon’s been as still as he can be but the obvious sign gets him to lift his hips; Gunil would say thank you, but there’s sound trapped in his throat that comes before anything else.
There’s sweat beneath his armpits. He feels gross. Jooyeon’s looking at him like he hung up the stars in the sky, sweet-shy on the highest points of his cheeks with color, painted all over. His mouth is the shape of Gunil’s want. He has no idea about anything; Gunil grabs lube and Jooyeon says, why so much, red in the face, and it’s awkward, indecent, hot enough to turn Gunil on because apparently he has a thing for fumbling virgins and he didn’t even know prior to this.
Jooyeon’s loose-lipped. He’s loud. Gunil jerks him off with his non-dominant hand, and he doesn’t want to be mean but it escapes him anyway: you’re so cute, and, you’re so small, because even fully erect Jooyeon’s enveloped whole by Gunil’s palm. Jooyeon hides behind an arm he throws over his eyes. He’s whining all high-pitched into the resounding quiet that isn’t Gunil’s hand making a slick noise around him, and there’s a slow croon of soothing before Gunil asks him, have you ever fingered yourself?
The question takes Jooyeon by surprise. He moves his arm so he can stare at Gunil wide-eyed, a little scared, and he breathes out, what, and then moans, and his knees try to close in but Gunil doesn’t let them. Jooyeon’s cock drips onto his fingers. It peeks out over the circle of Gunil’s fingers like a surprise every time. Gunil thinks it’d be so easy to call Jooyeon out about it again; he’s not mean, he thinks. He’s not cruel.
Have you? Gunil asks him, and Jooyeon shakes his head, but he’s digging his nails into the covers and there’s a nervous bob in his throat so Gunil fucking knows — he has, he absolutely has and he’s trying to lie about it. Why would he lie? He doesn’t need to. Gunil doesn’t want him to. He shouldn’t.
Did you think about me, Gunil says — asks, but it’s rushed, it’s demanding, it’s him watching Jooyeon’s chest rise high and quick before it deflates again, the shake of his body, the uncoordinated fuck of his hips up into Gunil’s palm. Did you think about me when you did it, did you want it to be me, and his voice going weird, wonky, all knife-sharp edge of desire, did you think of my cock, did you want it Jooyeon-ah, did you want it, did you want me—
Jooyeon lets out a pathetic little cry when he cums. Gunil watches it rise above the head of his cock, and his hand settles over Jooyeon’s stomach again. His palm leaves an imprint of liquid over Jooyeon’s skin. Something harsh breaks through his spine.
You’re mean, Jooyeon says weakly, breathing hard.
I know.
//
Except for the nights when it happens, there’s nothing to signal that Gunil should feel guilty. Jooyeon misses home, again, still, falls into faster than he ever has before. His eyes go tear-filled when he talks about it between sleepless nights. Gunil’s learned to hold him very still when it happens because Jooyeon’s bound to start swaying where he stands and then he’ll grab Gunil’s sleeve — say he needs it, whatever it is, whatever he wants.
He’s soft around the edges. Scared. He lets Gunil get him off into a dazed sleep and when he’s asleep Gunil gets off on him, the look that takes over his face, the fullness of his mouth begging for things Gunil wants to give him, but not yet, he thinks. Jooyeon needs to wait. He needs to learn discipline, patience, the soft drag of time against his skin when it least wants to chase his tail.
Jooyeon says he gets it now. I get it.
Gunil doesn’t ask. Jooyeon will never get it.