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It's a shock, seeing Shotaro.
It shouldn't be, really. Rationally Sungchan knew that he'd be here, mutual friends and all that, but still seeing him—and he looks good, dressed up, all easy grace beneath the crisp lines of his suit—is like biting into a lemon. It makes his jaw ache.
He's handling it pretty well though, even that first startling sighting, which felt like mini lightning strike; when he got to the front steps of the church, distracted by his cuff links, looked up and saw Shotaro, pausing at the doors to speak with the attendant. At the time it felt like getting punched in the face. And what's worse, then the wind caught him, a harsh autumnal gust that whirled leaves into the air around them and the sun briefly broke through the clouds and there Shotaro was, standing above him, haloed in golden sunlight.
Sungchan almost turned around on the spot. Fuck this, fuck the wedding. No way. No fucking way.
Whatever joke the universe or his friends were playing, he didn't think it was very funny.
He still doesn't, frankly, but at least the ceremony was painless enough. Whoever was in charge of the invitations and subsequent seating arrangements had the foresight to seat them both near the front but on different sides of the aisle. The only glance Sungchan got of him throughout the whole ceremony was when it ended and they were all sidling out of the pews to line up on the steps outside for pictures.
But that brief glimpse was enough to make him want to bail all over again. It was especially terrible because Shotaro was smiling, stooping to hear what the old lady who had apparently attached herself to him over the course of the hour-long ceremony, was saying. He looked nice, handsome, but soft around the edges, pink nosed from the chill of the draughty church.
He looked like the guy Sungchan's been in love with for over five years. A truly fucking miserable state of affairs.
Now, at the reception, he's feeling—better. Maybe. It's difficult to tell. The beer is helping, and the food, but even so he still spends most of his time preoccupied with not trying to look for Shotaro in the shifting, swaying, increasingly boisterous crowd, and continuously finding him anyway. Talking most of the time or dancing, a flute of champagne in his hand, flushed under blue-purple-red lights. It's terrible, he's charming all the aunts and grandmothers and leading conga lines around the dancefloor.
Sungchan finds a seat at a table and thinks about leaving.
The jet-lag isn't helping and in general it's just... strange being here. Paris. Of all places. It's a fucking joke, honestly.
They'd talked about Paris sometimes. It came up now and again at the tail-end of long nights, that one ill-fated camping trip (Anton's idea) or some of the work-enforced karaoke nights which they fled from together, but it was always this nebulous, serious-but-unserious thing. Paris. It might as well have been a plan to visit Narnia.
But still, Sungchan thought about it sometimes. He even looked up flights once, and hotels, on one deeply embarrassing desperate lovesick night with Shotaro on the phone, giggling, wine-drunk, listening and egging him on but not really hearing how serious Sungchan was being.
He never bought any tickets or booked any rooms. Who knows what would've happened if he had. If he had, Shotaro would've insisted on paying him back, he would've insisted they went as well, because that's the kind of person he is, and so they would've gone to Paris two years early. Two years before any stupid destination wedding and then what? Maybe things would be different. Maybe they'd be at this wedding together, embarrassing themselves on the dancefloor.
A conga line makes its laborious way around his table, led by an amazingly drunk Taeyong, who's tripping with every other step.
The parquet floor is littered with balloons, colourful paper streamers and confetti and as Sungchan stares listlessly around he spots a pair of sparkly high-heels abandoned under a nearby table. He kicks a balloon but it doesn't make him feel a whole lot better and then, just to make matters worse, Abba's SOS starts playing, the conga line disintegrates and the swaying singing-screaming of the crowd starts rattling around his already quietly aching brain.
Sungchan gets up abruptly. He needs to get out.
Still holding his half-empty bottle of Dutch or Czech or Dutch-Czech beer, he makes a beeline for one of the many French doors that lead out into a courtyard, beautiful but understated, very European, complete with climbing roses and honeysuckle, a fountain, and tastefully lit by paper lanterns and fairy lights.
There's no one else out here.
The few benches that are scattered about are empty and after dithering on the gravel path for a second or two, Sungchan makes his way over to the fountain. He perches himself on the limestone base, takes a swig of his beer and looks up, staring up into an unfamiliar sky which is black and scattered with stars. It's cold enough to make his breath steam out in front of him, but it's good; it feels nice after the stuffy used up heat of the hall. It clears his head a little.
Even so, it's stupid, sitting here alone, moping on the happiest day of someone's life.
Coins sparkle dimly at the bottom of the fountain's pool and, momentarily distracted, Sungchan stoops, about to fish a few out, but then he catches sight of an inscription carved just above the waterline and pauses. It's in French, which he doesn't understand, but he knows enough to recognise the word Cupidon and to make the connection with the chubby angel out of whose pointed arrow water is spurting.
He withdraws his hand, wiping it on his trousers. He's got no small change, only a handful of ten and twenty Euro notes stuffed in his wallet, which probably wouldn't get him very far with cupid. Not that it would matter. Not now, not ever maybe.
A sudden blast of music, of voices and damp warm air, makes him flinch out of his reverie and he looks around.
Shotaro, in his shirtsleeves and silhouetted against the pink-orange glow of the hall, stands for a second or two in the doorway before slowly moving out of the shadow of the balcony that wraps around the courtyard. The gravel crunches as he approaches and Sungchan sits there, glued to the spot, unable to move or think thoughts more coherent than fuckfuckfuckfuck—
"Hey," Shotaro says and as he moves into the light Sungchan sees that he's smiling, sweet and harmless, maybe a bit shy.
His hair is dark and a little too long now, falling into his eyes in a soft, accidentally seductive way that makes Sungchan's blood sing at a sudden and intense fever pitch. This is the closest they've been all day, the closest they've been in over two years and somehow—even after everything—Sungchan thought he'd more prepared, less vulnerable, that he'd feel less like an open wound.
His hand shakes as he brings his bottle of beer up to his mouth, feigning indifference. "Hey."
Shotaro stands there, swaying on his heels, and Sungchan is quietly, meanly, pleased to see him unsure, dithering a little before he says, "I was hoping you would be here. Ten said you were invited but I wasn't sure... well, he said there was no guarantee."
Sungchan swirls a mouthful of beer around, swallows, and says, flatly, "Right. Well, here I am."
"I'm glad," Shotaro says and it's like a kick to the chest.
Sungchan can't look at him so he looks away, looks down, inspecting the gravel and his shoes.
"You look well," Shotaro goes on to say, something coaxing in his voice like how one would talk to a spooked horse. Sungchan knows that tone, knows Shotaro's trying to be charming and it almost works, but five years of history and two years of seeing neither hide nor hair of him means that it doesn't. It could've, had certain choices not been made, had two years not passed like the pull of the tide.
See how much love can curdle, but still be love at the end of it all. Bitter, sour, acidic like bile or solvent but love all the same.
Not that Sungchan could pick that feeling out of a line-up even if he wanted to and he doesn't. He's carried this around for too long, let its weight shape him, fitted himself around it, let it eat what was there to be eaten and now there's only this heat, fever-sick, and anger and that bitter, curdling love that's no good.
Shotaro's tone irritates him enough to make him briefly forget about the kick and the bruise. He looks up, unsmiling, and sees Shotaro falter.
"I just—" he starts, taking half a step closer, but Sungchan interrupts him:
"What do you want?" His voice is cold and brittle, sounding nothing like himself but feeling it with every fibre of his being, all that no-good love, all that bitter viciousness condensed into just four words.
His excuse is that he's tired, not drunk enough for any of this, and that he wants to go home but his stupidly huge hotel bed is all he has to look forward to. Four days booked in France. Four days of aimless moping. Maybe he'll take a train, get out of the city and head south so he can stare out at the frothy blue of the Mediterranean and think about nothing at all.
Shotaro looks at him for a second and there's something sort of hopeless to the slump of his shoulders. "I just wanted to talk."
Sungchan raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "About what?"
"Just—about you, about us, about—how you've been, I mean. I've just—I was wondering... how things are. With you."
"Things are fine."
There's a spark of something – frustration perhaps – that flickers across Shotaro's face. He takes another step forward. "Sungchan, I'm being serious. I'm not just doing this to... to piss you off or whatever. I want to talk. I want to know how you are. I know that—I know that things are a bit weird, but I just thought... I don't know..." he trails off rather feebly.
Hearing his name coming from Shotaro's lips is its own kind of shock, its own kind of bruise that now blooms purple and aching across his heart. It's ridiculous, really, to still feel like this after so long. Sungchan stands up, fists curled tight at his sides. They're closer than he expected, but it's a good reminder of just how much taller he is than Shotaro, how he can still tower over him. It means that Shotaro has to look up to meet his gaze and when he does he can't hold it, his eyes flickering guiltily all over his face before he looks away.
"Two years," Sungchan grits out into what little space there is between them. "Two years and radio silence and now this? I just want to talk? You've got some fucking nerve, hyung."
"You never reached out eith—" Shotaro starts to say, but Sungchan's patience splinters like rotting wood and he pushes him, hard enough to make Shotaro overbalance and stagger backwards.
Sungchan follows, never letting the gap between them grow too big. He jabs a finger at Shotaro's chest. "You left."
"I got scared," Shotaro hisses, grabbing Sungchan's wrist to prevent any further pushing.
Sungchan laughs and yanks his hand out of Shotaro's grip. Two years, but he's still stronger. "Bullshit. You don't get scared."
"I didn't understand how I—what was going on and how I... how I felt or anything and I just—" Shotaro's backing away now, slowly, unconsciously, stumbling a little on the uneven ground and Sungchan follows, unrelenting. "—I needed to get out. I'm sorry."
"Fuck you. Seriously, just—"
Shotaro tries to touch him, grab his arm or hold it, but Sungchan knocks his hand away. They're halfway under the shadow of the balcony now, Shotaro still backing away, Sungchan advancing. His head is buzzing with a kind of anger he didn't know he was capable of.
"I didn't want to—run away. I swear, but I just... it was getting so serious all of a sudden and I couldn't—" Shotaro breaks off with a small sound of frustration. The words aren't coming to him, but Sungchan's finding it difficult to sympathise. They're so close, breathing the same cold air and heat flares dimly, twinned with rage, with the blood roaring in his ears and he feels almost inhuman, like some nightmarish version of himself. His arms feel numb and he flexes his fingers, trying to force feeling where it won't come. He wants, he's not sure—
"What," he says, sneering, "and now that you've figured it out you want to come crawling back to ask me how I'm doing? Is that it?"
"No, no—" Shotaro says, not pleading exactly but close and it only serves to make Sungchan angrier, which is stupid because how angry can he really be about this? This which was never anything except being the thing that was on the cusp of becoming something. Something substantial, something tangible, something that they would've had to put a name to, which is when and why Shotaro ran.
So maybe that’s the root of it all, what there is to be angry about.
Sungchan was scared too, but it never beat the love he felt, never cowed him into running or turning away or applying for a fucking transfer and disappearing without a word or explanation. Maybe he was too naive, too idealistic. Not scared enough. Maybe Shotaro did the sensible thing in running away, stopping that intangible something before it could take a bite out of them both.
Maybe he was being rational, but he was being cruel too, because that's what cowardice is, what it does.
"I had to find out from Eunseok that you left," Sungchan says. His voice is a tremor, a harsh whisper. The party thumps on in the background, the bass like a heartbeat under their feet. "I fucking—I called you, I came to your apartment. I just wanted an explanation and you just—"
His hands are shaking and he's grabbed Shotaro by the front of his shirt now, pushing or pulling he can't tell, and Shotaro lets him, not fighting back even when Sungchan roughly shoves him against the nearest wall. He's all eyes, dark and shining wetly with what could be tears but it might just be a trick of the light. It's probably just a trick. Sungchan's not violent by nature but he could punch him right now.
He kisses him instead.
As kisses go it's not particularly good and certainly not gentle.
It's a clash of noses and teeth, Sungchan's hands still gripping the front of Shotaro's shirt, pulling him in with a relentless kind of intent and while Shotaro doesn't quite struggle, he makes a noise—shocked, muffled—and Sungchan shudders, heat pitching in him like poison.
He pushes in closer until they're chest-to-chest, gets one hand into Shotaro's hair, grabs a fistful of it and pulls, forcing the angle of the kiss to change until it's better, until it's worse, and Shotaro opens up under him. He's surprisingly uncoordinated, shivering, Sungchan can feel it under his hands, in his mouth—the tremor of it like holding a small animal—but since he's kissing him back eagerly now, tilting his face up and gripping at Sungchan's shoulders hard enough to hurt, he can't bring himself to care very much.
Let him panic, let him be the one that's wrong-footed and scrambling to keep up for once. Sungchan only did for most of the time they knew each other, he's allowed a little revenge.
He feels almost feverish, outside of himself, queasy with equal amounts anger and arousal. He sinks his teeth into Shotaro's bottom lip, sucks and bites at his lips and tongue, bullying his way inside his mouth and making room for himself there until Shotaro hisses with pain but arching into it all the same because that's just what he's like.
And somehow, it escalates from there. Not that that's much of a surprise, at least not to Sungchan. Shotaro may have started this by seeking him out, but it's Sungchan who's gunning for escalation. Eager, stupid, hungry, mean—everything.
He's the one that slots them together so that Shotaro is pinned between him and the rough sandstone wall.
With one hand still clutching the back of Shotaro's neck, holding him fast even though the kiss has long since devolved into something uglier, less than and more than a kiss, he snakes his other hand between and around him, splaying it low on the small of his back, urging him up and against him while he shoves a leg between Shotaro's thighs. He has to kick his feet apart a little when he doesn't catch on quickly enough, and then they're so close that he feels rather than hears Shotaro's breath hitch.
"This is your—fault," he manages, breathless, smearing kisses along Shotaro's jaw and throat.
Shotaro nods distractedly, mouth slack and panting, grinding against the solid line of Sungchan's thigh.
He's hard, Sungchan can feel it, the bulge of his cock trapped between the insistent pressure of his thigh and the waistband of his slacks. There's no dignity to it and Sungchan thinks that Shotaro must know this because he's moving like someone trying not to but who can't stop; jerky, aborted little shifts of his hips, twisting his face away.
Not that Sungchan's faring any better, rutting gracelessly against Shotaro's hip, dizzy and sick, satisfying the urge to get inside him by nosing at the crook of his jaw, kissing at salty, wood-sage-scented skin. It won't be enough to get Shotaro off, but then that's not really his problem, is it? He's doing fine, getting from this what he wanted, what he needs. If Shotaro ends this night high and dry then that's just the way it is. He's made Sungchan suffer worse.
Sungchan pulls away a little to get a good look at him and he can't help the grin that twists his mouth out of shape at what he sees.
Shotaro is flushed pink, rumpled and untidy. Pretty is the word that comes to mind, but he won't say it. Can't say it. It feels too much like admitting to something.
There's a 90% chance that he wouldn't be upright right now if it weren't for Sungchan propping him up and holding him close with a hand that's somehow found its way under his shirt. His skin is clammy with sweat, hot to the touch, and Sungchan, in a fit of meanness, digs his nails in just to see him shudder and gasp.
"Where are you—what hotel—?" Shotaro's voice is hoarse, scraped raw and it digs under Sungchan's skin.
He would laugh, but his mouth is too dry. His heartbeat is like drumbeat inside him, thumping in his fingertips, in his stomach.
Sungchan backs away, stumbling a little, undignified, a semi straining against his zipper and without his support Shotaro sags against the wall. He looks about as dishevelled as Sungchan feels. Worse, maybe. There's a hickey blooming pink on the side of his neck and his mouth his red, shiny with spit and moving soundlessly as he tries to regain some ground in whatever just transpired between them.
You would think the re-established distance would help knock some sense into Sungchan, but it almost has the opposite effect.
It's worse somehow, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. Shotaro standing on unsteady legs, chest heaving, fumbling and tugging the hem of his shirt over his crotch—embarrassed, wrong-footed, and clearly embarrassed about being embarrased, flushed down to his chest and shivering from the cold or shock—who knows. There's none of the usual bravado, the coy eyes, or maybe there is the attempt at it, which amounts to a wobbly smile that has him looking so bewildered, so unsure that Sungchan almost feels sorry for him. Almost.
He makes his mind up on the spot.
"Come on," he says, running a hand through his hair before turning and heading for the exit.
This is a rich person's wedding so he knows there are cars and drivers out front, waiting by the disused stables, and he knows that he has enough to afford them the fare back into the city. They're a fair way outside Paris, but it's late and the roads will, with any luck, be clear.
He doesn't look around to check if Shotaro is following him, he can hear his laboured breathing, his footsteps on the gravel.
The car ride back to his hotel is deathly silent, but tension is thick in the air, almost tangible, the same way a coming thunderstorm can be tasted—petrichor and electricity. Their driver, who is French and unflappable, pays them no mind beyond the bare minimum of pleasantries.
It's funny, Sungchan had expected to be spiralling by now, in the long quiet minutes between what just transpired and what they're heading towards, but instead he feels oddly calm. Well, maybe calm is the wrong word because there's still this buzzing under his skin, but he feels—no, not in control either, there's the buzzing and the slight tremor in his hands that he can't seem to flex out of them—but he feels... numb.
That might just be the best word for it. For it now.
His body is a riot with feeling and sensations, pleasant and otherwise, but his mind is almost eerily quiet.
He knows he's still angry, a capacity for violence he didn't know he had simmering just under the surface, but he knows his self-control too, knows that love, even warped as it is now, will win out. But when his hand finds Shotaro's on the seat between them, he takes it and holds on tight enough to hurt. It feels good the same way smashing crockery in a fit of rage feels good; a shortsighted, childish pleasure that won't last.
The shards will be there for him to clear up later, but for now he indulges, grits his teeth and squeezes Shotaro's hand in his until his bones are grinding together, consequences be damned.
He hears the startled gasp, feels Shotaro fight back for a second before giving in, accepting the touch and the pain that comes with it.
It's only fair, given that he earned it.
Before they know it, they're circling the Arc de Triomphe, light gliding over them like water through the car windows. It takes a while to get out, delivery drivers are weaving through the traffic with very little care for their own or others safety and Sungchan can feel Shotaro squeeze his hand back as they narrowly avoid a collision with a Deliveroo driver. But their driver knows his way around, and after a few more close calls and sooner than Sungchan was expecting, they're pulling up outside the Four Seasons Hotel.
He hears Shotaro make a small noise somewhere in between incredulity and derision, and any good will that had stirred in him in the last ten minutes evaporates all at once. He gets out of the car without a word, just about managing not to slam the door, and marches past the doorman and into the lobby with Shotaro hurrying after him.
After a quick word at the front desk Sungchan heads for the lifts and Shotaro follows, gaping around at the lush interior.
The lift doors slide shut and Sungchan presses the button for the penthouse. Shotaro laughs quietly, looking towards the ceiling. "Of course."
Who knows what impulse he acts on, Sungchan certainly doesn't know, but he acts all the same, too quickly to overthink it, to accept the risks or damn the consequences. He just acts, his heart cartwheeling in his chest, crowds into Shotaro's space and kisses him, half mad with a feeling that's 50% anger and 50% relief at finally being allowed to do this again.
It's a better kiss than that first one back at the wedding but it isn't by any means any gentler.
Shotaro's more prepared for it this time though, winds his arms around Sungchan's shoulders, crushes him close, lets himself be pinned against the mirrored walls like some kind of endangered butterfly, his mouth open, slick and wet, panting against Sungchan's. He gets a hand around the back of Shotaro's neck, cradling the base of his skull, holds him still even as Shotaro writhes against him, immobilised but pleased about it if the hard-on nudging against Sungchan's thigh is anything to go by.
He's so responsive, Sungchan can't believe he let himself forget.
He tries to crowd closer, impossibly close, wanting to climb inside and never leave. He tries to say as much, muffles it into the kiss as an unintelligible groan, but Shotaro seems to understand because he nods frantically, his hands digging through Sungchan's hair, urging him on.
They rock against each other, swaying on the spot, and Sungchan's hard, so fucking hard it's almost scary and all he can say is, "Fuckfuck—" smearing the word into Shotaro's panting mouth, against his tongue and teeth, and all he does is open up more, pulling him closer, inside, making these small shocked noises, bucking up with his whole body as if he too, forgot and is now remembering.
Behind them the lift doors slide open with a quiet ding and Sungchan stumbles backwards, not taking his hands off Shotaro for even a second, even when he's wrestling with his keycard, and especially not when he gets the door open and they're in the foyer and Shotaro reels him back in immediately, arching up against him, saying things like, "Please, please—c'mon, I want—" until Sungchan's backed him against the wall.
"Yeah?" he asks, pulling away a little to speak. He gets a knee between Shotaro's legs, rocking his hard cock against his hip, muffling the feeling with gritted teeth and pushes his thigh up until it's snug between Shotaro's thighs, pressing against where he's leaking through his slacks.
Shotaro manages a stifled, "Ah, fuck—" then twists his face away, eyes clenched shut, hips stuttering in earnest.
Sungchan's hands slip from his neck and face down to his hips, digging in hard enough to bruise, forcing him to slow down until Shotaro whines, agonised, eyes opening again so he can fix Sungchan with a glare that does nothing but encourage him. He grins, hitches his knee up higher, grinds deliberately, and watches Shotaro's eyelids flutter shut, his mouth falling open as he tries to match Sungchan's movements but can't, because there's no leverage, because he's on his tiptoes already, pinned where Sungchan wants him.
"Fuck, please—you bastard—" he says, fumbling to get a hand around Sungchan's neck and smashing their mouths back together into a kiss that's quickly no more than breath and spit, salty too because Sungchan's bottom lip has split and he's smearing blood all over Shotaro's chin and lips, queasy under a landslide of feeling, breathing in deep like this is his first time above water in years.
"Please, what?" he rasps, biting the words into the salty damp skin of Shotaro's throat, gnawing, wanting to leave a mark.
The frustrated little noise Shotaro makes in response to this makes him smile, affection surging like a riptide, and he pulls away just far enough to look at Shotaro, who's glaring, bright pink in the face, his kiss-bruised mouth working soundlessly around words he can't seem to make real.
"You know," he says breathlessly and slightly petulant, his hips rolling against Sungchan's thigh. "C'mon, you know."
Looking down at him, Sungchan seriously considers giving in, being kind and not letting the ugly rotten feeling dictate how he behaves.
But it's easier like this—taking revenge.
Two years of hurt and confusion. That can't just be washed away and even if he could, Sungchan's not sure he would want to. There has to be some retribution, righting the scales, flexing a muscle he doesn't get to exercise very often because he doesn't get angry and he isn't mean, but it's also not fair that he should have to swallow this down, let it all go even though he's been living life these past years like a fish with a hook in its belly.
And then there's Shotaro. Shotaro, who remembers winning, who remembers how easy it was to get what he wanted from Sungchan, who knew, always, that he would give in, the same way land cedes to the sea. He knew like he knows now and Sungchan can see it on his face, the surety, the satisfaction, the glint in his eye of yes, come on, give me what I want.
He steps away and Shotaro sags against the wall, slipping on the parquet, gasping like he's been hurt.
"No, no, please—" he says, his voice almost a whine, but Sungchan's already walking away, his heart like a lump of coal in his throat.
He kicks off his shoes as he goes, stripping out of his suit jacket and tossing it somewhere onto the floor of the living room, which is dark except for the light flooding in from the windows which show off Paris in all its glory. The Eiffel Tower, visible from the balcony and through the windows, is still lit up and its light breathes some life into the room, casting odd shadows where it can't reach. Sungchan stands there, not really seeing it, a roaring in his head as he fumbles with his tie and cuff links.
Behind him, Shotaro shuffles into the room, unsure again, all his angles and bravado softening in the muted golden light.
Sungchan looks at him for a while, feeling everything there is to feel, wishing he could get his hands to stop trembling.
He comes closer again, drawn back to where Shotaro's standing—stranded in the middle of this stupidly opulent room—like there's some sort of magnetic pull between them, dragging him back no matter how often he tries to walk away.
Shotaro's eyes are huge, pupil-black, and he blinks slowly, dazed, as Sungchan crowds into his personal space again. He shivers when Sungchan touches his face, lips parting to reveal the wet-pink flash of his tongue behind his teeth and, whatever plan Sungchan had initially, this distracts him immediately. The only sounds in the room are those of their breathing; Shotaro's shallow and speeding up as Sungchan hooks his thumb into his mouth, testing the give of his tongue which flexes under the intrusion.
"You hurt me," he says, his voice coming out as a harsh, throaty whisper. He's not sure why he says it.
Shotaro shudders, then nods. He closes his lips around Sungchan's thumb and sucks, just a little, just enough to make Sungchan bite back a grunt as his hips rock forward. It's so easy to imagine, to remember, Shotaro on his knees—
He pulls his thumb out of Shotaro's mouth, grips his face, squeezing, enjoying the effect and angry about it, angry at how affected he is. Angry at the world, at Shotaro, at his own traitorous heart and dick, but all Shotaro does is sway on the spot, nodding as much as he's able with Sungchan holding him fast, and when Sungchan lets go he sinks to his knees in one fluid motion that makes the world spin out from under Sungchan's feet.
Shotaro sort of face-plants forward into Sungchan's crotch, gripping him by the thighs as he mouths at his cock, which is straining, fully hard now, against his zipper. The feeling, even through two layers of fabric is immediate, like touching an electric fence and not letting go. Helpless, Sungchan bucks into it, fisting a hand in Shotaro's hair, unable to stop the moan that escapes him. But Shotaro nods fervently and whines, a tight needy noise, nuzzling against the outline of his cock.
"Let me," he pants, his mouth wet and insistent. Sungchan can feel his tongue, the hint of teeth when he says, "Let me, let me—please, c'mon—" and his hands are quick and greedy, grabbing at the hem of his shirt, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.
But Sungchan heaves him back up again, finds himself saying, "No," without a clue of what he's going to do next.
Shotaro sort of collapses against him, all dead weight, muffling complaints into his neck and Sungchan has to half drag half carry him into the adjoining bedroom where a neatly made kingsize bed dominates the already disproportionately large room. Paris gleams golden and silent through the triple glazing.
He can't face the idea of letting go of him so he doesn't and lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, dragging Shotaro with him and they land in a mess of limbs, tangled up, both of them grabbing at each other until Shotaro's on top of him. Sungchan can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against his hip, feels him grind down, slow and sensual before he ducks down to capture Sungchan's mouth in a languid, uncoordinated kiss.
Sungchan lets this go on until he feels his grasp on the situation slipping and gets a hand in Shotaro's hair, tugging him away and holding him at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable. "Is this your way of saying sorry?" he asks.
All Shotaro does is blink at him, mouth wet and panting, a bleary sort of softness to him. "Mmh, yeah. Yeah," he manages breathlessly. "Is it—is it working?" He's still rutting against Sungchan's hip in these small involuntary movements that rock them together, trapping Sungchan's cock between them, nudging between his thighs, so close to where he wants to be—to where he needs to be.
The realisation shakes something loose in his head and Sungchan groans, his free hand finding Shotaro's hip so he can manoeuvre him back until he's flush in his lap and Sungchan can rut against his ass. Shotaro lets him, his head still twisted at that same awkward angle, Sungchan's fist tight in his hair. He's gasping with every thrust, the hand not fumbling for balance on Sungchan's chest, scrabbling at his crotch, squeezing as every haphazard thrust ruts him up into his own hand.
It's terrible, perverse in a way that makes no sense, they're both still almost fully dressed, but Shotaro looks—
"Are you—are you gonna come?" Sungchan barely recognises his own voice. He sounds like he's been in a desert for days.
When Shotaro doesn't answer immediately he pulls at his hair again, mean and ungentle about it, worsening the angle, forcing him into an uncomfortable arch but all Shotaro does is moan, whiny and shocked, eyes fluttering shut, rutting into his own hand, arched and posed like a ballet dancer. He looks beautiful and Sungchan's so far gone that he doesn't even try to banish the thought but lets it linger, sweetening the pleasure spindling through him like lightning.
"Are you?" he asks and Shotaro sobs, unable to shake or nod his head, but his hips are stuttering, his rhythm turning frantic.
Sungchan rolls his hips up, letting him feel how hard he is, how close, because he is—he can feel it on the back of his tongue, racing through him, tsunami-like, an undignified end to an undignified night but who cares. Who cares. Shotaro is writhing above him, his face flushed and wet.
In a moment of madness, Sungchan knocks Shotaro's hand away, undoes his flies with trembling, uncoordinated fingers and wraps his hand around his cock. Shotaro makes a strangled sound, hunching forward, rutting forward into Sungchan's fist, spit dripping from his open mouth onto Sungchan's shirt. His cock is blood-hot, a familiar weight to it, half forgotten, slippery all over with precome. Sungchan doesn't even have to do much but keep his hands on him. One fist tight in his hair, holding him fast, his gaze flickering between Shotaro's face—flushed bright pink, his mouth open and wanting—and his cock, flushed similarly, precome leaking liberally, wetting his knuckles, dripping between them onto his bare stomach where his shirt has rucked up.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, hyung, you're so—" He wants to say beautiful but he can't. Won't. So he grits out, "You're so—wet."
Shotaro whines, shakes his head frantically—so pretty—but then Sungchan tightens his fist, ignoring his cramping wrist, his own aching cock, his eyes intent on Shotaro's face and watches him gasp, panicked, "Oh f-fuck, ah, fuck—wait—"
He cries out as he comes and his whole body tenses, shakes, and twitches in these big involuntary tremors until he's doubled over, forehead pressed to Sungchan's chest, his cock twitching in Sungchan's grip, come splattering over his knuckles, stomach, and shirt, until he's panting out whiny little pleas, hurtling headlong into overstimulation. And Sungchan doesn't even have the decency to let up; he squeezes his cock, feeling it flex in his grip and Shotaro jerks, making a helpless hurt sound, "Hngh, fuckfuck—"
It's easy rolling him over onto his back. He's as limp and pliant as a doll, dazed, still breathing heavily, and Sungchan clambers on top of him, fighting to free his cock from the confines of his trousers and briefs. His hand is slick with Shotaro's come and he groans, fucking into his fist, dignity forgotten, as stupid and eager as a puppy, fighting the urge to close his eyes because Shotaro is underneath him, staring, his eyes huge, teary, mouth open, watching him as intently as Sungchan's been watching him.
"Ah, god, fuck, I'm gonna—" is all he manages before a scorching wave of pleasure seizes him, spreading from his cock, up his spine until every muscle in his body tenses and he's twisted out of shape, hunched over Shotaro, who moans, grasping him by the hip, urging him closer.
Come splatters across his mouth and chin and Sungchan whines through his teeth, gets a hand in his hair again, drags his face closer, and Shotaro mewls, nodding, mouth open. Sungchan's hips buck involuntarily, cock spasming, twitching in his grip, but Shotaro barely even flinches as more come lands on his cheeks and across his nose; his gaze stays fixed up on Sungchan's face.
"Hyung," he breathes as he comes down. His first coherent word in over a minute. "Fuck, I don't—"
Shotaro looks exhausted, fucked out, blinking blearily, but he reaches for Sungchan all the same, touches his face as gentle as anything and then pulls him down into a kiss that's slippery with spit and his own come smearing salty and slightly bitter between them.
Sungchan kisses him deeply, languid, ignoring every cramp and ache, the uncomfortable wetness in his briefs, the cool air pressing its clammy palms against his sweat soaked back. Paris is still gleaming brightly, distantly noisy, autumn fog creeping in from the Seine.
Melancholy has invaded his heart, replacing the acidic bite of anger and revenge with a feeling like agitating a bruise, pressing on something that already hurts, that will continue to hurt. Another two years, ten, twenty. As he kisses Shotaro, feeling his tongue sliding against his own, the delicate palate of his mouth, he feels unmoored, close to tears all of a sudden, sick in the knowledge that this feeling is forever.
"Stay," he whispers into the kiss, hoping he says it quietly enough that Shotaro doesn't hear it, so he doesn't have to hear him say no.
He feels Shotaro smile against his mouth, feels his hands twitch in his hair and dread closes like a vice around his chest. He can hear it coming, can see it in front of his eyes; Shotaro getting up from the bed, fixing his clothes, not meeting his gaze, leaving again because that's what he does. Until the next wedding, the next incidental meeting, the next mistake.
He's so wrapped up in his visions of the future that he almost misses it when Shotaro says, "Okay," his voice small, tremulous.
But he does hear it, somehow, and surprise knocks him temporarily speechless. He pulls away just far enough to look into Shotaro's face. His expression is soft, open, a little apprehensive, like he's expecting Sungchan to change his mind, to take it back. But all he says is, "Okay?" Like he needs confirmation, reassurance that this is not a dream or some pathetic post-orgasm hallucination.
Shotaro smiles, almost laughing, and Sungchan's heart does a cartwheel in his chest. "Okay," he says, pinching Sungchan's ear affectionately.