Archive of Our Own

“What’s bottom?”

Anton chokes on his water. “Huh?” he pretends not to have heard, but Sohee can see the colour rising in his cheeks. They have about ten minutes before the choreographer asks them back.

“Bo-ttom,” he sounds it out, “what’s it mean?”

“Like.” Anton wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Context?”

“Bottom Lee Sohee,” he recites from the screen on his phone.

Anton lunges for it. “What are you reading?!”

Sohee yanks it away on instinct. “Woah,” he laughs, sobers seeing the panic play out in Anton’s features. “It’s bad?”

“No, I mean,” Anton groans, “it’s a fan thing, like something fans do. You don’t wanna know.”

Oh, but Sohee does. He’s not above being obsessed with what the fans think of him. That’s what got his ass in this predicament, this cool, little trick called Googling himself. “I’m gonna ask Google if you don’t tell me. I’m gonna ask Shotaro-hyung, I’m gonna ask Siri. Right now. Out loud.”

Anton cringes, lowers his voice. “It’s umm… a sex thing.”

“What?!” he cannot contain his squeak. Anton shushes him, hand on his mouth. “What?” he repeats quieter. Now, he’s really never letting this go.

Anton’s blushing so hard his ears are bright red. “Ok, so you know how fans get? With us? With… duos.” He eyes Sohee meaningfully.

“Duos, ok.” Sohee repeats, understanding nothing.

“Yeah, so, when, like, we’re in a duo—in a ship.”

“Ship?”

“Actually, forget that.” Anton shakes him off. “When—”

“Boat?” Sohee offers in English.

“No.”

“Sex boat?” He’s so confused. “Sex cruise.”

Anton takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling for a good three seconds, probably praying, before staring at him, dead-eyed, resigned to his fate as eternal translator for the most unhinged content. “In—during—sex, between two guys, dudes, when dudes have sex, with each other, there’s a top and a bottom.” He illustrates with his hands, one hand on top of the other in a gesture that does not look at all like anyone having sex, but Sohee knows enough about the act for the pieces to fall together. “They think you…” Anton points at him, “are a bottom.”

“What?!” Oh, he’s distressed.

“Calm down,” Anton tells him and has the audacity to crack a smile. He thinks this is a joke. It’s a joke that the fans think Sohee is out here… bottom…ing. And wait, wait a second. He glances down at the screen, skims fast through the block of words, many of which are new and scary-sounding, sees—

“For you?!” Voice crack.

“No, I mean, I don’t know, I guess.”

“No!” he shuts it down immediately. “No, no.” Laughs to himself, pushes his fringe back, stressed. “No way.”

Anton rolls his eyes. “No one said it’s rea—what do you mean no way?”

Sohee laughs, incredulous. “Between us, no way,” explains like Anton’s being dumb.

“Well,” Anton chuckles, “Kind of.”

“No. I’m…” What did Anton call it? “Not bottom.” He does the same motion Anton did to explain and points to the hand doing the… propositioning, the acting, the dominating. Because he hasn’t thought about this once but that feels right in his spirit.

“Top,” Anton offers.

“Top,” Sohee agrees, throwing him a thumbs up. “Top Lee Sohee.”

“Sure,” Anton appeases him, before his smile turns cheeky, the little shit. “but, between us…”

Is he serious right now? Sohee didn’t want to do this because he knows Anton is still insecure about it, his soft, little voice and cute, little face and tight, little butt—but there are more important things than Anton’s feelings. Sohee’s dignity.

“Yes,” he insists, “You are a bottom.”

Anton sputters, “I’m six feet tall!”

Sohee gasps, gapes, goops. “Okay, and?” He crosses his arms. What does he mean by that? That Sohee can’t fuck because he’s short? Short guys can’t fuck, is that it?

“Who’s topping me?” Anton asks. He looks genuinely confused, so Sohee doesn’t take it personally.

“Me,” breaks it to him gently, “like, all the time. All I do is top you.”

Anton has the decency to blush at least, ‘cause he knows it’s true. He hides his ruddy face behind his hands and massages his temples.

“We can both be tops,” he offers a peace treaty right as Fame starts back up.

“Like, what about me gives bottom?”

Anton chokes on his rice. Sohee rolls his eyes, watching him catch his breath.

“Warn a guy,” he croaks, eyes watering.

Anyway, “Objectively,” Sohee adds, folding his hands in front of him. The hyungs are out of the way, and they can finally have this conversation. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them. He wants to minimize the damage. If Eunseok gets a hold of this he’ll be both disgusted and devoted to bringing it up every chance he gets. Best to keep the case need-to-know until he solves it, and he will solve it. He will get to the… top of this.

“You’re still on this,” Anton mumbles. He reaches across the table for a sliced cucumber.

Sohee balks. “Yes. I am being slandered online if you haven’t noticed.”

He said he’d be calm, open to understanding. He’s an idol, after all. He welcomes criticism. His image is malleable. He adapts with notes, shifts like a chameleon. If there’s something that went wrong, he can study it on the monitor, practice it for the mirror until it’s as sharp as his jaw.

“The fans don’t know you, hyung,” Anton tells him, “They don’t know anything. It’s—” He looks around at the other tables, an older man with a half-finished beer, some drunk office-workers passed out on the bench. It’s 11pm on a weekday, not exactly rush hour, but Anton mouths the words, “word porn.”

“I’m aware,” Sohee says. He has seen it all. Papago can attest to his crimes. Those scary words? Their meanings? Butt sex. Doggy style. Doggy dick, for god’s sake. God will smite him. Sohee’s time will come. “But in the porn, I need to be accurate.”

Anton wheezes, reaching for the water cup. Sohee shoves it in his hand impatiently. “Can you stop choking and lock in?”

A sip. Then, the coughing turns into laughter. Anton’s leaning back on his chair, beside himself. “Where are you even looking?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?” Anton looks amused.

“Because.”

“Because what? You know I can translate it for you, tell you why, what they’re saying.”

“Because you will let it get to your head,” Sohee huffs.

Anton cocks an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Not telling you.”

Anton smirks, nodding. “Meaning I’m a top.” He’s so smug and self-satisfied Sohee wants to kick his shin or do something worse, something like kick his balls in, put his foot on his crotch and see him really choke on his spit, shove him under the table and—

“Accurately,” Anton adds under his breath, rudely interrupting his train of thought.

The next day, Anton’s on the floor, kicking his feet, giggling, and Sohee thinks, how would one top a six foot man?

Logistically.

It’s not a thought he’s had before, but he has it twice within two hours. Anton’s very good at being bottom-looking. He has those big eyes that scream ‘I could look up at you like this as I’m taking your cock and make you nut in ten seconds.’

Look up? Back? Down? What position, let’s say, would one take? A top, like Lee Sohee.

He cannot be caught Googling that even borrowing Eunseok’s phone as he’s prone to do for inquiries such as ‘should SM pay us more?’, so he does the next best thing:

Throttle Anton to the ground, knees on either side of his torso as he flails around, shaking his head until his hair is fluffy and his face has gone rosy with fight. His lashes are so long. When he tears up, they clump together, look darker. He’s doing it now, laughing so hard he’s crying, smiling wide and dimply.

Sohee could actually choke him to death; he’s so fucking—much.

“See,” Anton whispers, smile turning sharp. His eyes roll down Sohee’s body. His tongue peeks through his lips. Only for a moment, long enough for Sohee to catch a flash of pink and be bulldozed by the next words coming out of that stupid wet mouth. “Bottom.”

Later, he tackles Anton from the back and hauls him off his feet, all six of them, dragging him around the studio. Anton fights him half-heartedly. Sohee has been on the other side of his moves, karate chops to the neck, so he knows when Anton’s taking playing seriously or when he wants to be manhandled.

They end up on the floor. They always end up on the floor. Sohee won’t make the same mistake twice. Anton’s hand finds his waist under his shirt, squeezing. He smacks it off instantly. “Stop it, pervert.”

Anton’s smile is bursting out of his face. His eyes are half-moons, his cheeks creasing. “You know what—” he hiccups between squeaks as Sohee pinches his sides, giving him no time to speak. “I—wait—I—wait, wait, can’t breat—Sohee-hyung! Please, please.”

“You what?” Sohee threatens, pinning him to the floor, palm on his chest. It wracks up and down with Anton’s ragged breaths. His shirt has ridden off his abs, his jeans shrugged low in the tussle, hipbones poking out. He looks disheveled. Sohee wants to destroy him. Has he always been this prone to violence? Very alpha of him, if he must say so himself.

“I see it,” Anton smirks, fearless. “You’re so—tiny!” he screeches as Sohee twists in the general location of his nipple.

He yanks him by his hoodie, flips him over on his stomach, smacks his ass repeatedly until he thinks Anton might pee himself laughing and squirming. The cameras find him begging for mercy, curled into himself, Sohee attempting to un-curl him.

“I won’t…” Anton gasps, crawling away, “be used… to rehab your reputation.”

Here’s why Anton thinks he should be a top: he’s tall, he’s strong, he has a big dick. Ok, fine.

Here’s why Sohee thinks he should be a top: he cannot for the life of him, for the sake of his career, for the decency of the cameras and the camera-hyungs and the camera-noonas, for the sanctity of the studio, for Shotaro who’s asked twice if he wants to talk, for the love of all that’s good and holy, stop looking at Anton’s ass.

So,

He starts overthinking everything. The metaphysics of topping. He needs to stop being online. Anton doesn’t help.

“Bottom-ish,” he whispers when Sohee leans into the camera, eyes-first, so Sohee has to smack him, and they have to re-film the whole challenge, exasperating the staff. “Like a pretty doll,” Anton comments on Sohee’s frilly outfit, bow around his neck.

Anton’s pushing sushi into his mouth when he smiles sweetly to himself, and Sohee knows he’s thinking about them again. His chest tightens inexplicably. “Oh, come on,” he wails. “I can’t eat—?”

“I feed you—” Anton shrugs.

“So?” Unbelievable. This is a witch-hunt. He’s an alpha on the run. “So fucking what?”

Anton flushes. “It’s cute, they think it’s cute... of you.”

“You feed me ‘cause you’re my wife!” Sohee announces, wrapping an arm around Anton’s neck and pulling him closer. Anton curls his shoulders to protect himself. Smart boy. Sohee plants a kiss on his cheek, a loud one, pretend-kiss, all wet and sound-y, mwahh.

“They call you babygirl,” Anton mumbles when released.

He holds the chopsticks to Sohee’s mouth, waits for Sohee to open. He does. It’s easy, no reason to change it. Anton has to look at him to do it. He likes when Anton looks at him. Anton has this endlessly deep pool of care for others. Sohee wants to take up at least ninety-five percent of it.

“Baby - girl?” he makes a face, chewing.

It’s like Anton can read his mind. “I shouldn’t have taught you that—” Too late.

“Babygirl,” he repeats, smirking, “I like babygirl. You wanna be my babygirl?” he practices in English. “Where my babygirls at?”

“Oh my god, cringe!” Anton covers his ears, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

“Aw babygirl,” Sohee coos, squishing his cheeks between both hands, “baby, my baby, you’re my baby, yeah?”

“Hyung!” he’s gotten so red, it’s so cute, Sohee’s gonna bite his cheek off some day.

Anton likes this, the baby stuff. Sohee’s so gonna get on his case about it soon. As soon as he’s done drinking in the nervous giggle he lets out when Sohee leans in, jokingly, to see him gasp in horror.

Ten minutes out. The camera sits before them on a tripod. Anton in front of him on the floor.

Sohee fidgets with him out of boredom, pulls at his hair, tickles the back of his neck. They know not to shift much once placed. Lighting, framing, and such. It’s fun, seeing Anton squirm under his assault while keeping his ass firmly on his assigned spot. Sohee loves to have him close.

Anton leans back to glare, exposing himself. The shirt hangs low on his chest. Loose. Sohee can see right under it, past the glitter of his necklaces to the dip between his pecs. His neck is bare, pale and long, smooth on touch.

He touches him on instinct, hands sliding up Anton’s throat to his cheeks. He smacks his face lightly, and Anton moves with the motion. Plaint and sweet, sitting there so obediently an urge rises within Sohee to squish and pinch and ruin him for anyone else. He’s just too fucking pretty.

He cradles his jaw between both hands, slides his thumbs towards Anton’s mouth, smushes his lips, traces the cupid’s bow. Pulls away and Anton opens it. His tongue swipes his bottom lip shiny. He’s smiling, the fucker.

Sohee leans over him, grinning. “What if I spit on you?” he warns.

“Ugh,” Eunseok grunts beside him, pulling his body away like he’s in the wet zone.

“Ew,” he hears Wonbin agree.

But Sohee can barely hear them over the sight of Anton’s pupils dilating ever so slightly, just enough to make his eyes black, hungry.

He spends the rest of the live, praying, praying they don’t play games, praying Anton doesn’t stand up, doesn’t stop leaning back on his legs. The tight jeans he has on do little to hide the hard-on rubbing against his thigh.

“Don’t play with him too much,” Sungchan brings up.

The microwave beeps behind him. Sohee thinks he has timed it like that to give him an out—five seconds left, I’ll bring this up, if he hates it, we can eat, mouth stuffed too full to talk. It’s a Sungchan thing to do, care deeply, silently, but make things feel natural.

“He’s fine.” Sohee rolls his eyes. “He’s a male manipulator. Don’t let him manipulate you. Hyung, I’m doing your job, beating the shit out of him.”

Sungchan chuckles, hands him his bowl. Sohee can stop talking if he wants to, but he’s too curious how, why—

“You’re too soft,” he accuses.

“He’s soft,” Sungchan replies, “for you.” Sohee doesn’t know what to do with that. “Just,” Sungchan hesitates, “be careful.”

He feels the smile peel off his face. “Hyung, I’m not actually hurting him,” he needs Sungchan to know, everyone, really. Anton knows. “We’re messing around. It’s a joke, it’s fun.”

Sungchan smiles reassuringly. “As long as you both agree.”

He can’t sleep.

“Chanyoung,” he whispers in the dark of their shared bedroom.

The clock shows 2am. It had been a long day. Silent car ride back. Five minute showers. No skin-care, no phone-time. They’d crashed without goodnights. Sohee feels unfinished, a bottle of sparkling left uncapped, fizzing out into an unsatisfying flatness.

Anton stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. “Hmm?”

“Come here,” Sohee says.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Anton whines, “Why?” but Sohee watches his shape move in the darkness. He has been awake for hours, eyes adjusting to the curve of Anton’s waist, the fullness of his breaths. Anton trudges across the room to his side. He wobbles, disoriented, legs hitting Sohee’s bed.

“What?”

“Down,” Sohee says.

“Hyung, I’m tired,” Anton complains as he kneels. They’re face-to-face now. “What, please?”

“That’s what I thought,” Sohee smirks.

It takes a second for it to click—for sleepy Anton to realize he’s on his knees for him, just because he asked. Sohee waits, buzzing with a type of glee and anticipation he has only ever experienced in arenas full of fans. One blink, two, three, four, fast, then Anton’s eyes are widening comically.

“You’re so annoying, oh my god,” he complains, “I was asleep!”

“Yeah, bottom sleep.” Sohee bites his lip to keep from laughing. He’s delirious with exhaustion. This whole thing is so stupid. He can’t help himself. It’s good now; Anton’s here.

“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Anton throws his hands up in annoyance.

He stands. Pity. Sohee is going to miss that view. Anton, hair in every direction, oversized shirt exposing his collarbones, eyes crusty with sleep.

Suddenly, Anton’s pawing at the lump that is his body. “Move.”

“Nah-uh.” Sohee tries not to budge. He doesn’t have much leverage with both arms in the blanket burrito he has made of himself, but he’ll be dead before he lets Anton win. He slumps on the mattress harder, digs his shoulder in, makes himself heavy, even nips, teeth clicking, when Anton’s arm comes close to his face. Anton won’t give it up. “Stop copying my alpha techniques.”

“I’m not, move - over,” Anton grits through his teeth.

Hard shove. Sohee yelps as he’s rolled flat on his back, flailing like a turtle. Embarrassing. Before he can recover, Anton has climbed in bed with him, his freakishly-long limbs taking over the space where Sohee was. Their weights collide in the middle with the tightness of the bed and the crappiness of the mattress.

“Your fault,” Anton yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “Too tired to go back.”

Trapped underneath the blankets, Sohee is bewildered and about four hundred degrees too hot, sweating. He squirms to escape, but Anton’s on top of the blanket, making it immovable. He really is so huge when it’s least convenient.

“Your fat ass—no, I take that back, your dumb ass is too big for this bed,” Sohee groans, attempting to elbow him awake because, already, Anton’s breathing lighter, lips parting with sleep.

“Chanyoung,” Sohee whines, rocking sideways. Nothing. He sighs, stares at the ceiling and thinks defeatist thoughts like this is all his fault, but he vowed to practice positive thinking, so it can’t be that, he didn’t ask for it.

He sighs, again, harsher. “Chanyoung-ah, get under the blanket. I don’t want you getting sick, jagi.”

This gets Anton moving, lifting as little of his weight as possible for Sohee to untangle them, drag the blanket from under his body and lift it up, so Anton can scoot inside.

Their arms touch. Anton’s skin is icy. Sohee brushes the goosebumps under his fingertips, rubs his bicep up and down to warm him up and feels Anton flex, the muscle shifting, solid and large, under Sohee’s hand.

“Show off,” he mutters.

Anton smiles, bites his lip, giggles, anyway, probably too tired to stop himself. His eyes stay closed. His hair is splayed on their shared pillow, tickling Sohee’s cheek. Sohee doesn’t move away, sure the wall is colder.

“Cuddle me,” Anton mumbles, voice airy.

Sohee’s heart is beating out of his chest. He notices only when he tries to speak, and his pulse wants to jump out of his throat. Doesn’t know what that’s about. Swallows twice to make sure it’s shoved back down where it came from.

“Turn around then,” he says, not to test, just because he knows no other way to do it.

Anton’s cute remembering his limbs. He pushes himself up on his hands and slumps back down, facing the other way, scoots back at the same time Sohee shifts himself forward.

They meet in the middle, chest to back, a little rough, shuffling ’til it fits. No bony angles. No empty spaces. Soft on soft.

There’s something overwhelming about throwing an arm around Anton’s waist and pulling him close, holding him, pure muscle, right up against his heart, safe and tucked away from the world.

Anton grabs for his hand as if to check it’s there, that this thing on top his navel is indeed five fingers splayed wide, as wide as can be. Anton gives him a squeeze and lets go, tucks his arms against his chest. A satisfied sigh-moan leaves his lips, and Sohee is so, so strong not to grip him hard enough to bruise for that.

“You know this is not helping your campaign, right?” he mumbles against Anton’s shirt. It shifts with the movement, just enough for Sohee’s lips to brush skin. He can’t tense; he’s holding him too tight. Anton will notice. This is fine, normal, cool.

“I don’t care,” Anton mutters, drifting off. The next thing is barely a breath. A figment of Sohee’s imagination. Source: Trust Me. A rumour. Does Anton even say this? Probably, not. But Sohee hears it, anyway. “Not if it’s you.”

Anton’s on his lap. Anton’s head is on his lap. Sohee’s lap. They are sitting on the couch as two people who trained under the same company and occupy the same dance studio because they are part of the same group and, because of that, have the same breaks between songs… do.

Sohee’s not a touch-person, but he’s seen enough of Shotaro and Sungchan to know he should keep his hand in Anton’s hair even if he does nothing else but mess with it. He twirls a long strand between his fingers and watches over and over again as it loops around his knuckles, gets caught in his rings.

If Anton minds, he’s not telling him. In fact, Sohee thinks Anton might not be awake to mind until—

“Sungchan-hyung?” he asks, head shifting slightly on Sohee’s knee to look in Sungchan’s direction. “Top?”

“Top,” Sohee confirms. He’s kind of jealous, honestly, of how top-y Sungchan is to fans. Typical. They see a tall, beefy gym bro and think he can automatically sling dick like the dick peddler. It’s not fair. Masculinity is bestowed upon him. Sohee fights for every adjective. It doesn’t matter how he styles himself, how he carries himself, what he wants. “All the time,” he bemoans.

“Yeah.” He hears Anton laugh. “Figured.”

Sohee doesn’t tell him that’s him, too, his royal top-iness, but they haven’t seen what Sohee has seen. They were not spooning him, sleeping (incredibly well), waking up (incredibly hard), wanting to die, cock interested enough in the happenings to hurt, relentlessly, without relief, for weeks. He’s not dumb to touch himself to the concept—thin ice and he fears water—but the dreams he can’t control. He’s starting to feel gay, if he’s being real about it, but as the tweet says, he has a job, so who has time for that?

Anton’s head shifts to look in Wonbin’s direction as he spins in the middle of the studio, practicing. “Bottom.” No question there.

“Yup.”

“He’d hate that.”

Sohee grins. He totally would. “I should tell him someday.” He leans forward and pushes the bangs out of Anton’s face to look down at him while saying, “You gotta be there though. To translate. He won’t believe it if it’s just me.”

Anton shifts on his back to stare at him, eyes soft with exhaustion and something else, something that looks close to admiration. Sohee knows because Sohee sees on the faces of his fans. Anton blinks at him slowly, and Sohee thinks he should do a better job at being his hyung. He should pet his hair more, offer his shoulder if he’s sleepy, take him to bed when he passes out on the living room couch. All to see him defenceless, baby bird, little puppy, sweet boy, pretty thing—what the hell is happening to him, what the fuck is he talking about?

“What?” Anton frowns, amused.

The violent shake he just did to dislodge his thoughts must have been physical.

He scoffs. “Just thinkin’ of how cute you are,” ends up saying, which is fine because it’s mocking. Sohee hates the word ‘cute’ and Anton knows all this, elbows him playfully in the stomach before rolling to face forward again.

Eunseok’s approaching them with the handheld camera, done doing this commentary. Their turn. It’s probably not a good idea to have fans see them like this. Or maybe it is, maybe they’d enjoy it, maybe it will inspire them. Or whatever.

Sohee finds he doesn’t care. Sohee finds, alarmingly, that if someone has to ‘ship’ with Anton, it better be him. In fact, all this time, he has never really noticed if—when—it’s not. Just the thought makes him heart-sick.

“And him?” Anton says before Eunseok’s close enough to hear, an inside joke of sorts. It warms Sohee to his core. Everything about him feels warm. His cheeks, his lap, his hands, his chest.

“Who the fuck knows,” Sohee deadpans.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Eunseok says preemptively because they’re laughing way too hard for it to have a reasonable explanation.

“Chanyoungie,” he sighs. Anton’s slumped against the car seat sideways, one knee against his chest. He barely fits. “you’re so cute, you know?”

Anton stares at him, searching for the catch. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Sohee smiles, endeared. It’s not annoying, facing his suspicion. It’s sweet, really, that he knows them so well, their dynamic. He leans forward to brush the hair poking out back underneath Anton’s hoodie, and Anton nuzzles into his touch, so Sohee stays, caresses his cheek with the back of his fingers, traces his jaw, his lips, taps his nose. “Hyung wants to take care of you,” admits.

“Stop being weird!” Anton shrieks, pushing him away, hand on Sohee’s face.

Sohee laughs, grabbing his wrist, pulling if off his cheeks, holding it in his fist. “What, I can be hyung sometimes.”

“Ok, hyung.” Anton rolls his eyes, tries to pull his hand back, but Sohee holds firm. Two hands for good measure. Gently massaging the space between Anton’s thumb and pointer until he feels Anton’s weight relaxing in his grip and he lets himself be held.

“Serious,” he insists, watching Anton mirror his expression, annoyance to sincerity, a sparkle in his eyes that makes Sohee want to say shit to keep it there. “I can, I wanna, like—” he struggles.

He said serious, but it’s too serious. They’re not like this. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not a talk-person. Not one to say, I love you, I’m proud of you, you grew up so well, I’ll kick the shit out of anyone who says otherwise, our own fans if I have to, I’m so protective over you, it hurts.

“You are. You do.” Anton smiles at him. Sohee feels it like the sun. It’s burning his cheeks. It’s gonna give him wrinkles! “Serious,” Anton assures him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The ‘word porn’ (as Anton puts it) has debilitating side-effects.

For one, reading it before bed—the only time he’s alone—is making mornings… awkward. Showers, long. His hand, unsatisfying. He doesn’t even bother imagining a non-Anton on his knees before him, lips stretched around the base. Being lightly-gay is the least of his problems.

For two, he’s #nooticing.

It’s funny to think about. He has known Anton for years, knows how he burps, how long he takes to shit. Has seen him day, night, middle of the night, sleepy-eyed and half-sleepwalking. Seen him whine, seen him sob, seen him laugh, seen his snot, seen his socks at the end of a long practice day, seen him snap at his mom, then cry about it after, weepy and regretful.

There’s nothing Sohee hasn’t seen.

And yet, apparently, his chin wrinkles when he pouts, he bites his lip between his smiles, and when he’s really, really happy, his body flops sideways for whoever’s next to him to hold, trusting and relaxed. It seems, to be loved is to be seen and written about, to have every flaw of yours made beautiful.

Sohee reads it first. Then goes about experimenting like he’s conducting important research. Making Anton beg for the last peach popsicle? Research. Making him laugh so hard he snorts? Testing the accuracy of these fanfictions.

Watching him lean on Wonbin’s shoulder, eyes starry, cheek squished? Lowkey devastating.

He poisons his own well by looking. He should know better. They’ve been taught not to. As idols, it’s too easy to compare, to notice who has the most fans, the most signs, the most likes on Instagram. Whose stuff sells out first. Who is ‘popular’.

Sohee knows he has his girls, his sunbaenims, his voice, these are things he feels confident in. Things that actually matter.

What doesn’t… is tonnen, wonton—whatever they want to call it.

Duos, Anton had said. It makes sense that there are others. They each have their own dynamics. They’re all friends. Of course, Sohee knows this, and he’s so chill about it, too. What fans love is none of his business beyond lining his pockets and selling his merch. Wonbin and Anton’s charms, together, are making him rich. He’s very happy about it.

It’s a performance. Anton’s a flirt. He flirts with fans most, through them, the guys, the stage stuff, a stolen kiss, a story told cryptically to sound like a date. He relishes in the screams, laughs about them after, sweaty and toned, still shaking with stage-high, clinging on whoever. As friends do.

Forgive him for making too much sense, Sohee, too, is trying to understand why, underneath it all, the burn of hard choreography, the familiar chanting of the audience, he wants to drag Anton across the stage, slam him against a wall and make him repeat who he belongs to.

“What’s up with you?” Anton nudges his shoulder.

Sohee hates that they’ve been tucked in the back of the van because he wants to use this time to glower, run laps in his mind and make himself brain-sore, get home wanting to slam his face in a wall, but youngest in the back, and now Anton’s thigh pushes against his own and makes his head fuzzy. It’s hot. The aircon barely circulates. He hates that Anton’s ten feet tall, taking up all the space. He hates, if he’s listing things he hates, positive mindset be damned, he hates that he has let it get this bad, let this stupid thing that started as a joke, is a joke, is nothing but a joke, actually affect his work.

“Nothing.” He’s bathing in his victimhood.

“Hyung,” Anton won’t let it go, “we haven’t talked in days.”

“So?”

“So,” Anton says, “what the fuck?”

Sohee turns towards him and motions in his face-area, all over, “You’re so—” In hindsight, where was he going with that?

Anton frowns, defensive, “How’s this about me?”

“It’s not,” he snaps at the same time as Anton’s: “Is it?”

“Said it’s not.”

“Then don’t be - bitchy,” Anton scoffs.

Oh, they haven’t had a real fight in a second. All the bickering is warmup, but gloves off, fists out, that’s saved for special occasions. He glances towards the front to see if they’ll be cockblocked. Eunseok’s on his headphones. Wonbin’s fast asleep.

“You’re kind of annoying me,” he says and feels his hands tingle, adrenaline surging his body, the kind that says, this is a bad idea, the tiger is very real and very much going to chase you to your gory death. But if he gets home, and it’s silent, and it’s awkward, and it’s the same, he’s going to rip his and the tiger’s hair out.

“I—okay?” Anton sounds confused.

In the corner of his eye, Sohee sees his fists clench on his lap. It’s two-pronged, the tightness in his chest, fear that he hurt him, relief that he can. The worst thing about this… tangent he’s been on is losing track of what’s real. This, blood in his cheek, feels real.

“You guys are bored back there?” Shotaro’s comment cuts through the tension, not sharp but firm. He never raises his voice, never has to, to have their spines straightening in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Sohee mumbles.

“Sorry, hyung,” Anton chimes beside him, turning his face to the window. “Asshole,” he mutters for Sohee’s ears only.

Sohee watches his fists stay clenched until he’s carsick, until the car stops, and they’re home, and it’s silent, and it’s awkward, and it’s the same.

He showers first. It’s unspoken. They stomp to their own sides of the room and undress, drop stuff on the floor carelessly, charge phones, take out contacts, walk around each other in this practiced dance, where they never overlap and never have time to look each other in the face. Being colleagues before having been friends does that to a person. Above all, no matter what, is the work.

Sohee turns the water ice-cold and debates grabbing his own hair and shaking the idiot out of his brain. He’s going to go out there and apologize. He’s going to go out there and—

Anton’s sitting, cross-legged, on the wrong bed.

“I know you’re not putting your dirty feet on my shit,” he says sarcastically, smacking the hair towel on the floor.

Anton’s unfazed, making no effort to move. “We’re gonna talk.”

Sohee stomps towards him, grabs him by the hoodie, pulls him up to his face. “Go… shower,” he says slowly.

Anton glares at him. “No.”

Interesting. Sohee tightens his hold, rearranges his fists, so he’s sure he has a nice, solid grip. “You gonna cry loud enough for Shotaro-hyung to hear?” provokes him.

“No,” Anton spits back, “you?”

Well. Sohee’s going to show him what he’s going to do. He digs his knee on the bed and pushes himself forward. It doesn’t matter that Anton’s bigger, heavier. Sitting there, unprepared, he wobbles on his ass, falls backwards, drags Sohee down with him, grabbing on his t-shirt.

Sohee doesn’t mind, had seen it coming. Moves with the momentum, adjusting so one of his knees slides over Anton’s thigh, trapping it down. One arm lays across Anton’s chest, restraining him, the other, pushes Anton’s wrist on the bed, next to his head.

“Yeah,” he laughs giddily, “you want a fight?”

“You do,” Anton grunts, resists the position using his other leg to lift his back off the bed, throw him off. He doesn’t back down. That’s what Sohee loves about him. For all the soft-boy antics, he’s as stubborn as they come.

They know not to hit, no punching, no kicking, no bitch stuff. Anton rocks sideways, but Sohee counters, having learned a thing or two, handling him. He’s all strength, no skill. Clumsy and obvious. Sohee shoves him back, flat on the bed, looms over him, smirking.

“Fuck off,” it comes out in English, voice deep, stripped of any simper.

But Sohee hasn’t had nearly his fill. His blood is singing. He can finally stop thinking long enough to see, and what he sees is Anton, glasses askew, subdued and restless, and flushed pretty in Sohee’s own bed.

“You’re gonna be a good boy?” he asks, expecting the violent shove that follows and lifting just enough to let Anton tire himself before bearing down on him again. His forearm is dangerously close to Anton’s throat. He watches his Adam’s apple shift with his swallows, the sweat run down the sides of his neck, plastering his long hair to his skin. “Yeah?” Sohee pushes him.

Anton’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Gonna make you hard if I am?”

Woah. Low fucking blow. Alright, then.

“That’s all you care about?” Sohee throws back, “making people hard, making people want you? Slut.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. It lands harder than any blow. Anton winces, utterly stunned, launches himself forward breaking the hold to lift himself on his ass. Maybe Sohee let him, maybe he’s losing his mind, for real now.

They sit there, panting in each other’s faces, recalibrating.

Sohee expects a ‘what the fuck?’ or maybe, a real ‘fuck off’. Not, “You’re jealous?” because that’s out of left field.

Anton pushes his tongue in his cheek, licks his dry lips, catches his breath. He’s not looking away. He’s not taking it back.

It’s objectively the worst thing Sohee can do: he grabs Anton’s jaw between his fingers and kisses the fuck out of his mouth.

The contact is brief, jarring. Anton’s breath hitches, parting his lips open. Sohee latches onto the bottom, pulls it between his teeth, bites, hard. Hears Anton whimper. Feels his world start to tilt and, brick by brick, collapse. He can’t shield his head before the truths start raining down, you like him, you want him,

Anton pulls away, leaving him untethered. Fuck. Is this, can a coworkership survive this?

He gulps, opens his eyes  ‘cause he’s no coward. Anton wavers and blurs before him, too close to see right, right where Sohee left him. His lidded eyes drop to Sohee’s lips, back up to Sohee’s own.

“Are we playing?” he asks, mirroring Sohee’s nervous swallow.

Sohee shakes his head slowly. How can he explain in a few words, in the few seconds it will take Anton to remember who he is and jump off his bed, that Sohee needs him to stay, to need him back, be needy for him? Sohee draws him to himself, palming his cheek, letting Anton decide.

“Say it,” Anton mutters against his mouth stubbornly. When Sohee mouths ‘what?’ on his lips, elaborates, “That you’re not messing with me.”

The laughter that comes out of Sohee sounds more like a wounded yelp. The accusation bodies him; he’s not some kind of monster, what the fuck?

“I’m about to cum my pants because of you!” he blurts, as if that explains it.

Anton blinks, stunned, lowers his face in his hand, shaking his head. “You’re so bad at this.”

Ok, excuse him, for not yearning correctly. He didn’t realize when he was bracing to get his nose punched in to feel something that he should have ripped a CD and brought the boom-box, maybe a box of chocolates, a bouquet of roses, put Anton’s tits-out, swimming pool photocard in his wallet like a war widow.

“You say it,” he snaps, peeved now. Anton looks up in questioning, pretending to be innocent. It pains Sohee to reveal this, but, his pride has taken several blows, so it can’t fight back to stop him. “Say this isn’t fan service.”

“Fan serv—” Anton sputters, “do you see any fans here?”

Ay, this is getting nowhere.

“Wanna make out again?” Sohee asks.

“Yes.”

They’re much better at this, especially now that Anton’s fully on board. His hand grabs Sohee’s t-shirt at the same time Sohee goes for his neck. The result is uncoordinated and eager, mouths moving off-rhythm, both leading. Anton wraps his arms around his waist, drags his body towards his lap, and Sohee budges, he’ll give him that. The pressure on his groin isn’t half-bad, either. He’s violently hard. Any brush of his cock over the basketball shorts makes him throb.

But, he’s not a lapdog, more of a pit bull.

“Nope,” he smirks, pressing his mouth shut.

Anton groans in frustration. They go back-and-forth, wrenching clothes, wrestling limbs off and on and off, swallowing each other’s laughter. Anton’s play-fighting, defending his honour more than making any real effort to win. When Sohee shoves him backwards on the bed, hand wrapped around his neck, pinning his head to the pillow, he bites his lower lip and smiles expectedly, eyes dark. Freak!

Sohee licks the roof of his mouth, gives him no time to reciprocate, guides his head to the side to kiss up his jaw, relishing in the shiver that wracks his body.

“Sohee-hyung,” he whines. Full name, the bastard.

“What?” Sohee’s grip tightens on his throat. His other hand drifts down Anton’s torso, skimming the waistband of his underwear to watch him squirm before cupping, suddenly, over the chub in his sweats.

Anton arches into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. “Oh, fuck, yeah.”

“Turn around,” Sohee leans in his ear to whisper, “so I can show you how I’d fuck you.”

Anton’s breath hitches. Sohee can see the logical side of his brain thinking ‘we can’t do that right now’ fight the horny side and lose. He flips over on his stomach, cheek smushed on Sohee’s pillow, eyes straining to look back, pupils blowing big when Sohee mounts him, knees on either side of his body, cock flush against his butt-cheeks.

What a view, the dreams don’t do it justice. Strong back, lean waist, dimples above his ass the exact size of Sohee’s thumbs. Tan skin for miles when Sohee’s rucks his hoodie up roughly to feel him up, plant a kiss between his shoulder blades, then, higher, on the back of his sweat-damp neck before fisting his hair and forcing his head back to kiss him, open-mouthed, all spit and tongue.

“See, it works,” he emphasizes with a hard thrust forward, sliding his clothed cock between Anton’s tight ass.

Anton groans, “Shut up!”

“How about I shut you up?” He pushes Anton’s face down on the pillow, as he snaps his hips. It’s meant to be a joke, but it feels good, too good to stop. Anton’s a hundred percent muscle, and he’s tensing and writhing, making the contact uneven, so Sohee always has to chase the next thrust, work for any relief. The edging makes it so much more delicious.

Anton whimpers, and, through the thick fog of arousal, Sohee remembers he might highkey be killing him. He lifts his hand instantly, dives down to check, brushing Anton’s soaked bangs back to look at him. “Hey.”

And Anton, Anton looks blissed out. His face is red, his lips wet with drool, his eyes shiny. Sohee could come just staring at him and the abrupt movements Anton’s doing against the bed, rocking his hips in the mattress. Aw, baby.

Sohee squeezes a hand underneath his body, drags it down his tensing stomach, slips it under Anton’s sweats. He’s big—wet, wanting, shaky-legged. He pumps his hand, and Anton moans brokenly, smothers himself with the pillow, squeezes, and Anton whimpers something that sounds like, “thank you,” dribbling precum all over Sohee’s knuckles.

It goes straight to his head, straight to his dick. He has to press down on Anton’s ass to relieve the sheer need to show him he can do so much more than this for so much less than that.

It’s an awkward angle. Rough contact. Never enough space. What they’re doing looks more like grappling than anything remotely sexual, but Sohee’s past the point of caring about anything beyond the building pressure in his balls and the high-pitched whines coming out of Anton’s mouth as he fucks his cock in Sohee’s hand.

“Hyung—” he whimpers, voice thin, “hyung, is it okay—?”

Sohee can feel every part of his body shaking, locked tight, knows immediately what he’s asking.

“You’re gonna make a mess on my bed, Ton-ah?”

Anton’s hips stutter, stopping for a beat before picking up again in quick, shallow thrusts like he can’t help himself. The back of his hair is matted to his skin in sweat. His neck bright red. His hands grip the bedsheets, white-knuckled.

Sohee tightens his fist around his swollen cock until he’s sure he’s hurting him, but Anton digs his face in the pillow and what comes out of him is half-sob, half-Sohee’s own name. He spills hot over Sohee’s fingers.

And, yeah, Sohee’s probably not much better off himself if the sound of that has him slamming his hips down, weeks long, pent-up energy crashing out of him in one mind-blowing, reality-bending, sexuality-questioning, job-quitting orgasm made ten-times better with Anton twitching, overstimulated, below him.

Holy shit.

It takes minutes to fully shake the stars out of his eyes. Underneath him, Anton looks wrecked, face splotchy, lashes clumped black. Drool smears shiny over his cheek, has left a dark stain on Sohee’s pillow. He pants for breath, loopy smile, eyes rolled back in his head. “Shit, dude,” he laughs breathily, reading Sohee’s mind.

Case fucking closed.