Chapter Text
Staring at the dark ceiling of his dorm room really didn't help. Minhyung lay on his bed, limbs spread out, tense and begged for sleep to claim him. The hours bled into one another, but rest still refused him. His phone sat facedown on the nightstand, but the glow of the last messages from their group chat was burned into his mind.
Seonghoon’s enthusiastic paragraphs about his date with Hyunbin had filled him with genuine happiness for a bit. He could almost hear the breathless joy in every word, the excitement practically spilling through the screen. That kind of happiness was impossible not to catch and he was glad the two of them didn't let the Nongshim six man situation pry them apart. Unable to help it, he had smiled while reading about a walk by the river followed by a fancy dinner that could have been the finale to some cheesy romcom.
But then there had been Jihoon’s replies: short, clipped messages. Nothing like the teasing rambling he had gotten so used to. The midlaner really hadn’t said much at all really, just enough to confirm presence in the chat. It wasn’t like Jihoon, at least not his Jiho- He stopped himself there, heart twisting painfully. Not his anything. Never his. Just Jihoon, just Geonwoo’s.
Still, worry clawed at him. He wanted to reach out, to ask if something was wrong, if Jihoon needed anything. But what right did he have? What line was he even standing on anymore? His kitt- No! Not that. Minhyung bit down on the thought so hard it felt like his chest was about to cave in.
Since that night - since Jihoon and Geonwoo had called him home - everything had shifted. And Minhyung had tried. God, he had tried to drag the line back into place, to raise a partition between them with shaky hands and shakier excuses. Friendship was safe. Friendship was enough. It had to be …
But it wasn’t.
He hadn’t expected the distance to taste like ash. He hadn’t expected it to gut him this completely, to unravel his very being until sleep became a stranger, until his own reflection looked hollow-eyed and restless. Thank god for good concealers and sisters that didn't ask stupid questions when their brother suddenly asked for makeup tips.
He hadn’t expected it to drag into his gameplay, either - mistakes he never made before creeping in, impatience fraying his focus until his teammates started exchanging glances. There was worry in their eyes, but irritation started to appear as well. And he understood, because he could barely stand himself. Not to mention that he couldn't look at his own midlaner. They communicated ingame and smiled for the cameras, but in private … surface level communication here and there at best.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But the truth was ugly and simple.
He wanted.
He wanted what he shouldn’t want. He wanted the one thing that was off-limits, out of reach, the thing that now gnawed at his ribs and curled in his lungs like toxic smoke. He wanted Jihoon’s soft smiles and sharp tongue, wanted Geonwoo’s grounding touch and warm steadiness, wanted the way they had looked at him that night like he belonged.
He wanted them!
And that want sat in his chest like a living, breathing thing - an obsessive beast that clawed and clawed, tearing at the fragile line he tried to hold.
Minhyung rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up over his head as if he could suffocate the ache. His heart thudded, restless, too loud in the silence of his room. The darkness didn’t bring peace. It only made his thoughts sound louder.
And no, it wasn’t just the heat that he missed, the dizzy nights where he forgot his own name until he remembered it when it fell from their lips in broken syllables. Of course, Minhyung could admit that those nights were addictive, every touch, every shiver, every kiss left him boneless and gasping. But that wasn’t what kept him up now, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
He wanted the after and the before. The parts that weren’t fireworks, but soft lamps and cosy rooms. He wanted to come home drained from scrims and competition and content shoots and just fold into them, feel Jihoon’s fingers tug him close by his sleeve while he complained about something dumb, feel Geonwoo’s hand at his nape anchoring him in the moment without a word. He wanted the domestic nonsense: Jihoon whining about laundry, Geonwoo sighing about a terribly unhealthy snack he really wanted to try but probably shouldn't, himself chiming in just to make it all even more ridiculous - until all three of them were laughing over nothing.
Minhyung thought of an evening not too long ago: standing in the kitchen with Geonwoo, side by side, trying their best to prepare dinner and bickering over spice levels, while their kitten lay stretched out across the couch, muttering insults at his opponents in TFT. Jihoon would call over half-baked cooking advice between rounds and grin when one of them rolled their eyes at him. Minhyung wanted that back so badly it ached in his bones … but not as a guest, not as someone passing through, not as a friend, but as theirs.
And mornings - god, the mornings. The weight of a body sprawled over his chest, the warmth of peqceful breathing against his throat. Jihoon curling into him with a smile on his pouty mouth that looked too soft to be real. Geonwoo on the other side, for once not calm, but clingy, greedy for contact and cuddles in a way he so rarely allowed himself. Minhyung wanted to be wrapped in that, not just the chaos of passion, but this quiet comfort of simply belonging.
The thought twisted through him, sweet and unbearable. He shoved a pillow over his face and groaned, muffled the frustrated noise against it, fists holding tight onto the fabric. The urge to scream, to yell and cry it out of his body, sat heavy in his throat.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to want them like this, in all the ways that mattered most. And yet, it felt like every part of him was already gone - hopelessly, recklessly theirs.
Minhyung tried to remember when things had gotten so tangled. He’d never been romantically interested in Geonwoo, not once. That was one of the first truths they established when everything between them had started, before Jihoon had even entered the picture. He remembered how he’d struggled with it at first, all those months ago - confused, thrown off balance by how much he craved Geonwoo without having any romantic interest in him. The man’s presence got under his skin, his attention left Minhyung trembling, his voice alone could twist something low in his stomach, but no matter how much his body had reacted, his heart had stayed still and silent.
And when he had realized that, he’d been so relieved. Because life was already complicated enough, with tournaments and pressure and everything in between. The last thing he needed was to fall for someone while he wasn't even fully over his last crush. He’d told himself it was safe and manageable, to give into desire without letting it spiral into anything deeper.
The same went for Jihoon. He was vibrant, magnetic, sharp-edged, infuriating and soft all at once. Minhyung had quickly learned to treasure him as a friend, right from the start he would have defended him without question. But romantically? No. That way lay disaster, a level of hassle he wasn’t willing to take on. Jihoon demanded so much attention from whoever he loved and Minhyung had never considered himself built for that kind of give.
Besides, Jihoon already belonged with Geonwoo. That fact should have been obvious to anyone with eyes. They were ridiculous together - hot in ways that made Minhyung’s ears burn if he let himself think about it too long, adorable in ways that were just as maddening. And so absolutely smitten with each other it made him want to gag sometimes.
That had been truth and fact in his head for months: Geonwoo and Jihoon were each other’s and he was outside of that. A friend, a guest in their bed when lines blurred, but never more. He’d lately repeated it to himself like a mantra, as if saying it often enough could keep the cracks from spreading. But lying here now, wide awake with his thoughts unraveling, Minhyung couldn't lie anymore.
He closed his eyes and let himself remember the first time they’d invited him into their bed. Champagne on their lips, suits hitting the floor. When Geonwoo had reached for him and called him close and Jihoon had smiled that wicked little smile of his and willingly bared his throat, Minhyung had felt thrill slice right through him. Trust, heat, safety, friendship, want - it had all bled together until he couldn’t tell one from the other.
That night had been fire and softness in equal measure, overwhelming yet just right. They hadn’t asked him to be anything but himself, hadn’t expected him to step outside what he could give. And when morning came after one of the hottest nights of his life, Minhyung had slipped out quietly, no regret in his chest. He’d left them tangled together in their own little bubble, content to have been allowed inside for a little while, but sure of one thing: his freedom mattered. He valued being able to flirt, to explore, to let his curiosity pull him in a hundred directions if he wanted. That had always been who he was.
But then it had happened again. And again. And again. And every single time, he had said yes. Every time, he had come back for more. Because nothing and no one compared to what it was like with them. The way they both made him feel wanted without ever demanding more than he could give.
He’d actually thought he’d grown out of that part of himself, that longed to submit. But Geonwoo had unearthed it with practiced hands. And Jihoon … his submission was sugar sweet and addictive, but so was his other side, the one he so rarely indulged in. His dominance was mischievous, teasing, playful and it left Minhyung trembling, desperate, laughing and begging all at once.
Between them, he found himself split open and stitched back together. He wanted to please them, to pleasure them, to bend under their hands and push them to their limits in turn. To submit, to dominate, to take, to give, to have everything. And the scariest part was that with them, it actually felt possible.
He had first stumbled across the term switch years ago, as a curious teenager. The word had only truly clicked much later, when Geonwoo helped him through one of the hardest times in his life. After learning what BDSM could be about, the term felt like it had been waiting for him, an answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking. It described him so perfectly - his ease in moving between roles, his hunger to experience both the giving and the taking, the push and the pull. He’d claimed it easily, worn it like a badge, proudly telling partners that he could and would happily take up either role - even when he started to lean more towards domination.
Jihoon and Geonwoo had ruined that definition for him in the best way possible. With them, it wasn’t about choosing one or the other for the night. It wasn’t about dividing himself into halves and offering only what was asked. With them, he could bow his head in submission one moment, their control wrapping around him like a collar he yearned to wear and then the next he could return the favour, make them beg and still feel that same fulfillment. They let him be both at once - seamlessly, without judgment, without needing to compartmentalize. It was intoxicating and almost unfair, really. How could anyone else compare, when Jihoon and Geonwoo allowed him to exist in his fullness?
And god, he had tried over the last few weeks. He had tried to prove to himself that they were … replaceable. He’d met up with people he’d played with before, people who knew him and his appetites. Some had been surprised to see him again, others had been thrilled, quick to press close and ask which side of himself he was bringing tonight, delighted at the chance to have him again.
But every encounter rang hollow. Every smile felt paper-thin, every touch left him restless and every kiss failed to spark anything the way it used to. He submerged himself in both roles, topping one night, bottoming the next, throwing himself into it like maybe sheer force of will could carve out a piece of satisfaction. But instead of filling the void inside him, it only made the hunger grow.
The worst moment had been the night he had been asked to wear a collar. Just a plain band of leather, presented casually, playfully even, the way someone else might offer a blindfold. He’d frozen, bile rising in his throat before he could so much as shake his head no. He had almost thrown up at the thought, at the sheer wrongness of it. Because it wasn’t them and it wasn't his collar. Not the blood-red one hidden in his drawer, tucked away like a shameful secret. He refused to look at it, let alone wear it, but neither could he bring himself to throw it out.
The reaction had shocked him. He hadn’t expected to have such a visceral reaction. His body had recoiled before his mind even caught up, before he could analyze the reaction or shove it down. And in that moment, he’d understood something terrifying: Jihoon and Geonwoo had rewritten the rules for him.
It had been a long, tiring day and Minhyung's body still infuriatingly refused to settle, twisting under the blanket, shifting from side to side as if some magical position might exist that could ease the storm raging in his chest. He dragged a hand down his face and groaned - frustrated and bone-tired - but nowhere near sleep.
He’d thought about it so many times, about just talking to them. Laying it bare, speaking his truth, even if it left him vulnerable, even if it left him open to rejection. He knew it would be the right thing - the brave thing - to do. To stop choking on silence, to stop lying with every laugh, every casual word. To stop pretending that his heart didn’t stutter every time Jihoon’s name popped up in a conversation or Geonwoo smiled at him.
But then the thought of their faces if he confessed came crashing down on him. The way Jihoon’s eyes would widen, how Geonwoo’s warm smile might soften into something apologetic. The idea of seeing pity in their eyes, of being handled like something fragile and breakable, made his stomach turn. It was enough to turn Gumayusi, so bold on stage, so fearless in the spotlight, into nothing more than a coward.
He flipped onto his side, then his stomach, then back again, sheets tangling around his legs. He could almost hear Geonwoo’s voice in his ear, low and amused, that deep chuckle that always made something in him unclench. “So restless, puppy? How can I help?”
His chest ached, because the truth was: Geonwoo would try to help. He always would. He wasn’t cruel, it simply wasn't in his nature. Even if Minhyung admitted the whole thing, even if he laid out every raw edge, Geonwoo wouldn’t lash out. He’d just look at him with that maddening kindness, like he was something worth holding, worth soothing.
Minhyung had no idea what Jihoon would say if he ever spoke the truth. How would he react? Would he get angry? Annoyed? Would he laugh, brush it off, tell him not to ruin what they had? Would he be sad? Would he feel betrayed? Or would it be quiet disappointment, that crushing silence that said more than words ever could?
Minhyung buried his face in his pillow and let out a muffled sound, half a scream ... maybe a sob. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to find out. Not when the risk meant losing them completely, shattering the fragile, perfect bubble they had sometimes let him step into. Even the state he lived in now, this gnawing loneliness in his chest, was better than that. It had to be.
Silence was safer. Silence was kinder. Even if it was eating him alive, at least it wasn’t destroying them.
Right?
... right?
It was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous! Minhyung knew it and had told himself over and over again that it didn’t make any sense. Geonwoo alone left his heart steady, silent, a friend he trusted and admired, but didn’t want in that way. Jihoon alone was the same - bright and sharp, someone he loved, but not someone he longed for. But together? Together, they made something in him burn so hot it felt like his heart was trying to rocket out of his chest.
He kicked the blanket off his body in frustration, sheets going flying with the violent motion. His skin felt clammy, his thoughts were too loud and lying there any longer felt impossible. He dragged himself out of bed and walked to the bathroom, feet heavy on the cool floor, hoping a shower would wash some of the storm away.
The first hit of hot water against his skin was pleasant and indeed almost soothing. The tension in his shoulders eased, the frantic pace of his heart slowed and for a fleeting moment he thought maybe - maybe - he could actually quiet his head. He leaned into the spray, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the cold tile as steam curled around him.
But the calm was a trap. Because where there was space, they rushed in again - Jihoon’s expressive eyes, Geonwoo’s strong hands, both of them looking at him with the kind of heat that turned his stomach inside out. His imagination betrayed him, dragging him under with visions he didn’t want: slick bodies pressed close, gasps swallowed by greedy mouths, dark eyes glittering with want. He could almost hear their voices in the steam, breathless and teasing, could almost feel their phantom forms against his.
His cock twitched in interest and with a strangled sound, he fumbled blindly for the handle. The water crashed down icy cold in an instant, a violent shock to his system that knocked the air from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt, forcing himself to endure the freezing assault just to drown out the flames inside of him. His skin prickled with goosebumps, his body shook, but it was still better! Anything was better than getting lost in those thoughts.
He didn’t last long. Shivering and with his teeth beginning to chatter, he slammed the water off and stumbled out, dragging a towel around himself with shaking hands. The fabric did little against the chill, but at least it gave him something solid to cling to.
When he finally dared to lift his head, the mirror gave him no comfort. His reflection stared back at him, wet hair plastered to his forehead, shadows etched under his eyes from far too many nights like this. He looked wrecked - exhausted and hollowed out - and still his eyes were wide open, as if sleep would forever stay a stranger.
His voice cut through the silence, hoarse, bitter and accusing as he stared himself down.
“How did you fall in love with two people as if they’re one?” he demanded of the glass, of himself. “How does any of this make sense?” His chest tightened, his throat burned, but he kept going, spitting the words like they might be sharp enough to sever the tether that kept him tied to them. “What the fuck is wrong with me?!”