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Nineteen — the number doesn’t feel real. It’s so oddly liminal.
Mingyu is right on the edge of it — freshly graduated, anxious and bored out of his mind. So much of it has been about waiting, waiting, and waiting for something to give.
Even right now, lying in his backyard with his best friend, they’re waiting for nothing and everything at the same time.
The untamed grass tickles the side of Mingyu’s face when he turns to look at Seokmin. He’s floating in a small pool of sunlight, while Mingyu is tangled up in the web of shadows cast by the tangerine tree branches overhead. Seokmin seems to be enjoying the warmth, stretching his long limbs and squirming around like a kitten. He tips his face up to the sky, eyes closed shut against the sharpness of it, making his eyelashes drip gold, the tips of them heavy, and drooping over the sharp jut of his cheekbones.
“I’m scared I won’t make it,” Seokmin says.
“You will. They have to take you in,” Mingyu tells him.
“Don’t say it like you just know,” Seokmin says. His mouth curls into a tight little comma — a scowl, without actual heat behind it.
Except, Mingyu kind of does.
Seoul will never see a Film and Theatre student like Seokmin ever again, so, of course, Mingyu just knows that it’s waiting for Seokmin.
Mingyu knows his spot in the engineering and architecture department is as good as secured, but it has never come easy for him, the way it does for Seokmin, who breathes life into prose with his voice and careful actions — as easily as breathing. Mingyu has always had to carve out his place in the world. It’s countless hours spent at his desk, studying and practicing, but it’s okay, effort has never failed him so far.
But Seokmin doesn’t believe Mingyu when he says so, so he opts for something else.
There’s a game that they used to play as kids — haven’t played it in years, and it’s called: “If.”
It started with: If you lose in the race, you’re buying ice cream.
And then it was: If we see three crows before school, then it’s a bad day.
Or If you outrun this cloud, then we’ll both pass the english exam.
Mingyu sits up. “If you can reach the top of the hiking trail before sunset, then you’ve been accepted.”
Seokmin’s eyes finally flutter open. He lets out a small laugh. “What?”
“You heard me,” Mingyu says, smirking down at him. “If you make it before sunset, then it means you’re in.”
When Seokmin properly looks up at Mingyu, the dark of his irises are burnished into a paler colour in the light — desaturated into a deep amber.
They both know the game has always been bullshit; too much superstition and wishful thinking for it to be anything but. Above all, it was only a distraction for two kids dying of boredom in a small town.
It’s just what they need right now. Seokmin rises to the challenge, mirroring Mingyu and sitting up, and asks; “Will you come with me?”
Where else would Mingyu go, except follow Seokmin to the edge of the world?
—————
They barely make it.
The sun is already more than halfway underneath the city, and is only pinned in place against the wide backdrop of the sky by a few taller buildings and a wiry signal tower.
Mingyu’s thighs are aching, and his lungs feel like they’re full of water after the steep climb. He braces his hands on his knees and focuses on sucking in gulps of air. Next to him, Seokmin is doing the same, bent over at the waist. His fringe falls over his eyes, stringy and wet.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Seokmin gasps out. “Mingyu,” Seokmin says again, looking up at him. His cheeks are flushed and shiny, like the overripe and bruised tangerine they had shared earlier. “We’re both going to make it.”
In a lot of ways, Seokmin reminds Mingyu of the sun; a constant in his life; always in his line of sight, and yet, still so far away.
Blinding.
Untouchable.
A few thousand degrees too warm; Do Not Fly Too Close — the fall is too steep, and your wings are only made of wax.
Mingyu claps Seokmin on the shoulder after he has recovered. “Of course we will! I told you so,” Mingyu declares.
Seokmin straightens up, and smoothes back his overgrown fringe. His eyes crinkle into beautiful curves when he smiles at Mingyu. Mingyu tracks the way the corners of them look like solar flares. The moment feels endless; a little bit like forever.
The sun burns him again. In the end, Mingyu has to look away.
Seokmin wordlessly takes his hand, and gently drags him a little closer to the edge, and then tugs him down so they can both sit on two rocks next to each other, and watch the sun sink completely.
—————
They decide to take the bus back home.
It’s mostly empty, save for a few older women, and two kids who look young enough to be middle schoolers returning from their tuition classes.
Mingyu and Seokmin head for the backseat, claiming an opposite end each, letting the wide stretch of sticky leather seperate them.
Mingyu pushes open his window, letting the wind run through his hair, and push and pull at his face like curious hands exploring his features. He closes his eyes when the stinging becomes too much.
He snaps them open again when Seokmin makes a small disgruntled noise — so soft, but something in Mingyu has been hardwired to pick up on everything that is Seokmin, so of course, he hears it over the cut of heavy rubber tires of the bus.
It looks like Seokmin’s window is stuck. Mingyu notes, more than a little amused, how Seokmin goes red in the face trying to slide it open. He can’t help but giggle to himself.
The melted leather screams as it peels off from the back of Mingyu’s knees when he shifts, and then slides down the seat. He reaches over Seokmin for the window, and with a little combined effort they manage to crack it open.
They sit on the same side for the rest of the ride, pressed against each other — connected by the sharp points of elbows, and bare skin of their thighs, where their shorts have ridden up.
—————
“Eomma is on the night shift today,” Mingyu says, to his ratty, mud-caked blue converse once they’re off the bus.
Mingyu hates spending the night alone — he sees shadows where he’s not supposed to, and sometimes, when he starts to overthink in the quietness, it crawls under his skin like an itch he can’t get at.
Seokmin knows, because every night his mom had worked overnight at the town’s hospital, Mingyu ended up sleeping over, and vice versa.
“I’ll make you rabokki,” he adds, and grins.
Giving incentive always makes it easier — Seokmin’s staying because of his cooking, obviously. And they don’t need to think about all of the things in between; why Seokmin won’t ever say no, and why Mingyu feels so much at peace with Seokmin around.
Seokmin beams back at him. “Deal,” he says, taking Mingyu’s hand.
Mingyu makes rabokki. They eat it all standing up, hips pressed to the granite kitchen counter. Mingyu serves Seokmin a bigger portion and both egg yolks because, well, something about seeing people — watching Seokmin — eating food that Mingyu cooked, always makes it feel as though a smaller sun has bloomed in his chest.
The fire still exists, but this one doesn’t burn.
Once they’re done, Seokmin’s lips are swollen from the spice, and his eyes are watery. There’s a thin coat of sweat over the bridge of his nose, and the apples of his cheeks. Mingyu uses his thumb to wipe it off from under his eyes. He can feel the weight of Seokmin’s stare so he keeps his eyes fixed on his own hands, too much of a coward to actually meet it head on.
When Seokmin’s eyes start to track down Mingyu’s face, his long lashes brush the tip of his thumb.
The moment stretches out — like blowing glass, Mingyu feels the seconds expanding. When it comes close to bursting, Mingyu forces him to take a calculated step back.
When Mingyu finally looks at Seokmin properly, his eyes are unseeing — dazed.
Seokmin blinks — two quick ones, like the fluttering of butterfly wings, and then slower, one last time. Seokmin licks his lips, and prods the corner of his mouth with his tongue. It’s the most equally distracting and frustrating habit of Seokmin’s, and tonight more than ever it makes Mingyu want to put his face in his hands and just scream.
Mingyu reaches out and wipes his hand down the front of Seokmin’s t-shirt and says, “Gross,” aiming for a joke, but his voice comes out too hollow, and it doesn’t land.
Seokmin scowls, obviously feigning offence. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says defensively.
Mingyu tuts in disapproval. “The word you’re looking for is Thanks.”
Seokmin places the bowl on the counter. He sucks in a short breath through his teeth. “Well. You wiped it on me again, so, we’re even.” He smiles at Mingyu, saccharine sweet.
“Tsk. Ungrateful,” Mingyu mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Seokmin to hear. “That t-shirt is already filthy,” he says, wrinkling his nose.
They both kind of stink — the air in the small kitchen smells too much of boy and grass and the sharp smell of dust for it to be pleasant.
“C’mon, I’ll get you a new shirt,” Mingyu says, taking Seokmin’s hand and tugging him up the stairs towards his bedroom.
After taking a shower first, Mingyu settles down on the rug at the foot of his bed. He briefly considers switching on the TV, but then pulls out his phone to play a game while waiting for Seokmin to finish instead. He thumbs the volume down to a minimum. He’s only half paying attention to the race he’s in, letting muscle memory guide his thumbs to navigate the map on his screen.
Down the hallway the water turns off.
After a few minutes, Seokmin pads into the room. He sits down cross legged next to Mingyu, and hooks his chin on Mingyu’s shoulder, watching the game quietly.
Seokmin smells clean — he smells like soft, sweet vanilla shampoo. He smells like Seokmin, and underneath all of that, wearing Mingyu’s shirt that’s a size too big for him, he smells like Mingyu.
Mingyu’s car wipes out.
The START AGAIN again sign pulsates on his screen like it’s mocking him.
“Fuck!” Mingyu curses loudly, locks his phone, and all but throws it to the side.
Seokmin jerks away, making a small noise of surprise. Mingyu still feels it like the phantom of a kiss on the side of his neck. He rubs a hand over his chest, and points an admonishing glance at Mingyu, for having scared him. Mingyu shrugs sheepishly.
When Seokmin leans back against the bed frame, Mingyu copies him.
“Wanna watch a movie?”
Seokmin shakes his head. His hair falls in large curls over his forehead. Mingyu fingers twitch on his knee, itching to reach out and tuck a stray curl behind Seokmin’s ear.
“I’m so tired and sore,” Seokmin groans, eyes slipping closed. They snap open when Mingyu places a hand on his thigh, just above his knee.
Seokmin’s skin is still damp and warm under Mingyu’s hand. Mingyu squeezes gently, testing the water. Seokmin lets out a low groan when Mingyu digs his thumb in.
Mingyu has to bite back the noise that threatens to escape him when Seokmin mirrors him, and starts to massage Mingyu’s thigh. He feels his pulse kicking in at full force —in his fingertips, and at the base of his own throat. And then, for the longest few moments of Mingyu’s life, they’re both caught up in a weird sort of mutual massage.
When Mingyu looks down, it’s a little mesmerizing how Seokmin’s long, elegant, almost spidery fingers dig into his thighs. Mingyu swallows around sand, and moves his own hand a little higher on Seokmin’s leg, working his fingers harder on the tense muscles.
The meat of Seokmin’s thigh fills up his hand with each squeeze, but Mingyu can never hold all of it — years of playing soccer and swimming have made them corded and thick.
Under the single yellow light above the bed, Seokmin’s dark eyes look depthless — saturated and in complete contrast to the warm amber from earlier that day. His plush lips are parted slightly, and he breathes out in heavy, short puffs the entire time. It’s too loud within the quietness of everything else.
Seokmin’s hand moves further up, and slides to the inside of Mingyu’s thigh. His blunt nails dig crescents into the sensitive skin there. And he just keeps looking, and looking at Mingyu.
All of this kind of makes Mingyu want to die.
It’s too hot inside his bedroom — hot enough that the walls might start melting around them. The ceiling fan is powerless against it.
The wind carries in the distant noise of a car honking.
Mingyu snatches back his hand, curling it into a fist on his lap.
Seokmin’s head snaps around to look at him. His features are open, eyes blown wide and transparent — painfully so. He looks confused, and almost like he’s hurt.
When Mingyu can’t bear to see it any longer, he takes Seokmin by the shoulders, and gently guides him to turn around. It makes breathing slightly easier, having to only look at Seokmin’s broad back. Mingyu massages the base of Seokmin’s neck with his knuckles, and then moves lower, trying to unearth the tight knots buried near his shoulder blades.
Even the back of the t-shirt collar slips too deep for Seokmin, so the sharp knobs of his spine define themselves when Seokmin lets his head fall forward, making small noises of contentment.
Mingyu traces a finger gently over each sharp point, pressing in sometimes, and then just tracing the shapes of them. It’s fascinating. It’s the most beautiful thing Mingyu has seen.
Even Seokmin’s bones seem to have been carved out delicately and with care. He wants to press his lips to Seokmin’s spine and bless it with a kiss.
With Seokmin facing the far wall, it’s easier for Mingyu to give in to the pull.
Seokmin shudders against him when Mingyu kisses the top of his spine, lips pressed to the warm, soft skin just below the nape of his neck.
Mingyu freezes. “Is this okay?” he asks, lips hovering just barely over Seokmin’s skin.
Seokmin nods, jerking his head quickly like a little bird.
So, Mingyu kisses him a second time, and when Seokmin breathes out his name, it falls like glass between them.
Because Mingyu wants to hear the way Seokmin’s sweet, strong voice goes brittle again, he presses another kiss right on the middle of the back of Seokmin’s neck.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs against the flushed skin.
“Yes. I want—,” Seokmin starts, and then stops. “This is more than okay,” Seokmin continues, voice sounding strained.
Mingyu lets his legs fall apart, stretching them out on either side of Seokmin. He runs his hand down Seokmin’s side to wrap around his narrow waist, and pulls Seokmin flush against his front.
Seokmin lets out a sharp gasp at being manhandled so easily. “Fuck,” he breathes out, barely audible.
Mingyu noses the side of Seokmin’s neck, inhaling his scent. He presses his lips behind Seokmin’s ear, to taste it — tempted to try and get it between his teeth so he can crush and swallow it like pomegranate seeds.
Seokmin growls low in his throat when Mingyu sinks his teeth into his shoulder. Mingyu licks at the reddened skin to soothe it. Seokmin hands find purchase of Mingyu’s calves; it makes Mingyu hiss when Seokmin’s nails dig in hard enough to break the skin.
The pain and his aching want makes reality start losing tangibility — it softens around the edges, and fades into sepia. The night feels unreal. The only thing he knows for certain, is that he needs to feel more of Seokmin.
Mingyu slips his hands up Seokmin’s body, tracing the divot in the middle of his chest, the gentle curve of his pectorals, and finally pressing his palms flat over Seokmin’s nipples. He can feel their hardness, how they’ve risen to twin peaks underneath the cotton. He splays out his fingers, desperately trying to span all of Seokmin at once, and fails. He makes a low noise of frustration at the back of his throat. It doesn’t sound like him.
Seokmin arches his back, strung tight like a bow when Mingyu slips his hand under the t-shirt, and pinches a nipple just to see Seokmin’s reaction. His body jerks in Mingyu’s arms with a loud gasp that tapers off into a moan.
“Mingyu please,” Seokmin says again, and again — asking — begging.
If Mingyu knew how to give Seokmin what he needs, if his limbs were still his own, then Mingyu would give it to him.
But all of this feels too alien.
Mingyu is a few sizes too big for his own skin. His hands are claws; he wants to sink them into Seokmin to feel his blood, bone and sinew, so he can finally know — does Seokmin burn the same way he does?
Each shift of Seokmin’s body presses their bodies closer. Mingyu’s hips gyrate almost involuntarily at the friction, seeking more of it — more pressure — more of Seokmin — anything at this point because he feels like he’s about to burst at the seams.
Seokmin must feel Mingyu’s hardened cock pressing against his lower back insistently, because he freezes up. Just like that, the sepia tone bleeds out just a little bit. Reality takes shape again. Mingyu stops moving, and holds his breath.
Any moment now Seokmin will push him away.
Seokmin’s going to run, and Mingyu will lose his best friend of almost 10 years.
Mingyu’s going to wake up, and this will all have been just another dream that’s too good to be true.
What actually happens is, Seokmin turns around and kisses him so hard that their teeth click together. It’s like pulling a trigger — Mingyu feels the kick back, and he goes with it, when Seokmin shoves at his shoulder until Mingyu’s lying down on his back.
Seokmin hovers over Mingyu, supporting himself by his forearm pressed to the floor next to Mingyu’s head, and caging him in with his other hand splayed over Mingyu’s jaw, thumb pressing almost painfully into his cheekbone.
Like everything else he does, Seokmin kisses earnestly — eagerly — throwing himself into it completely.
Mingyu reaches up to wrap an arm around Seokmin’s waist, pulling his body flush against Mingyu’s. Seokmin’s basketball shorts betray the fact that he’s just as hard as Mingyu too easily. Seokmin grunts into their kiss in response to the new found friction. Mingyu holds Seokmin closer, as he grinds up. It makes Seokmin’s mouth fall open — no longer kissing Mingyu, just lips sliding messily the more they grind against each other.
“Mingyu,” Seokmin gasps out. He presses their foreheads together, eyes squeezed shut. “Mingyu. Slow down,” Seokmin says, with his voice just on the edge of breaking.
Mingyu whines in the back of his throat — the noise is almost animalistic in it’s desperation. Seokmin comes back to kiss him sweetly once more. “Don’t worry, babe. We’re not done,” he says with a little laugh.
Mingyu blinks at the term of endearment. It makes his face burn pleasantly. His heart lags in his chest wetly.
Then his heart does it again, but this time it’s because Seokmin hooks his hands around Mingyu’s thighs, and pushes his legs apart. He sits up in the space between them with intent. He looks up at Mingyu questioningly, and despite the fact that his brain feels like mush, Mingyu knows where this is going.
Mingyu rises up on his elbows. “Seokmin, you don’t need to do anything.”
Seokmin smiles at him. “I know.”
“This doesn’t have to go anywhere else, if you don’t want it to,” Mingyu says.
Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Cool. I’ve only ever thought about kissing you since we were like, twelve, but okay. Thanks.”
The confession punches the air out of Mingyu’s chest. He gapes at Seokmin dumbly for a few long seconds.
“Thought I’d get that out of the way before I touch your dick.”Seokmin shrugs. Despite the light tone of his voice, the tips of his ears are red, and finally he looks away in embarrassment.
Mingyu takes the opportunity to take in the picture Seokmin makes — tall and imposing as he towers over Mingyu for the first time in a long time. The moonlight filtering in through the window draws a pale halo around him. His tanned skin is washed out in silver, and it reflects the light in the most beautiful way.
“You’re going to kill me,” Mingyu says with a groan.
Seokmin laughs softly. Mingyu holds his breath when Seokmin slides the shorts past his waist carefully. He holds Mingyu loosely, but with something akin to reverence. If Mingyu had enough brain power to spare, then he’d find it endearing.
Mingyu falls back, and presses his burning face to the crook of his elbow when Seokmin presses his lips to the flushed head of his cock tentatively. He gives it a few kitten licks. Mingyu curses at the sensation; it must encourage Seokmin because he fits his lips around the head and sucks. He pulls back to tongue at the puffed up slit, and then the thick ridge just under the swollen head.
When Mingyu’s hips jerk almost violently, Seokmin holds him down firmly, and slides further down, excruciatingly slowly, until it makes Mingyu’s eyes burn.
In the end it’s messy — too much spit, and sometimes teeth, but it’s okay because they’re both still trying to figure this out, and Seokmin makes up for his lack of technique with enough enthusiasm and resolve to conquer that Mingyu comes so hard he sees white.
Afterwards, Seokmin wrinkles his nose and says; “I need to brush my teeth again.”
Mingyu laughs. “Sorry,” except, it’s hard to make it sound like he means it.
When Seokmin rises to his feet and walks away, Mingyu follows him to the bathroom, because actions always speak louder than words.