Chapter Text
In the familiarity of his own apartment, there is nothing else for Kun to focus on except the newness of Ten’s body against fabric, against furniture, against all that is home.
Where Kun is used to hearing only his own moans, Ten’s gasps and broken whimpers puncture the air of the bedroom. Where Kun is used to grasping only the flesh of his own thighs, Ten’s fingers now press them hard against the ruffling of bedsheets. Where Kun is used to feeling his pleasure and only his own, Ten is now begging to please and be pleased. Just as much as Kun does when alone—if not more, as these things go.
It’s amazing how a new body could renew an old room. If Kun could only think clearer through Ten sucking on his neck, perhaps the thought could bloom into a visual study in his head. But as these things go, there is no think, only feel. The only thing in his head is Fuck. Yes. Right there. More. Can I go harder—
Still, tonight it draws out his pleasure further. By the kitchen counter where Kun makes a necessary cup of coffee on weekday mornings, tonight Ten’s hips corner him against the tiled surface. On the couch where Kun puts his feet up to rest after work, listening to classical music to relax, tonight Ten undoes him with a dirtier song. Kneels on fragile knees. Above the desk where Kun works endless papers, chases endless deadlines, tonight Ten so graciously spreads his own legs. Arches his back. On the floor where Kun often drops his sleep clothes in haste, rushing to dress up for his workday, tonight he and Ten rush to undress. For a different reason entirely.
Past tonight, and past this summer, Kun and Ten would eventually learn better.
By the kitchen counter where Ten’s hips have cornered Kun’s, they would make coffee. Maybe bake brownies. The sweetest of sweets. On the couch where Ten has undone Kun with his dirty songs over and over, bruising his own knees, they would watch television mindlessly. So goddamn easily. Above the desk where Ten has spread his legs and arched his back for Kun, they would soon chase deadlines together. They would panic all the way through. On the floor where they have undressed towards sex in haste, they would eventually put down a vacuum, and then a mop. All ready for a light weekend cleanup.
But this is getting ahead of themselves. Tonight Kun has brought Ten home for fucking. Tonight Kun has let Ten in, only to fuck and be fucked by him.
See, Kun is a practical man. He does not usually do this. It’s not that he doesn’t sleep around—god knows he does—but there are easier routes. For one, being taken home to the other person’s place makes more sense. It means not having to wait for them to leave after fucking, not having to clean up in the morning. It means not letting another person invade the space Kun has carved out and claimed for himself, desecrate the safety and intimacy of what has been his home for years. Besides, hotels are always nice and interesting and convenient.
See, Kun is a practical man. He sticks to his own rules, which means he does not take people home. But it also means missing out on whatever the fuck Ten is doing to him now. If Kun knew it would be so fucking hot to let someone else mess up his room, mess up his life if only for a night, he just might have done this before. It might have been worth it all along.
But after sex is when the danger begins. It’s when the dust and whirlwind of fucking has settled that Kun sees the threat again. He has let the threat that is Ten—someone between stranger and friend—in his apartment, in his room, in his bed. Here, where there’s only ever been himself.
Without the ever-newness of hotel rooms, now in the midst of all that is home and familiar, Kun’s gaze has nothing else to capture but the man lying beside him. The light from Kun’s bedside lamp paints Ten’s face with shadows so cleanly. It highlights the lines of his naked body, sharpens his angles, his beauty. Drops of his sweat—their sweat—are drying on Ten’s skin. Still, despite his illuminated features, Ten is ultimately unreadable.
Tired is easy enough to read, his lips hanging open just the slightest. Satisfied is also apparent in his eyes half-shut. But as Ten lies there on his back, in his expression lies something else. Almost as if he is looking out a window, into an invisible horizon. This, though all the windows in Kun’s room are closed.
Suddenly, Kun wonders what Ten, too, sees in him at the moment. If he is seeing, then so must he be seen. Suddenly, nakedness like this, here in Kun’s own space, is a threat. Here, a beautiful man breathes beside him, with him, without him.
Suddenly, Kun does not know what to do. Another night, in another’s room or a hotel suite, he would just stand up, put on his clothes, and leave. Sometimes, he feels generous enough to wait for the other person to fall asleep. Here, he wonders: would Ten rush to leave as well? Or would he be generous, wait for Kun to fall asleep? Or, fuck it, would he be senseless and ask to stay? Would Kun be generous enough to let him? Or would he be just as senseless and kick him out?
Because tonight there are two bodies in Kun’s room. Tonight he has brought someone home. Someone beautiful and new. Someone as threatening and devastating as Ten. Which means any decision now would just be as beautiful and new, just as threatening and devastating.
And just like that, Kun does not know what to hope for. Especially when the beautiful man takes the matter upon himself.
Because just like that, this is what Ten says: “I should go.”
---
For Kun, hotels are always nice and interesting and convenient. Apart from the bodies he meets in them, of course, he also enjoys the specific ways hotel rooms are arranged. The different streets hotel buildings are situated. Often, he wonders—despite or perhaps due to the cloud of sex—whether they would be beautiful to photograph. To fold into an album of his hazy midnight encounters in the city.
If he was any less of the gentleman that he is, just a smidge less respectful, Kun would just ask for nonchalant permission. But he knows how weird the text message to some random booty call would seem—would it be okay to bring a camera with me? Even if he does not necessarily intend to photograph them, not their bodies and not their faces, just the places in which they get to know each other, it might seem like a creepy request. He might turn people away. Besides, he knows the sacredness of being with strangers. Part of it is parting with no memories. And photographs, whether we like it or not, hold memories. Such is his excuse.
If he was any more truthful, Kun would be able to recognize this is possible with some explanation, perhaps even pleasurable to some strangers. Despite the temptation to photograph the strangeness and intimacy of these spaces in the city, Kun does not give in. Why is a question he is not ready to answer yet; the impossibility he confronts is one about himself.
The first time Kun and Ten breathe the same air of a hotel room, they are no longer strangers. At least, not technically. They have already fucked before at the bathroom of some art gallery. Their first meeting.
What delights Kun about their second encounter is how easily Ten fits into the scene of the hotel bar—one whose walls are plastered by framed artworks, whose chandeliers are made individually by different metal sculptors, whose décor accommodates enough anachronism for every corner to be worthy of scrutiny. A place aptly named Re:Craft. It is somewhere they both already frequent. And yet somehow, they have never met there.
The ease with which Ten walks through the heavy wooden door, the slump of his back and his hips as soon as he reaches the antique chair, captivates Kun. He thinks that if he were to photograph this place, its grace and nonchalance could only be captured accurately alongside the grace and nonchalance of this person’s posture. The thought makes him breathe heavy. This, even before they get tipsy and eager to find the bed upstairs.
“Fuck me again?” reads Ten’s initial text, only a day after they first met at the gallery. “Second invites from me are exclusive, by the way. I take payments in expensive cocktails.”
“Okay, but if I fuck you good, next round’s on you.” Kun replies. “Get your wallet ready, too.”
“So sure already?” Ten taunts with a bunch of emojis. Kun does not bite the bait. He just texts him the address of Re:Craft. Well, if he is getting a second fuck, what’s there to stop a third and a fourth and…?
Later, in the balcony of the room they paid for, Kun lights up a cigarette. He comes back to bed after just one stick. But Ten is already dressing up to leave. Suddenly, Ten holds up his phone to show the photo of a club. His confirmation comes in the form of a question, “Do you dance?” Kun just shrugs, still watching Ten put on his clothes. “Text you soon then.” Ten smirks. And then he is gone.
Soon, Kun finds, Ten also does things glittering but unpretty, dirty and wet with sweat. Not that he did not know that already from the whole fucking-a-stranger-in-the-bathroom incident. But to have it last the night instead of a meager fifteen minutes is a different experience. Because the third time they fuck, it is preceded by a night of flashing lights and gyrating against a hundred other bodies, until they fit right into each other’s.
Ten presses his back against Kun’s chest, stretches his tattooed arm upward to reach and anchor into Kun’s nape. Kun flushes impossibly red. Kun first exhales into Ten’s ear before he takes a bite of his lobe, all while still dancing. Ten makes a dangerous sound only Kun hears in the middle of pulsating beats. And when they melt against each other in soft sways and sharp thrusts, they embody more than forget all that is around them: the all-too-human scent of sweat, theirs and everyone else’s, remnants of cheap alcohol on their lips, too loud music.
Kun forgets the name of the club. Because this time, what Ten’s stumbling form makes sense of instead is the street that they walk between it and the dingy motel. Uncountable vodka shots later, below the more stable lighting of streetlamps, Kun thinks that if he were to photograph this street—its scent and filth, its grime and sins—the scene could only be captured accurately alongside Ten’s studded top and ripped jeans. Somehow, it is beautiful. The strange thought almost sobers him up. He does not allow it.
Only hours later, after they add to the bodies witnessed by the bed in the budget motel room, they hurriedly check out. Soon, Kun lights up a cigarette. He stands in the dark alley and watches Ten hail a cab. Suddenly, before he hops on, Ten looks back. His confirmation of a next time comes in the form of a smile. And then he is gone.
Before this, however, they laugh together in the filthy sheets.
“I do quick and dirty, Kun, but something tells me you’re past that.” Ten says, handing Kun a beige linen buttondown, now crumpled. Kun mumbles thanks then wears his own shirt. “Or I guess we’re past that. Feel free to take that as a compliment. As long as we can go back to the boutique hotel next time.”
“How could that be anything but a compliment?” Kun retorts immediately, making a confused face.
“Sometimes quick and dirty is the way?” Ten shrugs. “Or something like that.”
“We’ve already done quick and dirty.” Kun points out. “First time, remember?”
“Which is why I said we’re past that.” Ten says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, just take the high-tier compliment. I never take the same person to the same place twice, you know.”
“Yeah yeah, you don’t even fuck the same person twice most of the time.” Kun says dryly. “I already know. No need to make me feel more special.”
After their third fuck, numbers no longer matter. But Kun and Ten do what they promise and go back to the building where Re:Craft is. Instead of staying at the bar, however, they just immediately book a room upstairs. Here, they order wine and drink at the balcony. Here, they are also granted gorgeous sceneries.
On Kun’s left, he first sees the metal railing of the balcony, and then the up-and-down of the Seoul skyline farther ahead, the heights of buildings a perfectly asymmetrical silhouette, and then the vehicles that pass by right below, alive despite the time, their headlights like thieves in the night. On his right, he first sees the parted curtains on the sides of the sliding door, one layer a perfectly sheer chiffon, the other blackout layer a heavier fabric, and then a pretty floor lamp with a bronze pole and a fan-shaped lampshade. And then the bed. Its miracles yet to happen. Perfectly in front of Kun, Ten marks the in-between of these non-photographs, of exterior and interior spaces.
Except their conversation makes these non-photographs move vibrantly. Kun makes a face at the wine, and Ten teases him for being a snob. He counters with an offer of better liquor. Ten pries about whether Kun is a wine critic or a bartender. He says no to both, then makes Ten guess what his occupation is, given what they already know. Ten just doubles down on Kun for being a know-it-all.
When Ten places his wine glass on the table and crosses the distance between them, the in-between is swallowed by their kiss, another non-photograph, perhaps the prettiest. This time, it pulls not only Kun’s gaze, but his touch, his tongue. They capture Ten’s lips. Ten’s jaw. Soon, from the balcony to the bed, Ten’s body is the only view there is. Soon, Kun realizes, hotels are always nice and interesting and convenient, and yet somehow when they fuck, Ten either renders their background useless or paints it perfect. The thought itches like a rash at the back of his head.
Later, they come back to the balcony, half-naked after midnight but alright in the summer heat. This time, Ten watches Kun finish smoking his cigarette before they finish dressing to leave. And then he is gone.
Kun’s practical rules about sleeping around are threatened not much later. Well, one rule, really. It has been more than a month since all of these encounters with Ten in the city—encounters amidst a gallery, a hotel bar, a fancy hotel room balcony, a crowded club, a cheap motel, even filthy streets and alleys. Kun should have known what Ten’s body would conquer next. He does not. At least not until he receives the threat.
On a random Thursday evening, Kun has barely just concluded the article he is writing for work. His phone pings, and by now, Kun already expects some kind of invitation from Ten. What he does not expect is the kind of invitation he receives.
Ten’s message reads, “How about I come over to your place? Take you up on that whiskey sour?”
“How about no?” Kun messages back, hesitating. But Ten does not push further. And so, making up his mind, he sends a follow-up. “Just saying, you might like my amaretto sour better.”
“Brb showering!!” Ten’s reply is too quick.
“Here’s the address.” Kun’s, too, is resentfully automatic.
---
And just like that, after fucking at Kun’s place, this is what Ten says: “I should go.”
See, Kun is a practical man. Easy routes come obvious to him. He should pretend to be asleep. He should wait for the body to rise from beside him, dress up, and then sneak out quietly. He has already broken his rules by taking Ten home. But the damage is not irreparable, the threat actually quite retractable. He should just take himself out of the scene and let it be. If Ten leaves, it would be just like how Kun has left any other man’s home. If Ten leaves, it would be just like how both of them have done to any other hotel room.
But Kun is also a reckless man. See, he has been enjoying his fair share of recklessness recently, rediscovering a tendency towards odd hobbies here and there. One spring weekend, he has visited an indoor skydiving facility and learned the basics, hoping for the real thing someday. Another weekend, he has dragged his younger friends to try their hand at drifting cars. And then on another, as if to mark the beginning of this summer, he has gone trekking and paragliding alone.
This is how Kun understands what he is about to do as Ten grabs the last thing from the floor—the light corduroy jacket he slipped off first earlier. The ritual is almost over. But he has time, Kun decides, for one more cheap thrill. The last ride any child would not be able to resist begging for, before the trip to the amusement park is over.
Tonight, this is how Kun leans in to danger. He offers: “Would you like to stay for coffee? Sober up a bit?”
Suddenly, it’s as if Ten is not the threat, but the one threatened. First, a flinch. And then, a face unreadable. And then, because he is so good at whatever this is, a smirk. Ten says as he shrugs the jacket on his shoulders, “Maybe next time?”
See, Kun is also a proud man. His ego should bruise. He should churn out some cruel remark to take back his offer. Make Ten feel as if the rejection is his. Insult him in a way that would provoke further argument, or at least, mind-numbing banter. By now, Kun knows that apart from fucking, banter is also where he and Ten are comfortable. Instead, he hopes.
Instead, Kun comes to a new realization: he is also a weak man. This, as he negotiates his offer to Ten. He whispers, “How about just a cigarette then?”
Somehow Ten relents with a softer whisper, “Okay.”
Kun dresses in his home clothes, a shirt with a teddy bear logo and gray shorts, and walks out into the dark of his own balcony. The skyline here is not as beautiful as hotels they have been. Still, across him, blowing out smoke from between his lips, Ten remains constant amidst the scenery. Finally, they put out the cigarettes on a well-loved ashtray. Kun pulls Ten in for a chaste kiss. Ten does not resist. Somehow the non-photograph of the moment becomes memory, becomes promise. And then he is gone.
Somehow Kun is content with the promise of Ten’s “see you when I see you” and a wink. Somehow everything is just newly beginning to be beautiful and threatening and devastating.