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It keeps coming back to this.
To Chan, to Jisung, to the shitty bar on the corner of their old street, a block away from the apartment they used to share.
Chan doesn’t even drink that much, which is the part that always makes Jisung laugh when he spots him slip in through the creaky door, eyes held low like he doesn’t know exactly where Jisung will be.
The same corner, the same beer that tastes a little like stale piss and a lot like decisions that make him ache in the morning.
But Chan still walks up like he wasn’t expecting to see him, purses his lips, and looks down at Jisung like he’s a stray puppy someone just kicked on the street.
“C’mon,” Chan says, reaching out the same hand he always does.
“Where’s Jiwoo?” He sneers, and he doesn’t mean to because Jiwoo is a nice girl, really, and she’s never done anything to make Jisung hate her, but he does all the same.
“Jesus, Jisung,” Chan sighs, tired, and he pulls a hand back to run it through his messy hair. “Do we have to tonight? Can we just go?”
“Go?” Jisung says, incredulous, “Go where?”
“Fucking- home. Just let me take you home before you try to walk and bust your drunk ass on the pavement again.”
Memory sears his mind, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.
It only happened once; it’s unfair for Chan to always bring it up. And Minho’s fault for not cutting Jisung off sooner. And the hospital's fault that he still had Chan as his emergency contact when he had to get twelve stitches up his thigh.
“Fuck you,” Jisung laughs, and takes another bitter sip of beer, cringing when it goes down hard.
“I’m going to pay your tab. Be ready when I get back. Okay? I’m serious.”
“Fine, Dad. Have fun.”
He can’t help the way he watches Chan walk across the bar, how good his ass looks in the shitty jeans he has on, the stretch of his shoulders in his threadbare t-shirt.
And fine, Jisung’s teeth still ache in the back of his mouth when he looks at him.
Remembering his hands on that body, how they felt digging in against the taut muscle, soft skin.
Minho smiles when he sees Chan approach, the traitor, and Chan leans against the bar in a way that makes his biceps strain.
The view helps the last few gulps of beer go down smooth.
From here, he can’t quite see the veins on the back of Chan’s hand, but he knows how they must be flexed with the way he holds his card out for Minho to take.
Jisung finds satisfaction in the grimaced face Chan makes when he sees the bill.
It gets paid, and Chan pats Minho on the shoulder before he finds his way back to Jisung.
No hand gets offered this time, but he’s softened up a little, and his eyes are almost as kind as they used to be.
“You owe me. Get up, c’mon,” Chan tells him still, and Jisung stands because that's what Jisung does; he follows Chan’s orders like a dog with his tail between his legs.
“I didn’t ask you to pay it, why would I owe you?” Jisung trails behind him until they get to the front door, and Chan lets him step in front.
“Because I’m nicer to you than I should be, and that was way more than I thought it would be.”
“Would be, should be,” Jisung mutters under his breath.
Chan still drives the same car, a beat-up second-hand thing he got when he and Jisung were still in school. It still smells a little like mildew when Jisung slips into the passenger seat.
There’s nothing else to really be said as the car starts, as Jisung puts his feet up on the dash the same way he always has. Even now, there are faint bootprint stains from years past.
“Are you coming up?” Jisung asks, like he always does.
His head lolls towards the window, blurry eyes watching fuzzy streets pass.
“To make sure you don’t die on the stairs, I guess.” Chan makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, and Jisung keeps looking out the window.
They park, and Chan leads Jisung up the stairs with a hand pressed to the small of his back. It feels good there, right, like it's meant to be. It's stupid how a simple touch makes him so jittery, turned on the whole way to the door, and he mourns it the second it leaves as Chan waits for Jisung to fumble for his keys.
If he were sober, he’d probably feel more embarrassed about the state of his apartment than he does when the door unlocks.
As it is, the floor is a wreck, and he hasn’t done the dishes in a week. At least the laundry piled in a basket is clean, even if it’s unfolded and sitting on the couch.
Here, Jisung should thank Chan for getting him home safe. Apologize, tell him goodnight, say sorry again, and send his well wishes to Jiwoo.
Instead, he presses Chan to the door and attacks his mouth like a starving animal, unfed and malnourished and handed the first bite of food in weeks.
“Fuck,” Chan grunts and pulls Jisung closer, palms his hips and waist and chest.
“Yeah,” Jisung breathes, writhing, trying to climb Chan with one thigh hitched over his hip. He gets hard fast enough to make him dizzy, and it feels so fucking good that he moans right into Chan’s mouth.
He licks at his teeth, sucks his tongue, pushes spit back into Chan’s mouth for him to swallow.
He's rough in a way he isn't allowed anymore, because Chan has a girlfriend who will notice if he comes in with scratches down his back and hickeys against his jaw.
It’s a fumble to get Chan’s fly open, but Jisung has run this route so many times it’s integrated in his DNA. Button popped, zipper tugged down, a rough hand pushing past skin-tight boxers to pull his heavy cock out, fabric pushed beneath his balls.
Jisung sinks to his knees like prayer, his mouth to the wet head of Chan’s cock like worship.
Chan groans, a hand finding the back of Jisung’s head to pull him closer.
He smells like sweat and the same bodywash he’s used since Jisung met him, and he can’t help but press his nose to the base of him.
“Need it that bad?” Chan curls a hand into Jisung’s hair, his thumb stroking down the back of his neck.
The awful truth is that Jisung really does. He misses Chan’s cock constantly, fucks himself stupid pretending it’s inside him. He doesn’t get it nearly as often as he needs it, and he knows it’s a consequence of breaking up. It’s a consequence of their incompatibility, of their quiet fights and resigned commitment.
But at least he still gets it sometimes. Occasionally. Probably more than he should, considering Chan is taken by someone that isn't him.
“Yeah,” Jisung admits, because he’s pathetic. He drags his cheek along Chan’s cock, nose pressing to his pubes. “Fucking stupid, she makes you grow it out.”
“She likes it, I don't mind.” Chan’s thumb swipes over Jisung’s temple. His cock leaks near his ear. Neither of them moves to hurry things up.
“Yeah, but you hate it,” Jisung kisses the base of his cock, sticks his tongue out to run it over coarse hair.
“Yeah,” Chan agrees, sighing. “It’s fine. C’mon, put it in your mouth, baby. I know you want it.” He pulls Jisung’s head back and takes his cock in hand. The wet head drags along Jisung’s mouth, salty precum like gloss over his lips.
So he puts it in his mouth, sucks on the head, and pushes his throat down the shaft, runs his tongue along the vein on the underside.
The first gag is violent, spasming, and he pulls off coughing, tears flooding. Spit runs down his chin, it’s fucking disgusting, but he’s still mostly drunk, so he takes his cock back against his tongue, back into the hollow of his throat.
“Fuck,” Chan hisses, fingers tightening in Jisung’s hair. He pulls at it, tugs Jisung’s head back, and then drags him forward. He fucks his face rough, making Jisung sputter and gag. Tears drip down his cheeks in fat drops, salt spilling out.
“Good at this,” Chan pants, violent in the way his hips snap, “Fuck, you take it so well. So fucking good,” His cock pushes back against the resistance of Jisung’s throat, bruising. “So hot when you cry, baby, look at you.”
Jisung wants to be petty. He wants to pull off, look up at Chan with a swollen mouth and messy face and red eyes, and ask if he sucks Chan’s dick better than his girlfriend does.
But he knows without having to ask. He knows because Chan has told him countless times, has skull-fucked Jisung hard and fast and cum down his throat, moaning about how his girlfriend never lets him do it like this, because she likes it soft and romantic, but Jisung likes it rough. Likes it dirty and messy, likes coughing up spit and bile that tastes like the worst parts of himself.
He’s a real slut, Chan tells him. He knows he is, he’s sort of proud of it now, even though it used to hurt his feelings.
Jisung sputters now, pulling back to make a wretched noise as he gags on Chan’s cock, drool running down his chin like water. He doesn’t puke, but it’s a close thing, and Chan wouldn’t mind even if he did.
He’d find it hot that Jisung would ruin himself like that for him, probably wouldn’t even stop to check if Jisung was okay until after he came down his throat.
Chan’s thumb glides through the wet mess of his face, pushing Jisung’s own spit back into his mouth. He sucks the digit when Chan pushes it inside the cage of his teeth, tongue against the rough pad.
He looks down at Jisung like he’s as drunk as Jisung was when he picked him up, and it runs hot through his body knowing he’s sober.
It fuels it all, for Jisung to know that Chan wants him so badly he’ll surpass his own morals for it. He doesn’t care that Jisung is drunk enough to fall down the stairs if left unattended; he needs him too badly.
“Don’t wanna go home?” Jisung pants when Chan pulls his thumb out.
He sits back on his knees, leans back until he can rest his arms behind him, his lean body a clean line. His cock aches, the bulge obvious in his tight jeans, and he feels satisfaction in the way Chan’s eyes go right to it.
“Probably should,” Chan’s tongue runs over his bottom lip. “Said I wouldn’t be gone more than an hour.”
“Who cares? She doesn’t live with you, right?”
“She- I mean, no. Not really.”
“But she was over?” Jisung brings a hand around, squeezing himself once, hand curling around the hard shape of himself beneath the fabric.
“Yeah.”
“And you still left her to come pick me up? Why, just because Minho called you?”
“Jisung-”
“Or because you knew I’d be easy for you? Because I’m always so easy for you. Did she not let you fuck her tonight?” And then, quietly, “Do you think about me when you’re inside her?”
“Jesus fuck,” Chan snaps, and when he reaches down to grab Jisung’s shirt, he can hear the stitches ripping, fabric getting stretched out as he’s pulled to his feet.
Shoved back and back and back until they’re in his room, until he’s being pushed against his bed, until his clothes are being ripped off like they’ll burn him if they’re on his skin for even a second more.
And Chan is on him, over him, spitting in his hand to wrap it around Jisung’s cock and stroke him once before spitting again and pressing his fingers to Jisung’s hole.
“C’mon,” Jisung goads, grinning up at the ceiling as he’s devoured, “Do you think I’m better? I’m tighter, right?”
“You’re fucking drunk, Jisung, shit, what the fuck are you even saying?” Chan's mouth moves against Jisung’s hip, an arm reaching out to fumble in the bedside drawer for lube.
“What?” He laughs, blood on his tongue, “I thought you liked it when we talked about her in bed.”
Chan curses, and the cap clicks open, “Talk about her- fuck, we shouldn’t- fuck.”
“We shouldn’t fuck?”
Two fingers prod at his rim, the tips slipping in.
Chan always starts with two, quick and rough.
They aren’t in love anymore. Jisung doesn’t deserve it soft.
“No, we obviously shouldn’t, but that’s not- God, fuck, how are you always this loose? You need it so bad, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jisung whines, because two fingers sweep over his prostate, tight stretch and subtle pain. “Give it to me. Channie-hyung, please,” He begs, that whiny voice Chan has never been able to resist slipping out.
“Such a slut, baby,” Chan hums, groans, rising up on his knees to push Jisung’s legs apart further around his hips.
He spreads them easily, because he is, and he nods.
The blunt head of Chan’s cock presses against him, slick when it pops inside. “Tight,” He grunts like they’re in a porno.
“Yeah? ‘S my pussy feel good, daddy?” Jisung’s head tips back on a cry when Chan slams into him, pushing his fat cock into his guts.
“Feels fucking good,” Chan moans, “Feel so good, baby, God.”
“Feels better than her?” He tries not to sneer, clenching around Chan’s cock to pull him in further, “C’mon, daddy, you can tell me.”
His girlfriend doesn’t let him do this either. She hates it, he told Jisung once. It was before they started sleeping together again, some stupid night where they were drunk at Hyunjin and Felix’s place, and they were pretending they could still be friends.
He’d told Jisung that the girl he was seeing wouldn’t call him daddy in bed. She didn’t like how he talked in bed, that it was degrading and sort of weird.
Jisung said he should stop seeing her, then. It sounded like they were incompatible.
Not unlike them, but he didn’t say that part out loud.
But Chan had just told Jisung it wasn’t that big of a deal. She was nice and funny and kind, and they got along so well that Chan didn’t mind sacrificing some things he enjoyed to make her happy.
Jisung was never good like that.
“You- fuck, yeah, Sung, you’re better. You’re better, you feel so fucking good. Missed you, baby,” He kisses Jisung square on the mouth, softer than he has in over a year. Nearly two, now.
Chan fucks him hard like this, deep enough that he might bruise his rotten insides. He mouths along Jisung’s neck, bites into the thin skin.
It’ll leave a nasty mark, and Jisung will lie when Felix asks about it, and Felix will look at him with horribly sad eyes and know the truth.
“You could have me more,” An escaped confession, never meant to slip through the gaps in his wishful thinking, “If you wanted.”
“I can’t,” Chan says, and to his credit, he sounds regretful. “You know that, Sung.”
Evidently not enough to stop fucking Jisung now, though, hips still pumping, chest vibrating with each groan.
“Yeah, sorry, just- faster, yeah?” He dodges, diverts, “I’m fucking close, God, your dick is so stupid.”
Chan laughs against Jisung's throat, kisses his jaw.
“Do you think she’ll be able to tell when you get home?” Jisung moans.
“No,” The word barely makes it out, half cut off by a moan, “No. She never- she never does.”
Jisung laughs at that, the absurdity, “Right, she never does. Poor girl, can’t tell when her sweet boyfriend is off fucking someone else. She can’t smell me on you? Can’t taste me on your cock when she gets on her knees? Fuck, does she even pay attention to you, baby?” He cups the side of Chan’s face.
“She’s- she would never think that. She thinks- she thinks I’m good,” He whimpers, eyes closing in the warmth of Jisung’s palm.
“But you’re not,” Jisung tells him, maybe the most honest thing he’s said all night. “You’re not good.”
“I know,” Chan whines, and his rhythm starts to falter as he gets close, “I’m sorry.”
“But you’re still going to fuck me again, aren’t you? The next time I get wasted, and Minho calls you. You’ll come pick me up so you can take me home and fuck me. Or maybe at the next party we’re both at. You should bring her next time, maybe we can fuck in the bathroom while she’s next door. That would get you off, huh?”
“Jisung, it’s not-”
“It is, though. Because you’re mine.”
Chan nods, tucked in shame against Jisung’s shoulder.
For a moment, it’s nothing but good. The heat of Chan inside him, the smack of their bodies, the smell of Chan seeping into Jisung’s sheets.
“You can do whatever you want with her, but you keep coming back to me.”
“I know,” Chan pants, wet breath, “I know.” He might be crying now, Jisung isn’t sure.
He does, sometimes. Like shedding tears somehow makes him less guilty. Jisung pulls his face toward him, presses his tongue to Chan’s cheek to lick away dripping salt.
They both moan, and Jisung smiles against wet skin. “Feels that bad? Or is it good? What’s making you cry, daddy?”
“You’re so-” He gasps, not enough air in the world to fill his lungs, “Feels good, ‘ts cause it’s good.”
“Yeah, it is,” Jisung agrees, still licking at Chan’s tears. He loves it, could get drunk off this alone, “My pussy’s so good, huh? It’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it? It’s so good for you, so much better.”
The next noise Chan lets out is a sob, and Jisung drinks this up too.
Chan has always said Jisung is pretty when he cries, but he’s nothing compared to Chan. His whole face swells up, goes bright red. His thick lips get fatter and Jisung wants to chew on them until he wails.
“Close,” Chan weeps, fingers digging into Jisung’s waist like everything hurts. He hopes it’ll bruise right over his tattoo, stain dark ink with purpling pain.
“Yeah, inside. Inside me, daddy, gimme a baby. Let me keep a part of you, make sure you’re always with me. Make sure everyone know’s you’re mine.”
“Jisung,” Chan coughs, moans, and his hips pump once, twice, and he stills inside Jisung, cock pulsing.
“Yes,” Jisung agrees, and comes the moment Chan reaches between their bodies to touch him.
Stars exploding, supernovas behind his eyes.
Chan in his arms for just another few moments.
And then there’s the after. Always the after.
Jisung in bed, dirty sheets, and still naked.
Chan, pulling up his underwear, pulling up his pants.
“Why do you still come pick me up?” His eyes already feel tender.
“Because we’re friends, Jisung,” Chan answers, but he won’t look at him. He looks down at his hands, where they rest against the button of his jeans.
It makes anger bubble, makes his skin feel too tight. He scoffs, and Chan sighs.
“We’re not friends,” He spits, and he wishes he were still drunk. He wishes he could stop himself from crying.
“I’m trying-”
“We’re not friends!” Jisung wails, breaking, and it’s awful because he truly wails. A nasty, throaty sound that rips through him. “We are not friends! We only see each other when I’m wasted, and you only come because you want to sleep with me! Because cheating on your fucking girlfriend turns you on!”
“That is not fair.”
“How? How? We broke up! You fucking left me, and then you want to say it isn’t fair?”
“Because I’m the only fuck up? Jesus Christ, Jisung, if you told Minho to stop calling me, he would! He’d call fucking Hyunjin, or Felix, or Seungmin to come get you instead! You could take my name off your emergency contact! I am not forcing myself into your life to get laid!”
“Fuck you!” The tears break his words up into hysterical little gasps, like no amount of air is enough to keep him breathing. “Fuck you!”
There are so many more things he wants to say. So many things he already has, that he could break open and make them rehash, but it isn’t worth it. It never is, not when they’ll do this dance again in a month, maybe two.
Chan stands at the edge of the bed, an awful look of pity on his face. “I’m sorry, Jisung.”
It’s the same thing he said back then, at the end of it all. Maybe next time they fuck, this will be the dagger Jisung throws at him. Not tonight, though.
Tonight, he’s already tired.
“I don’t care,” He hiccups, “I don’t care anymore. Go home to your girlfriend, Chan.”
Chan sighs, “Will you be okay if I leave?”
No.
“I’m always okay when you leave.”
He’s glad Chan winces, prickled by his own guilt. At least he still feels it.
“I do care about you, you know,” Chan shifts, head still down. “I still do. I always will.”
“Okay.” He curls his legs to his chest, pulls blankets tighter around his body. “Thanks.”
“Just- take care of yourself, alright?”
“Sure.”
Chan lingers by the doorway, like he has one last thing to say.
“Will I see you at that thing for Changbin next week?”
Ah.
“Yeah. Promised Hyunjin.”
Chan nods curtly, “Okay, then. See you.”
Jisung doesn’t say anything else as Chan lets himself out.