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Hands on his hips, big and steady. A body behind him, heat radiating off of it. A nose at the nape of his neck, hot breath fanning against the sweaty hair sticking to it. Minghao presses himself back against the man he’s dancing with, closer, closer. Not close enough.
He smells good, somehow fresh, which stands in contrast to this musky, sweaty club; the sea of bodies full of too much alcohol and not enough dignity they’ve found themselves at the corner of.
Minghao presses closer still, like he’s trying to melt into this beautiful man he only just met; whose name he hasn’t even learned yet. But maybe he doesn’t want to know it. Maybe he just wants to forget his own.
-
Minghao gives himself one last appraising glance in the mirror – although appraising isn’t really the right word. More like appreciating. He’s gorgeous when he wants to be, he knows that. It’s not that he’s forgotten it these past few months; it’s just that he hasn’t had the energy to care about it, much like everything else.
He’s gotten so used to the feel of grease in his hair, of meeting his own eyes in the mirror only shadowed and fatigued. Typically, he always loved them – big and deep brown, tapered off at the sides into a slant he thinks gives him an air of mystery – but then he hasn’t loved much of anything about himself lately.
When he’s looked into the mirror lately, he hasn’t seen the best of himself, like he used to. He hasn’t seen his pretty, nicely shaped eyes – instead only the bags under them. He hasn’t seen his luscious hair, instead only the evidence of another four or five days gone without washing it. He hasn’t seen his smooth skin that many of his friends have expressed jealousy over in the past – instead only every tiny blemish he can find on it, or the pallor it’s taken on since he stopped going out in the sun; stopped nourishing himself the way he should be.
But tonight, Minghao looks good – and he knows it. His hair is freshly washed and blow-dried, fluffy down to his shoulders. He’s eaten not one, but two good meals and a couple of snacks here and there, because it was Jeonghan’s only condition for letting him go out. Not that Jeonghan tells him what to do, but Minghao’s tired, has been tired, and an argument with Jeonghan isn’t something he’s likely to win on a good day.
“I miss when you guys weren’t a couple yet,” he’d pouted anyway when Joshua was ladling another spoonful of broth over his noodles before thrusting the hot and nearly overflowing bowl into Minghao’s waiting hands, causing him to yelp and almost drop it. “It’s scary having you on the same side.”
“We were always on the same side, Hao,” Jeonghan tsked, and Joshua came up behind him, snaking his hands around his waist and kissing him on the cheek until Minghao pretended to gag and took his bowl to the table to dig in, which he figured had been the goal.
And now his skin has an admittedly much healthier-looking sheen to it – though he’s not sure one day of eating right can really do that much for him. Maybe it’s the company; the laughter. The smile lines around his mouth are something he hasn’t seen in far too long, at least not genuine ones.
Or maybe it’s the makeup, though all he’s done is a light smoky eye and a layer of tinted lip gloss. Not dark or heavy enough to be obvious, but enough to draw attention to his mouth, give it a nice appealing color and a plump, juicy look. That’s what he wants. He’s got the alluring eyes to draw them in – he knows they’re his most catching feature, shoulder-length hair excluded – and the lips to hook them, complete with a piercing on the left side of his bottom lip. He flicks his tongue out at it, then grins at himself. Perfect.
He adjusts the strap of his black skintight tank top one more time with his left hand, where he’s got a single fingerless glove – it’s kind of his signature thing, or it used to be. It makes him feel somewhat like himself again. He hasn’t taken care of his nails properly in a while, but he did let Jeonghan put a coat of black nail polish on them earlier, so that helps too.
Then he scans himself up and down, loving in particular how snugly the tight material of his shirt fits around his bony hips where his baggy jeans sit. Just the right combination of sexy and casual.
It’s perfect. He looks pretty in an untouchable way. But there’s always someone dumb enough to try touching him anyway. There always was, in any case, and he doesn’t think that’s changed, no matter how much of himself he feels he’s lost since then. But if there’s one constant truth in this world, it’s that men are animals.
Tonight, Minghao is counting on it.
He spins away from the mirror with more energy than he’s been able to muster in a long while and takes the leather jacket Joshua is holding out to him, then confidently strides out of his bedroom so he doesn’t have to see the look Joshua gives Jeonghan, or vice versa.
The night is waiting.
-
“Is it just me, or have the men in this city grown more respectful since I last went out?” Minghao wonders, the irritation evident in his tone. Typically, he tries to keep it steady, neutral, almost bored-sounding – but he’s talking to his best friends. The ones that have seen the worst of him. He doesn’t have to mask his true feelings with them.
They’re assholes, though, and not even listening. Instead they’ve got their tongues down each other’s throats. His fault for taking them to a gay club, but he hadn’t realized decorum had gone out the window when they’d confessed their feelings to each other. Or maybe he just hasn’t been around them enough since. Or maybe they hold back more when it’s the three of them, so as not to make him feel left out. That pisses him off, actually.
Or maybe none of it’s that deep, and it’s the single cocktail they’ve each had turning them sloppy. Either way, Jeonghan is clinging to Joshua in the booth they’ve claimed, nearly in his lap, one of his hands twisted into his hair, and Joshua has one hand disappearing suspiciously low on Jeonghan’s back, one on his leather-clad thigh.
Maybe it’s for the best they’ve abandoned their sense of modesty. Minghao wasn’t getting very far with the two of them worrying over him. And maybe it’s not that the men have grown more respectful that’s the reason why so few have come to bother Minghao so far this evening – maybe it’s just that nobody wants to approach the table with the intimidating-looking couple alternating shooting judgmental looks at the dancefloor and eating each other’s faces off.
Minghao can’t blame them.
He tears his eyes away from his friends and tries to smooth his furrowed brow back out into something less daunting. He wants to look unapproachable only by virtue of his appearance, not because people think he’s mean. The meanness comes later, once he’s chosen someone to spend the evening with – if they’re lucky.
He never just picks the first guy that comes up to him. He has a careful vetting process; he’s picky, and yet somehow he’s still always managed to pick the biggest assholes in the club every time.
Tonight, it’s different, because tonight that’s what he’s going for. He doesn’t want respectful. He convinced Jeonghan and Joshua to take him out by insisting he was tired of moping around; that he just wanted to go dance and have some fun, and he wasn’t lying – but he failed to mention the part where he wants to get fucked again, so hard it hurts even long afterwards, just like in the old days. They were wary enough already, and he can’t blame them, but he’s sick of being treated like he’s fragile, and he told them as much.
And here they are now.
Minghao busies himself scanning the dancefloor. It’s perfunctory, really. The second he gets up they’ll start coming to him, and then he’ll decide who it’s going to be.
It isn’t like he can see much out there anyway, but he likes to pretend he’s casing the place. At the very least he likes to make sure he has a path to the bathroom or nearest exit planned in case he needs it – either with someone, or to get away from them.
In the corner next to the DJ booth, the sign for the bathrooms glows neon, casting the haze in the air in a purplish light.
That’s where Minghao sees him – the man dancing by himself at the corner of the dancefloor, eyes closed like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care what’s good for him. He’s a little apart from the rest of the throng, which is why he stands out. His blonde hair is tied back in a little half-ponytail, the wisps of it that fall around his ears and partway down his neck swaying in time with his motions.
He’s… entrancing. He’s got a drink in one hand, and he’s unnervingly good-looking – with a face that looks almost sculpted, and wearing leather pants with a cropped shirt revealing a sliver of stomach. Even from across the room, Minghao can see the overhead disco lights and neon purple sign from the bathrooms highlighting his sharp, well-cut abs when he twists this way and that in subtle little motions.
He’s barely dancing, is the thing, but Minghao can tell that he’s good at it. Only people that are can do so little and make it look so effortlessly cool. He’s dancing like he’s not trying to show off that he can, but he’s so obviously better than everyone else in this club with their big motions and unrelenting grinding like they’re trying to prove a point or something.
Minghao watches him for a few long moments and it takes Joshua tapping his thigh for him to realize he got lost in it – in the way this beautiful man’s body moves so sensually in such a restrained way. It makes him want to know more. It makes him want to see him come undone.
He hasn’t even seen his eyes once.
“You good, Hao?”
Minghao clears his throat, smiles, finishes off the rest of his red wine. One glass isn’t enough to get him drunk, but he feels even sexier now than he did before. It didn’t take as much getting used to as he expected – being comfortable in his skin again. The confidence was still there, just hiding. He tosses a grin Joshua’s way.
“Come up for air, did we?”
Jeonghan rolls his eyes dramatically. Minghao watches Joshua watch him fondly and thinks that he loves them. His friends.
“You two need another drink?” he asks, because he doesn’t feel like he’s capable of verbalizing his appreciation.
Joshua only shakes his head. “We’re good. Thanks, though.”
Minghao nods, puts his own empty glass down on the table. “I’m going to go dance for a bit.”
“Need company?” Jeonghan asks. He looks wary, like he knows Minghao is going to turn him down and like he’s already preparing to argue him on it.
“I’ll be okay,” Minghao says, putting on a breezy, unaffected tone. “Stay here and make out with your boyfriend and make all the single people feel bad or something.” Jeonghan raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth, but Minghao cuts him off before he can say anything. “I’ll be fine. You can trust me. I just want to dance. Promise.”
Lying comes scarily easy to him these days. All that practice pretending to be okay when he isn’t, though that never fooled his friends. Maybe this doesn’t either. Maybe they’ve decided to indulge him. He doesn’t want to think about them treating him like he’s made of glass, worrying too hard about what to let him do or not do. Like he’s a kid that can’t be left unwatched. The point is, they accept his answer, so he gets up and focuses his attention on the guy across the dancefloor again instead.
He could just stride right over to him, but where’s the fun in that? He should dance a little. Get his attention. Wait for the man to come up to him. They always do eventually. The efficacy of Minghao’s method has never been tested: he moves like water, but with intention, and he knows how to use the pull of his tide. He prays he hasn’t lost that, in any case.
-
At least he’s kept his word to Jeonghan so far, he thinks. He’s just dancing – has been just dancing for at least half an hour, and kindly (or not-so-kindly, depending on how they proposition him) turning down everyone coming up to him that isn’t the man in the corner. He’s already decided that’s who it’s going to be.
Minghao keeps tossing glances his way, though he makes sure to keep them quick, nonchalant, inconspicuous. He can’t quite tell if the man is looking back at any point; if he’s even seen Minghao yet. He migrates a little closer in his direction, weaving through the crowd elegantly.
And in between glances at the stranger, time passes quickly. At one point Minghao squints back over at Joshua and Jeonghan and sees them smiling back at him, and he figures they can see it too: that he feels good. He’d say happy, but he doesn’t want to jinx anything.
Dancing feels amazing. Always has. He wonders when he stopped; not right away, he thinks, but he hasn’t even danced around his apartment in months. It’s scary, that part of himself that slipped away while he trudged through his days unaware of it happening. He knew, of course, that he wasn’t dancing, wasn’t doing yoga, wasn’t even going on walks anymore at a certain point – but he hadn’t really felt it creeping in. The apathy.
Seeing his friends smile at him feels good, too. Yes, it’s across a crowded club and yes, it’s through a layer of fog, but he can tell even from here that their eyes are sparkling, and he thinks it’s the first time in a long while their smiles for him aren’t clouded with concern. He grins back and finds it comes easy, and then he beckons them over on a whim. Joshua hops up almost immediately, drags Jeonghan with him.
Minghao doesn’t forget about the stranger, but for a while he forgets to look at him. He’s having fun. Even Jeonghan, who claims to hate these stuffy clubs, is giving it his everything and laughing freely as the three of them dance and cling to each other, and for a moment Minghao thinks he might start crying.
He doesn’t, and eventually Joshua gets tired, so he asks if Minghao wants to sit back down, have another drink.
But the next song starts playing, and Minghao doesn’t know it, but it’s everything he loves: a dreamy, faraway sort of sound blended seamlessly with a techno beat, and it reminds him of just how much he truly does live and breathe music. Maybe that’s why he’s felt like he was only surviving lately.
His legs will ache tomorrow. He’s not ready to stop dancing. He hasn’t felt this carefree, this weightless, in what feels like an eternity. He feels like he’s floating on the beat, so when Jeonghan and Joshua squeeze him on the shoulder and head back to the booth, he closes his eyes to really give into the sensation. Lets his body take over, trusts it to know what he needs.
It’s three songs later that he blinks back into reality and remembers to look over at the corner by the bathrooms again, worrying that he might have missed the pretty man, wondering if that would be such a bad thing. Maybe tonight isn’t the night for bad decision-making. Not when he feels better than he has in ages.
But the man is still there, moving to the beat assuredly, gaze sweeping over the crowd he’s keeping only to the edges of, and surely his legs will ache come morning. And then Minghao forgets to think because suddenly the man meets his gaze, and it’s captivating.
His eyes are dark and piercing, lined thinly with kohl that only serves to amplify their intimidating effect, and they stay focused on Minghao. And so Minghao gives him a smile – playful, kittenish.
The man mirrors it. And fuck it. Minghao starts twisting his way through the people that still remain in between them. He’s never had to approach somebody he wanted before, but he’s different these days; a little humbled, maybe, or just tired of being unhappy with where he is like he doesn’t have the power to change it.
Inertia doesn’t suit him. It feels good to be assertive.
He keeps his eyes trained on the man as he nears him, even as the man closes his eyes and tosses his head back to the music. He’s a little sweaty, Minghao notices now that he’s closer; just enough for it to mist his skin and give him an almost ethereal glow in the purple smoke. His throat gleams with it. His Adam’s apple protrudes from it starkly, bobbing with his movements. His jawline is angular and severe. Minghao’s mouth feels dry very suddenly.
Minghao comes to a stop in front of the man just as his head straightens and his eyes fly open again. They’ve already got a glint in them, like this is just what they were expecting to find. Minghao can swallow his pride for those eyes, he thinks.
“Hi,” he mouths, because they only just met and he’s not going to shout at him over the bass just yet.
The stranger’s mouth quirks up in a little smirk and he mouths the word back.
Minghao steps in closer then, emboldened by the reciprocation – close enough to smell the stranger’s cologne, slightly sweet, slightly woody – and brings his mouth up to his ear. They both know why they’re here.
“Care to dance?”
A formality in most cases, maybe – just a necessary step in the pretense of it all; an approximation of getting to know someone so you feel better about jumping into bed with them. In this case, though, Minghao finds, it isn’t a means to an end, but a very real wish: to share a dance with this man he’s only just met, this man who moves like it’s second nature to him, or like he’s never once felt uncomfortable in his skin.
Minghao pulls back to see the man nod, and then swallow again. He takes a sip of his drink, and Minghao wonders if it’s the same one he’s had since he first spied him, or if he went to the bar in between when Minghao forgot to pay attention to him.
Minghao reaches for the man’s drink after he’s done with his sip, trying very hard to keep looking at his eyes and not his Adam’s apple again. It turns out to be easier than expected. Those eyes are electric.
“Can I?” Minghao mouths, holding the drink up in question. The stranger only nods again. He’s still half-smiling, but his lips are pressed together tightly. They’re pretty, though, painted a deep red that looks bruised in the lighting. Not as full as Minghao’s, but they’ve got a lovely shape. Minghao wonders if he tastes like he smells. If he feels as soft as his blonde hair looks. If his kisses are as clean and direct as the lines of his body, or if that’s when he gets a little messy.
There’s only a tiny bit of the man’s drink left, so Minghao just drains it, never breaking eye contact, while the man just keeps his lips pressed together and an eyebrow raised at him.
The drink is sweet, some kind of fruity cocktail – peach, maybe – and it goes down smoothly, though it is room temperature. Likely he’s been nursing it for a while. Minghao reaches over to the edge of the riser the DJ booth is located on and puts the empty glass down, and then he turns around and slots his body against the man’s.
He’s taller than Minghao, but just barely. Minghao boldly grinds back against him, ass to crotch, back to chest. Brazen, perhaps, but they both know what kind of place this is.
And the man seemed so confident just a minute ago, when Minghao was walking up to him. He moved like he knew just how sexy he was. But now that Minghao’s dancing up against him, he’s hardly reacting. Minghao can’t tell if he’s uninterested or just doing something stupid like trying to be respectful. If he is, maybe Minghao went after the wrong person.
He still wants to dance with him, is the thing, and the man doesn’t seem to mind his boldness, so Minghao reaches behind him and grabs onto the man’s wrists, bringing them around to his front, low against his own hips. When the man’s palms settle fully against Minghao’s pelvis, it sends a little thrill through him.
It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, or touched at all. Jeonghan and Joshua have offered, but. No.
The man’s hands are big and warm even through the denim of Minghao’s jeans and now that he seems to have gotten whatever permission he was waiting for, he’s easing into the rhythm of Minghao’s body easily, matching his own to it.
It comes naturally to them. They flow together like a knife through warm butter, smooth, satisfying, somehow pressing closer together with each new song. They dance like a conversation. Question and answer simultaneously, blending together without interrupting. Minghao’s always been good with movement, even when words fail him, and the language of their bodies is eloquent, no awkwardness. Minghao thinks he could almost be content with just this.
It isn’t what he came here for, though.
He doesn’t know if his friends are watching him. Maybe they’re back to sucking face. Maybe they’d be happy he’s putting himself out there again, though he doesn’t really think so given his past experiences, and given the fact that he picked the most dangerous-looking man in here this evening – like he’s asking for trouble.
Well, he kind of is. That kind of was his whole reason for coming out tonight. Trouble isn’t great, but it’s something, and it can be a whole lot of fun before it goes wrong.
Only he doesn’t really feel like he’s in trouble at the moment. He feels strangely – held? And not just literally, though the man behind him seems to be getting more comfortable, now not just resting his hands against Minghao’s waist but actually gripping it, palms wrapped around hipbones, fingers digging into where Minghao’s flesh has more give.
Minghao wants it tighter, tight enough to hurt. Wants to look at his skin in the morning and see flashes of this club’s violet lighting in it, of the man’s bruise-tinted lips. He arches against him, throws his head back, nestles it against the crook of his neck until their sweat mingles and he can feel the tips of the man’s hair tickling his forehead.
He gets what he wants. The grip on his hips tightens; the body behind him presses itself more firmly against him. When the stranger swallows, Minghao feels it. He’s not even paying attention to dancing anymore; that’s happening all on its own. Instead, he inhales this man’s scent like it alone can drag him out of the depths of his depression; pays close attention to the way he feels against him, the heat of his body, the hard ridges and soft suppleness of it where they connect.
Intoxicating. That’s the only word for it. For him.
It’s funny. When Minghao does it, it’s not because he thinks they’ve danced enough and it’s time to take the next step. It’s not because he wants to progress the evening, get to the reason he came. No, it’s because he just wants to, and for no other reason. He can’t remember the last time he simply followed a whim the way he’s been doing tonight without second-guessing, but before he knows it he’s twisting around in the stranger’s grip until they’re face to face, and he’s taking in his oddly adorable expression of surprise for just a moment – which is perfect, actually, because it means his lips are already slightly parted when Minghao leans in and slots his own against them.
Just like when they first started dancing together, the man needs a little coaxing. He kisses back, but it’s timid until Minghao takes the back of his neck in a firm grip and pushes his tongue insistently against those beautiful dark lips until they part wider for him. Only then, slowly, does the man begin to match his fervor.
Minghao’s other hand has come to rest on the man’s bicep, squeezing. The man’s hands are still on Minghao’s waist, dangerously low, but not low enough yet. He kisses like he dances: it’s smooth, effortless as soon as it’s uninhibited. It’s good. Too good for a place like this, and Minghao finds himself smiling into it.
The stranger matches it, and Minghao seizes the opportunity to catch him off guard by taking his tongue between his teeth and sucking aggressively. It startles a little mewl out of the man, a beautiful sound, audible only to the two of them while the bass still thumps around them – but Minghao’s surroundings are beginning to feel distant to him.
The man does taste sweet. Of vodka and artificial peach, but with something more natural underlying it, something Minghao can’t quite name – but it’s fresh and intoxicating. He keeps sucking on his tongue in the exact way he knows drives people crazy, and it seems to be having the desired effect, drawing little whimpers in a steady stream. Minghao remembers he used to be good at this. Remembers he used to be good at a lot of things, and none that were ever good for him.
He lets his hand travel from the man’s neck to his cheek now, digs a thumb into the hinge of his jaw, wordlessly encouraging him to open wider for him. Minghao wants him – badly. That’s new, too. This used to be routine, something to pass the time or to feed his lacking sense of self-worth under all that put-on confidence, but it was never something he needed, which was why it was so easy to go without.
It’s staggering, the realization that this might be the first time Minghao has felt actual desire in his life, or at the very least in a long time. It ignites a flame inside of him that has blood rushing south, but this feels far more intense than just the normal physical reaction. He doesn’t want sex; he wants this man specifically. So much that he feels almost lightheaded with it.
The man begins to play with Minghao’s lip piercing now; flicking it around with his tongue, then biting down on it, pulling at it a little with his teeth. It’s good. Too good. It shoots straight to Minghao’s dick.
He breaks the kiss. Allows himself one look at the man’s face – flushed and kiss-bitten in the strobe lighting, mouth shiny and eyes even darker than before, loaded with something Minghao can’t quite make out yet – and then Minghao’s turning back around, grinding his ass against him again just so he can catch his breath.
Minghao’s hard, but he isn’t alone in his predicament. He feels him against his ass, cock straining insistently at the material separating them from being skin on skin, and relishes in it, smirking. He feels a nose at the nape of his neck, pushing at the strands of sweaty hair there, and relishes in it. A ghosting of the lips then: on his neck, under his hair; on his shoulder, where the strap of his tank top ends; on his earlobe, gentle yet insistent.
Maybe it’s easier for the man when Minghao isn’t facing him. Or he’s just abandoned his inhibitions because he can sense the sudden desperation radiating off of Minghao; knows how badly he’s wanted. Or the whole reserved, almost lazy thing is a part of his act, and this is how he gets what he wants.
It’s working. Minghao doesn’t even care that he’s been the one initiating everything.
The man’s hands have wound back around to his front now, traveling from his hipbones to his lower abdomen, splayed against the tight material of his shirt, lower, lower, fingers stretching towards the waistband of his jeans. A pang of arousal radiates through Minghao, and he almost bucks into the touch, so close yet so far from where he needs it.
This isn’t quite the place. He cranes his neck back to bring his mouth to the man’s ear again so he hears him loud and clear when he asks, “Bathroom?”
The man doesn’t say anything, just takes Minghao’s hand in his – the gloved one, but their fingers intertwine easily and Minghao feels the heat of his skin through the material in a pleasant, comfortable way – and leads him to the bathrooms. They don’t have far to go.
Bathroom fucks are never the most pleasant, but pleasure never really has been Minghao’s main goal in these situations. Tonight, though, he wants it. He’s almost ashamed of how much. He was supposed to remain detached, distanced from such things as foolish as self-indulgence. This has always been sort of a punishment to him rather than enjoyment; he’s always been a moth courting danger’s flame for the sake of it more than anything
When he got burned from it, he’d thought it might deter him permanently, but instead he seems to have come back from his self-induced isolation wanting… more? Something different?
That’s dangerous in a worse way. He’s supposed to be colder than he ever was. He’s supposed to feel less. Instead this feels extra risky in its newness.
But it’s so fun. Minghao hasn’t had too much of that lately.
And the stranger is still holding onto him and Minghao, staring only at the back of him – blonde hair tied into its pretty half-ponytail, limbs long and elegant, waist slim and enticing – finds himself either unwilling or incapable of pulling out of his grip.
The lighting in the bathroom is harsher. Not too lurid, thankfully, still muted in a way that matches the club’s atmosphere, but brighter, certainly, than the dark purple of the dancefloor, and a lot less hazy. Like a winter dawn: the sun dulled behind clouds, everything tinted grey. It turns skin pallid and gaunt-looking.
When the man turns around again, Minghao finds he’s still breathtaking. Screw him for looking good in this lighting, honestly. Minghao’s not sure if the bags under his eyes are that deep or if the lighting paints them that way, makes him look shadowed and exhausted, but he looks good tired. What the fuck.
Minghao takes his free hand and pushes it through his own hair and finds a moment to be grateful that it always looks better the messier it gets – he’s lucky like that, though he hasn’t felt lucky lately – and then the man is pulling him into the first stall, eyes locked on his. The bathroom is empty, but there’s no guarantee it will remain that way.
It’s dimmer in the stall, but only a little bit. Minghao thinks about getting his hands in the man’s hair now instead of his own and wonders if he’s blessed in the same way; if he also looks good with his hair shaken loose and tousled.
Minghao can’t imagine him ever not looking flawless, to be truthful. He thinks he’d even look good hungover and barefaced, hair unbrushed as he sits at a kitchen counter in something oversized and ratty and nurses a cup of coffee with the morning sun shining in golden and accentuating.
He finds his heart pounding when the man reaches around his waist to lock the stall door and then steps in closer to crowd him against it. Minghao isn’t sure if it’s nerves or anticipation or something else entirely that has his palms sweating so suddenly – fear, maybe even. He shakes his head once to clear it of all thoughts of a morning-after that isn’t meant for him, that he doesn’t want, that he’s never wanted – especially not with somebody he knows nothing about except how pretty he is, how good he smells, tastes, what his teeth feel like pulling on Minghao’s lip piercing, the warmth of his hands on his waist, of his breath against his neck. His hardness pushed up against Minghao’s ass.
There is no tomorrow, though. Only this moment. Minghao came to lose himself in it, to get out of his own head, and he has no plans of abandoning that intent.
The stranger clearly has no plans of letting Minghao think straight either, because in moments he’s being kissed within an inch of his existence and rational thought is reduced to a mere hypothesis of a concept.
Dexterous fingers wind into his hair and tug on it, and Minghao lets loose a moan he didn’t even feel building, letting his head fall back against the stall door with it. The man takes the opportunity to kiss his way down Minghao’s throat and along the low neckline of his top, nipping at his collarbone through it, pulling it off his skin with his teeth just to see it snap back.
Minghao’s shivering all over. He wants to watch, but he can’t force his eyes open. He’s already so hard it’s almost aching. He keeps his hands firmly planted on the man’s back, between his shoulder blades, holding tight as if he’s afraid he’ll pull away if Minghao lets him.
I don’t even know your name, he thinks, like that’s ever mattered to him before. Minghao feels – he feels good, he feels so freaking good, but there’s an unease simmering in his chest that begins to boil when the man gets to his knees, hands dragging heavy down Minghao’s sides now, then around to his front to fumble with the buttons of his jeans. The hem of Minghao’s shirt is slid up and plush lips attach themselves to a sliver of his lower abdomen, just for a moment. Minghao shivers more violently, manages to look now, finds the man blinking up at him, smiling. It’s a coy thing, almost shy even. He’s messing with the buttons again, gets one of them open, smiles even wider, and he’s hot and his hands are big and he’s unnervingly breathtaking and –
Oh God, Minghao can’t breathe. Is that what’s happening? His chest is tightening, and it’s not for a lack of air – there’s no mouth on his; the room is surprisingly well-ventilated. But Minghao’s breath keeps flattening, and it’s like the more he thinks about deepening it again, the harder it becomes to do it.
He feels warm in an unpleasant way very suddenly. His vision is swimming a little, the smile below him blurring. Minghao blinks and sees it dropping off its owner’s face entirely.
No, he thinks. No, no, no.
This was supposed to go well. He felt good getting ready, he felt good coming out, he took care of himself today, this can’t be happening again. Tonight was supposed to make everything better. He was supposed to feel like himself again, like back before his mind started betraying him, why is he – what is he?
Oh God, Minghao’s panicking.
He thinks, distantly, that he should stop the man from whatever it is he’s doing. That’s how he landed himself in that awful situation last time, the one that made him afraid to even set foot into a club again for so long. It had taken forever for him to believe his friends that it hadn’t been his fault. That the person he’d been with should have noticed the state he was in and stopped without needing to be told.
Minghao wonders now if he ever believed it. He wonders if he still thinks, somewhere underneath the parts of himself he convinced himself were healing – that he convinced himself had healed when he walked in here tonight and found it surprisingly easy – that everything bad that happens to him is his fault in some way.
He pushed his luck, tempted fate, got burned for it – and he’s doing it again. He wonders if he isn’t here to overwrite his experiences at all, but instead to give himself reason to justify his moping, his seclusion, again. He wonders if he knew this, going in, and that’s the reason he went for the man in leather with the sharp gaze and unreadable facial expression dancing in the corner. By himself, no less, like that’s not a warning sign all on its own.
Oh God, where are Minghao’s friends? Why did he tell them to trust him? He needs to get out of here, he needs to say something, this is so embarrassing, he’s going to get hurt again or laughed at and he doesn’t know which is worse, and –
The man’s standing up again. He’s taken his hands off of Minghao, has stepped back a bit. He’s looking at Minghao not with contempt or derision or judgment, but instead with concern. It softens his features considerably. He looks gentle, like this.
“Hey,” he begins. Now that the thumping bass is a distant thing, muffled through walls and Minghao’s own blood rushing, he can hear him better. His voice is clear, breathy, and most of all – laced with compassion. For a moment, it scares Minghao more. “Are you okay?”
He blinks, and realizes that his eyes have filled with tears only when one spills down his cheek. Embarrassing. He pretends he doesn’t notice it, but he can’t meet the man’s gaze. The fact that it’s kind makes it a lot harder to hold eye contact than it was when he’d seemed intimidating.
“I –” he begins, and hates the way he sounds. Unsteady, so unlike himself. He’s stuttering on every inhale like he can’t get his lungs to fill properly; like there’s something in the way of his airflow, threatening his survival. He brings a hand to his chest, clawing at the material of his tank top that now feels too-tight rather than just tight enough. “I’m sorry, I. I don’t think I can do this.”
He waits for the scoff, the eyeroll, the disdainful comment. Almost wishes for it.
“It’s okay,” the kind stranger says instead, and sounds like he really means it. He reaches a hand out, then pauses. “Can I touch you?”
Like he didn’t just have his mouth on Minghao’s skin. Like he didn’t just undo Minghao’s jeans buttons. Like Minghao doesn’t know the shape of his cock pressed up against his ass through several layers of clothing. Like he didn’t want them shed, that cock inside of him.
He shivers again. He’s burning up. He feels trapped. His lungs still aren’t functioning. He’s clammy all over. He wants to get out of here. He wants to let this man touch him. He nods.
One hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and it’s strangely grounding.
“Can you look at me?” the man asks, and Minghao complies, though he’s kind of still waiting to be laughed at. How pathetic he must look now, a shaky, wide-eyed thing pushed up against the door of a cubicle in a club bathroom with its pants unbuttoned. Confident just moments ago, falling apart now.
Kind stranger doesn’t seem to care. He places a hand on his own chest and nods at Minghao encouragingly when he begins to breathe in very slowly, then exhale even slower. Minghao gets it. He matches his own breathing to the rhythm being set for him.
It’s hard, but only for a little bit. His breath begins to even out again, and after six or seven cycles of it he thinks he can try speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I think I should – uh. Go find my friends. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” kind stranger responds without even missing a beat. His hand is still on Minghao’s shoulder. Minghao misses it on his waist, or digging into his hips, or laid flat against his abdomen, or tugging on his hair in just the right way. He’s still hard, somehow, through all this, but it is going down now. “Can I help you look for them?”
Minghao shakes his head. “I’ll be okay. Thanks for helping me and, um. Sorry. I. Didn’t mean to. Uh, ruin anything.”
“You didn’t.” Again, kind stranger doesn’t miss a beat before answering. Minghao searches his eyes for any sign he might be lying – not that it would make a difference. Minghao doesn’t intend to ever see him again. He’s learned his lesson. He can find other ways to have fun that don’t involve looking for men to hook up with in clubs, and if the most gorgeous guy he’s ever laid eyes upon remembers him only as a funny story to regale friends with, that doesn’t need to concern him.
“Alright, um.” Minghao blinks down at himself, buttons his pants back up with a shaky laugh, tugs his shirt down again. He thinks he sees the beginnings of bruises on his hipbones, but his vision is still swimming a little bit, so it might be an optical illusion. He kind of hopes it isn’t. He offers the kind stranger a weak smile, and kind stranger mirrors it, then swallows like he’s nervous. Minghao watches his throat bob for a beat too long. “I’m gonna. Go. Um. Thanks again. And sorry again, uh –”
“Junhui,” he says before Minghao has a chance to say, Don’t tell me.
Junhui. It’s a pretty name. Fitting. Minghao tests it out, likes the way it starts in the center of his mouth, then widens at the end – like the very act of saying the name is meant to draw a smile out of whoever’s doing it.
“Junhui. I’m Minghao.” Because it’d feel wrong to take this offering so selfishly, go home with it on his tongue, and give nothing in return. Even if what he’s giving back doesn’t have much worth past making the inevitable anecdote he’s going to become easier to tell.
“Minghao,” Junhui echoes, and smiles, small again but horribly endearing. At odds entirely with the impression Minghao had of him. The dark makeup, the leather, the sculpted facial features, the exposed and insanely well-defined abs that Minghao realizes now, lamentably, he never got his hands on.
It’d be weird to reach out and touch them and then just turn around and take his leave, so he’ll never know the feel of them now.
But Junhui. Junhui, who dances like it comes so easy to him he doesn’t even need to pay attention to his steps. Junhui, whose hands are warm and grounding and feel so decidedly safe on Minghao’s body. Junhui, whose eyes are glinting and beautiful and breathtaking – literally.
Minghao can be sad about the missed opportunity, but he was stupid to think he was ready for this again.
Junhui is opening his mouth again, letting go now – regrettably – of Minghao’s shoulder to reach into his pocket and dig his phone out of it.
“Can I get –” he begins, nodding at it, but Minghao cuts him off before he can finish the question.
“I gotta go. Thanks, and sorry again, and uh – bye, Junhui.” He’ll say the name for as long as he’s allowed to. “It was. Nice meeting you.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns around and unlocks the door with fumbling, sweaty hands, then wrests it open and all but sprints out of there.
He’ll regret this, won’t he?
But Junhui was so sweet. Too sweet. It felt a little too close to something Minghao can’t deal with, not in the state he’s in. Better to go now and never have to think about what could have been.
-
He does think about it. What could have been, that is.
-
It’s not that Minghao minds being alone; on the contrary, actually. He’s always enjoyed his solitude, having time to slow down and think and just exist. It’s just that he’s learned these past few months that it’s one thing to be alone because you want to be, and another thing entirely when it’s because you don’t know what it is you want and need, nor how to go after it, nor how to not feel like a burden to those in your vicinity.
-
The bruises he saw in the club bathroom were real, but they’re fading quickly. Minghao looks at them every day, even when there’s nothing left of them, and feels phantom pain.
-
He tries to isolate again, but his friends won’t really let him. After that night, they hardly let him out of their sight at all for a few days. Minghao had already calmed considerably by the time he’d found them on the dancefloor, split up and searching for him frantically, but it had still been evident that something had happened.
Now, it’s better. They give him space, but they still check in all the time, refusing to let him go radio silent again, making sure he isn’t making more self-destructive decisions, and blaming themselves for enabling him in the first place like they’re his parents or something.
He wants to be mad at them for babying him, but that’s not in his nature. Not really. He’s gentle-hearted no matter how tough he tries to seem.
And gentle hearts are prone to aching.
-
Minghao doesn’t know what he’s aching for. Not really. There’s no reason for him to be.
He thought he’d summoned the courage to take his life into his own hands again by going out that night, and instead it seems he fucked himself up even further. He was numb before, or atrophying. Felt everything only dully, bones heavy, mind weary, his world shrinking and him along with it.
He’s more alert again, but that also means whatever is hurting inside of him has sharpened. He made it worse, made it bigger, and now he’s more lost than he’s ever been.
-
The only time he’s felt somewhat at peace that he can remember lately was for a brief respite of a second in Junhui’s arms – before the man had been Junhui, before he’d even been the kind stranger. When he’d been just a man.
He’s aware he’s likely attributing far too much to someone he knows nothing about. But dancing with him felt so good. Kissing him felt so good. He was so nice, so understanding, and Minghao’s still waiting for the catch on that. Or maybe the catch is that he gave up his chance.
Is that why he can’t stop thinking about him? Is that why Junhui shows up in his dreams?
It’s ridiculous, really. Minghao doesn’t know him. He never will. He gave up that opportunity willingly, and now he wonders if he did that only so he’d have more fuel for the fire of his misery; something else to hate himself for.
Jeonghan seems to think so. For all the caution with which they’ve been handling him, Jeonghan’s still never been one to mince words, so as soon as he seems to deem Minghao capable of handling it, he tells him this:
“You were going to make whatever decision you could end up regretting the most.”
“You think I should have slept with him?” Minghao asks, irritated by the accusation precisely because of the truth of it. Well, as irritated as he can be when Jeonghan is serving him a home-cooked meal for the third time this week. It’s not the best, but it’s better than the takeout and instant noodles Minghao lives off of when he’s not being fed.
“I think you shouldn’t have gone out in the first place. Not there, anyway.”
“You said you didn’t want me to mope around anymore. You were happy to go with me.”
“I should have known it’d trigger you.”
Minghao pauses for a beat, fiddles with the sleeves of his shirt that he’s pulled down over his fists while he waits for Jeonghan to finish loading chicken onto his plate.
When he doesn’t respond right away, Jeonghan says, “Sorry, Hao. I really don’t mean to be harsh. I just hate seeing you like this.”
Like what, exactly? The mess he’s been in the weeks since that night, or the shell of a person he already was for months prior? Is there a version of Minghao that Jeonghan remembers liking? Is there a version Minghao does? He’s lost all the best of himself, even if he deluded himself into thinking he could access it again for a brief moment while he was dancing.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry.” Minghao doesn’t say what for. He means for everything.
“Look, I want you to be able to do things and have fun, and I will always support that. Next time, let’s just go somewhere safer, okay?”
Minghao nods, musters up a watery smile. “Yeah, okay.”
He doesn’t want to do anything except lay around and sulk, but he supposes he’s grateful his friends won’t let him.
“Who knows,” Jeonghan says, wiggling his eyebrows as he deposits Minghao’s plate in front of him. Minghao picks up his chopsticks and smiles gratefully. “Maybe you’ll see this guy again, someplace different. What did you say his name was?”
Minghao didn’t. Now, too, he shrugs in place of a proper response.
-
Sometimes he wakes up with Junhui’s name on his tongue, lips spreading out into a smile for a fraction of a second before he remembers he’s supposed to be unhappy.
-
It’s silly to be so secretive, but he got so little of Junhui that the parts he does have, he wants to keep just for himself.
As if sharing them with someone else means losing his own memory of them.
-
“You’re really still hung up on him? I’ve never seen you like this.”
Minghao fights the urge to get defensive when he hears this. It’s just Joshua, and Joshua has good intentions. There’s no judgment in his words, but they drag a scalpel along the insides of Minghao’s ribcage anyway, too close to somewhere vulnerable, even after all these weeks.
He finishes his turn, landing on Community Chest and pulling a Get out of jail free card, and tries for levity, even though he knows they see right through him.
“He was, like, really pretty.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Shua, I think what he’s saying is that he wants to get back out there and meet someone again.” Jeonghan, rolling the dice. He thinks he’s fooling the other two by using the opportunity of discussing Minghao’s humiliating and misplaced pining to distract from the fact that he’s moving his Monopoly piece (the battleship) out of jail illicitly. “Clearly he’s ready. But, like, let’s do it right, okay? We’ll find you someone good. Someone wholesome.”
Minghao rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t want to date anybody.” Lie. Sort of. “And you’re cheating again.”
Joshua gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest, betrayal in his eyes when he turns to his boyfriend. Jeonghan’s only smirking.
“I’ll stop if you come to Seungcheol’s party with us next weekend. He’s got some friends coming that I don’t know, but they’re his, so they’re trustworthy.”
“Baby,” Joshua says placatingly. “Don’t push him if he’s not ready.”
“I just think –”
“No,” Minghao says again, eyes trained only on Jeonghan. “And I’ll give you my Get out of jail free card if you drop it.”
Jeonghan sighs melodramatically, but accepts the offer anyway. Minghao’s glad, but even though the topic is left in peace for the remainder of the evening and he’s no longer up on the surgery table with his insides being scraped at relentlessly, he still feels uneasy.
-
That night, he dreams of Junhui again. Pretty, elusive, sweet, sweet Junhui. All Minghao really has of him is a name.
It’s silly, and Minghao feels embarrassed of himself even in his dream. He’s at the edge of a dancefloor watching him. Junhui hasn’t noticed him. He’s shrouded in purple smoke and he’s dancing. His movements are slow and sensual, and it doesn’t take long for some faceless stranger to walk up to him. Junhui gives this person a mischievous smile, then snakes his arms around their waist, dances with them – like he doesn’t care who they are, how incongruous they seem with this beautiful place, how undeserving they are of his touch.
It should be Minghao instead. But Minghao’s feet won’t move. They’re planted firmly in place. His whole body is frozen; he can’t even turn his head away. He just has to watch Junhui dance with this creepy faceless figure and know they don’t belong in his arms.
As if Minghao even knows anything about Junhui at all. As if he even knows enough to miss him. As if he himself would be deserving of his presence, his proximity.
In his dreams, he hopes he might be.
He wakes up knowing he isn’t, and goes about another day of his bleak, darkened existence trying to hold onto the face he saw in his dreams – but each time it grows more shrouded, and he’s afraid he’s forgetting.
-
He doesn’t forget the way Junhui’s mouth felt or tasted; the sweet velvet of his tongue when Minghao sucked on it.
It’s a comfort, but a cold one.
-
Would it be so bad to forget?
It’s ridiculous to be hung up on someone he doesn’t know like this.
It’s probably just the lack of closure. Minghao has never liked leaving things unfinished.
Or maybe he really does need to find something meaningful to fill his time and energy with again, so there isn’t enough of it left over at the end of the day to spend pining after somebody who’s probably long since forgotten him and might not actually be as great as Minghao is painting him in his head.
Maybe he really does need to try and make new meaningful connections again. If not to date, then at least to broaden his circles, gather some new and positive experiences. A pleasant distraction. Fake it til you make it.
-
He does decide to go to the party, in the end.
Joshua and Jeonghan tried their whole good cop bad cop thing on him a couple more times to no avail. In the end, Minghao makes the decision.
He misses his other friends too, even if he’s not as close to them. He’s been too embarrassed to face them after all this time, but if Joshua can go weeks without replying to texts, Minghao can go a couple months without showing his face.
It’ll be easier to reenter social circles with his friends supporting him, and they do. Unwaveringly so.
-
They get ready together again, Joshua striding right into Minghao’s bedroom like he owns the place to rip the curtains open like he’s done every time he’s come over lately.
“You need some natural light in this bitch,” he explains when Minghao frowns at him. The sun’s already sinking. Minghao decides not to argue it.
He goes for a much more understated look this time, just jeans and a sweater. He’s got his nails painted black and a couple rings on, some earrings. He forfeits the lip piercing. He applies some light makeup and deems it enough. As long as he looks human. This is a hangout at Seungcheol’s apartment, nothing fancy. Just a couple of friends and friends of friends, a few drinks, maybe some games, some chill music.
That’s what Jeonghan promises him.
There’s a lot more people there than Minghao expected – he always forgets how big Seungcheol’s apartment is – and a lot less familiar faces, though he supposes it still fits the description of chill, mostly – if you ignore the two people dancing together and singing animatedly in a corner of the room. Obnoxiously, actually.
Minghao doesn’t ignore them, though; they wouldn’t even give him the chance if he wanted to. As soon as their eyes fall on the newcomers, they’re bounding over.
“Soonyoung,” Minghao gasps out as his friend barrels into him, knocking the wind out of him. He folds Soonyoung into his arms as soon as he’s regained his footing; buries his nose in his hair. Soonyoung is squeezing him so tightly. Minghao always forgets how strong he is.
Chan is next. His attack is slower, but every bit as intense. He’s little, but he’s powerful, and Minghao becomes aware that he’s smiling. He missed them.
Behind them, Seungcheol walks up now, grinning big. Minghao finds himself breathing a sigh of relief, as if any of them would be anything other than happy to see him. He needs to stop projecting his own distaste of himself onto other people; needs to give them the opportunity to prove him wrong.
He’s glad he came, even more so when Seungcheol puts his beer down on the sideboard to envelop Minghao in his own hug – tight, affectionate, every bit as warm as his smile is.
“It’s good to see you,” he says. When he pulls away, he turns to Joshua and Jeonghan, loitering behind Minghao with their hands intertwined. “How’d you get him out of the house?”
Jeonghan just says, “Never question my magic,” and brushes past Seungcheol with a pat to the ass, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
Joshua watches him affectionately, then, as soon as he’s out of earshot, says with a straight, earnest face: “He had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m right here,” Minghao whines. “I am an autonomous person, you know.”
Seungcheol grins wider. “I’m glad you came. Let’s get you a drink.”
Minghao’s glad too, he discovers. There’s a pleasant warmth beneath his ribcage, spreading down through his limbs. He’s been so cold lately.
Twenty minutes later, he goes cold again, but for an entirely different reason. He begins to wonder if he should have stayed home after all, even though the past twenty minutes of catching up with his friends have felt, quite honestly, invigorating.
His sudden crisis comes in the form of Soonyoung, who just went to the bathroom, returning with somebody new in tow. He’s got his hand in a loose grip around the man’s wrist and is dragging him towards the corner of the living room Minghao and his friends have taken up camp in.
That’s not the problem. Minghao can handle new people.
Only this person isn’t. New, that is. Not actually. Not to Minghao.
His breath catches and he nearly chokes on the sip he was taking of his wine. Seungcheol’s got the good shit, and it goes down smooth typically, but not in this instance.
Chan claps him on the back. “You okay, man?”
Minghao nods, coughs a couple more times. Surely his face is beet red. He can feel it, hot all the way to the tips of his ears. The lighting in here is dim, but it must still be obvious.
Terrible first – or, well, second – impression.
Because Soonyoung plops back down giddily and pats the spot next to him, which is conveniently also right next to Minghao, and the friend he’s brought along from one of the other rooms sits down in it, and then he turns his head to the side to meet Minghao’s gaze, and Minghao – well, Minghao knows him.
“Junhui,” he breathes, the coughing fit knocked out of him by the intensity of Junhui’s gaze.
Junhui has shown no sign of losing his cool in the slightest. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, though the corners of it do quirk up now. His eyes are just as pretty as Minghao remembers, makeup lighter than last time or maybe nonexistent, but in the club it only served to highlight the beauty of what was already there. The eyes have got a little glimmer to them now, too, and they’re just as piercing.
“Hi, Minghao,” he says. Minghao’s almost glad now that he nearly choked to death – at least when he flushes for a different reason, it’s less obvious. He missed hearing his name on Junhui’s tongue, which is absolutely ridiculous, because he only said it once. But it sounds good in his soft tone. He looks soft tonight in general; quite different from the last time Minghao saw him, dressed in a simple pair of pants and sweater of his own, but it’s unmistakably him.
Those eyes are the same; so’s the hair, tied back in another half-ponytail. That nose, those lips, that jawline, that Adam’s apple. As if Minghao could forget him. Seeing Junhui in front of him again, he realizes he was never in danger of it.
For a second, he’s not sure he isn’t just dreaming again. But he can feel Junhui’s presence, can smell his sweet, earthy scent. His heart picks up speed, but he smiles anyway – shaky. Genuine. Junhui copies him. Minghao could get lost right here; he almost forgets his surroundings.
“You two know each other?” Chan. Curse him. Bless him. Minghao turns to face him, flounders in the face of his eagerness.
“Um – yeah, we. Uh.”
“We met a couple weeks ago,” Junhui supplies. “I didn’t know you guys were friends.”
“Oh, yeah, we go way back,” Chan grins.
Jeonghan clears his throat from across their little circle. “Uh, hi. I’m Jeonghan. Who’s this?”
“Sorry about him,” Joshua chuckles, arm slung across Jeonghan’s shoulder. He presses a little kiss to his cheek, then extends his other hand to Junhui to shake. “I’m Joshua.”
“Junhui,” Junhui says. Minghao’s never going to get sick of the name: of hearing it, of saying it. He’s staring again. He needs to stop this.
“He dances with me and Chan,” Soonyoung explains. “Has for months. He’s the coolest. Though this is the first time he’s let us drag him to one of these parties. Seungcheol was starting to think we invented him.”
“You guys don’t have cool friends,” Seungcheol interjects with a shrug. “Except for me, that is.”
When Jeonghan lunges for him, Seungcheol only catches his wrist, and Jeonghan folds. Minghao smirks at it. Seungcheol is the only person outside of Joshua capable of placating Jeonghan. Minghao likes to see it.
“Yeah, well, he’s real. He just doesn’t like to go out much.” Chan is whining the words, but he’s fond, that much is apparent. And Minghao’s – well, he’s a lot of things, but right now it’s confused more than anything.
“So you… met him at the studio?” Joshua directs this at Minghao. “I didn’t know you’d gone to see Chan and Soonyoung lately.”
Minghao reaches for his wine again, just for something to do, realizes belatedly it’s dangerous to drink in Junhui’s vicinity, lest he embarrass himself again. His lungs don’t seem to function in Junhui’s presence.
He manages the sip this time, but it didn’t buy him much.
“Uh. No,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.
Joshua frowns. “Then where –”
Minghao meets his gaze, pleading. That’s when it seems to dawn on him. Jeonghan realizes moments later, eyes widening as his gaze darts between Minghao and Junhui now. Minghao wants the hardwood beneath him to open up and swallow him, boarding itself up extra tight for good measure afterward.
“Just, you know, around,” Junhui says airily, waving a hand. “It’s nice to meet you guys. I like your sweater,” he adds, directed at Joshua. “Where’d you get it?”
He’s devastatingly charming, and Joshua lets him engage him in a conversation about fashion, and Minghao sits and listens and watches him for as long as he can get away with unless he’s being addressed. He’s fascinated. And his heart is still racing. And he doesn’t know if he should make up an excuse and leave, pretend this didn’t happen – or latch on and never let Junhui out of his sight again.
As if Junhui would even want it. He probably forgot all about Minghao until this very moment. But that look in his eyes. That barest hint of a smile that won’t fall from his lips.
And the way he keeps shifting around on the floor like he’s uncomfortable. It takes Minghao three or so of these shifts to notice that Junhui’s using them to get closer to him. He’s sneaky about it. He’s smooth. When he leans back and stretches out, one of his hands finds its way behind Minghao’s back, and it really does seem like he just wanted to get into a more comfortable position.
Minghao lets himself shift a little, too. Scoot back just slightly. Just enough for Junhui’s arm to brush the small of his back. It’s barely a touch, but it’s already enough to send a shiver through him.
Isn’t this how it started last time? With touches, with shivering? And didn’t that end – badly?
This was supposed to be a safe environment. His friends promised him a safe environment. But suddenly his heart is pounding and his palms are sweating and his breath is quickening and he doesn’t feel safe, he feels unrooted. Unequipped to handle whatever this is.
He closes his eyes for a moment, leans back further. That’s when he feels Junhui’s hand come to rest properly on his lower back, palm warm through his sweater. Comforting. Grounding. Just like last time. Only now Minghao starts to remember how to breathe without being shown it.
“Are you okay?”
It takes Chan’s question for Minghao to realize he’s not actually dying. Funny how excitement feels a lot like panic. He’s still learning to differentiate them, he figures, even though it never used to be a problem.
“I’m good,” he says, and means it. That’s when Chan’s eyes fall on the way Junhui’s arm is around him.
“You guys are – oh. I didn’t realize you were so. Uh. Close.” Chan. Ever-tactful. Minghao wants to groan, feels himself flushing again, but he doesn’t have it in him to actually be upset, not even when he notices Jeonghan eyeing him suspiciously from across the room, eyes narrow. Minghao gives him a tight smile, then realizes this is actually kind of fun.
He looks at Junhui, and Junhui’s looking at him, and his breath hitches visibly when their eyes meet. Then Junhui looks past him at Chan, still waiting for a response.
“What can I say? He’s easy to get along with.”
Minghao doesn’t think that’s true. Junhui barely knows him.
But it settles the topic for the time being, though Minghao is very aware of the rest of the group continuing to throw them questioning glances. He decides not to care about it. He decides to try relaxing. Junhui’s arm is still around him; might as well steer into whatever this is while he can. Even if it’s only an evening again, maybe this time he can enjoy it. Create a more pleasant memory to take home with him.
Minghao and Junhui more or less cling to each other for the rest of the evening. Even when the group they’ve been sitting in disperses, Seungcheol claiming he has hosting duties to attend to, everyone else spreading out around the room to engage in other conversations.
Junhui doesn’t leave Minghao’s side. Minghao doesn’t leave his. They talk. They actually get to know each other, and to Minghao’s dismay – Junhui actually is the coolest. Chan wasn’t exaggerating.
He loves dancing. He wants to be a performer of some kind, though right now he just works at a café to finance his acting and dancing classes. Minghao can see it – he’s got the type of face that looks like it was hand-crafted to be admired. Junhui belongs on a screen, on a stage, anywhere you can look at him and be in awe of his features, of his calm demeanor, of the elegance he holds himself with.
Untouchable, and yet here he is, always with a hand on Minghao’s arm or the small of his back or his shoulder or one time, horrifyingly, tucking a strand of hair behind Minghao’s ear. It’s useless, because Minghao’s hair is shaggy and fluffy and doesn’t stay put, but the gesture is tender and was probably just a means to an end anyway, if the way the touch lingers is anything to go by.
Minghao almost shudders. He’s grown used to the sensation the further the evening progresses: the fluttering in his stomach, the chills down his spine and across his skin, the occasional jolt of electricity when their eyes meet. He’s realized it’s not going to kill him.
Junhui speaks with an air of laidback confidence and listens to Minghao attentively, like he’s actually interested in what he has to say.
Minghao’s ashamed of himself. He’s not impressive. He’s living off savings and his parents’ money and trying to get his shit together. He has the ambition to make something of himself, but he’s forgotten how to turn dreams into action, which used to be one of his best qualities. He’s failing at being a person.
Junhui doesn’t judge. Not for a second. Minghao’s not sure what to do with it, but fuck. He’s realizing that he likes him.
It doesn’t make sense. He hardly knows him. His first memory of him is beautiful, but tainted, like a gorgeous portrait with an ink stain across it. And yet here they are. They’ve miraculously found themselves with a blank canvas. Minghao doesn’t know where to begin, afraid to fuck it up before it can ever turn pretty.
For all his chillness, Junhui, too, seems a little nervous. Only if you’re paying attention, but it’s there – in the way his hand sometimes trembles ever so slightly, in the way he swallows a lot more often than he should like his mouth is dry, even if he’s just taken a sip of his drink.
Minghao notices, because his eyes land on Junhui’s throat quite often. Shame on him, he supposes, but there isn’t really any part of Junhui he can look at without being in trouble. He figures it has something to do with the circumstances of their first meeting. Junhui and sex are associated in his head, even if it never came to it.
Bad thing to be thinking about, though. Right now they’re just enjoying each other’s company, and not talking about that evening. They haven’t once, in fact.
The first few guests have already started leaving by the time Minghao works up the courage to address it. He has to. He’s dragging his own stay out; Joshua has already asked him if he wants to go, and he shook his head quickly. He’s tired, but if he leaves, that’s the end of it again. So he’s staying. And staying. And staying.
At some point Soonyoung and Chan came up and roped him and Junhui into dancing, which was awkward as shit initially, but then Minghao remembered that he and Junhui have danced together before. It was just. Different. And he wasn’t going to dance like that with his friends right there with him – though he’d have been lying if he’d told himself he wasn’t imagining being right up against Junhui again, feeling the heavy warmth of his erection.
This time, he wouldn’t chicken out on him. He swears that he wouldn’t.
But dancing is dancing, and Minghao loves dancing – all four of them do. So they had fun with it.
Later, Minghao and Junhui wandered into the kitchen only to find Jeonghan up on the counter with a Seungcheol between his legs. Joshua leaning against the counter beside them, hand on Jeonghan’s thigh; Seungcheol’s hand covering it.
They smiled, almost simultaneously, almost like it was practiced, when Minghao and Junhui walked in. Minghao wanted to ask questions or make some quip about hosting duties, but he figured he was in no position, so he returned a smile instead, then got the glass of water they came for.
“Are you good?” Joshua asked him. “Do you want to go home?”
Minghao quickly shook his head, and he and Junhui went back out to the living room to share the drink. It was unnecessarily intimate – they could have gotten one each. Neither had seemed to think of it.
And they just kept getting closer and closer the further the evening progressed. Even now, they still are; even as the first people are leaving and Minghao is about to ruin this again.
It’s probably for the best. Soon there won’t be any closer to get to each other short of kissing, and Minghao wants it so badly he can’t do it. Not like this. Not with the memory of their last encounter hanging over them, no matter how lovely this one is. He takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he begins. The water glass has been put aside on the mantle of the unlit fireplace they’re standing at; he’s not about to go back into the kitchen and interrupt whatever was happening in there.
Junhui opened his mouth to speak in the same moment, it seems, because Minghao’s just barely gotten the words past his lips when a string of Junhui’s own tumble from between his, equally nervous.
“I wanted to get your number that night.”
Minghao blinks at him for a moment. Junhui swallows, looks around the room like he wants to take it back, can’t. Makes eye contact again. There’s that jolt, familiar by now, but thrilling all the same.
“Oh,” Minghao answers dumbly, then chastises himself. He knows, of course. Figured, at least, that Junhui had been meaning to ask for his number. Has cursed himself for it time and time again. “I – um. Yeah. I wanted to talk about that too.”
He waits for Junhui to say something, but he doesn’t. He’s just looking at Minghao again, as attentive and rapt as he’s been all evening. Minghao glances around the room. He’s been ignoring their surroundings almost entirely, but now, somehow, now that he’s about to be vulnerable, he grows scared that somebody might be listening.
Nobody is. It’s just the two of them by the fireplace, Junhui’s arm slung across the mantle, Minghao standing in its bracket.
“I. Uh. I’m sorry I just ran out on you. That wasn’t – cool.” Minghao hates how stilted the words are coming out. He feels like the same fumbling idiot that ran out that night. He’s been less in his head since the initial shock of seeing Junhui faded, but now he’s brought back into this harsh reality in which he, Xu Minghao, isn’t nearly as cool or level-headed as he likes to pretend.
He used to be. He wishes Junhui could have met that version of him, instead of this – this broken thing. He pushes through anyway.
“I just. I haven’t been doing too good lately.” Understatement. Besides, Junhui has probably gathered. “I thought I was ready for something that night, and it turned out that I wasn’t. And I shouldn’t have dragged you into something that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own lack of self-confidence. My desire to, uh. Feel good about myself again. I’m sorry. I think I gave you… the wrong impression of who I am.”
Minghao exhales a shaky breath. Junhui’s still looking at him the same way – interested; curious. There’s no disdain on his face. He takes his arm down from the mantle to grasp onto Minghao’s shoulder, then seems to change his mind and slides it down his arm to encircle Minghao’s wrist instead. Minghao reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself not to lean in and kiss him. It’d be so easy – and totally inappropriate.
“When you say wrong impression,” Junhui says slowly. “You mean you weren’t – aren’t – actually interested?”
Minghao shakes his head quickly. Too quickly. “No, no, I just meant that I. Wasn’t ready for a… random hookup after all.”
It feels cruel, now, to refer to Junhui as something so impersonal. He feels compelled to correct it immediately, but Junhui doesn’t give him the chance to.
“That’s okay. I – to be honest, that’s not really my style either. I wasn’t upset about it, I just. Was sad because I… liked you.”
Minghao breathes out. Junhui liked him. Inching his fingers down Junhui’s wrist and intertwining them with his shouldn’t be as scary as it is. Shouldn’t be scarier than kissing him was the first time they met – and yet.
Minghao does it. Junhui’s hand is smooth. He radiates heat. He smells fragrant and woody and intoxicating.
“I liked you too,” Minghao says, then corrects himself right away. “Like you, I mean.”
Junhui breaks into a smile. The biggest one Minghao has seen from him, all teeth. He tightens his grip on Minghao’s hand, squeezes. Their hands fit together the same way their bodies did. Easier, more naturally, than they have any right to. Perfectly in tune.
“I felt kind of like a fraud that night. I was just… trying something, I guess? Soonyoung and Chan were right. I don’t go out much. I’m not the cool guy you thought I was. Actually I’m kind of a loser.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Junhui says, exhaling a little giggle. Light, melodic. The hearth is unlit but Minghao feels warm all the way through, from fingertips to toes to the crown of his head. “I felt like a liar too. Like I embarrassed myself asking for your number and you ran out because I was trying to make our encounter into something it wasn’t. I mean, we’d barely even talked and I was already, like, embarrassingly into you.”
Minghao shakes his head, holds eye contact no matter how hard it is. Imploring.
“I can’t explain it, but I was into you too. I’ve regretted leaving like that ever since. I was just. Scared. And humiliated.”
“You know what’s stupid?” Junhui giggles again. “I went back to that club every weekend since. I don’t go out usually, but I did because I was hoping to see you again. And it sucked. Everyone that isn’t you is so boring.”
Minghao can’t believe what he’s hearing. He wants to giggle and kick his feet. He wants to burst out of his skin. He wants to attack Junhui with affection. It’s high-voltage. He has so much of it coursing through his veins it’s spilling out of him, turning the air electric between them. He chuckles. It’s more nervous than anything.
“This feels like another chance. Doesn’t it?”
Junhui nods. His smile is still so wide his teeth are showing. His eyes are alight and shining. It’s the most honest Minghao has seen him. His glowing heart feels in danger of disintegrating – vibrating at frequencies so fast they’d be imperceptible to the naked eye, about to shake into a million tiny fragments that rain through Minghao’s body until he’s nothing but stardust made person.
“I’m a mess,” he says, because this still feels too good to be happening to him.
“Me too,” Junhui counters. Minghao thinks he’s perfect.
And then – Junhui kisses him.
It’s a lot more tender than their first kiss, a lot more cautious – or maybe just shy. Somehow, it feels a whole lot more intimate despite the fact that it’s just a light press of the lips. Minghao knows the shape of Junhui’s tongue, knows exactly where to find the nerve endings that draw desperate little whimpers out of him, and yet he feels like he’s learning him all over again now – in small, innocent fragments to begin with.
It's enough. It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s everything. Minghao’s heart is pounding so rapidly it should terrify him, but for once in his life it doesn’t.
It’s over far too quickly. Minghao breaks into a grin, then remembers where he is. He looks around the room, but nobody seems to be paying too much attention to them. The living room has emptied out considerably, actually, just a few people left scattered around the place. Still – this feels too private a moment to even risk sharing with anybody else. To share, even, with the walls of an apartment that belongs to neither of them. Maybe Minghao is too sentimental, or just selfish when it comes to Junhui.
He’s debating what to say, debating how to ask Junhui if they can continue this somewhere private without making it seem like he’s propositioning him, debating how to even bring himself to look in his eyes again, harder now than it’s ever been. But then he sees Jeonghan walking over out of the corner of his eye. He’s grateful for the distraction and devastated that their little bubble is being disrupted. He wonders if others can see the current in the air surrounding them. Imagines they must.
He stays alight with butterflies regardless as Jeonghan comes to a stop at the fireplace. His eyes land on Minghao and Junhui’s still-intertwined hands, then come back up to meet Minghao’s gaze.
“Hey, Hao. Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. It got late.” Minghao checks his phone to find that it really did. “Shua and I kinda wanna stay if you don’t mind, but I’ll drive you home and come back. Just – now, maybe?”
Oh, right. Jeonghan is the designated driver. Minghao forgot. He doesn’t want to leave Junhui, but public transport is going to be a nightmare if he sticks around much longer.
“Uh,” Junhui clears his throat. “I came by car too. I can take you home, Minghao. If you. Uh. Want.”
He’s anxious. Visibly so. He can barely conceal the way his breath is stuttering, the way he bites his lip. Minghao is so endeared that it might be the last straw his heart needs to just go ahead and give out on him.
Jeonghan’s eyes narrow. “Are you comfortable with that, Hao?”
Minghao finds that yes, he is. He doesn’t even have to think about it. There’s no one he’d be more comfortable with, which is honestly a little crazy.
He makes sure to find Soonyoung and Chan before they leave, though he’s not sure he should tell Seungcheol that where he found them was in his bedroom. He’s just grateful he knocked; Soonyoung’s hair is a mess when he opens the door, his shirt slightly askew. Minghao pulls him into a crushing hug regardless, and Chan next, then watches Junhui do the same with more affection bubbling under his skin than he thought he was capable of feeling.
“So glad you both were here,” Soonyoung grins when they take their leave. “I knew you’d get along.” His eyes have a not-at-all surreptitious glint of knowing to them. Minghao can’t find it within himself to hold it against him. He also can’t find it within himself to warn Soonyoung and Chan that Seungcheol will probably kick them out any second. He doesn’t know for sure, but he’d wager Seungcheol has his own plans for his bedroom this evening.
Seungcheol is just as thrilled when Junhui and Minghao say goodbye to them. He reiterates how happy he was to see Minghao, though Minghao isn’t sure whether the genuine excitement he can feel vibrating off him is actually from that or just from Joshua and Jeonghan flanking him, unable to keep their hands off him.
But when Seungcheol hugs him, he says, “You seem like you’re doing good, Hao. Genuinely.” And he really seems to mean it. Minghao’s surprised. Of all the things he expected to hear tonight, that wasn’t it.
Joshua and Jeonghan hug him goodbye, too. Joshua kisses Minghao on the cheek before he leaves, and whispers, “He seems really cool,” into his ear after it.
Minghao feels his face flush, but offers Joshua an authentic smile regardless.
And then they leave the apartment, and Junhui takes Minghao’s hand again, and holds it all the way to his car. The five-minute walk to get there isn’t nearly long enough.
The car ride to Minghao’s place is silent after he’s put the directions in Junhui’s GPS, but it feels harmonious. That’s the best word Minghao can think of to describe it. They fit together in the silence like a favorite melody, soothing, not a note out of place. Mellifluous.
Minghao’s breathing is steadier than it’s ever been. He realizes that he feels content for the first time in a long while. Truly content, like he’s just been meditating. Not happy, strictly, but peaceful, and he thinks that’s just as great.
It still goes by too quickly, just as the walk did. They pull up outside Minghao’s apartment building in no time, but this time around Minghao beats Junhui to pulling his phone out of his pocket.
He hands it to him wordlessly, and Junhui puts his contact details in. When Minghao takes it back, he sees that he added a purple heart emoji next to his name, and Minghao’s own heart skips a beat. Even that doesn’t feel dissonant though. He finds himself smiling. It fits snugly onto his face, settling into the smile lines he knows are showing.
He takes his phone back, calls the number right away to make sure Junhui has his saved. The ringtone startles both of them into laughing, because it’s one of those standard ones that come with every phone and that feels out of place.
“Sorry, Minghao,” Junhui whispers.
Minghao likes hearing his name in Junhui’s mouth. It feels softer there. Kinder. Less like a shackle to this person he once inhabited and can’t live up to lately, and more like something wide-open again: the opportunity to become worthy of it, or the notion that he already is.
He likes saying Junhui’s name too, and takes any opportunity to.
“Junhui,” he breathes, though he’s unsure of where he’s going with it. The name doesn’t put a smile on his lips this time only because it was there already.
“Yeah?” The reply is equally soft, breathy.
Minghao surges forward and kisses him, leaning over the center console and grabbing Junhui by the back of the head. It might have been a bit aggressive in hindsight, but after the initial ardor, they relax into it, and it’s easy. Harmonious, like everything else between them has proven to be this evening.
Junhui tastes so sweet. It’s heavenly. Minghao doesn’t want this to end. When they pull apart again and smile at each other nervously like two teenagers with crushes, he lingers.
He opens his mouth, then, thinking he’s going to kiss him again, just to prolong this. Instead he says, “Do you want to come upstairs?”
Junhui’s eyes widen.
“Not to have sex,” Minghao quickly clarifies, huffing out an abashed laugh at the frankness of his statement – then worries that correcting himself sounded too definitive. “I mean, um. That’s not why I’m asking. I just. Want to spend more time with you.”
Junhui’s nodding before he’s even finished speaking. Minghao feels absolutely giddy on him. He actually giggles, and suddenly he can’t get out of the car fast enough.
He has a moment to be ashamed of the state of his apartment – he hasn’t been on top of keeping it too tidy lately – and apologizes on the way up to it, but Junhui quickly allays his concerns with words of reassurance that leave no room for argument in their simple sincerity.
It’s hard to worry about things like this, with the grounding warmth of his palm against Minghao’s back and the shy, mellow smile on his lips every time Minghao turns to look at him.
They don’t have sex. Not right away. Minghao meant it when he said that wasn’t his reason for asking Junhui up. He really does just want to spend more time with him.
He makes them a late-night snack of his favorite instant noodles, only to find out they’re Junhui’s favorite too. They talk, and they listen to music, and then they dance around the apartment and Minghao can’t remember the last time he felt this deep of a connection this quickly with anybody. They’re on the same wavelength in every sense of the word, and Minghao thinks he understands now in hindsight why he was so drawn to him in the club, and why he couldn’t stop thinking about him afterwards even though they’d barely spoken.
Dancing with Junhui had felt to him like conversation. Like they were communicating through movement, which can sometimes be more honest than any spoken language because it transcends them, and Minghao is starting to think his body knew something before his consciousness did.
Actually talking to each other just confirmed it. And so they keep doing it, because it doesn’t get boring, and at some point Minghao becomes aware of the lightening sky outside his living room windows nullifying the artificial lighting, so he turns his lamps off to find Junhui even more gorgeous shaded in the pale hues of morning – and then even more so when golden sunlight begins to spill in. Actually, he just finds Junhui more gorgeous every single time he looks at him.
And he looks at him without shame now, feels no need to hold back on staring, and it’s okay because Junhui is looking back at him with the same intensity. And they talk more. And they dance more, up close with their hands wound around each other, until they’re no longer dancing because they’re kissing again instead.
And that’s its own kind of conversation, and it’s just as simple as the rest of them. Everything’s simple, now that nobody’s pretending. They just are. And things are scary in the vulnerable light of morning – for both of them. And Junhui is so lovely. He looks at Minghao like he thinks Minghao is, too, and who is Minghao to argue with those eyes, so earnest, so enchanting.
When he slides his hands up under Junhui’s shirt and finally gets a caress of his abs, he feels Junhui shiver beneath his hands. He missed Junhui’s tongue, takes every opportunity now to suck on it and draw those sweet, delicate little mewls out of him, astoundingly clear even over the music they still have playing. It isn’t long until he feels Junhui begin to grow hard where he’s got him pressed up against the kitchen counter. It isn’t long until he’s hard too.
He pulls back, looks at Junhui questioningly. He doesn’t even have to speak. Junhui understands him; he nods, eyes gleaming, lips shiny, cheeks the color of a peach. He’s perfect. Minghao doesn’t throw that word around lightly, has actually never in his life met someone he thought deserving of it, but Junhui? He’s perfect. And he wants Minghao.
Minghao takes his hand, walks him to the bedroom. Beneath his skin, there’s a thrum, something frantic stirring up his bloodstream, but he forces himself to stay slow, deliberate.
In the bedroom, when he steps towards the curtains and begins to draw them, Junhui says, “Leave them open. If you’re comfortable, that is.”
Minghao listens.
He takes him to bed. Junhui sheds his shirt before he climbs into it, and Minghao lets his gaze sweep over him, really take him in. He’s seen his abs before, but that was under club lighting. This is different. Chiaroscuro versus pastel. Both are stunning. Minghao wants every version, every shade of Junhui. He reaches out to touch them again as he climbs on top of him; traces every ridge of him, every vein. Runs his hands all over his torso and ignores the urgency he’s feeling. He’s going to take his time. He’s going to be intentional about it.
When he brushes Junhui’s nipple, Junhui shivers with it; a full-body reaction. His eyes close automatically, his back arches off the bed, his head presses back into the pillow. Minghao can’t resist diving down and mouthing at his throat – gently, to begin with. When Junhui’s hands find the small of Minghao’s back under his shirt, Minghao bites down experimentally. The sound Junhui makes is all the affirmation he needs that he liked it; the buck of his hips is just extra enthusiasm.
He bites down again. And again and again and again, and soon Junhui’s fingers are digging into his flesh, and Minghao grinds down against him and revels in the sounds of his panting; in the way he can feel his body heaving with it.
Junhui twists a hand into Minghao’s long hair then, tugs at it. That’s when Minghao’s first moan escapes him, reverberating into Junhui’s hot, spit-slick skin.
Junhui pulls his head up by the hair. Minghao finds him with his mouth open, his eyes darkened into something almost scary – were he not aware of the gentleness of his being.
Junhui looks pointedly at Minghao’s shirt, and Minghao gets it. He straightens up to pull it over his head, insecure for a moment – but that soon melts away as he watches Junhui rake his eyes over his body hungrily.
He kisses him again. And again. And he runs his hands over his body some more, and he sucks on his tongue, and he bites down on his lower lip, and that gets Junhui to buck up against him again, and then they’re separating just to shed the rest of their clothing, awkward and long-limbed and giggling. Before Minghao can straddle Junhui again, Junhui takes him by the waist and flips him down onto the mattress and kisses his way down his body so slowly it’s almost excruciating.
When he makes it to Minghao’s cock, he pauses to look at it. His eyes fall briefly on the tattoo on Minghao’s thigh he still regrets getting, and then Junhui looks up, smirking. Minghao wants to look away, at first, but Junhui’s gaze is impossible to break. It has him entirely spellbound. For a moment he flashes back to that night in the club bathroom, Junhui on his knees before him, and Junhui must see it on his face, because he pauses to ask if Minghao’s okay.
Minghao blinks, clears his vision. He is. He’s fine. He’s fantastic. He nods and says, “Keep going.” Please.
Junhui keeps one hand in a firm grip on Minghao’s hip, right over the jut of bone there. The other he places against Minghao’s lower abdomen, grounding him both physically and mentally.
And then he takes Minghao’s cock between his lips. Only the tip to begin with, flushed and aching, and the feeling of Junhui’s mouth is already overwhelming in the greatest of ways to Minghao, who’s known nothing but his own hand for months, and now wonders if he’ll ever be able to enjoy even that again or if he’s already been ruined. It doesn’t feel so bad. Ruin. None of this is as scary as he imagined. He feels – safe. He relaxes into it, begins to lose himself in feeling good like he deserves it. Maybe he does.
It's easy to think so when Junhui treats him with so much reverence. When his mouth feels so amazing around him, slowly taking him deeper in. For a moment Minghao mourns not being able to see his throat from this angle every time he swallows the spit and precome collecting around Minghao’s cock, but the sight is stunning enough.
He crawls his fingers into Junhui’s hair, being mindful not to pull too hard, but tightening their hold whenever Junhui’s tongue does something particularly diabolical. Minghao’s already sweating. His body is already trembling. He feels so fragile with it, like he might shake into pieces. He fights to keep his thighs from tensing up around Junhui’s head, fights down the swell of pleasure that rises within him and threatens to tip further than he’s ready for this early into things.
Junhui pulls off his cock then, as if he can sense it. Maybe he can. He sits up and wipes his mouth, and Minghao’s hands fall to his sides as he takes Junhui in again. The perfect lines of his body, his reddened face, the way his own cock stretches up just as beautiful and elegant as the rest of him. His messy hair, half-ponytail loosened, strands of it falling out to stick to his temples like they, too, can’t get close enough to him.
Minghao was right that night in the club. Junhui does look good come undone, or at least on the way to it. There’s no state of Junhui Minghao wouldn’t find exquisite.
He reaches for Junhui’s waist now, kneading the taut skin of it, and blinks up at him.
“Junhui.” It’s already breathless. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Junhui grins. For the first time since Minghao’s met him, he looks downright devious. It makes Minghao groan; makes his dick twitch again where it’s laying cooling and untouched against his own abdomen.
“Lube?” Junhui asks.
“Nightstand,” Minghao breathes, and as Junhui is uncapping it and spreading some across his fingers, he realizes that this is just another way in which they’re compatible.
Junhui keeps his eyes on Minghao’s face as best he can once he’s got his legs spread and the first finger positioned at his rim. His eyebrows have a slight furrow to them – concentration, or concern for Minghao’s wellbeing. Minghao nods at him encouragingly.
“You’re sure?” Junhui asks anyway. “I want you to be comfortable, Minghao, okay?”
“Please, Junhui.”
The moan that rips out of Minghao when Junhui’s finger breaches him is embarrassing – or would be, were he with anybody different. He’s figured out by now that with Junhui, nothing is embarrassing, not really. And Junhui’s grinning again, and Minghao can’t help but match it – for about half a second, until Junhui’s finger slips in further and he has to fight to keep still, curling his hands into the bedsheets at his sides.
By the third finger, he’s writhing, but Junhui doesn’t chide him for it. This, like everything Minghao does, he takes in stride; adjusts to him, takes it slow and meticulous. He appears so calm for someone whose cock Minghao can see is steadily leaking precome, but Minghao appreciates it. His own body is begging for more, each breath labored, each muscle tensed, each nerve ending alive and dancing inside of him – but he likes how unhurried this is.
The sun slants lower through the window the longer they’re here, and it serves only to highlight new and mesmerizing parts of Junhui. Minghao could watch him until it dips back below the horizon; could watch him through the darkness, through the moonlight; could watch him through the next morning and afternoon and evening and all the way into eternity.
The thought of Junhui sticking around after sex doesn’t terrify him like it did in the club. Instead, it does nothing but excite him.
Soon enough, Junhui deems Minghao ready and well-prepped. He reaches for the condom he found in the same drawer as the lube and laid aside on the mattress in anticipation, but Minghao stops him with a shaky hand around his wrist.
“Let me,” he whispers. He realizes he hasn’t even gotten his hands on Junhui’s cock yet, and it’s something he wants to remedy immediately. If it gives him another little moment to collect himself and come back down from the brink he was steadily circling so he can enjoy what’s to come for as long as possible, that’s just a bonus.
Junhui doesn’t argue him on it. He climbs off of Minghao, leans back on his elbows and watches enraptured as Minghao kneels over him and stretches the condom down his shaft. Junhui’s cock is pretty, Minghao thinks, so he can’t blame him for the way his mouth is hanging open as he looks at it. It’s only when he takes his hands off it for a moment so he can push his hair back from his face and Junhui’s gaze stays trained on them that he realizes they were what Junhui was watching.
“You like these?” Minghao asks, giggles softly, wiggles his fingers around in front of him. Junhui only nods like nothing about the idea is funny, that awed expression still on his face. Then he brings himself up until he’s sitting again, if only so he can chase after Minghao’s fingers. He takes one into his mouth, then two, then three, looking Minghao in the eyes as he sucks on them.
“Oh, fuck.” Minghao’s eyes flutter closed, and he forces them open to keep fixed on Junhui, because he isn’t so much as blinking and it’s too good to not savor every second of. He brings his free hand to Junhui’s cheek, lays it there firmly, rubs little circles with his thumb just to feel the way Junhui’s mouth is hollowing under it.
Junhui pulls free with a little shake of his head, drool running down his chin that he makes no attempt to clean from it, and then he’s winding his hands around Minghao’s waist so Minghao sits down properly in his lap, legs wrapping around his lower back.
Minghao has the sense to get his spit-slick hand between them before there’s no more space for it, because Junhui seems to want him as close as he can get. He begins to pump his hand up and down Junhui’s cock just as Junhui encloses his mouth in a messy kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth and Junhui moaning into it and Minghao echoing his sounds back at him, question and answer simultaneously, and then Junhui breaks it just to run his tongue along Minghao’s collarbone, just to nip at it. Minghao’s hand is digging into his shoulder, feeling the way the muscle ripples under it, tensing and untensing.
It’s frantic between them now in all the ways it wasn’t before, and Junhui is whimpering in a constant stream, his hips doing their best to grind into the motions of Minghao’s hand.
“Baby,” he breathes against his chest. A flick of the tongue against Minghao’s nipple. “Baby. Baby. Minghao, baby. Now. Please.”
And who is Minghao to deny him anything? He wouldn’t dream of it, not when Junhui came into his life like a second chance, and then a third one after that.
“Okay,” he replies, eager, panting. “Okay. Okay, Junhui. Okay.”
Junhui puts steadying hands on Minghao’s hips while he lifts himself up, holding him in place while Minghao grasps his cock tightly and lines it up with his entrance. His hands are strong and sure and guiding even as he’s still whimpering – more loudly once Minghao begins to lower himself down carefully. When the tip of Junhui’s cock pushes in, Junhui’s face contorts magnificently, and the next sound he makes is a lot less delicate, a lot more strangled, and every bit as delicious.
Minghao’s thighs are trembling, but he’s going to do this right for both of them, so he takes his time. When he finally sinks all the way down and Junhui’s buried as deep in him as he can be, he nearly collapses forward onto him. His hands shoot around to press into Junhui’s back; holding himself steady and pushing them closer together simultaneously.
Junhui takes his hands off of Minghao’s hips now to steady them against the mattress behind himself so he has more leverage to begin thrusting. The mattress isn’t particularly sturdy, shaking with the motions of it, but Junhui is strong and holds himself up regardless. Every thrust has Minghao crying out already – sometimes incoherent sounds, sometimes Junhui’s name. That one’s both of their favorite. His hands roam the expanse of Junhui’s back, trace up and down his spine, feel it rippling with the movement.
Minghao can feel it ramping up inside of him again – the pleasure: searing, all-consuming, threatening to crest. Junhui stops, then.
Minghao blinks at him, cocks his head. “Are you okay?”
Junhui looks fine, though. A little winded, but that’s to be expected. There’s a smile pulling up the corners of his lips again, and his eyes are lit up with something profound and lovely, and his nostrils are flaring with the force of his breaths, and his skin is dewy and pinkened and he’s –
“You’re beautiful,” Junhui says.
Minghao exhales a giggle, staccato where he’s still catching his breath. His words come out similarly staggered. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Junhui’s smile widens into something real, and fuck, Minghao is so screwed. Only it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like he can take one look at Junhui and be capable of anything.
For now, he meanders his fingers along Junhui’s body, loving the way he shudders under the touch. He brings them back around to the front to nudge at Junhui’s shoulders until he lets himself be pushed down flat against the mattress.
Minghao takes a moment to scoot up a bit, reposition. The way it rustles Junhui’s cock inside of him already feels better than it has any right to, and he’s biting his lip to contain his noises.
Still he waits a moment to begin thrusting again, leans forward to kiss Junhui’s sternum, then take his nipples into his mouth – first one, then the other. Sucks a little, bites down, just to get Junhui to pull on his hair again where he’s got his hands tangled into it. It works. It feels amazing.
Minghao comes up for one more kiss to Junhui’s lips – deep, but fleeting – and then he straightens back up to begin moving again. Up and down, up and down. He’s quivering with the effort, with the oncoming orgasm he won’t be able to hold off forever – but Junhui looks like he’s close to falling apart himself.
Minghao is so grateful for the sunlight. So glad he gets to see him come undone. He doesn’t want to miss a second, a detail. He hopes he’ll be able to experience it time and time and time again.
For now, his climax is building inside him with terrifying intensity.
“Almost – there,” he pants, intended as a warning. Junhui grins again.
“Me too, baby.”
Baby. Minghao could get used to this. Could get used to anything Junhui wants to call him.
“Junhui, fuck. So good. So – mmmh. Good.”
Junhui responds with Minghao’s name. “Minghao. Minghao. Minghao.” Over and over, like a chant, or the repetitive, lulling beat of a soft, dreamy techno song. They move to it in tandem, heading towards the drop – and then Minghao is spilling all over the both of them, completely untouched. His hands are buried in Junhui’s strong shoulders, and Junhui’s are back on his hipbones, grasping so tightly there’s no doubt at all in Minghao’s mind as to whether they’ll leave bruises this time.
“Oh, fuck.” Minghao watches Junhui’s stomach contract as his come splatters against it, tummy rising and falling with his frantic breathing and gasping, and he manages to hold himself up despite the way his thighs are shaking. It isn’t long until Junhui comes too, with a shuddering groan and his cock pulsing so violently that it sends shock after shock radiating through Minghao’s sensitive body.
Soon, they both still, Junhui’s hips giving a final few twitches, and then Minghao slumps forward, heavy and spent, into Junhui’s waiting embrace.
Junhui wraps his arms around the small of Minghao’s back; Minghao slots his head into the crook of Junhui’s neck. Their bodies are burning hot and slick with sweat, and Minghao’s face is right at Junhui’s Adam’s apple, which is dancing under his skin in time with the breath he’s still chasing, and so Minghao presses a kiss to it.
Then, every part of them finding stillness, slowly, slowly. Back to unhurried. Back to harmonious silence. Minghao lets it all wash over him. He hasn’t felt this good in – well, maybe ever. He feels even better when Junhui kisses the top of his head, then mumbles against it.
“That was so good, baby. You’re perfect, Minghao, thank you.” Minghao feels every word vibrate through Junhui’s throat, and the sound of his voice is soft and quiet, and in its upwards lilt the smile is evident even if Minghao can’t see it.
Minghao would be soaring if he had the energy.
“You’re perfect. Perfect, Junhui. I’m so glad we met again.” It’s mumbled into Junhui’s sweat-shimmery skin, golden in this beautiful morning. Junhui, who’s beautiful. Junhui, who’s lovely. Junhui, who’s a contradiction, who’s nothing like Minghao ever expected the first time he laid eyes on him and found himself unable to look away.
Junhui, who’s everything. How did Minghao get so lucky?
He’s never been more grateful for the fact that he has a bathtub than he is fifteen minutes later when they settle into it together, decidedly too tired to stand up long enough for a shower. The warm water is a balm to their aching muscles and Junhui is nestled between Minghao’s legs, back to chest. Minghao kisses the top of his head, his neck, his shoulders, his earlobes, any part of him he can comfortably reach over and over and over again until Junhui begins to giggle, airy and melodic.
Minghao’s body is so heavy. And he hasn’t felt this light in an eternity.
They’re tired, but they’re up for a little while longer regardless, wrapped up in each other in clean sheets, tracing every part of each other’s bodies with ghosting touches and wandering lips, murmuring to each other in low hums.
Junhui’s hair dries soft and feathery and his bare face is glowing and it might be morning, but it doesn’t feel like a morning after to Minghao. Everything about this feels like a beginning.
After a particularly soft kiss to Minghao’s ribcage, Junhui lifts his head to look at him and ask, “So how about a date sometime?” – and that sends them into fits of laughter.
When they’ve calmed down again, Junhui’s still looking at Minghao, and Minghao feels that all-too-familiar jolt and loves it. He’s liking being seen, like this. By him.
They do drift off eventually, and Minghao dreams of him again, and when he wakes it’s with a smile on his lips, and when he becomes conscious enough to realize Junhui is still with him, it widens instead of falling from them – and stays as the day progresses.
Even after Junhui has left – with another deep, lingering kiss and promises of staying in touch this time that they make good on via texting almost as soon as the door swings shut behind him.
Even as Minghao kicks his feet and dances around his apartment by himself for the next five minutes.
Even as his phone rings, and he sees Joshua’s name on the display.
Minghao doesn’t tell him anything over the phone, not yet, but Joshua remarks that he sounds happy. Minghao looks forward to having something exciting to share with his friends when they meet up in the evening. They’ll probably have something exciting for him, too, and Minghao will pretend to be shocked and Jeonghan will get mock-offended and deflect by saying I told you so about dragging Minghao to the party, like he had anything to do with Junhui’s presence at it. And Minghao won’t even be annoyed by it, because Jeonghan’s eyes will be shining with affection and Joshua will tell Minghao again how happy he seems and this time Minghao will actually agree with him – because he doesn’t just seem it.
He is.