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When Martin was a kid, staying in hotels felt like a treat. It was always a signifier of a special occasion, a rarity while they were on vacation somewhere far from home.
Since debut, sleeping in unfamiliar beds has become part of the norm. The feelings of luxury have long since faded, his body always yearning for the comfort of his own bed back at the dorms that he barely fits into. But the novelty is still there, the joy of borrowed white robes and filling up the little silver bucket with ice that he won’t use before he goes to bed. Maybe he’ll even turn on the TV and watch whatever cable channel it’s already tuned to for 20 minutes after his shower. Maybe he’ll hear the shuffling of the staff in the next room over and imagine it’s the sound of complete strangers living a totally unrelated life, crossing paths with him just this once through the plaster.
Tonight, Juhoon is already asleep. Of course he’s asleep, it’s just past 2:00am and today has been one of those uncomfortably busy days. They only had time to eat in the car on the way to the next schedule and meals took up the space that was usually very precious nap time. They were all exhausted, worked to their limits, dealing with minor jetlag still.
Martin had even been glad that he was rooming with Juhoon. Because it was a long day in a long week, because he would be able to come back to quiet and fall asleep before the sun rises without Keonho bothering him to film TikToks in the hallway outside their room. It felt like a recipe for an easy night.
But, despite the odds stacked in his favor, Martin is wide awake. Just his bedside lamp is on, casting an amber glow across the room, and Juhoon’s calm, sleeping face catches the light just right. He looks completely relaxed, breathing slowly through parted lips. His features look even more delicate than usual when they’re not animated by a laugh or a scowl. He looks soft, looks porcelain, looks pretty.
Martin can’t help the familiar nervousness that bubbles up in his throat. He should be over it by now. He sees Juhoon every waking moment of his day. But the moments still creep through, times where Martin can’t help but see him and blush.
He sits up and kicks the blankets off of his spindling legs before he can think otherwise. There’s an urge to get closer, to see Juhoon better. It’s an impulse he feels more often than he’s able to act on it. In the rare cases that it all aligns, when no one else is around and when Juhoon doesn’t push him away, Martin struggles to ask for (let alone take) what he wants.
The low pile carpet is rough under Martin’s bare feet as he finds the ground. His elbows rest on his knees for a moment, leaning forward to admire the slender slope of Juhoon’s nose. The white duvet hangs around Juhoon’s waist despite the persistent blast of the air conditioner chilling the room, the goosebumps on his upper arms making Martin shiver in sympathy.
He reaches out, initially, to cover Juhoon up. That’s his motive on paper if anyone were to ask. He stands up and shuffles his way across the three-foot gap to the other queen size bed to tuck Juhoon in under the blankets, but curious hands wander towards their own goal without consulting better judgment first.
Martin’s fingertips graze the curve of Juhoon’s jaw, admiring the sturdiness of bone under smooth skin. It’s a simple touch, a kind of adoration that Juhoon rarely tolerates when he’s awake. His thumb follows the same path, tracing from under Juhoon’s ear all the way to the tip of his chin and back again. He can feel the sharp edge of a few stray hairs on Juhoon’s chin that he dutifully shaves off every morning, a small scrap of masculinity that Juhoon clings onto despite his relentless complaining when he has to blur them away in his curated-candid selfies before posting.
His hand drifts up to Juhoon’s cheek, gently curling his palm around it to hold his face. Martin’s heart jumps in his chest a little at the sight of it, the contrast of Juhoon’s smooth and unblemished skin against the irritated flesh around the nailbed of his own thumb. He was nervously picking at a hangnail on the car ride back to the hotel and his skin promises to bloom red for a few hours every time he bothers it.
Juhoon wouldn’t pick at his nails like that, much less his face, not when his appearance has been meticulously groomed since he was in single digits. Martin’s never even seen him bite a nail or peel a dry patch of skin off of his lip with his teeth. Not that he would have to, not when his lips are always plush and pink and hydrated like they are now.
He cups Juhoon’s face just the smallest bit tighter, brushes a thumb along his cheek. He takes a deep inhale and, when Juhoon stirs to unconsciously press into his touch, he holds it.
Martin might have imagined it. Or it may have been an involuntary twitch, a flinch from the slight tickle of a too-light touch. But it wasn’t a flinch away by any means, not judging by the steady press of Juhoon’s cheek into his palm now. His skin is so warm against Martin’s hand, a needed reminder that Juhoon is still living and breathing where Martin is hovering over him. He’s not a static image frozen in time, not a positionable doll to be played with. The thought of it makes Martin run hot, too.
At any moment, Juhoon’s eyes could flutter awake and catch Martin in the act. The act of what, exactly, is unclear, but it makes Martin nervous just the same. His thumb reaches out to trace the outline of Juhoon’s lower lip and the friction of skin against skin pulls his mouth open just a hair wider for a moment.
Juhoon makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a sigh, shifting almost imperceptibly where he lays, and Martin’s cock twitches like the sound was just for him.
This wasn’t sexual, wasn’t supposed to be, but Martin can acknowledge that being a teenage boy has its pitfalls; he’s been strung tight all day and Juhoon is so, so pretty. His hand that isn’t on Juhoon’s face flexes and then clenches, trying to push away the urge to make this a much worse situation to be caught in.
He stands up from leaning over Juhoon’s sleeping form, removing his hand and getting enough distance to breathe again. He can do this. He can remove himself from this situation without a scratch nor an ounce of guilt. But he makes the mistake of looking down to make out Juhoon’s face again, this time shadowed by his own body towering above him, and he has to hold his breath before he groans.
It’s almost picturesque. Martin is already half-hard under his boxers with Juhoon’s sweet, restful face serving as the backdrop. It makes his stomach twist; it makes his brain come up with a series of increasingly worse images of what Juhoon’s sleeping face would look like if he followed the impulses coursing through his veins right now. Juhoon’s sweet parted lips are open just enough for Martin to picture the tip of his cock pressed against them. His eyelids flutter lightly in his sleep and Martin can only think about how he’d look with white stripes of cum spilled across his face. To ruin such a perfect painting, to destroy God’s most impressive work to date with his own stubborn and insistent creative vision.
Martin’s knees buckle and suddenly he’s on the floor.
He kneels at Juhoon’s bedside, shoulders hunched and torso folded over the edge of the bed like he’s bowing, like he’s apologizing for everything he’s done and wants to do and will do. Like this, Juhoon’s scowl of disappointment is noticeably absent. Martin almost misses it, but the pit in his stomach is still there and that’s close enough to the feeling he remembers.
Martin’s hand reaches up to peel away the blanket, just down to Juhoon’s hips, just enough to see the curve of his waist beneath the drape of a loose t-shirt. For someone so small to have such a large gravitational pull seems irrational, but Martin’s hand slips underneath the hem of Juhoon’s shirt like he’s being drawn in.
His fingers meet warm, soft skin and feel the gentle swell of Juhoon's stomach with each inhale. His palm grazes against the wisp of hair below Juhoon’s navel, the barest evidence of a happy trail. His blood rushes past his eardrums and his pulse thumps twice for every one of Juhoon’s breaths.
Juhoon stirs, half a turn forward, closer to Martin without even knowing it. Martin’s hand slides up to his ribs as he turns, every pronounced bone a reminder of Juhoon picking at his dinner tonight (and really, every other night). It makes him feel so small under Martin’s hands, fragile enough to shatter if he pushes too hard.
Martin’s other arm moves down, sandwiched between his body and the hotel bedframe, and he palms himself through his boxers to nothing but the sight and the feeling of Juhoon beneath him. The room is icy cold, the large hotel air conditioning set to the far low end of room temperature. Martin’s skin burns hot through the fabric nonetheless.
He had the urge to speak. His brain wants nothing more than to shatter the quiet of the moment, to ruin a good thing for himself. He wants to say “I’m sorry” or “Hey, wake up, I need you” or “I want you to see what you do to me when you aren’t even trying.” Instead, the silence stretches on and on and Martin can feel a small wet spot in the front of his underwear as he pushes his palm down as hard as he can handle.
Martin’s fingers curl slightly against Juhoon’s ribs, just enough to get a firmer hold, not so much that it would alarm the sleeping boy beneath him. Just enough to keep him close, to make sure that this is still real. He feels the give of real, soft, human flesh and it makes it all feel a little better and a little worse.
A soft sigh echoes through the room, some sort of unconscious approval from Juhoon, and it just pulls Martin in deeper. He leans in until his forehead lands in the dip of Juhoon’s waist and his face is buried into the worn fabric of his sleep shirt. It smells like home, washed with their own detergent back at the dorms and carted a couple thousand miles away. Martin sighs heavy too, warm breath sliding through the fibers onto Juhoon’s skin directly.
For some reason, this feels like the point of no return. As if he could have walked away minutes ago, hard and yearning for human touch. As if he’s ever been able to say no to a chance to be closer to Juhoon. As if he wouldn’t crawl inside Juhoon’s ribcage and make a home there if he could fit. His hand moves to tug his underwear down his thighs and finally touch himself without any barriers to hide behind.
Martin bites back a noise as he holds his cock in one hand and lets his hips do the work, stuttery and uncoordinated from the get-go like he always is when he gets himself off. He can’t ever force himself to go slow. He hates trying to draw out the pleasure, especially when there’s an imaginary shot clock over his head counting down the seconds until his squirming and rustling shakes Juhoon awake.
If Juhoon were to open his eyes right now and see Martin like this, kneeling and fucking his fist on the floor, what would he say? Would he wrinkle his nose up in disgust and call Martin pathetic? Would he shove Martin away with a foot to his chest and tell him to just do it in the shower like the rest of them? If Martin was lucky, he might not say anything at all, just slowly blink at him with sleepy eyes and witness his crime.
It doesn’t take much longer. Not when Juhoon’s scent and body heat swirl around Martin’s head and his hand squeezes so tight around himself that it hurts as much as it feels good. Martin lets out one ill-advised and broken noise, as sad as it is wanting, and goes quiet as his orgasm crawls through him. It’s not sudden and sharp. It oozes through his veins, almost unsatisfying. There’s cum on his thighs, on the edge of the bedframe, probably on the carpet beneath the bed, too.
Juhoon doesn’t stir. His breathing is slow and rhythmic, a steady rise and fall of his torso that Martin can feel where his forehead is pressed. It’s a grounding force, but he can’t linger in it too long.
Martin stands up, turns the bedside lamp off before he can catch another glimpse of Juhoon’s sleeping face, and waddles to the bathroom with his boxers around his thighs by spatial memory alone. He can’t risk looking at his own face in the current situation either, so he washes up in the dark and hopes that he gets it all off of his bare skin at the least.
When he trudges back to bed, he traces the outline of Juhoon’s sleeping form with his eyes for just a moment. The sheets feel cold and foreign and nothing like home, itchy against his skin. Martin rolls away to face the window and hopes that he finds sleep before morning comes.