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The thing about Jeonghan is that he’s beautiful.
Management knows it, fans know it, Seungcheol knows it. Yoon Jeonghan is beautiful.
The thing about Jeonghan is that Seungcheol knows why the fans scream when he looks at Jeonghan, why they overanalyze every touch and every time he leans in to tell him something, head tipping just so.
Jeonghan’s hair is longer again, feathering out past his ears, and there are little clips in it. Little stars against hair that’s done back to dark again, pinning them out of the way to reveal the angle of his jaw and the lines of his neck.
Seungcheol tries not to look at them, as Jeonghan laughs, a light, teasing thing, and Seoungcheol knows Jeonghan, and yet he can’t help but think that if someone was that beautiful then they should be taken care of. That he could take care of him, even if no one else seemed to need Seungcheol anymore. That knowing Jeonghan, and loving him, and wanting him, were all things that existed, side by side, never touching.
And so.
And so, Seungcheol feels his pinky brush Jeonghan’s hand as they walk into the entrance of the hotel, and it’s not unheard of for members to peel off in groups, going to drink or sleep or some combination of.
Seungcheol’s body is broken in a few too many places, leg aching, the last of the product still in his hair and the sweat long since dried to salt on his skin, and yet the world seems to rush past him, like memories of being 19 again had shifted him back into a shape that was not his own anymore, unreal.
They go to Jeonghan’s room, because people like to leave Jeonghan alone to sleep after concerts, and Seungcheol sort of can’t believe he has the mind to make these calculations because the door closes behind them, and the lights are dim, and everything goes quiet, slow, and syrupy.
Jeonghan cants his hips just so, leaning back against the wall, and he laughs at some joke Seungcheol made that he couldn’t recall for the life of him. He wonders if he’s drunk. He wonders if the hint of collarbone under Jeonghan’s overlarge shirt would taste as good as he wants it to, if he sank his teeth into the hollow between it and his neck. He wonders if he could circle Jeonghan’s wrist with one hand, if he really was all delicate little bones or if he just looked like it.
Absently, Seungcheol reaches out to fix Jeonghan’s collar, off skew and sliding slowly down, skin soft and clear, like it would bruise under Seungcheol’s fingers.
Seungcheol knows, distantly, that Jeonghan likes to sleep after concerts, likes to take down his hair and take off his makeup and feel like a person again.
The Jeonghan he can see is lit in soft yellow from the lamp in the hotel room, dim, shadows falling on his face, fingers tucking back a wispy strand of hair that had come undone.
The clips in his hair don’t catch the light as well here, and all of a sudden the glass crystals and painted plastic metal look too cheap for him, and Seungcheol is selfish.
Their hands brush as Jeonghan twitches, a little spasm as his hand chooses which direction to go, and then Seungcheol has one hand by his ear, and the other fingertips smoothing over the clips, trying to figure out how to take them down without pulling.
Jeonghan’s hair is softer here, closer to the root, treated and undyed, and Seungcheol feels it over his hands as he releases the clips carefully.
Soft, barely heard over the rush of his own blood in his ears. “You always pull these out so fast. Doesn’t it hurt?”
Jeonghan’s voice is breathless, just as quiet, a current of amusement under it, like he always had– like there was something he knew that you didn’t. “S’too much work. And why would I, when I can make you do it for me from now on?”
And Seungcheol stops himself before he says it, not because it’s not true, but because it’s too much to say out loud, in the dark of this room. That he would. That he wanted to show that he had hands still useful for something gentle.
Seungcheol’s hands stay in his hair, lingering, and he lets his thumb stroke the delicate skin behind Jeonghan’s ear before slowly, deliberately, settling them into place.
Seungcheol has always kissed like he was consuming, like he could hold someone in between both of his palms and tuck them away, safe. Jeonghan fits there like he’s smaller than he is, gently pliant, and Seungcheol wanted to swallow him down.
He can hear Jeonghan’s breath hitch, pulse under his skin, and Seungcheol watches his tongue flick out to wet his lips like he was nervous, and the pink of his mouth becomes all that he can see.
“Seungcheol-ah.” His name is breathless and soft, a question in the way he looks at him, and Jeonghan is about to say something that can’t be taken back.
Jeonghan’s lips are slightly chapped, a little wet, soft and permissive, and Seungcheol notices all of that before he notices that he’s kissing Jeonghan, taking stock of himself in an absent sort of way. Jeonghan kisses like he wants him, like he’s giving him permission and Seungcheol takes, and takes, and takes.
Jeonghan’s knees hit the bed with a soft little sound and Seungcheol steadies himself on one knee on the mattress, one hand tucking back the spray of his hair around his head like a halo against the white sheets, before sinking his teeth into his collarbone. He tastes like skin and sweat and something mildly chemical and it fills his brain to full just to focus on the one task, to taste and feel and listen to the soft little noises in the muffled quiet of the hotel room.
And then–
And then his vision blurs, and he’s still not thinking but Jeonghan starts under him, pulls away, and it takes a second for his wires to straighten out and for him to realize the cry of pain had come from him.
He’s on his back on the mattress next to Jeonghan, and Jeonghan is looking down at him, hands hovering, and abruptly, everything is different.
“Fuck.” The word is still far away, muffled like it’s underwater, but he no longer feels apart from his body, the pain in his knee throwing him back into reality.
“Fuck!” This time, he slams a fist into the mattress, feeling it bounce in an unsatisfying way under him. It was all here, all coming back, the sounds of the others somewhere down the hall and the carefully subsiding pain and the redness that marked where there would be a bruise on Jeonghan’s collar.
Jeonghan sits up, leaning against the headboard, fixing his shirt with an absent movement. Jeonghan looks at him like he was considering, waiting, cool and placid, so different from the heat of him under Seungcheol’s hands.
The pain subsides slowly, but it subsides, and Seungcheol sits up. He looks at Jeonghan, glancing at the careful distance between them, and Jeonghan lets him come, balanced more carefully now but with a desperate sort of determination, trying to piece back together a perfect little sphere of spun sugar after it had been cracked.
He reaches out to the mark on Jeonghan’s collarbone, not sure what he wanted but wanting to make sure it was real, to press his fingers into the mark to see if it hurt, except this time, Jeonghan catches his hand before he can.
Jeonghan is holding his hand and looking at him and Seungcheol feels desperation rise in him, like he would go crawling at Jeonghan’s feet just to try for a scrap of what they had before he ruined it.
“It still hurts?” Jeonghan’s voice cuts into him, and he answers on instinct, a fight or flight response.
Shaking his head, a quick smile on his face, “No, no it’s passed.”
Jeonghan looks at him, and his hand squeezes around Seungcheol’s, and suddenly he’s holding Seungcheol’s hand like he knows he’s lying to him, like he knows Seungcheol can’t fix anything he’s ruined anymore because he’d rather run from it than look at it.
“I can’t put weight on it like that. I miscalculated.” Seungcheol says, eyes on the spot on the headboard next to Jeonghan’s face. “It’ll be fine.”
Jeonghan, quiet, “It will.”
He lets go of Seungcheol’s hand, tipping his head towards the open half of the bed next to him, and Seungcheol drags himself into position next to him. He can hear his own breath in the silence, every inch between their thighs insurmountable. He stares at a stain on the hotel wall that shouldn’t be there, for how expensive this place is.
Jeonghan links his pinky with Seungcheol’s, across the distance. “Seungcheol,” Jeonghan croons, and the rough edges of this voice are back. “Can you look at me?”
Seungcheol turns to look at him, an instinct more than a conscious thought, and the burn of shame at wanting licks through him, as he studies the sharp angles of Jeonghan’s face, the jut of his bones and the pity in his eyes. He had wanted Jeonghan so bad he’d almost forgotten why he couldn’t have Jeonghan, run through the reminders he’d carved into his mind a decade ago, that Jeonghan was not for him to touch or have or hold.
Jeonghan tilts his head in that way he has, just so, assessing. “Do you still want this?”
“Do you ?” Seungcheol lets himself inch closer, a point of contact at their knees that feel like a victory.
Jeonghan makes an exasperated little sound, a little huffing sigh that would be animated cutely on any tv show he was on and Seungcheol feels the corners of his mouth lift up almost unconsciously when he hears it.
Jeonghan puts a hand on his knee (the good one, a little voice reminds him), leaning in, hand cupping Seungcheol’s cheek in a gesture that felt decidedly less romantic, all of a sudden.
“Cheol-ah, you’re not– seriously, look at me. Really look. Do you want this?” Jeonghan’s softness has melted away to a sort of determined directness, an ice cold finger down his back.
Seungcheol is nothing if not stubborn, words spilling like if he just keeps talking he can push past whatever inevitable shoe is about to drop. “Yes, I really do. I’m going to make you feel good, Jeonghan-ah, come on, you’ll feel so good you’ll forget you’re supposed to treat me like glass, okay?”
“I’m not–” Jeonghan’s huff is more frustrated now, a hint of acid in it. “I’m not treating you like glass, I’m telling you to look at me, Seungcheol. You don’t see anything wrong here?”
Seungcheol blinks, eyes wandering, tracing Jeonghan’s hair, his jawline, catching on his lips, and finds he can’t say anything, just lets the words trip out of his mouth, offering himself up to Jeonghan as easily as breathing. “I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you and make you feel so good, Jeonghan-ah, please–”
“I’m not a girl, Seungcheol.” Jeonghan’s voice is a little louder than before, and it rings harsh and frustrated in the barren hotel room.
“I know? I do in fact know who you are, Yoon Jeonghan.” Seungcheol feels the irritation rise in his chest, a building hurt that he can’t pin down.
“So you fuck men now?”
Seungcheol feels like someone’s dunked him in ice water. “What? No, I–” But there’s a feeling like the room is spinning, and his protests die on his lips, the warmth of Jeonghan’s hand dropping away from his face as he rears back like he’s been kicked.
He doesn’t want to fuck men, he wants to fuck Jeonghan. Except to fuck him would mean to want him when he shouldn’t want, when he can’t want, except, except, except.
The thing about Yoon Jeonghan was that he was a friend, and a member, and he was a boy. A man, a colleague and a friend and a confidante and male, and he’d chafed so much against the girl Pledis had tried to turn him into that Seungcheol had felt that first burn of attraction turn to sour bile shame.
He’s seen the way Jeonghan turned away from his reflection and tugged roughly on his hair and it hadn’t felt right and then, one day, Jeonghan cut his hair, and he let himself pretend that the feeling in his chest had disappeared with it, left on the floor of the hairdressers.
Jeonghan is laughing at him. Seungcheol breaks out of his spiral to frown, because Jeonghan laughs at him all the time, but he really wouldn’t have thought now was the time for mirth.
“Have a crisis faster, yeah?” Jeonghan’s voice is flippant, but something about the edge of it feels brittle, like his heart isn’t in it. “If you still want to pretend we can have the lights off, but you have to make a decision.”
And that brings Seungcheol up short. “What? No, I’m not turning the light off, that’s not–“ He trails off, and he doesn’t have the words for why it feels like cheating to take what he wants like a thief in the night.
Jeonghan sighs, reaching to grab Seungcheol’s hand, and there isn’t even enough time to feel the spark of it before Jeonghan has raised it to put Seungcheol’s fingers against his throat, against a phantom pulse there, a steady beat to match the roaring of blood past Seungcheol’s ears. His fingers get pulled over the bob of his Adam’s apple, the line of Jeonghan’s throat, and then down, lower, past the mark Seungcheol has left on his collarbone.
Jeonghan’s hand over his was quick and insistent, dragging Seungcheol’s palm down the flat plane of his his chest, the angles of his hips, and lower, slow, and Seungcheol wonders for a moment if he might, and something flips in his chest before Jeonghan pulls his hand away, leaving Seungcheol’s fingers resting just above his waistband. Seungcheol wants to press his fingers into the skin there, so that when he lifts the shirt he’ll see a bruise shaped to his fingerprints. He wants to kiss him there.
Seungcheol’s fingers twitch but don’t dare move, and he swallows, breathing out shakily.
Jeonghan’s voice is low, a dry whisper near Seungcheol’s ear. “There’s a lot about me you’ll have to ignore, Cheol-ah. S’easier with the lights out.”
Seungcheol fights the instinct to recoil, to pull his hand back from the well barred gates of paths he’d closed himself off to years ago. Wanting Jeonghan used to mean vague fantasies that dissolved with a kiss, vague outlines in dreams where he knew the ending but not the details of it. He lets himself think, now, about dragging his palms along Jeonghan’s chest, about bruising the soft skin of his thighs under his mouth, the curl of his fingers around his dick.
He has vague ideas of Jeonghan’s body from the day to day mundanities of idolhood, but he’d shied away from looking enough to cement the shape of him in his mind, and he finds himself wondering how the weight of him might feel in his hands. Even with the lights off, now he would know exactly why Jeonghan was holding his body just far enough away when he kissed him.
Seungcheol’s hand shifts, slotting into the line of Jeonghan’s hip, and it feels like his hands could hold all of him, press him close so Seungcheol could feel every line of his body, anchor himself to his place.
“I don’t– I don’t want to ignore you. Any part of you. Why would I– why would you say that?” His voice sounds desperate and petulant, even in his own ears, and he flinches away from the raw edges of it.
Jeonghan looks at him, tilts his head, and the flat resignation in his eyes makes Seungcheol flinch when he says, “You like my hair longer.”
And Seungcheol does like his hair longer, likes to see him tuck it behind his ear with a delicate finger, likes to feel the ends on his face when he kisses him, but if a haircut could make this all go away he wouldn’t be here, no level of blind want would have made him follow Jeonghan to his hotel room tonight.
And he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted a man, but it doesn’t matter, because he wants Jeonghan, every pretty and ugly and quiet and loud part of him.
And he thinks he could try, could learn, know he would like it because it’s Jeonghan, and everything’s going to be alright because it always is, when he’s with Jeonghan.
What he says, is: “I bet I could be pretty good. At– not ignoring.”
Jeonghan laughs, the sound suddenly loud in the dim room, and he’s looking at Seungcheol with a kind of startled hope that makes him feel like he said something right, like he should offer Jeonghan the world at his feet just to see him smile again.
“Yah, where does this confidence come from, hm? Without any practice?” Jeonghan is teasing, but he moves back onto his hands, leaning back and regarding him with heavy-lidded eyes, an invitation he still isn’t sure Seungcheol will want to take.
Seungcheol shifts, getting his other hand on Jeonghan’s waist, slipping under the cotton of the oversized tshirt to rest his fingers at the skin just above the waistband of his basketball shorts, holding him here, wanting him under his hands, wanting his skin on his skin.
“I can’t practice now?” He wanted his voice to be teasing, some vague idea of sexy confidence that crumbles when the words fall from his mouth, desperate and obvious. He knows he sounds pathetic, and he doesn’t care, not when Jeonghan is here under his hands, not when he can spend his time thinking about the pretty teeth marks he could be leaving on Jeonghan’s skin.
Jeonghan laughs breathlessly, and he feels something in his chest flip. He’s always been happy to play the fool for the honor of Jeonghan’s gaze. “Ah, Seungcheol-ah. Sure, you can try your best.”
Jeonghan shifts his hips under Seungcheol’s hands, lying back against the mattress and looking up at his, eyes teasing, sparking with mirth. Seungcheol knew this face, knew when he was being teased into doing something reckless for Jeonghan’s entertainment, and found he didn’t care, knew that as always he would watch Jeonghan weave a web to catch the unsuspecting and would walk into it with his eyes wide open.
Seungcheol moves carefully, aware of his knees and his body and the heat of Jeonghan, letting one palm slide up along Jeonghan’s side, sliding up the hem of the overlarge shirt, a slow reveal of his stomach, the planes of his chest, his ribs and just one nipple. Music show appropriate , his business mind says approvingly, and he laughs out loud.
Jeonghan frowns at him, squirming a little as the exposed skin starts going to goosebumps in the cool hotel room air. “What? C’mon, what’s funny, Seungcheol-ah?”
Seungcheol beams. “You’re going to be so inappropriate for TV by the time I’m done.”
Jeonghan makes a sound like a confused cat, frowning even deeper. “Inappropriate for– what?”
Seungcheol doesn't answer, too busy biting at the jut of Jeonghan’s hip where his shorts have ridden a little lower, beginning to trace the path Jeonghan had dragged his hand over before, with his tongue and teeth and kisses, wanting Jeonghan to stop frowning or laughing and start making better sounds.
Jeonghan squirms under him, a hand coming to grab blindly at the fabric of his shirt, a breathless strain to his voice, “I really didn’t think letting you do it once would mean you had free rein to treat me as a chew toy.”
Seungcheol pulls back a little, still smiling when he looks at Jeonghan’s face, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he tries to steady his breathing. “No more teeth, then?”
He pushes the other side of the shirt out of the way unceremoniously this time, tracing the newly exposed nipple experimentally before leaning in to kiss him there, licking a small circle. He doesn’t know where Jeonghan is sensitive, doesn’t know the places he likes to be touched and kissed, and he wants more than anything to build a map of Jeonghan in his head, every unknown quantity filled in with data.
Jeonghan makes a small sound at the feeling of Seungcheol’s tongue, and he files it away, pushing Jeonghan’s shirt further up and applying his mouth more diligently, more than happy to pursue it further.
He makes a frustrated sound, sitting up quickly and dislodging Seungcheol. He must look startled, because Jeonghan grins. “Okay, okay, just a second.”
Jeonghan pulls his shirt off all the way, not that it had very far to go at that point, and tosses it to the side. He settles back against the pillow with a sigh, glancing at Seungcheol from under his lashes, grin wicked and gaze urging.
Seungcheol tries not to be overwhelmed, but has to take a moment to just look, to admire, to see every part of him he was allowed to linger on now. There’s a lot of possibilities. He’s, maybe, a little out of his depth.
Jeonghan coos at him, reaching out to pat his cheek, voice a little condescending, a little fond. “Cheol-ah, come here.”
Seungcheol feels all the blood in his body start to migrate south at the way Jeonghan looks at him, and he scrambles to press a little closer. Jeonghan reaches out to fist a hand in the collar of Seungcheol’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss that makes him lightheaded, like vertigo that draws him in, in, in towards Jeonghan.
Jeonghan kisses slow and deliberate, and Seungcheol can’t help but press closer at the heat of Jeonghan’s tongue licking into his mouth. He recalls, vaguely, the way he’d always tracked the way Jeonghan had licked his lips, eyes drawn to the soft pink of his mouth, and doesn’t know how he could have ever pretended he didn’t want Jeonghan in every possible way.
Jeonghan pulls back, and Seungcheol feels dazed with lack of oxygen and the scent of Jeonghan’s skin, his lips spit slick and beautiful. Jeonghan shifts his leg, pressed between Seungcheol’s, and he barely has time to register that he might want to be embarrassed about being half hard against Jeonghan’s thigh before he says, like he’s surprised about it, “You liked that?”
Seungcheol ducks his head, pressing a kiss to his neck to avoid his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, of course I liked it. I like you.”
Seungcheol feels Jeonghan’s whole body tense at the kiss on his neck, and goes back, kissing under his jaw again. “Did you like it?” The question wasn’t unsure so much as determined, wanting so badly to get to right that he was going to try over and over until he managed to get the answer he wanted.
So, he was unprepared for the way Jeonghan shivered under him, sighing in a way that made Seungcheol’s skin rise with goosebumps, unconsciously erotic. “Yeah,” Jeonghan breathes. “I think I liked it.”
Seungcheol can’t help the sound he makes, like a gut punch, and Jeonghan laughs, a huff flutters the bangs that have flipped across his face. He reaches out, almost unconscious, to brush it back, fingertips tracing the shell of Jeonghan’s ear, and Jeonghan’s shoulders jump at the touch.
His breath comes in a shudder, and he lets his hand slide down Jeonghan’s side, kisses the soft place where his jaw meets his neck. He hesitates only a second before he gives in to the want to sinks his teeth into the point of his shoulder, and all the while, he lets his hand wander down, down, a mimic of the line Jeonghan had traced for him earlier.
He hits the elastic of Jeonghan’s basketball shorts and freezes there, fingers twitching, pulling back to look at his face, knowing his trepidation must be written all over his face, especially for Jeonghan, who always knew him. But he had to know.
Jeonghan’s expression is gently broken open, eyes reflecting the yellow light of the cheap hotel lamps in a way that looks like he’s caught stars. He looks fragile, crystal and glass, something too precious for Seungcheol’s clumsy hands. He looks like he wants Seungcheol to do this right, and is prepared for him to mess it up. Seungcheol wants to do this right.
He hooks his fingers into the elastic, tugging blindly, feeling clumsy and unsexy, hoping Jeonghan figures out what he wants and helps him out. Jeonghan ( the angel, he thinks, a little hysterically ), does, shifting his hips up and settling a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder to steady himself, grounding both of them together.
He doesn’t even think his dreams had ever gotten this far, when just getting to touch had been the reward, and he’d never thought about what it would be like to see Jeonghan lying back against the sheets, so different from glimpses caught from the corner of his eye or in rushed communal showers.
He’s lifted one knee, and his dick is hard against it, hands clutched in the sheets like he’s trying to resist the urge to pull away, and he’s vulnerable to Seungcheol, and Seungcheol feels like he’s been surviving on scraps he thought were a meal.
He puts a hand on Jeonghan’s thigh, and Jeonghan shudders, the skin thin and sensitive under Seungcheol’s hand, and he wants to put his teeth marks there, settling for pinching gently and hoping it might bruise.
His grip is clumsy when he gets his hands on Jeonghan’s dick, and he doesn’t know if it’s cowardice or uncertainty that keeps his gaze on Jeonghan’s face, studying the flicker of his eyes and bob of his throat, even as his brain frantically runs through the ways this could be terrible.
Jeonghan’s fingernails clench on Seungcheol’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, and Seungcheol is dizzy with how good it feels to know his hands did that to Jeonghan. He doesn’t realize his hand has stilled until Jeonghan pushes his hips up, a sound like a moan tripping from his parted lips, and Seungcheol keeps going, a little frantic.
“I have you, I’ll take care of you, Jeonghan– Jeonghan-ah, it’s okay.” The words rush out all at once, almost incomprehensible in their rush, and he sounds desperate, needy, worshipful, like Jeonghan’s name was a prayer and an anchor.
Jeonghan’s eyes are squeezed shut, and it seems like it takes him an effort to open, a glisten of tears at the orders of his eyes. He huffs a laugh, and it sounds breathless and wanton, the sound going directly to Seungcheol’s already painfully hard dick. “I know. I know you have me I just–” his breath hitches when Seungcheol turns his wrist with a little more pressure, experimental. “Get on with it, Cheol-ah.”
Seungcheol fights the humiliating urge to slide his hips up and rut against Jeonghan's thigh like a hormonal teenager. He knows, dimly, that Jeonghan would laugh at him, and let him, but the gratification of the pressure seems an easy thing to deny when Jeonghan leans forward and presses his face into Seungcheol’s neck, teeth scraping wetly over his skin.
Seungcheol makes a sound like a whimper, tries to focus on matching his strokes to the rhythm of Jeonghan’s hips jerking up, feeling Jeonghan’s arm wrap around his chest and press them closer.
Jeonghan’s fingers are long and Seungcheol feels the heat of every single one pressing into his shoulder, Jeonghan’s hair splayed out across Seungcheol’s chest as Jeonghan gasps into his neck, and his fingernails cut crescents into Seungcheol’s skin when Jeonghan comes in between them, muscles jumping, the heat of his breath from the low moan sparking against Seungcheol’s skin.
Seungcheol lets himself be held there, both of them breathing loud in the quiet of the hotel room, curled into each other and holding tight.
Jeonghan laughs, falling back against the sheets, muscles going limp, and his eyes are shining bright, hair a mess around him, falling across his face, and he’s so fucking beautiful it makes Seungcheol’s chest hurt. “Ah, Seungcheol-ah, you really meant it, hm? Let me put in some more work next time, you’re going to make me look selfish.”
Jeonghan’s eyes are almost disbelieving, smile hazy and giddy and he’s looking at Seungcheol like he won some prize he hadn’t even thought was on offer– like Seunghceol’s done something really, really right.
Seungcheol lets himself take his weight off his hands, loose-limbed as he rolls into Jeonghan, who yelps and turns away, still laughing, Seungcheol’s arms pulling him closer as he tries half-heartedly to pull back. Seungcheol settles in with a sigh, breath brushing the shell of Jeonghan’s ear. “You’re fine.”
Seungcheol reaches to brush his hair back, instinct more than anything, and Jeonghan makes a sound, “Ah, don’t–”
Seungcheol freezes, and Jeonghan sighs, eyes still bright and fond in the low light. “Ah, you might as well, I have to wash my hair anyways.” And that– that was an invitation if there was ever going to be one.
Seungcheol knows that he’s going to wake up tomorrow to Jeonghan whining about how he has to shower before their flight and pack all the clothes strewn around the room, is going to have to deal with the consequences of what sounds faintly like drunk karaoke down the hall, is going to have to go back to his life.
Right now, Seungcheol has his hands in Jeonghan’s hair and his mouth against the place where Jeonghan’s neck meets his shoulder, and his arms around Jeonghan, strung out and loose-limbed and warm. His breathing is slow, and Seungcheol feels the even rise and fall of his chest pulling him closer and closer to sleep. He has the most beautiful boy in the world in his arms, tangled together in the overlarge bed of a hotel room far from home, and if he thinks he might be luckier than he deserves– well. He’s not complaining.