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Hongjoong is seven minutes late to the rendezvous point.
Seonghwa taps out an impatient rhythm with his foot, leaning against the side of his bike parked in a defunct underpass, away from surveillance cameras. He checks the internal channels. Nothing. The last message from Hongjoong is dated two hours ago.
It says: Usual place, usual time. They never name the locations. They never say the time.
Hongjoong is eight minutes late to the rendezvous point.
Seonghwa swallows. His lower lip is chewed up so hard he’s almost drawing blood.
A message comes on the internal comms and Seonghwa swipes the main channel open before his brain registers the movement of his body. Yeosang, messaging to say that the package has been delivered.
Acknowledged. Wait, then head back, Seonghwa writes in reply, then swipes back to the private channel. Still the same message taunting him across the span of time.
An armored vehicle passing overhead disturbs the dust and loose concrete that clings to the roof of the underpass. Seonghwa tenses, his hands reaching for the gun resting in the holster hidden under his leather jacket. The vehicle doesn’t stop. It keeps going, the noise receding in the distance. Seonghwa’s hand moves back to his side.
Hongjoong is ten minutes late to the rendezvous point.
It’s nothing. They’ve been through this before. Persistent tails are sometimes difficult to shake. A hundred little things could have gone wrong before Hongjoong even left. A hundred more could have gone wrong on the way here. This doesn’t mean—
It’s nothing.
Hongjoong hasn’t been sleeping again. Seonghwa knows this from Yeosang who knows this from Mingi, because Hongjoong would never admit it. The others have no issues snitching. Seonghwa is glad for it.
The prolonged separation is getting to him. It’s not just the lack of physical contact—even though he misses sleeping in the same cramped bed as Hongjoong because their hideout is small enough that they can pretend they’re just saving space—but the fact that through all of this, he’s always been there for Hongjoong. His left side. His right hand.
It’s different now that there’s an empty space right next to Seonghwa that Yeosang never steps into, like he knows.
They see each other from time to time, but not enough. Hongjoong tells Seonghwa he worries too much, but Seonghwa has always been like that. It’s what he does—he worries in private so he can be a pillar of strength in public. It’s what Hongjoong needs, after all.
Hongjoong is fifteen minutes late to the rendezvous point.
Another armored vehicle passes overhead. The Guardians have been calling in reinforcements lately. Seonghwa doesn’t like it. Hongjoong says it doesn’t matter; the plan has not changed.
It’s a cold night in Strictland and Seonghwa can feel the chill even in his riding leathers. He rubs his hands together, checks the comms. No sign of Hongjoong. He switches to the audio channel. It’s Yunho’s turn on monitoring duty, and he comes in in a crackle of static.
“Any word from Hongjoong?” Seonghwa asks. Then, a little more hesitant, “He’s late.”
More static, and then Yunho’s voice comes through the earpiece, “Hyung’s been radio silent for two hours. I’ll check the other channels, maybe they’re scrambling his frequency.” Then, a moment later, “Nothing, sorry.”
“I’m out,” Seonghwa says before severing the connection.
He waits a moment longer. The wind picks up, blowing dust into Seonghwa’s eyes. Above him, the city continues its rhythms.
Hongjoong is thirty minutes late to the rendezvous point.
He will wait ten more minutes before he allows himself to panic. Ten more minutes, and then he’ll put on the mask of the interim leader and figure out what happened to Hongjoong.
There hasn’t been much activity around the water tank and Hongjoong’s little shack, but that could’ve changed. Who knows what contingency plans Mingi’s appearance at the bar might have shaken loose. Who knows which of their own plans have been figured out. They can’t monitor all communication that passes through the government channels. Left Eye and the Black Pirates have been working on it, but the solutions are not quite in place yet.
Hongjoong is thirty-seven minutes left to the rendezvous point.
Seonghwa can hear his own breathing picking up, the sound of his heart knocking against his ribs. Three minutes until he sounds the alarm.
He steels himself, ready to call, when the gravel crunches around the bend of the underpass and then Hongjoong’s figure comes into view. His face is covered, hood pulled over his head. He’s wearing Seonghwa’s spare leather jacket—the one he left at the shack by the water tank last time he was there. He seems slightly out of breath.
“Trouble?” Seonghwa asks, intent on not letting Hongjoong see the worry in his face. What he wants to do is crouch down with his head in his hands and take deep, heaving breaths until his heart stops hammering in his chest. Instead, he inhales once through his nose and stands a little straighter, then motions to his bike.
“They set up security checkpoints on the way that weren’t there yesterday,” Hongjoong says. His voice is muffled by the mask. “I had to dodge patrols and find an alternate route. Couldn’t risk our comms getting compromised.”
“There’s been a lot of movement here, too,” Seonghwa responds. He pulls out the spare helmet for Hongjoong and hands it to him. “Armored trucks heading for the Disposal Site.”
Today is not supposed to be about this.
And yet, here they are, the revolution getting in the way of everything else. That’s the way it has to be, but Seonghwa hates it sometimes—hates that Hongjoong is the one making the decisions and Seonghwa has to stand there and watch him run himself ragged. Before they set out on this undercover operation, Seonghwa was at least there to help Hongjoong, to keep him fed and force him to sleep from time to time. He can’t do anything from across the city.
“I’ll let Yunho know once we get out of here,” Hongjoong says, and Seonghwa nods.
“Let’s go,” he says.
He kicks the center stand up and swings his leg over the seat to steady the bike, enough for Hongjoong to get on behind him.
“Hold on tight,” he says.
Now that his face is covered with the helmet, he allows himself a moment to press his eyes tightly together until white spots start dancing in his field of vision and clenches his teeth until it hurts. He takes a breath, and another one.
Behind him, Hongjoong laughs. “I always do.”
They navigate the city maze long past curfew, taking detours to avoid the security checkpoints. Seonghwa has activated the CCTV scrambler that allows them to pass undetected right under the noses of Strictland’s forces, but he still grips the handles of his bike tightly each time they pass a camera.
Behind him, Hongjoong holds on equally tightly, his arms wrapped around Seonghwa’s waist. The touch grounds him, makes the ants that crawl right under Seonghwa’s skin settle down. Hongjoong is safe. Nothing happened. He’s safe, and Seonghwa is here now to make sure it stays that way.
Yeosang keeps saying Seonghwa is getting twitchy. Restless. It clearly annoys him, always one to yearn for some peace and quiet to do his work, but Seonghwa doesn’t know how else to be when most days he feels like he’s been cleaved in half. The two of them have been together through so much—the captain and his right hand, the leader and the eldest—and Seonghwa finds it difficult to separate himself from that dynamic.
He should, though.
This won’t last forever, and neither will this thing they’re doing. The revolution will eventually come to an end, one way or another, and the pretense will be no longer there to fall back on.
Neither of them has ever said this is forever. Hongjoong certainly doesn’t act that way. It doesn’t matter what Seonghwa wants, then, because it takes more than one person to make this kind of thing work. So maybe he should get used to the feeling.
For now, though, this is what they’re doing: meeting up every once in a while when it’s safe enough, hands all over each other and hungry lips in dark corners, teeth scraping against skin and heavy breathing misting up the air.
They always have a pretext. Today, it’s that Seonghwa has some papers he needs to show Hongjoong, intel gathered by the people working for him, stolen documents and blueprints. There’s no reason Seonghwa couldn’t digitize them and send them over secure channels. They both know it, even if neither of them will say it out loud. They have still agreed to meet regardless.
Seonghwa curses when he sees a checkpoint in the distance that wasn’t there a few hours ago, back when he was leaving the hideout.
“Hold tight,” he throws over the shoulder, then swerves rapidly to the left, into the maze of narrow streets, away from the main arteries of the city. They twist and turn sharply, forcing him to maneuver with the kind of precision that becomes harder with another person on the bike with him.
Hongjoong scoots closer, hugging Seonghwa tighter around the waist, all but plastered to his back. He’s a good passenger, knowing how to position himself to make it easier for Seonghwa to navigate the urban labyrinth that separates them from the hideout. It’s not the first time they’ve done this. Maybe that’s why it catches Seonghwa by surprise—the familiar hardness pressed into the small of his back, the way Hongjoong sits a bit too still, like he’s trying not to squirm and make it worse.
It gets Seonghwa a little hot under the collar, too. It’s been a while, and he’s feeling it now, all the pent-up energy suddenly bubbling up to the surface in a furious fizz, like someone has cracked a shaken can of soda.
The closer they are to their destination, the worse it gets. The passenger helmet has only a chinstrap to hold it in place, and Seonghwa can feel Hongjoong’s breath on his neck, the way it quickens the longer they keep riding. Hongjoong’s knees tighten against the outsides of Seonghwa’s thighs, and then he releases another hot, wet breath that fans across Seonghwa’s nape.
Seonghwa swallows. There’s only a couple blocks left, and then he takes a sharp left, making his way into the now-familiar neighborhood.
Officially, the front for the hideout is a fried chicken joint. Unofficially, they’ve repurposed the old, abandoned building adjacent to the restaurant to serve as their base of operations. Their little smuggling ring has been getting by on their delivery driver passes so far—useful in justifying them going places at all hours—but Seonghwa wonders how long these are going to last now that the government forces are tightening security.
The place is dark when Seonghwa pulls up into the basement that they’ve made into an underground garage. All the bike stands are empty, but Yeosang will be coming back soon.
There’s still time, though, and Seonghwa doesn’t mind the little thrill of danger. The old him would deny being an adrenaline junkie, still far too attached to order and routine, but this Seonghwa knows lists and itineraries are not all that he is.
That’s why, the moment Hongjoong gets off the bike, Seonghwa pulls his helmet off, then turns over his shoulder, wets his lips and asks, “Is it the leather? Does it turn you on that much?”
Hongjoong stutters, the strap of his helmet getting snagged on his ear as he clumsily tries to pull it off. “Wh—what?”
The lights are low at the garage, but he’s wearing leather as well, too shiny and unforgiving to conceal anything. Seonghwa gives him a once-over, tongue darting out in the corner. It shouldn’t be so hot, but seeing Hongjoong so flustered, red in the face and still so, so hard in his pants gets Seonghwa going in an instant.
“The leather,” Seonghwa says, swinging off the bike and watching with satisfaction as Hongjoong’s eyes follow the movement. “Do you really like it so much it got you all hot and bothered?”
They don’t really talk about this thing between them. Maybe Seonghwa is breaking some unspoken rules right now, but he doesn’t care. He just wants Hongjoong to admit the truth: he wants Seonghwa. He wants him so desperately even a fairly short bike ride got him hard enough that Seonghwa can see the full outline of his cock pushing against the leather.
He watches as Hongjoong swallows, then licks his lips. “I—” he starts. Swallows again. “Seonghwa-ya…”
Of course he won’t admit it. Of course he won’t. It’s a good thing Seonghwa knows this already. Hongjoong is not the one breaking their rules right now, after all. He’s keeping to the same scenario, playing by the previously established rules of engagement. It’s really on Seonghwa for asking in the first place.
“Must’ve been uncomfortable,” Seonghwa continues conversationally, rounding Hongjoong to get him where he wants him. “Riding all the way like this.”
Hongjoong takes a step back, and to the left, and there he is—right there, close enough for Seonghwa to crowd him against the bike.
“What—?” Hongjoong manages before Seonghwa cuts him off with a hand cupping him through the leather.
Seonghwa doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts Hongjoong’s head to the side to suck a bruise into the underside of his jaw. They don’t really kiss—not on the mouth, at least. Everywhere else is fair game, but Hongjoong never leans in, and Seonghwa is not about to bare his naked, trembling heart to him when there’s so much at stake. Maybe he’ll tell him one day. Maybe he’ll find the words to let Hongjoong know how much what Seonghwa feels for him has grown around his ribs like vines, impossible to cut away without nicking a vital organ.
Maybe Hongjoong knows already, and it doesn’t matter because there are things bigger than both of them and the love that keeps budding and blooming in Seonghwa’s chest, spring after spring.
It doesn’t matter.
Seonghwa spits into his palm while his other hand unbuckles Hongjoong’s pants and pulls down the zipper. The choked-off moan tells him everything about the state Hongjoong is in, how close he must be already. It won’t take long, not when Seonghwa pushes his slicked-up hand beneath the waistband of Hongjoong’s underwear and wraps his palm around the hot, silky shaft of his cock.
“You can’t do this to me again, Hongjoong-ah,” he whispers, breathy, as he drags his lips and scrapes his teeth against the skin of Hongjoong’s throat. When his incisors catch on the jut of the Adam’s apple, he can feel the way Hongjoong’s cock twitches in his hand. “Don’t you dare do this again.”
Hongjoong is barely keeping it together, judging by the desperate sounds he makes at the back of his throat and the way his body arches into Seonghwa’s touch. He’s wet, too, leaking precome all over Seonghwa’s knuckles, making a mess of the inside of his pants. It’s sticky and dirty, and Hongjoong is going to come in his pants, and Seonghwa will enjoy every single moment of this.
“Promise,” Seonghwa says, twisting his palm around the head of Hongjoong’s cock, playing with the slit with his thumb. Hongjoong is cut, the same as him, and Seonghwa knows how sensitive he is in that spot. “Promise me, Hongjoong-ah.”
He’s not playing fair. But nothing about this life has been fair. Seonghwa is allowed to have his turn.
The weight of Hongjoong’s cock in his hand makes him more and more aroused by the second. Seonghwa imagines going to his knees right there in the basement garage, kneeling on the concrete floor and taking Hongjoong into his mouth, sucking him off fast and messy just to let him come down Seonghwa’s throat.
But this is good, too, and they don’t have much time until someone is bound to return. That makes it even hotter, though—the knowledge that someone might come in and see the unmistakable movement of Seonghwa’s hand, even though he’s pinning Hongjoong to his bike with his back to the entrance. There are noises, too—the high-pitched, muffled moans that keep escaping Hongjoong, the slick, obscene sounds of Seonghwa’s hand moving up and down the length of Hongjoong’s cock. If someone were to come in, they would know what was happening right away.
But maybe Seonghwa wants to stake that claim. Maybe that’s what’s making him so frantic, so feverish with the need to touch Hongjoong all over. Neither of them knows what might happen tomorrow. So maybe Seonghwa just wants to make sure people know Hongjoong belongs to him, just once before it’s over. It doesn’t matter how true it is outside of these stolen moments. Seonghwa is the one making Hongjoong moan like this. Seonghwa’s hands are making a mess of him. Seonghwa’s mouth is kissing any stretch of skin it can find. For that short time, Hongjoong—who doesn’t belong to anyone, only to the vast world—belongs to him.
“Promise,” Seonghwa says again, tightening the ring of his fingers around the head of Hongjoong’s cock.
Hongjoong bites back a curse, his head falling back and eyes fluttering shut. His hips stutter, jerking forward, right into Seonghwa’s touch.
“I—ah, I promise… Seonghwa-ya, I promise,” Hongjoong babbles, too far gone to really know what he’s saying. “Please… Please, I need—”
“I know. I know, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa murmurs into the dip of Hongjoong’s collarbone. “I’ll take care of you.”
Hongjoong’s knees buckle under him right as the basement door opens. His eyes widen, staring over Seonghwa’s shoulder, and then he makes a choked-off sound and comes with a frantic jolt of his hips. Seonghwa doesn’t pull out his hand immediately. Instead, he keeps stroking Hongjoong through his orgasm, a thrill running down his spine. He’s so hard.
Seonghwa wipes his hand against the inside of Hongjoong’s underwear and pulls it out of his pants just as Yeosang parks his bike on the other side of the garage. It’s still sticky, residual come clinging to the skin between his fingers. There’s no hiding what’s just happened here. It reeks of sex and Hongjoong’s eyes are still unfocused. His flush spreads all the way down his neck and chest. His pants are still unzipped.
Yeosang takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair, then runs a hand through the strands.
“Ah, hyung. Seonghwa-hyung,” he says, giving them a once-over. “Didn’t expect to see you…here. Anyway, I have some logs from Yunho to go through, so I’ll be in my room. Let me know if you need anything, but…I’ll be wearing headphones, just so you know.”
“We’re good, Yeosang-ah,” Seonghwa says. “We’ll talk later.”
Yeosang raises an eyebrow and blinks a few times. “Right, of course. Have a good night, hyungs.”
Hongjoong is still looking a little dazed when Seonghwa directs his attention back to him just as Yeosang disappears behind the door. He’s already beginning to squirm, though, trying to slip out from between the bike and Seonghwa. When he gets like this—skittish and flighty—it’s best to keep him occupied before he can start overthinking.
“Come on, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says, leaning in to whisper into Hongjoong’s ear. He makes sure to press the hard line of his cock against Hongjoong’s hip and watches his eyes widen. “Let’s go.”
“I—” Hongjoong starts, but it comes out hoarse. He clears his throat, then starts again, “I—yeah, let’s go.”
The hideout is by no means a big place—five rooms adapted into sleeping quarters, two of which are occupied by Seonghwa and Yeosang respectively, a small kitchen and a bathroom. There are eight of them living here, but it’s a rare occurrence that all eight of them are present at the same time. Seonghwa’s bedroom is on the upper floor, and he all but drags Hongjoong upstairs, impatient to get off. Judging by how things are going, Hongjoong will be hard and ready for round two in no time.
Seonghwa is on him the moment the door closes. He knows exactly what he wants, and he pushes Hongjoong towards the narrow bed, unzipping his jacket and throwing it on the chair by the desk.
“Come on, Hongjoong-ah, get undressed,” Seonghwa says.
He watches as Hongjoong shrugs out of his jacket and overshirt, leaving him only in a black tank top that matches the one Seonghwa is wearing. The dark ink of his tattoo stands in stark contrast with his skin that’s grown paler from the persistent lack of sun exposure.
“Do you need to go back tonight?” Seonghwa asks, realizing that he forgot to make sure earlier.
Hongjoong shakes his head as he pulls off his pants. “Mingi’s got us covered. Safer to go in the morning.”
That’s a lie, and they both know it. Seonghwa doesn’t call him out on it.
Once they’re both down to their underwear, Seonghwa climbs on top of Hongjoong, making sure to drag his ass over the swell of Hongjoong’s clothed cock. It tears a sound out of him—broken and high-pitched. Seonghwa can tell he’s starting to get hard again, the tell-tale signs in the desperate pants that fall from his mouth and the ways his hips jerk up into the pressure of Seonghwa’s ass.
There’s little time for finesse, and equally little patience on Seonghwa’s part. He reaches into the rickety bedside table for the lube he keeps stashed there, and pulls his underwear down just enough that he can fit two fingers inside him. His eyes flutter at the first breach, the air in his lungs escaping him in a big puff. He falls forward, opening his eyes again just in time to see Hongjoong’s own widen in awe.
“Wait, hold on, I can—” he starts, but Seonghwa cuts him off with another quiet moan.
“No, it’s fine. Just like this,” he says.
Impatient, Seonghwa pulls his fingers out, then pushes his underwear down his legs and off. He then knocks Hongjoong’s legs open and settles between them to reach into his underwear and pull out his half-hard cock.
He kneels, spreading his legs a little, and pushes his fingers back inside himself at the same time as he licks a wet stripe up the length of Hongjoong’s cock. It twitches against his mouth, then again when Seonghwa wraps his lips around the head and sucks. His unoccupied hand supports him against the mattress, so he has only his mouth to rely on, but he knows the truth. His mouth is Hongjoong’s greatest weakness.
The first time Seonghwa sucked him off, Hongjoong came so fast it caught both of them unaware. They were rushing, frantic, overcome with the need to feel each other. When Seonghwa kneeled between Hongjoong’s spread legs and tugged down the zipper of his jeans, Hongjoong took a shuddering breath above him like he was dying. As soon as Seonghwa took him deep into his mouth—deep enough that the tip of Hongjoong’s cock slid past his soft palate and into his throat—Hongjoong’s hips jerked desperately once, twice and then he came, violent shakes wracking his body. Seonghwa pulled back, coughing, only to get another spurt of come landing all over his lips and chin. Hongjoong only looked on, mortified, before attempting to flee as soon as he came back to his senses.
Ever since then, Seonghwa has understood just how much power over Hongjoong his mouth has. How fast sucking him off can make him hard—can make him come. He used to watch Hongjoong stare at his mouth when he thought no one was looking, back before all of this started. They would sit on the old couch at the warehouse, taking a break from dancing or jamming to music, and Hongjoong would stare, then look away as if he was a thief caught in the act.
It had always made Seonghwa feel powerful.
He feels equally powerful now, watching as Hongjoong’s mouth drops open in pleasure, the way his head falls back, his entire body arching off the mattress.
Seonghwa is not even doing anything particularly adventurous—he’s just sucking and teasing around the head, tongue lapping at the slit before he plunges down, taking the length of Hongjoong’s rapidly growing cock deeper into his mouth. But even that is enough for Hongjoong to squirm on the bed under him, enough to drag whiny moans from his throat, enough to have his thighs start trembling where they bracket Seonghwa’s head.
It's a dizzying push and pull, with Seonghwa’s fingers deep inside himself and his mouth stuffed full of Hongjoong’s cock. He loves sucking him when he’s not fully hard yet, loves to feel him grow until his cock fills the entirety of Seonghwa’s mouth. Hongjoong is deliciously big, but not too big; enough that Seonghwa can always feel the stretch—around his lips, around his hole—but not enough that it makes things difficult and frustrating. Three fingers—two if he’s really in a hurry—are all he needs; he can be a little sloppy with it, not quite reaching deep enough and leaving that to the girth and length of Hongjoong’s cock spreading him open. He likes a little bit of a burn. He likes the effort, the reward of sinking down onto Hongjoong fully to ride him, of feeling him bottom out with his hips flush against Seonghwa’s ass while he’s kneeling face-down on the mattress.
He slips another finger in beside the two and gives it a few more rushed thrusts before he pulls them out. He then braces himself on the elbow and wraps his clean hand around the base of Hongjoong’s cock, stroking him as he keeps swallowing him down. It’s fast and dirty, his mouth drooling down his knuckles when his lips meet his fist. The obscene, slick sounds reverberate through the room and Seonghwa wonders briefly if Yeosang can hear them over his headphones on the other side of the wall.
“Fuck, Seonghwa-ya, your mouth…” Hongjoong groans when Seonghwa wraps his thumb and forefinger around the very base of his cock, then sinks down with his lips until his nose touches Hongjoong’s pubic bone. “You’re so good at this… I—ah, I missed it so much… Missed you so much.”
Seonghwa nearly freezes on the spot. Hongjoong is rarely so talkative during or directly after. He rarely babbles like that, overwhelmed by pleasure. Maybe it really has been too long. Maybe they’re both so starved for a comforting touch that it makes them stupid and reckless, makes them say and do things they wouldn’t allow themselves to say or do otherwise.
Unwilling to ponder the possibilities right now, Seonghwa tightens his mouth around Hongjoong’s girth and looks up through his lashes. He knows he looks good like this—his eyes big and wide, lips stretched around Hongjoong’s cock, cheeks hollowed as he sucks around him.
He knows all the tell-tale signs of Hongjoong’s body. How his voice pitches higher and how his thighs start to quiver when he’s about to come. How his hips keep jerking up desperately as he chases his pleasure.
Seonghwa presses a hand to Hongjoong’s abdomen and pulls off, using his free hand, still sticky with lube, to jerk him off at a slow, torturous pace.
“Not yet, Hongjoong-ah,” he says.
Inside me, he wants to say. I want you to come inside me.
But that would be too open, too telling. Seonghwa would be giving too much of himself away. It’s so much easier to simply allow it to happen like it’s an accident, like Seonghwa didn’t mean to make this happen in the first place.
They’ve never really bothered with condoms. Neither of them is fucking anyone else, and even if Hongjoong wasn’t Seonghwa’s first, Seonghwa was Hongjoong’s. He knows that much. But Hongjoong always pulls out at the last moment to jerk himself off over Seonghwa’s body like he thinks it’s the polite thing to do. He’s always so polite with Seonghwa, even when he’s being a little rough. Like deep down he believes he would scare Seonghwa off if he were to ever really let go.
So what if Seonghwa wants it a little nasty? So what if he wants to feel Hongjoong’s come leaking down the inside of his thigh? He wants to feel Hongjoong—really feel him—long after they finish. Today more than ever Seonghwa needs that tangible presence, whatever it is, to chase away the sour aftertaste of panic at Hongjoong’s lateness.
“Come on,” Hongjoong breathes out. His chest is heaving. “Hurry up, I can’t—”
Seonghwa tightens the ring of his fingers in response, drawing another choked-off moan out of Hongjoong. Then he adds more lube, spreading it all over the shaft, and moves to straddle Hongjoong’s hips, reaching behind himself to slip the head of his cock inside.
His head falls back, his eyes closing and his mouth opening around a moan when the blunt tip of Hongjoong’s cock breaches him for the first time. The stretch burns deliciously for the first few seconds before Seonghwa adjusts, and then he rolls his hips, sinking down on Hongjoong’s cock in increments.
It feels so good. He’s being stretched and opened with each minute movement of his hips. Hongjoong is everywhere, filling him up, greedy hands moving to clutch at Seonghwa’s waist. That helps, though—Hongjoong’s steadying touch makes it easier for Seonghwa to focus, eyes screwed shut in pleasure as he keeps moving in slow, meticulous swivels.
“Oh god,” he whispers, voice gone all breathy and cracking on the last word. It’s been so long—too long—but they still fit around each other like they always do. Two pieces of the same whole coming back together.
“Fuck,” Hongjoong says. “You feel so good.”
“Is this what you wanted, Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa asks. His voice is a little strained with the force of holding himself back. He wants to move so bad, but he knows better than to ignore his body’s signals. Seonghwa waits, then, until his body molds itself around Hongjoong, opening up to pleasure.
“Come on, stop teasing,” Hongjoong says, and Seonghwa raises himself up on his knees, then lets the gravity pull him down as he slams himself back onto Hongjoong’s cock.
The sound that comes out of Hongjoong’s mouth is a low, strangled groan, so Seonghwa does it again, then resumes the slow, undulating movement of his hips. He grinds his ass against Hongjoong’s lap, then arches his back while he supports himself on his palms pressed flat to the mattress on both sides of Hongjoong.
There’s sweat dripping down Seonghwa’s temples, the line of his jaw, the tip of his nose. It gathers in his philtrum and gets into his eyes, stinging. But Seonghwa doesn’t stop; he just picks up his pace when he feels Hongjoong’s hands on him. Hongjoong is touching his chest, trailing down the line of his sternum, his abdomen, to where Seonghwa’s cock slaps against his stomach each time he bounces up and down, taking all he needs.
Seonghwa’s breath leaves him in a rush the moment Hongjoong wraps his hand around Seonghwa’s erection, stroking him in an uneven rhythm punctuated by the stuttering of his hips whenever Seonghwa bears down on him and clenches around his cock.
They keep it up until Seonghwa’s thighs begin to burn, until his knees start to shake. He leans forward then, stretching over Hongjoong with his body, and hides his face in the crook of Hongjoong’s neck. His breath is coming in damp puffs, hips jerking as Hongjoong keeps fucking into him and stroking his cock at the same time. It’s fast and frantic, and a little bit rough, just the way Seonghwa likes it.
When he finally reaches his limits, it’s with his body bowed over Hongjoong, Hongjoong kissing the underside of his jaw. Seonghwa’s abdomen clenches, the heat spreading all the way from his core down to his fingers, his toes that curl just as Seonghwa’s cock jerks in Hongjoong’s grasp and he comes all over both of them.
There’s a faint ringing in his ears. His eyes are unfocused, his vision blurry. He all but collapses into Hongjoong, vaguely aware that Hongjoong hasn’t come yet.
A moment passes, no longer than two heartbeats, when Hongjoong starts to shift under Seonghwa like he’s about to pull out and says, “Fuck, hold on, let me—”
“No,” Seonghwa says, raising himself with the last of his strength. There’s come all over his chest, his abdomen, but he doesn’t care. “No, like this,” he adds, punctuating that with a roll of his hips. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated, Seonghwa still too loopy from his own orgasm, but he won’t let Hongjoong play the polite, considerate fuck. Not today.
He’s barely holding on, thighs quivering as he rides himself into overstimulation, but it doesn’t matter—not when Hongjoong’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure and his lips part, chest heaving as he comes. Seonghwa keeps going, equally frantic and uncoordinated, to carry Hongjoong through the aftershocks. Then he falls forward again, right into Hongjoong’s waiting arms.
They’re both sticky, and when Hongjoong’s softening cock slips out of Seonghwa, a warm trail of come mixed with lube follows, travelling down the curve of Seonghwa’s groin.
It’s filthy. Obscene. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and yet. There’s a tangible sign of Hongjoong’s life inside Seonghwa now, and he will carry that sign even after Hongjoong’s side of the narrow bed has gone cold.
“Thank you,” Seonghwa whispers, low enough that he hopes Hongjoong won’t catch it.
I love you, he wants to say. But he won’t. That would only complicate things.
It takes longer than usual for Hongjoong to get fidgety. They’re lying in Seonghwa’s bed side by side, their breathing slowly going back to normal, their bodies cooling in the night air. Then Hongjoong clears his throat awkwardly and moves to sit up.
“Right,” he says. “I better get going.”
Seonghwa swallows. “I thought you said you’d wait and go in the morning,” he says. “Besides, we still have some stuff to go through.”
It’s not an effective pretense if it doesn’t exist at all, however flimsy it is. Seonghwa knows that, and each time he dutifully gathers files for Hongjoong to look at once they’re done. He would never have walked into this empty-handed. That is a trap. An ambush for his poor heart.
“Right,” Hongjoong repeats, sounding like a student who got caught on a lie. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and reaches for his clothes. Starts dressing. “Do you have the files here, or…?”
“Yeah,” Seonghwa says, ignoring the way his heart clenches. “They’re here. Hold on, let me…”
He stretches to pick up a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the pile of laundry left on a chair to be put away later. Being naked in front of Hongjoong feels strangely vulnerable now. Seonghwa should probably shower if there’s still hot water left, but he doesn’t care. He can’t be left so exposed while they do this.
As expected, it takes Hongjoong about five minutes to go through the files.
“Digitize these and send them to Yunho and Wooyoung over the secure channel,” he says, pointing to two manila folders stacked on top of each other.
After that, there’s nothing else to do.
“I’m going to shower, if you don’t mind,” Hongjoong says once the silence between them stretches into something laden with tension.
“Hold on, I’m going to give you something to sleep in,” Seonghwa says. He opens the closet and starts putting away the clean clothes first, then pulls out a t-shirt that shrank in the wash when it was Yeosang’s turn to do it and a pair of sweatpants that are a little too short on Seonghwa. “Here.”
He knows he probably won’t be seeing the clothes again. Hongjoong must have a whole stack of Seonghwa’s clothes to return by now, but he always forgets to bring them. Maybe Seonghwa should insist a little more firmly that Hongjoong finally give them back, but he never does.
“Okay, I’ll get going then,” Hongjoong announces, pointing with his thumb in the direction of the door.
Seonghwa spends the time that Hongjoong is in the shower trying to get himself under control. He needs to snap out of it. They’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. The meetings, the fucking that they never acknowledge once it’s done—all of that is something Seonghwa should be used to by now. It doesn’t mean anything, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. No matter how hard he looks for the signs.
He wonders sometimes if the little glimpses of something that he notices every once in a while when Hongjoong lets his guard down are anything other than the foolish, ever-blooming hope sprouting in his chest over and over.
Seonghwa keeps thinking about it the entire time he’s in the shower, taking his turn standing under the lukewarm spray. He keeps thinking about it when he dresses for bed and when he trudges back to the bedroom, where he finds Hongjoong sitting at the edge of the bed, checking the comms.
“It’s the middle of the night, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa berates. “There are no ongoing active operations. You should go to sleep. I’ll drive you back in the morning.”
It takes Seonghwa a long time to fall asleep. He fakes it, adjusting his breathing so Hongjoong doesn’t realize he’s still awake. It’s an old trick, one he’s used around Hongjoong every once in a while. It gets harder to fall asleep next to Hongjoong after they haven’t seen each other for some time, like Seonghwa’s body is thrumming with a nervous energy he can’t quite shake.
He dozes off eventually, but his sleep is fitful and shallow. He wakes up each time Hongjoong moves behind his back, each time the sheets rustle in the dark. His mind feels more and more muddled with each time he startles awake, the fog of sleep taking longer to clear up.
That’s why it takes him a while to understand what is happening when he feels a weight pressing against his back and Hongjoong’s arm sneaking around his waist.
It takes him even longer to realize that the soft sigh that fans over the exposed skin of Seonghwa’s nape means that Hongjoong is awake as well. Still, he pretends to be asleep, coaxing his body to remain lax in Hongjoong’s embrace. Under the covers, Hongjoong’s hand searches for something until he finds it—Seonghwa’s own hand, resting limp where it’s propped up against his hip bone. Slowly, gingerly, Hongjoong tangles their fingers together.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Seonghwa realizes that Hongjoong’s thumb and forefinger are rubbing against his own ring finger almost absentmindedly, while his lips press themselves to the stretch of clothed skin between Seonghwa’s shoulder blades.
Seonghwa wants nothing more than to turn around in Hongjoong’s arms and demand an answer.
What are we?
What are we doing here?
What do you feel when you look at me?
But Hongjoong would never give him an honest answer; not tonight. He would run—run far beyond Seonghwa’s reach and hide behind the usual excuses. It’s too dangerous. They’re risking too much. They both have their responsibilities. They can’t afford to get distracted.
They’re true, all of them.
Seonghwa doesn’t care.
He wants a moment of honesty out of Hongjoong. A moment when Hongjoong tells him what he wants—without caveats. Without excuses. Just the two of them and the spillage of their hearts between them.
He wants all that so he can stop living in the dark, but maybe, Seonghwa thinks as Hongjoong presses his mouth to the protruding knob of his vertebrae again and lingers there for a moment, this is the next best thing for now.